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He hadn't told me to turn around so I followed his finger to the chair set against the wall near the bathroom. It hadn't been there the night before.
He'd put it there.
My breathing turned shallow. I wanted to turn and fall on my knees and plead with him not to do this, whatever it was. I wasn't ready. I still had nightmares. I could still feel the guard's fingers inside me and Bevington's flaccid self pressed against me.
I could still smell the stink of burnt flesh.
"Now, Annie." His voice was sharp.
The trembling made it almost impossible to get my shoes off or to do anything with speed. He waited patiently as long as I was doing what he told me. When I'd put my clothes on the chair and my shoes under it, I turned back and faced him. My face was scarlet, the color staining all the way down to my chest. Standing in front of him was horrible, humiliating, humbling. Hateful.
Something had changed. It had to show. He'd see how vile and debased I was.
He wouldn't want me anymore. Why should he? I didn't even want me.
I waited for instructions.
"On your knees. Hands behind your head. Present your tits. Knees separated. You may choose feet up or down, whichever is easier with the brand."
He didn't wait for me to respond. He went into the bathroom and began getting the shower ready. When it was to his liking, he called me and ordered me in. He wore his running shorts and a t-shirt still and he followed me in. Power play: Even in the shower he was dressed and in power, controlling the naked slave.
He used a scrub brush on me, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to get the point across that he wanted me clean. When he reached between my legs I moved back several steps without intending to, my arms crossing over my chest, one hand going down to cover my sex.
He showed no emotion, only nodded to himself and said, "Face the wall. Hands above your head on the stone. Spread your legs." And he had a belt in his hand, one that had come from god knew where, one that he would be fully capable of using on my wet, naked ass. He could turn the temperature to cold on the shower head that hit me, and leave himself in the comfortable spray.
I complied. He used body wash, soaping me carefully, his fingers staying on the outside but running along my sex, intimate and unstoppable. My muscles were hard, my breathing shallow, my heart rate galloping. I glared at the wall until he told me to bend over and spread my cheeks.
"No!" It was too much. I turned and found him standing with the enema attachment spewing water from the other shower head. "Sir, please!"
He blinked. Didn't say anything. Waited.
"Please." My voice barely rose above the shower water.
"Are you going to safe word?"
Was I? Red swam through my mind, headed for my lips.
And fell away.
I met his eyes for one long, dangerous minute. Then turned and spread myself open for his ministrations.
He cleaned me out. Left me to my own devices to clean up.
Told me not to bother dressing.
To meet him in the playroom.
For a long time I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the brand object to even the tepid water it had been exposed to. A towel was wound so tight around me I could feel my pulse beating hard where it dug in under my arms.
A dozen times I started to go for my clothes.
The thirteenth time I got up I left the towel over the back of the chair and walked into the playroom.
