AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My bladder threatens to release of its own accord, and I bite my cheek to hold onto it. Worse and worse, until it very nearly burns in my body. Just as I begin to really worry I won’t be able to hold it much longer, Master Séverin comes into the room—somehow I already know the difference in their boots—and he presses his foot onto my lower back.
“Spread,” he commands.
I do, of course, and of course it makes it that much harder to hold it in. Harder still when he moves his booted foot lower, just to one side of my spine, and presses again.
“You hold it, Girl,” he orders as he puts more of his weight onto my body. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
A tear slips down my cheek, and I bite my cheek harder. But when he gives a hard shove, it bursts out of me, urine gushing out onto the floor.
He grabs the back of my hair and pulls my head up, his face inches from mine as he says with disgust, “You filthy Girl, pissing on the floor like a dog. Clean it up. Now.”
He drops my head and stalks out of the room. And I sob as I crawl on hands and knees to get the paper towels from the counter, and the cleaning spray from beneath the sink. But even as the humiliation seeps deeply into my soul, grating like sandpaper and yet feeding me at the same time, I wonder about my Master.
He is different. All of the Masters and Mistresses I have ever served have been cruel, and have enjoyed their cruelty. Many have been cold, all have been stern. But the iciness he exudes is something else entirely. And beneath it, I feel his pain, and I wonder…
I wonder. And I want to heal him.
That is not my job.
And yet…
You think too damn much.
Yes. Always.
With a sigh, I finish wiping myself and the floor before returning the cleaning supplies to their places. I lie face-down on the wood floor once more, awaiting further instructions.
No one comes for a very long time, and at some point I fall asleep, which I know only because I dream.
Once more those chiaroscuro scenes flash through my dream world: this time they are all scenes of my childhood. The dirty green couch in our living room, my mother passed out on it, one hand holding a cigarette, a long ash hanging there precariously.
I run and hide myself under the bathroom sink, curling into a little ball, so I don’t have to see the man who is in the apartment. I don’t know him. I rarely do.
I hear something crashing, then the man’s stupid laughter. Even at age nine, I know he’s probably too high to even know what he’s laughing at. And from my hiding spot, I laugh at them both, even though it hurts. But at least I’m not crying anymore.
Then I’m on my bike—the one my mother hasn’t sold for more dope yet—flying down the street, the wind in my hair. There is such a sense of freedom in simply going faster than my own legs can take me, and I’m giddy with it. It somehow makes up for everything else that is my life. For the moment, anyway.
But I cling to that sensation, that sense of hope, as long as I can, riding around the apartment parking lot in wide circles. Around and around until I’m a little dizzy, and I let my head spin into the ether. And soon I am up in the clouds, looking down at my tiny figure on the blue bicycle, in too-tattered jeans and a stained yellow t-shirt with a butterfly on the front. But none of that matters now. No. What matters is that I’m flying. That even within this cage that is my life, I am free.
Master Erek is down on the floor with me, whispering in my ear.
“Wake up, my beauty. We’re going hunting again.”
He pulls me up by my hair and hands me a bottle of water. “Drink.”
I do, taking sip after sip, and when I’ve swallowed as much as I can, he takes the bottle from me before pushing me to my knees once more.
“Outside. Follow me.”
I crawl behind him, out the front door, then I must navigate my way down the stairs. When I reach the bottom Master Séverin pulls me roughly to my feet.
“We’re going to play a little game of hide and seek now, Girl. Do well and we might reward you. But only we will decide what defines that.” He pulls me closer, and he’s gripping me so tightly, he hurts my arm as he leans in.
He smells like fresh citrus again, and toothpaste, which seems oddly innocent to me. But what did I think he’d smell like? Fire and brimstone?
My little joke nearly makes me giggle out loud, and I am immediately remorseful. I shouldn’t joke at his expense, and not only because he is my Master. I have come to understand in some deep way already that this man is so filled with pain, bringing pain to others is the only way he can survive it.
I close my eyes for a moment, try to get my brain to reboot, and my Master grabs my jaw in his strong, hurting fingers.
