Page 71 of Savage

I’d thought he was starting to like me. The video games, the small smiles, the way he even fed me from his own hand in a way that had stopped feeling condescending and had started to be comforting… He’d been kind to me, if kinky, but I could handle a little kink.

What I can’t handle is this incessant, never-ending erosion of my self-worth.

I already know it isn’t much.

Dylan had drilled that into me when he’d told me to just suck a little cock or put out a little for our next hits. It was just my body; it didn’t matter. It was worth it.

It had even felt worth it.

But this? This is different. This is far more intense, holds far more gravity, because Hunter has gotten into my mind.

I close my eyes again, and I see the start of the evening play out in my mind’s eye. I’m not even sure what really happened past the first orgasm. My body feels like it’s been touched all over, even though I don’t think Hunter let either of them touch me—like a boy who doesn’t want to share his toy with his friends, only proudly show it off.

I feel disgusting, and miserable, and I don’t know what to fucking do with myself.

If I’m not thinking about Hunter, I’m thinking about Ntimacy; if I’m not thinking about either of them, I’m thinking about Dylan. I’m thinking about Alicia, the friend I’d lost, because with her, I might not have ended up on this path to begin with.

I’ve never let myself mourn her before, but I mourn her now.

I mourn everything.

I stagger up to my feet, ignoring the tray of food Hunter must’ve left before going to work this morning. I don’t think I could eat if I tried, and it’s all I can do not to just throw it against the wall.

He’d make me clean it up, probably with my tongue, because he doesn’t abide disobedience or acts of rebellion. He doesn’t allow for hesitation, for moments of uncertainty, for anything other than perfection.

I have never, ever been perfect, and the more I try to be, the harder it gets.

Tears blind me as I stumble to the bathroom, and I don’t bother wiping them away. Even as I stare at the mirror in front of me, seeing tousled hair and bloodshot, dead eyes, there doesn’t seem to be any point in trying to clear my vision.

It’ll only show me what I already know in increasingly vivid detail.

I turn on the shower, putting the temperature as high as it’ll go. I don’t feel it when I step under the stream, even though it doesn’t take long for my skin to turn red. I soap up the loofah and start scrubbing at my skin, trying to rid myself of the fingerprints I can’t see but somehow still know exist. It doesn’t help. I can still feel the touches, still feel the hot gaze of those eyes upon me as they lusted so cruelly after me.

My throat tightens, and I can practically feel the night at Ntimacy where I got fucked into unconsciousness, too, when a man had kept his cock down my throat until I’d passed out. I don’t know how many more men had used me after that, but that… That’s somehow mild.

I didn’t panic then.

I’d cried, but I hadn’t felt this dead inside.

I can’t get clean, but I leave the water running as I step out of the shower. I slip and fall, hard, onto my ass, and I wish I’d just hit my head and ended all of this. It would’ve been so much easier.

It would all be so much easier if I just… wasn’t here anymore.

It’s not like anyone would miss me.

It’s not like anyone would even notice I’m gone at all.

I open my eyes, staring up at the mirror, and some whisper at the back of my mind reminds me that everything here is high quality. This is no cheap mirror. This is pure glass, and while it might not easily shatter… It will break under the right pressure.

I get up, decision made.

I don’t think I’m strong enough to punch it, so I start searching the bathroom.

It’s strange, how the more I look for something to break the mirror with, the calmer I get. It’s like something inside has settled now that I’ve made the decision to escape all of this, and it lends me a sense of clarity that I don’t remember feeling for a long, long time.

I take a deep breath, and I cross back into the bedroom as I think about the tray—the fancy thing Hunter uses to bring my meals in with, because he couldn’t be bothered with something simple and flimsy.

No. It’s strong, and it’s stable, and I have no doubts that it’ll do exactly what I need it to.

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