Page 44 of Don't Say A Word

If only it were that easy.

“Don’t say a word,” I issue the command. She’s supposed to change her position to kneel, hands on lap, eyes on the ground. She knows this. She’s done it many times before.

But she doesn’t this time.

I swallow the frustration at the back of my throat and try again. “Don’t say a word.”

It’s a strange feeling, waiting for her to obey. Part of me is incensed that she is willingly choosing to make a simple thing so difficult. Part of me is enthralled that she’s got the fire within her to defy.

I know it won’t last though. She was too gentle with Star when we threw her in there. Too concerned. There is no way she is going to sit there and watch once I give the go-ahead to Marcel.

I nod to him and he lifts his hand, slapping Star across the face for Mia’s disobedience. He hits her hard. Blood appears. I watch Mia curiously. She is trembling, but she doesn’t move. Marcel’s hand wavers in the air, waiting for Mia to submit, but she doesn’t. She’s willing to see this girl suffer rather than kneel. Marcel strikes. More blood.

“Don’t say a word!” My anger is hard to control now. All she needs to do is kneel. It’s not a lot to ask. It’s not something that will cause her any pain, but still she refuses.

Marcel strikes the girl again and again. She falls to the ground and he starts to kick her. Even I have to control myself from stopping him as he strikes her again and again. It’s sickening. And the thought that this brings him pleasure makes me hate him even more. The girl is huddled over herself on the ground, silent tears falling down her face. The only noise in the small cell is Marcel’s grunts and the blows of his boot.

My fists are clenched at my sides. My teeth grind together until my jaw aches. And then finally Mia launches herself toward the girl, shielding her with her own body, begging for Marcel to stop.

I almost sink to the floor with relief. But she still hasn’t done what was asked of her so I drag her away. She watches as Marcel continues to strike the girl, two, three more blows and then she gets to her knees, assuming the position and yelling the words she’s supposed to.

“It’s my pleasure to obey your command!” Her voice echoes off the walls, but Marcel has gone to a different place. He strikes the girl again and again, lost to all else going on around him.

“It’s my pleasure to obey your command!” she yells again, this time looking directly at me, her eyes wide, begging me to stop this insanity.

It’s only when I yell at Marcel that he ceases. His chest heaves with exertion and when he looks over at me, there’s excitement in his eyes. No wonder Senior said he was one of his most effective trainers. He gets pleasure out of it. Too much pleasure.

“Crawl.” The anger has gone from my commands, but she obeys without hesitation. She crawls. She opens her knees.

She looks at me and there’s fear and repulsion in her eyes.

“You may leave,” I say to Marcel.

But before he does, he wanders over to Mia and my body tenses. He’s expressed his desire for her before. Just to piss off Junior. I’m ready as he looms over her, waiting for him to reach out and touch her. It will give me the excuse I need.

But instead of touching, he spits. I restrain myself as my hand itches to grab him by the throat and push him against the wall. He threatens to hit her, and despite the words that come out of my mouth, part of me wants him to do it just so I have a reason to react. But he knows better than to push me.

Once they are gone, I squat down to look Mia in the eye. She stares at the ground so I tilt her chin upward.

I hope she can see the honesty in my eyes. I hope she can see the pleading and the importance. She will not escape this. The Attertons are too powerful for it to be a possibility. They know everything about her and the people she loves. There is no scenario in which she could simply walk away. And because of Everly, there is no way I could allow it.

All the defiance has left her glare. She looks at me but it’s like she looks through me. Like she’s not there.

From then on she is obedient. Submissive. Everything I ask of her she does without hesitation. It’s hard to watch. The fire in her eyes has gone and instead there’s this emptiness. She stares at me blankly when I issue a command. Her words are without emotion. To reward her compliance, I bring in little comforts. A mirror for the wall. An extra blanket for the bed. She smiles when she gets them, but it’s nothing more than a muscle movement. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

I examine her body daily, getting her used to touch. Used to someone running their hands over her, taking what they want, but it’s like performing an autopsy. She shows no shame in being naked anymore and stops trying to cover herself. I find myself often staring at her, scared that when she catches me, she will see the longing in my eyes. But my gaze doesn’t seem to affect her. She takes pleasure where she can, but in no way gives the impression that it has anything to do with me.

Until now.

Her skin is cold, only the hairs that prickle under my touch giving me any indication that she’s aware of me. Goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. It only happens when I touch her gently, trailing a single finger across her flesh so delicately it is as though I’m only touching the idea of her. And then it happens. She forgets herself and the smallest of moans escapes. Her hands are stretched above her head, her back pressed to the cold concrete wall. I’ve pulled the chair over so I’m seated in front of her, my head level with her chest. The nipples of her breasts are beaded and dark and sensitive. And when I run my tongue over one, it happens again. I’m not sure if it’s a moan or a sigh. But whatever it is, it affects me in the deepest parts of my being. My hands are on her sides and I move them to grip her backside, digging my fingers into her flesh painfully to remind both of us where we are. Who we are. Her eyes snap open when I reach between her legs and brush one finger over her sex. She watches me as I stroke her. It’s the only time she’s looked me in the eye without me demanding it. It’s the only time I’ve seen her and not the blank wall she puts between us. Not a look of despair, of hopelessness.

It’s like she wants me to see her.

When I bend to taste her, her legs part ever so slightly. I inhale, letting her scent invade me at the same time as steeling myself against it. And for once, stupidly, I allow myself to imagine that she is here willingly. That she craves the stroke of my tongue and the touch of my hands. I imagine that instead of being shoved against the wall, hands kept under my command above her head, she reaches out for me, running her fingers through my hair, tugging sharply when the waves of arousal overwhelm her.

I know every inch of her body. Every reaction to my attention. It is how I know she is close to climax. She lifts onto her toes ever so slightly as though she is both wanting me closer and trying to escape at the same time. There’s a quiver to her skin. A tightening. Without distancing myself from her, I run my eyes up and over her body, latching onto her gaze just as I know she is about to be overwhelmed. For a moment she forgets again. She forgets she is a girl in a cell and I am the man that keeps her trapped. We are nothing but two people lost in lust. Her hands fall to my shoulders, nails digging into my skin.

I jerk away from her, scared of what her touch will do to me. Of what it will make me want to do to her.

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