Page 1 of Bristol

Chapter One

BRISTOL

The beeping of a truck backing up wakes me from a dream I’ve had a million times over, a dream of being home. My face is wet with tears that I must have been crying in my sleep. My mom’s hair smelled like coconuts and my dad’s cologne was welcoming. I hate those dreams. They always end and I always feel so alone when I wake up. I’ve spent the past six years inside this excuse for a bedroom in an industrial building somewhere in Mississippi. I was only seventeen when Patrick conned me into getting in the truck with him to help him with his radio. I can’t help but beat myself up over being so young and naïve, and stupid. Who gets in a car with someone to fix their radio? Yeah. I do, evidently. He was driving through my little town and spotted me walking home from my friend Tracie’s house. Before then, I’d hardly been outside of Cedarburg, Wisconsin; the town that I spent my life in with my parents and little brother. I miss them so much, and I’d give anything to be with them again. But that doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards for me.

The only outside contact that comes anywhere near this place is a box delivery truck, once per week. It’s a white truck driven by a man and his son. They’ve seen me, but we’ve never spoken. I wouldn’t dare tell them anything and as far as I knew, they thought I was Patrick’s girlfriend or some shit. He did everything from rape me to beat me senseless and I’d been plotting a way out since the moment I set foot in here.

Outside of my door there’s a long, narrow hallway that was made up of cement floors and walls. It’s a plain industrial grey. Everything in here is that ugly damned color. Directly across the hall from my door is a large door with a silver handle. It leads to the delivery room a few steps lower than the rest of the building, with a large roll-up door that allows that box truck to back inside and drop off whatever it was that Patrick needed for his one-man business.

Patrick is a tall, skinny southerner who had this fake southern charm about him. His hair is almost shoulder length and shaggy and he has the most demonic, crystal blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.

I spent much of my time locked away inside my “bedroom,” just big enough for a queen bed and a nightstand. I wasn’t allotted these luxuries until my fourth year here. Prior to that, I slept on a blanket on the floor, frequently without a pillow. I did have a closet and when I was exceptionally well-behaved, Patrick would leave shopping bags just inside my door filled with new clothes. Don’t ask me what for, it wasn’t like I got to leave this place. Because I can assure you, if I ever got out, there would be no getting me back in.

I look at the calendar that hangs above my bed. Monday again. Even in captive, Mondays sucked. Nothing happens around here, and Patrick is here all day. Which usually means two or three trips to my room. Like clockwork, at eight minutes after ten, the doorknob to my room turns and the door flings open. Standing inside the doorway is Patrick, wearing the same sinister grin on his face that is always in place when he comes here for a piece of morning fucking glory.

I cringe internally, knowing if I do so outwardly what the repercussions of that will be. He’s already unbuckling his jeans that suppress his hard length. “Roll over, darlin’,” he drawls as he drops his pants to his ankles.

“I’m feeling like an asshole today.”

Patrick was an ass man. I’d learned that quick in my first few weeks here. I was a young, inexperienced seventeen-year-old when he’d kidnapped me. I had only had one boyfriend and we’d only had sex once. I hadn’t given much thought as to whether I was into ass play, but that was irrelevant. Patrick was, and that was what was important here.

After the first few times of throwing up in the middle of him trying to get off on raping me in the ass, I adjusted and found that it was much less painful if I didn’t fight as hard. He was only going to beat me afterward anyway, as if the assault on my puckered hole wasn’t enough.

I offered him my best, fake grin and leaned forward, pulling his length into my mouth. He didn’t protest. His head lolled back, and he hissed through his teeth as I took him to the back of my throat. There were many days I’d envisioned biting his dick off, but I was afraid of the horrid taste that would be left in my mouth. That, and I wasn’t sure I was quick enough to slice through him and efficiently bite it off without him pulling me off him and killing me with his bare hands. So, I did what I had to. I sucked his dick like my life depended on it… because it did. My life… and my asshole.

In the years I’d spent here, after I realized that my chances of getting out were slim to none, I learned a lot about sexually pleasing Patrick. Hell, I was to the point where I now orgasmed from time to time with him. If I closed my eyes hard enough and envisioned someone gorgeous with muscles, dark hair, and light eyes, I could pretend it was them and I’d come.

Patrick liked a good blow job and I liked not having a dick in my ass, so I made sure I was the best at it that I could be. Within three minutes, max, Patrick was releasing his load into my mouth. I swallowed it all, fighting the urge to gag. I wiped my mouth and looked up at him. His large hand cupped my chin, and he smiled down at me.

“Always a good girl for me, Bristol,” he purred, zipping his jeans. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone once again. My body was humming with need, so I decided on a bath. The running water and I have had an affair going for the last ten years. That started when my best friend from high school introduced me to the pleasures of water hitting that sweet spot, the equivalent of having your pussy eaten if you didn’t have a man. It was my favorite way to come, hands down.

I know I shouldn’t have been turned on by Patrick, but it wasn’t him that turned me on, per se. I was more turned on by the fact that I liked dick, a lot, and there was one in my mouth. Patrick was not a small man, and neither was his member. If he weren’t holding me hostage, I could’ve seen finding actual pleasure in having sex with him.

I turned on the water in the bathroom that was adjoined to my room and grabbed a clean towel from the plastic container. Though I was a captive, I had all the things I would need. I had been here long enough that I had worked my way up and was allowed any luxury I asked for, within reason of course. The towels I used were soft, large and top of the line. All my hair products were from salons. I only bathed with the best body scrubs Patrick could find. If you didn’t factor in the whole being held against my will issue, you could say my life was pretty good.

The water had heated up and I added some cold to it before easing into the large garden tub Patrick had installed for me two years ago. Before that, I only had a stand-up shower. It felt amazing to sit in a hot bath after four years of only showers. I soaked in the tub every day. It was my escape. The smells of the body scrubs and shampoos and conditioners allowed me to close my eyes and envision a place far better than here. An island resort in the Maldives, soaking in a hot tub outside a bungalow overlooking the beautiful blue water. If I closed my eyes long enough, I’d drift into a state of half-dreaming yet still awake and my mind would takeover and play its own sort of movie out in my head.

As the water ran, I lay flat on my back and slid my lower half under the faucet, spreading my legs and resting them on the wall above. The water splashed in between my legs and my hips moved, adjusting myself so the water would hit the right spot. The best thing about this was it was such a quick orgasm, so I always got two or three. Sometimes four.

The water pressure massaged my clit and like clockwork, my toes curled, and my own hand wrapped around my throat as my head slipped under the water, suppressing any sound that may have tried to escape my mouth. The last thing I wanted was for Patrick to hear me moan and get turned on again, trying for round two and this time my mouth wouldn’t be good enough.

I slide back until I’m stretched out in the bathtub again and wipe my face. The water is almost to the top, so I shut it off and lay back, relaxing and basking in the pleasure I’ve given myself. The water cascades over my breasts, engulfing me in warmth. I begin my bath time routine; wash my hair, condition it, scrub my body, shave everything from my armpits to my ankles.

I finished up in the tub and got out with pruney fingers and toes. I toweled off with a luxe, soft towel. I towel dried my hair and slid into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that was two sizes too big. It was perfect, though, because Patrick won’t be back for the rest of the day and I’ll be able to lounge around and relax.

Hell, I might even be allowed to go into the kitchen area. He didn’t lock my door behind him, which meant I could come out. It’s not like I could run… there is a long, blacktop road that’s two miles long between this place and the main highway. By the time I’d make it to the highway, Patrick would’ve caught me twice. I’ll get out of here one day, but until then, I’ll abide by his rules and do what I must do to survive and even live comfortably.

After I finish getting dressed, I plop across my plush, queen-sized bed that sits directly on the floor. The dark red comforter welcomes me, and I curl into it like it’s my lover. Patrick had bought a red comforter so that when I’d bleed from his assaults, it wouldn’t stain. I grew accustomed to it, though, and have kept it. It’s almost a comfort to me.

The slamming of the large metal roll-up door that’s directly outside my bedroom startles me, and instantly I’m frigid. I don’t know what’s coming next. My door swings open and in it stands the box truck driver. His eyes are wide and wild as he stares at me. “Hurry! Grab your things and let’s go!”

I’m so confused, but then it dawns on me. Salvation. He’s getting me out of here! I grab a bag in the closet and then think better of it. Fuck these items. I’m getting out of here! I’m about to be free! I meet him in the doorway, and he grabs my hand, running in the direction of the loading dock. He opens the door and I see the box truck backed in and the back door lift with his son standing at the driver door, waiting for us.

“Get in. You’re safe now.” His words don’t register, but I get in and go all the way to the back of the truck. He climbs in with me and shuts the roll up door behind him. When the truck starts moving, tears of joy spring from my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper through my tears. I’m free. Finally, free.

The large man sits across from me, the look in his eyes distant. He’s quiet, but he wants to ask me something. Maybe a lot of somethings.

“I’m Maurice.”

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