Chapter 26
Petal
This is the worst he’s ever done to me. I thought the spanking was bad. I thought being locked away in that cold, gray basement was bad. I thought being exposed and humiliated by him was bad.
But none of it compares to this agony. I’m trembling, tossed back and forth between feverish heat and the cold drops of sweat that run down my body in various places. Being denied an orgasm when I was expecting an imminent release, when my entire being was ready for it, the tension building up with such vicious power—it’s the most cruel thing he could ever do to me.
At first, I expect him to return right away, laughing at me as I lie there with my nipples pinched and my core dripping with desire while I squirm in need, begging him to put me out of my misery. I expected him to relish the sight for a few moments before he’d tell me what a good girl I was, asking me if I’d learned my lesson. I would nod and say yes as much as he wanted me to, as long as he’d just make it stop.
But he never came back. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, the pain in my nipples slowly receding to a warm afterthought, still throbbing, but quietly, while my center still yearns for his touch. It could have been minutes, maybe half an hour, maybe even an hour.
It’s been too long, that’s for sure.
I want to call for him, searching the ceiling above my head for cameras. He’s had one downstairs. I’m sure he’ll have them here, too. But just like in the basement, I fail to find any. They might be hidden in the light at the ceiling or at the top of the canopy bed, but if they are, they’ve been hidden masterfully.
And even if I found my voice to call out for him, what would I even say? He told me to call him master, but would I really find it within myself to do so? Does he deserve that name?
“Fuck, why do you care?” It’s just a low whisper, but the sound of my voice still sends chills down my spine.
I’m still breathing heavily, balancing at the edge of hyperventilation ever since he left the room. My craving for release has become so unbearable that it makes me sick and dizzy. It’s hard to keep my mind in check, even harder than it’s been all this time. I’ve felt like a crazy person ever since I woke up: lost and confused, with a memory loss so profound it can’t be anything but maddening.
Sanity has become a luxury to me, something I’ve fought for every waking moment. I’ve wanted something to hold on to, something to give me the strength to live through this strange hell.
But now, as time passes with my body bound, stricken with unfulfilled desire and pain, I feel myself losing the will and power to fight. I’m too worn out, too tired from the exertion he’s putting me through, too lost in a sea of uncertainty and disappointment.
My field of vision narrows, focusing on the only other living object in this room. A dark green stem with thorns, topped with a vibrant blossom in bright colors. It’s odd to think of the white rose as company, but I still perceive it that way. The petals haven’t wilted one bit since I first saw it, still looking so full of life, so exhilarant.
And so familiar.
The flower refused to answer my questions earlier, but it appears to be more talkative now. It can’t possibly be, but I feel like I can hear it whisper, like it’s trying to tell me something.
We know each other. I’ve met this flower before. I’ve held it in my hands before, maybe not this exact one, but one of its kind.
But I was in a different place then. A place that felt like a prison just like this bedroom.
A familiar place, filled with dark memories and compulsion.
I close my eyes, allowing my mind to wander. I don’t guide, nor do I stop the images as they pop up. It’s terrifying to follow the path that my tormented self chooses. It’s terrifying to see the crack in the wall as I approach it, knowing I may be about to see things I’ve had no access to until now. And maybe that was for the better. Maybe that wall has been erected to protect me? Maybe I should leave it, turn around, and deal with the anguish that awaits me out in the real world.
No. I can’t. I don’t want to.
I want to peek through the cracks. I want to follow it into the dark that harbors my secrets. His punishment weakened the resistance that’s been planted somewhere deep inside me. Now that it’s depleted, this may be my only chance for answers.
I follow the promise, my shoulders up to my ears, as if protecting myself against an imminent attack when I lean forward to peer through the tiny crack that runs through the metaphoric wall inside my head.
At first, I don’t see anything, but I feel something. I feel disappointment, the sensation of being robbed of something I crave so badly that it hurts. It’s a similar state to the one he left me in, my entire being filled with a desire for something. But it’s not just pure lust that drives this yearning; there’s more behind it. There’s intimacy, closeness, companionship.
Love.
I ache to love, and to be loved. But it’s taken from me. There are shadows moving in front of me, silhouettes of people, tall and strong people. Men. There are at least two, maybe three, but one of them towers above the others. I don’t see his face. He’s just a black ghost like the others, but his paramount stature alone is so intimidating that I’m frightened by it even now, when he’s nothing but the shadow of a memory that was taken from me.
I feel drawn to one of the other silhouettes, a smaller one, radiating warmth and comfort. He’s spreading his arms, calling for me. I’m smiling as a soothing feeling washes over me, almost like an embrace. A hand is reached out to me, but when I step closer to take it, the figure dissolves in front of me, the contours losing shape as they slowly dismantle into nothing but a vague shadow that gets cast away a moment later. Like black powder that’s being blown away, the figure disappears, leaving nothing behind but the feeling of loss and hopelessness. And as soon as he’s gone, another figure steps into his place. The tall one, the one who’s been scaring me from the very first moment.
He’s the one who’s preventing me from having what I want, what I crave. He’s the one who forbids it. There’s nothing but fear and repulsion when I look at him, the opposite of what I was feeling with the person who dissipated.
Who is he? And who is this third person, watching us? I turn around to face him, trying to get a better understanding of his contours, his shape, his character. But unlike the other two, he remains hidden in shadows, never stepping forward, never showing himself like the others were. He doesn’t appall me, nor does he lure me with a warm promise.
He just watches.
And that alone is chilling to the bone.