“I enjoy your suffering.”
Paul Simmons

---

Wednesday night, 23 March 2016, AM

GM: Celia is working at her office in Flawless when an inferno roars through her mind and soul.

Blood. Hot and furious. Explosive detonations. Steel carving into flesh. Tinkling shell casings. Thunderous crashes. Roars. Screams. Shouts. Snarls.

happy retirement party, sheriff

Light. Pure. White. Radiant. A sense of infinite peace, infinite power, and infinite love.

Darkness. Taint. Black. Obscene. A sense of frigid wrath, soul-deep terror, and undying hatred.

It crashes into her like a divine thunderbolt. Her psyche is a glass window against winter’s subzero chill. Cracks snake across the surface.

Then, with a shrill and piercing cry more bestial than human, all is shattered.

All is ruined.

All is lost.

Splintered pieces ravage her mind with his scorn, his rage, his disappointment, his contempt, his hatred, so cold it’s hot, for his enemies, for his killers, for so many people, but also for her, Celia Flores, his childe, his failure of a childe, his waste of a childe, his useless and stupid childe whose Blood he would now reclaim, who he never loved, who means nothing to him, whose life he would consume if it would prolong his existence for even a SECOND-

The hateful blizzard is as gone as suddenly as it appeared.

Celia is sprawled over the floor at the feet of her desk.

She knows.

Knows, to the bottom of her soul.

Her sire is dead.

And his last thoughts were hatred.

Celia: Hated her.

He hated her.

This whole time, he hated her.

Weak. Useless. Stupid.

Worthless.

The words hammer at her from all sides, chipping away what’s left of her fragile hold on reality.

He was supposed to love her.

Why didn’t he love her.

Why did he keep her?

Why Embrace her when he could have killed her.

Why put her to bed when he could have killed her.

Why say it: you’re my special little girl. I love you.

Why say it if he hadn’t meant it?

Claws sprout from the tips of her fingers. Blood drips down from the point of eruption, pooling on the carpet.

All this time he hated her.

All this time.

She’d given him everything and it wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t enough.

Her claws rake across the ground. Long, jagged rips appear in the carpet just as long, jagged rips crack across her heart.

He hated her.

Why?

Why do this to her?

Why make her his if he had no intention of loving her?

Thick red tears streak down her face. Her shoulders shake as she sobs, but only for a moment. Only for a second does she let it out. Only for a second does she howl her agony to the empty office, shrieking her rage, her pain, her loss to the world. She prods at the Beast inside of her, urging it to take over, to eclipse her control, to shatter everything around her as she has been shattered.

It stays dormant.

It will not feel this pain for her.

He had saved her.

He had come for her. Rescued her. Hunted for her. Bled for her.

How, with all that, could he hate her?

What had she done?

What hadn’t she done?

The blonde bitch. The soul eater. She’d told him. She’d warned him.

His hatred wraps itself around her heart. It cracks. Splinters of it wither and die.

What was the white? What was the love, the infinite power, the peace? What had she done?

What has she done to him?

Another howl tears itself from her throat. She’d undo it. She’d give it back. She’d give it back for him, for just one more moment—

But he’s gone.

The sireless neonate picks herself up off the floor. She staggers to the window, wrenching it open with bloody fingertips. Her body twists, convulses, changes. Dark wings carry her through the night sky toward Audubon.

What was his is now hers. She will reclaim it.

---

Wednesday night, 23 March 2016, AM

GM: The nightjar soars through dark and stormy skies faster than any natural bird. Rain beats down against its wings. Five minutes later, the tiny bird circles above Audubon Place’s walled perimeter. The usual black-uniformed Blackwatch mercenaries with their company’s signature pawprint logo are gone. Instead, blue-uniformed NOPD officers keep watch around the neighborhood. More police stand duty outside Paul’s house.

Donovan’s house.

Celia: Birds have never been bothered by the affairs of police. Neither is this particularly swift nightjar. A cloak of “notice-me-nots” obscure it from the watch of even the most vigilant observer; there are so many interesting things going on across the street, aren’t there?

Yes. Because she says so.

The bird finds a perch outside a window and looks for a screen to peck through.

GM: The bird finds none of the windows have screens. They’re all glass. They’re all closed.

Celia: Awkward.

But prudent.

The bird moves toward the chimney opening instead.

GM: The nightjar swoops inside.

Too late, the nightjar spots the motion sensor.

Steel grates suddenly slam shut, one after another. The nightjar is trapped inside the fire box, solid steel ahead, solid steel above.

There’s no wood in the fireplace, but a blue-tinged fire suddenly roars to terrible life. The tiny space feels extremely hot. Celia’s Beast rears in instinctive, soul-consuming panic.

No way forward. No way out.

A voice crackles to life over an intercom.

“You will find a steel box at the bottom of the fireplace. It contains a wooden stake. I will turn the flames off. Assume your human form and stake yourself, or you will be burned alive.”

Celia: There isn’t much she can do but wait for the flames to turn off, then return to her human form.

Celia Flores, disappointment to her sire. Stupid and unworthy of his Blood.

Too stupid to realize the chimney would be trapped. His loss has ruined what was once left of her.

GM: The flames turn off.

“Make yourself visible for the camera,” orders the voice.

Celia: The stake is heavy in her hand. He might burn her anyway. Chain her. Cut off her head. She’ll join her sire in final death.

The thought shouldn’t be so calming.

Why not burn?

She’d have done it if he asked. If he’d ever told her to, she’d have walked willingly into the flames. She should be dead. Not him.

There’s nothing left for her here.

Nothing except the once-good lawyer. “I’ll keep you safe,” he said. “I’ll protect you.” She reaches for him now. For the silent bond between them, the one that has yet to break despite everything that she has done to him. Some part of him must still care. He, at least, has said he loves her.

She tugs.

The stake finds her heart.

---

Wednesday night, 23 March 2016, AM

GM: The stake slides in like a knife through butter. Total paralysis seizes her body. Her arms are stuck clasped around the stake.

Time passes.

Eventually, the steel shutter comes down.

She recognizes the man on the other side.


He looks the same as he did years ago. Wearing the same dark suit in his own home. The same plastic smile.

Except for how he’s not clean.

There’s blood spattered over his face and clothes. His lips and hands are twitching.

Celia: Celia stares.

It’s really all she can do right now.

Why is he bloody? Was he there? Did he see it happen?

GM: Paul roughly pulls Celia out out of the fireplace.

He stares down at her face.

Does recognition pass over his?

Blood drips from his plastic smile.

Then he cups her breast.

“My whore is returned to me…”

Celia: No flicker of emotion crosses her face.

It can’t.

She stares, unblinking.

Whore.

It shouldn’t hurt. It doesn’t, not next to her snapped collar, the hatred. She waits.

Emptiness stares out from her eyes.

GM: Paul throws back his head and gives a discordant half-shriek, half-giggle, running a hand through his bloody hair.

“I am supplied with WHORES!”

“Always, always, more WHORES!”

“Is it my destiny?” he whispers. “Whores under every stone! Every nook and cranny!”

Celia: He’s cracked. Just as broken as the rest of them.

GM: He giggles and licks blood from his fingers.

“Come, my whore. Would you like to meet your sisters?”

Celia: No. Not particularly. Sisters have never done much for her.

But she can’t say that.

GM: Paul takes Celia by the elbows and hauls her body along the living room carpet.

He’s never paid much mind to what she wants anyway.

Celia smells them before she sees them.

Smells the intoxicating coppery aroma of their blood.

Three of them. Naked women. White. College-age. Leather booties render their hands useless. Chains link their elbows to their knees. Dog collars with little pink tags marked ‘WHORE’ are chained to D-rings bolted to the wall. Fat gags fill their mouths. Discarded blindfolds lie on the floor.

None of the girls move or react to Celia’s presence. Their throats have been gruesomely slashed. Blood freely leaks from the wounds across their necks, painting their chests scarlet. Further stab wounds decorate their corpses. Several of their breasts have been stabbed so many times they resemble raw meat. Blood leaks from their cunts too, which have also been so deeply and repeatedly stabbed Celia can hardly tell where their original holes were. One girl’s head has been almost sawed off her neck. It lolls sickeningly from visible bone.

All of their young, dead faces are masks of pain and terror.

“Your sisters, my whore,” giggles Paul.

Celia: This was almost her.

He’d have done it to her, if she hadn’t gotten out. If he hadn’t gotten tired of her after that final rape in her dad’s house.

That won’t happen again here.

No. She needs to save herself. She’s the only one she can rely on, isn’t she? No sire to save her now. No dark arms to lift her into the sky after cutting through those who would see her dead.

He loved her.

He had to.

Why else save her.

But he’s gone. And she doesn’t know if the other one is coming.

The princess saves herself in this one.

She lets the smell of their blood fill her nostrils. Fresh? How fresh? How recent? How many of them, just like these?

GM: Very, very recent.

The blood isn’t even dry.

Not on their bodies.

Not on Paul’s face.

Paul sits down on the carpet and smiles widely.

“Whores, whores, whores…”

“You see what’s so funny?”

Celia: Is this what he was doing while her sire died?

Playing with whores.

Killing them.

Letting Donovan die.

She’ll kill him.

GM: “I go to all the mess of killing these three, and another falls down the chimney!”

He makes a sweeping motion with his arms and giggles again.

Celia: She’ll murder him for this, string him up and watch him slowly die.

She knows how to make men like Paul hurt.

GM: Paul runs his hand through Celia’s hair.

He leans close and licks her cheeks.

He giggles some more.

“Whores, whores, whores…”

“I’ve always hated them, you know!”

“Hated the whores.”

“They are filthy creatures.”

“Filthy.”

“But they feed him, fed him, FEED him, so what is one to do?”

“I suppose as your presence attests, I am very good at collecting whores. Even when I am not trying to!”

Celia: He took his blood from whores.

From Paul’s whores.

She was never special. Just another meal.

GM: “You fed him, too, my whore.”

“Every visit.”

Celia: She knows.

But she can’t say.

And he fed her, too.

Does Paul wonder at that? Wonder why she’s here, falling so conveniently down his chimney?

GM: “I hate them,” he repeats.

“Filthy, filthy, disgusting, degenerate, dishonest creatures.”

“They are all the same.”

Celia: She could giggle, too. Match his insanity with her own.

The stake keeps it inside.

GM: Paul picks up a knife and starts cutting off Celia’s clothes.

Celia: Why stop there. She’s so obedient and willing. She’d probably roll right over for him if he takes it out of her. How many times had she willingly accepted the collar?

Vampire whore. Why not. He can carve her up all he wants. A little bit of blood and she’s good as new.

The perfect playmate for a sadistic fuck like him.

GM: Paul finishes, leaving Celia naked, and unbuckles the collar from one of the dead girls. He fastens it around Celia’s neck. He repeats the process with the chains, booties, and gag. He smiles down at her.

“I want to tell you a story, my whore.”

“It’s about you.”

“One of your visits.”

“You don’t remember it.”

Celia: Her interest is piqued. She wants to hear the story.

GM: Paul starts to talk.

---

Friday afternoon, 19 December 2008

Celia: Celia puts off going to see Paul as long as possible. She tries to get money any other way she can: saving her tips from school. Rationing her allowance. Letting one of the kids in her class use her food card in exchange for cash. Emily mentions that sometimes people sell plasma for spending money, but when Celia looks up the rate it looks like it only pays well the first time, and even after she talks Stephen into coming with her “as an act of altruism” she takes one look at the giant needles and feels all sorts of queasy again. One of the men waiting to donate must do it a bunch because he has needle marks up and down his arms, and it’s enough to put Celia off from the idea before they ever call her name. Stephen teases her about being squeamish but takes her out for ice cream instead, and that weekend they go on the planned double date with his friend and the new girlfriend.

It’s nice to pretend to be normal for a while.

All too soon, though, her mother starts asking about the money, and Celia swallows her pride.

She tries to play it smarter this time. She doesn’t want to give him anything to complain about, doesn’t want to give him any reason to be angry with her. She’s had nightmares about that hiss and his bloodshot eyes, and she won’t soon forget the cold command of his voice or the taste of cum and piss soaked blondies.

She showers before she goes to see him, scrubbing at her skin until it’s red, and uses a razor to remove every bit of hair from her body. Afterward she wonders if she shouldn’t have—if maybe he’ll call her a whore again because she’s smooth between her legs—but she heard girls talking about how “boys like it smooth” and plenty of women get waxed there at the student salon, and it’s too late to do anything about it now. Stephen has always liked it.

She finds a new pair of panties and bra in a soft pink with little bits of lace across the top and looks at herself in the mirror on her dorm’s wall. Maybe she’s being silly. Paul hasn’t seemed to care what she wears beneath her clothing. He barely sees it; she takes it off with the rest of her clothes. Who is she trying to impress anyway?

He isn’t Stephen. He’s not going to whistle and tell her to turn so he can admire her and kiss a trail down her belly when he slides her panties down her legs in a slow, sensual way that leaves her gasping and all but begging him to stop teasing.

Annoyed, Celia yanks a skirt out of her closet and pulls it on, followed by another button down blouse. He’d probably prefer if she just showed up naked beneath her coat so she doesn’t have to waste time taking her clothes off once she gets there.

Celia shuts her phone in her desk after she finds a pair of clean socks and polishes her shoes. Momma said not to let Daddy find out, and she’s not going to risk a repeat of what happened last time with a photo on her phone. Nor does she try baking something for him again. Her innocent gesture had been turned against her; she still can’t stand the sight of white chocolate and it used to be her favorite.

As ready as she’ll ever be, she makes the trek to Audubon to see Paul.

GM: The large black man in the Blackwatch uniform is at the door again. He leers at her when he knocks, but says nothing this time. Celia doesn’t recognize him from the main gate. Why does Paul have private security on top of the neighborhood security?

He doesn’t ‘greet’ Celia at the door. He’s just there at the door. He’s dressed in the same suit and white button-down shirt she always sees him in. He wears suits in his house.

A plastic smile touches his lips as he looks her up and down.

“Hello, Celia. Remove your clothes,” he says without preamble.

The black man smirks at Celia.

Then he closes the door behind her and Paul.

“Clothes are for people, and you’re not a person. You’re a whore.”

Celia: For a moment she thinks that he’s going to let the man watch. Invite him in. Make her do it out on the step. Her skin crawls at the man’s smirk, and she’s relieved when the door cuts off the sight of him.

Celia flinches at Paul’s words, as if struck. Whore. She’s a whore, not—no. She’s a person. One more time. That’s it. Just until her mom gets what she needs.

Celia swallows against the lump in her throat and begins with shoes and socks, removing them and leaving them at the door. Then the skirt. Then the blouse, fingers undoing the buttons one by one. She sets them aside, looking up at her father’s friend from beneath her lashes with just the bra and panties covering her, searching for any sort of… anything.

GM: There’s nothing.

Not even the plastic smile.

“Take any longer in removing your clothes, Celia, and they will be burned.”

“Perhaps, if I am feeling generous after you swallow my seed, I will permit you to purchase a coat for the walk home with your whore money.”

Celia: Stupid.

Stupid to think he’d be interested. He’s not interested. Not in her. She’s a whore, not a person, just a dumb whore.

Celia lowers her gaze, blinking back the moisture that pools in the corners of her eyes, and unhooks her bra from the back. She slides the panties down her legs and steps out of them.

She doesn’t look up.

GM: Paul hands her something.

It’s the leather dog collar from her last visit.

There’s a heart-shaped tag on the front, now.

It reads, ‘WHORE’.

“Fasten this about your neck,” says Paul. “As tightly as possible.”

Celia: He updated the collar. Did he buy that for her, or did he have it laying around?

Does it matter? She’s not sure which one is worse. At least if he bought it for her he was thinking about her—does she want him to think about her? She shouldn’t.

Celia reaches for the collar. Last time he’d just… put her on the wall. Made her sleep on a pillow. That’s fine, right? He said it was… was gentle if she just stopped fighting, if she’s good. She can be good, right? She is good. She’s good. Just put the collar on. Put the collar on and let him tie her to the wall and nap on the pillow and leave. That’s all it is.

The leather fits snugly around her slim neck. She fastens the buckles, then slides it so that they’re behind her. The heart tag clicks faintly against the ring with the movement.

GM: Paul pats her head.

Slowly.

“Celia Flores,” he says aloud.

“My very own teenage whore.”

Celia: She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to respond. She hesitates. Finally, she nods.

GM: “Retrieve your phone from your whore clothes.”

Celia: “I—I forgot it, Mr. Simmons.”

GM: Paul picks up her clothes and feels through them.

“Liar,” he says.

There’s no inflection to his voice.

“Did you not learn the first time? Do you not recall the taste of your lies?"

Celia: There’s no phone to be found in her pile of clothing.

“I’m not lying. I don’t have it. I, um, didn’t have pockets.”

GM: “Liar,” Paul repeats.

“Do you believe I am stupid, Celia? Do you believe me ignorant of the true reason you have not brought your phone with you?”

Celia: “I… no, Mr. Simmons, I don’t think… I don’t think you’re stupid.”

She doesn’t touch the other question.

GM: He waits.

Stares at her.

Stares at her body, naked but for the dog collar.

There’s nothing on his face.

Celia: Heat rises to her cheeks at that look. She stares at her toes, the sparkly polish that she’d chosen because it matches her bra and panties. Now her cheeks share the color: pink.

“I di—um, I didn’t, I didn’t bring my phone.”

GM: “And why did you not bring your phone, Celia?” Paul asks patiently.

Celia: “I didn’t want you to take a photo with it,” she confesses.

GM: “Do you think I am incapable of taking photos on my own? That your phone is the only device in the world that can do so?”

Celia: Celia swallows.

“N-no, Mr. Simmons. But my… my dad…”

GM: “Your father resides in the same neighborhood I do, Celia. His house is within walking distance. Do you think I need a photo to show him proof of his daughter’s activities? Shall I walk you to his house at the end of a leash and inform him he has raised a whore?”

Celia: Celia frantically shakes her head back and forth, too overcome by terror at the thought of her father finding out—of being walked over there naked, on a leash, so everyone sees—to form coherent words.

GM: “Select two articles of your clothing, Celia.”

Celia: She glances at the pile of her clothing. To burn? Or to keep? She doesn’t know. It could be either. What’s worse: a top and no bottom, or a bottom and no top?

Silently, Celia picks up her button-down shirt and panties.

GM: Paul stares down at her chosen clothing items.

“You have lied to me twice, Celia. So you will be punished with the loss of two clothing items.”

“Open the door and give them to Jamal.”

“Balk from this,” he adds preemptively, “and you will be punished with the loss of a third clothing item.”

Celia: She stares, as if she can’t fathom the words he said. He wants her to give them to Jamal. Open the door and give the clothes to Jamal. Open the door so everyone can see, so they all know what she’s doing, and she’s naked and she has a collar on and, and, and she doesn’t know who Jamal is anyway.

But if she doesn’t she’s going to lose more clothes.

She’d chosen wrong. She should have picked the bra and panties. Or her socks. Or shoes! She could have picked anything else. And now Jamal is going to have a pair of her panties, and what is he going to do with them?

Celia swallows again, turning toward the door. She pulls, but it’s locked, and her fingers are slick with sweat when she reaches for the lock. No one had redone the deadbolt, so it’s just the tiny twisty thing on the knob. Her fingers slip twice before she manages to unlock it, prying the door open a fraction of an inch to peer outside.

“Ja—Jamal?” she calls out.

GM: “Mmmm, yeah?” calls a deep male voice.

It sounds like it’s grinning.

Celia: “There’s, um, I have… I have something for you, can you…?” She sticks a hand out to wave him towards the door.

GM: “Rude to talk through a door like this,” says Jamal.

Celia: “You could come here, though, and I could give it to you?”

GM: “I could,” replies the voice.

It still sounds like it’s grinning.

“Why should I?”

Celia: “Because, um, because… Mr. Simmons said to.”

GM: “Dunno, I think I’m happy where I am.”

Paul just stares.

Silently watching.

Celia: “Please?”

GM: “Nah, don’t think so.”

Celia: Celia cracks the door open another inch, pressing her face to it to see how far he is.

GM: A few feet off, staring down the street.

Celia: She checks the street to see if anyone is outside.

Then she opens the door a little wider, poking her head out to address Jamal.

“Hi, um, I’m gonna toss you something.”

GM: Paul suddenly grabs Celia by her hair, yanks the door open, and shoves her outside.

Jamal is staring right at her.

He’s a big man. About as tall and muscled as her dad, actually. Shaved head too. It’s the jet black skin that’s mainly different.

So is how he’s grinning.

There’s no warmth or humor in his eyes.

Just a cruel glint, as he looks at the collar. Looks her nude form up and down.

Like he’s thinking about eating her.


Celia: Celia shrieks when Paul shoves her out the door, stumbling forward. She catches herself before she can trip over her own feet.

Her eyes catch on the large black man. He’s bigger this close. Bigger when she doesn’t have clothes on, when he’s staring at her body. Naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. And that collar…

Celia clutches the clothing to her chest, as if that will save her from his gaze. She retreats toward the door.

GM: Paul smiles his plastic smile.

The door closes in her face.

“You got a real fuckable ass…” Jamal murmurs as a large and heavy hand settles on her shoulder.

“Watcha got for me, huh?”

Celia: No, no, no, he can’t, he can’t!

Celia backs up, pressing herself against the door when Jamal touches her. For a moment she can’t speak. Fear catches her throat in its grip, crushing her windpipe. She stares up at Jamal, eyes wide.

“I… I…”

She can’t remember. She can’t think. She’s outside. Naked. Paul closed the door on her. She blinks and the tears fall, lips and spine trembling.

“The… the door, I—the door…”

GM: She feels a second hand squeeze her naked posterior, mercilessly hard.

“Mmm, yeah, probably something you gotta do ’fore he lets you back in… maybe a blowjob,” Jamal says thoughtfully.

His first hand starts to travel up her shoulder, then down again, towards her breasts.

Celia: She jumps at the contact, making a sound reminiscent of a squeak. Color floods her cheeks. She shakes her head back and forth, holding the clothes tighter to her chest as if covering herself will make him stop touching her.

“N-no, no, the—the clothes, it’s clothes, please—please the, the door—”

Celia attempts to shove the clothing at him, desperately pressing herself backwards.

GM: The ‘WHORE’ tag on the collar clinks back and forth with every shake of her head.

“Ah, yeah, you don’t need those anymore…” murmurs Jamal, casually plucking the shirt and panties from Celia’s grasp. He holds the latter to his nose and takes a long sniff.

Just as the door opens.

Celia: Without the clothes in her hands she’s more exposed than other, but at least he’d stopped touching her. But then he sniffs them, and—

The door opens. She tumbles backwards at the sudden loss of support, knocking into Paul on her way in.

GM: Paul grabs her by the hair again, closes the door on Jamal’s grinning face, and throws Celia to the ground.

“Kiss my feet, whore, if you are grateful to be inside again.”

Celia: Her knees ache with the impact on the hard surface, teeth clacking together. She doesn’t fight him on this one, doesn’t want him to bring the black man in again. He’d touched her. He’d fondled her. He’d almost… if she hadn’t given him the clothes… he would have touched her chest, her, her…

She can’t think about it. Doesn’t want to think about it. Being stuck outside with him. Him seeing her. Everyone seeing her. Letting him touch her.

She nods her head up and down, up and down, and lowers herself to kiss Paul’s gleaming shoes.

GM: Leather fills her vision as she presses her lips to it.

At least the shoes are clean.

Some part of her may wonder if her father ever made her mother do this.

Then again, Paul hasn’t tried to saw off her leg.

Celia: Yet. Maybe that’s next. Maybe he’s going to tie her down and no one will come for her, no daughter will show up to try to stop it, no dark figure in the hallway will carry her to bed, tuck her in, tell her that he loves her.

He won’t kiss her goodnight.

Empty eyes stare at her from the darkness. Her vision blurs when she blinks, warm tears rolling down her cheeks when she presses her lips to his shoes again.

She stumbles over her words, half apology and half gratitude for letting her back in.

GM: Paul smiles his plastic smile at her. He reaches out, patting her head.

No, petting.

He’s petting her again. Like a dog.

“What have we learned about telling lies, my whore?”

Celia: Celia sits back on her heels. She tells herself she’s not leaning into his hand. That she’s closing her eyes from an onslaught of emotion—terror and humiliation and all sorts of other things—not because she’s… she doesn’t want to think about it. She’s not.

“I…” she falters. Get better at it. “Don’t… don’t lie?”

“It’s, um, bad.”

GM: His hand stops petting her. Rests on her head.

“What lesson did you learn at the visit before our previous visit, my whore?”

Celia: Visit before the… blondies? No. Visit before the previous. Before the blondies. The tub. Upstairs.

“It’s… it’s…”

What had he said? She doesn’t remember. She’d tried to block it out, to keep herself from thinking about it any longer than she had to. Cold water. Drying her off, the couch—no, before that. Cold water. Rinsing her mouth. Clean.

“Unclean. It’s unclean.”

GM: “What is unclean, Celia?” he asks patiently.

Celia: “…me? Lying. Me lying.”

“Lying.”

GM: “Yes, Celia. Lying is unclean. You were punished for lying and apologized that you lied.”

His hand falls away.

“So why did you lie tonight?”

Celia: “I… I didn’t want to… to have a photo…”

No, he’d told her that he doesn’t need her phone. He could walk her next door. Shove her outside without clothing. He’d already done it.

“I didn’t want to get in trouble. I didn’t want you to… to be mad at me.”

“Last time you… you made me… the, um, the blondies.”

GM: “You are in trouble, you stupid girl. And I am mad at you.”

He retrieves a leash and fastens it around her collar.

Celia: Oh.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry—”

GM: “Ball your fists.”

Celia: Celia doesn’t ask why. She just does what he says, balling her hands into fists. She looks up at him with wide eyes.

GM: Paul produces a pair of very small and tight-looking black leather gloves. They look almost like dog booties. He secures each one around her balled fists, trapping the fingers in that position. Celia effectively can’t use her hands.

Celia: Celia holds herself still while he puts them on her. He’s mad at her. Struggling will only make it worse. She sniffs another apology while he works.

GM: Paul tugs the leash, clearly expecting Celia to fall into step behind him on hands and knees. The carpet is not far off, but they’re not on it for long, either. Paul takes her through the sitting room to a door off the kitchen and opens it, gesturing for her to go first.

Celia: Celia wobbles behind him on her useless hands and knees, doing her best to keep up. It’s awkward going with the gloves—not that he cares, tugging her along as he is. But when he opens the door she backpedals, staring down into the darkness. Like a black hole waiting to suck her in. She shakes her head, glances up at him, and finally edges forward.

Most homes in New Orleans don’t have basements, Celia knows. Whoever had designed this one must have missed the memo, because the door that Paul takes her to leads to a set of cement stairs that disappear into darkness. They’re steep, and Celia has to turn around to go down feet first, feeling with her toes before moving her knees and then hands onto the step. She’s quick about it, careful to keep moving so Paul doesn’t kick her in the face. The further down she goes the colder it gets. There’s no light when she reaches the bottom. She blinks at the darkness, as if expecting it to recede.

GM: It doesn’t.

Paul continues through the basement. The leash stretches taut, pulling at her neck. Paul tugs when Celia takes a faltering step forward.

“Come,” he says sharply.

Celia: “I—I can’t see.”

GM: “You don’t need to see. You’re on a lead. Come.”

He yanks. Celia stumbles, smashing her hand against what feels like a wooden rack. Something sloshes inside a bottle.

Wine cellar, she realizes. No wonder it’s so cold.

The thought may bring some measure of comfort to her. She hurries after Paul as he continues through the cellar, trusting that he won’t let her walk into anything dangerous. His footsteps echo through the room. Celia feels in front of her with her knuckles each time she takes a step, but she doesn’t run into anything.

Finally, they stop.

There’s a beep. A flash of green in the darkness. Then a blast of air so cold Celia’s teeth immediately start to chatter. Paul tugs on her leash, taking her further into the cold air, and finally there’s a dim glow from overhead. Celia’s eyes begin to adjust to the low light. She feels frost against her gloved fists; it races up her arms and settles in her chest, setting her whole body to shivering. She follows Paul further into what looks like a walk-in cooler. Small containers sit atop plastic-coated metal shelves. Paul leads her past them to a spot along the far wall, where a steel ring waits for her.

Celia: Celia tugs against her leash, staring with wide eyes at the ring.

GM: Paul gives a yank.

Celia: She yelps, hurrying after him.

GM: “Back to the wall,” he commands, “hands behind your back."

Celia: Celia does as he says, shivering as she kneels beneath the steel ring.

GM: He fastens a pair of silver handcuffs around her wrists, then loops her leash through the ring. With a few seconds of adjustments he makes the lead as short as possible, leaving Celia with little room to maneuver on the floor. A vent overhead feels like it’s blowing ice directly onto her. Already her knees and toes feel the effects of the frosty chill.

“Let us try again, Celia. Why are you here?"

Celia: Celia isn’t sure what he means. His house? This… room? She hazards a guess that he means this room.

“Pu-puh-punishment?” she hedges through chattering teeth. “Be-because I lied?”

GM: “When did you last defecate, Celia?” Paul inquires.

Celia: “Um… earlier?”

“This mor-morning,” she tacks on, breath fogging in front of her.

GM: Paul places a steel bowl in front of her.

“Fill this.”

“You will not leave until you do.”

Celia: “Fill? With… with what?”

GM: “What did I just ask you about, you stupid girl?”

Celia: He wants her to… in the bowl…

Celia gapes. He can’t mean it. He can’t mean that she has to fill the bowl like that. In front of him.

“I… but I don’t… I don’t have to, to go—”

GM: “Then you had best grow accustomed to the temperature, hadn’t you, Celia?”

Celia: “But I’ll—I’ll freeze.”

“Mr. Simmons, please, I, I can’t.”

GM: Paul only turns and starts to walk away.

Celia: “Don’t,” she calls after him, voice cracking, “don’t, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please don’t go, please.”

GM: He stops.

He does not turn.

“Fill the bowl, Celia. I will not ask again.”

Celia: Her hands, cuffed near her head, are useless here. She shifts and the collar digs into her neck, threatening to cut off her air. She shifts again, putting her soles on the floor, rising as far as she can while the collar digs again. It pulls her down. She tries to hook a toe or heel in the bowl to pull it closer.

It scrapes against the ground.

She tries to shift back to her knees once it’s in place but comes down harder than she means to. She yelps, the sound cut off when the collar digs into her throat, and finally gets back to her knees.

Celia stares down at the bowl.

GM: She has never felt less like taking a dump.

Celia: Celia lifts her gaze from the bowl to look for Mr. Simmons. He can’t intend to leave her here. He can’t.

GM: He waits.

Near the door.

He looks quite willing to walk away if she doesn’t get to work.

Celia: Shivering, Celia positions herself over the bowl. She tries to do what he wants. She does. She clenches. She pushes.

But she doesn’t have to go, and nothing comes out.

GM: “I suppose you have made your choice then, Celia.”

Without further word, Paul turns and walks away.

Celia: Celia stares after him. She calls his name once, then a second time, and then a third. She raises her voice and shouts, struggling against the cuffs, trying to get back to her feet, to pull away from the ring on the wall.

But there’s no answer. And there’s no give.

She’s left alone in the cooler, body shivering, tears sliding slowly down her cheeks. Her breath fogs in front of her.

Eventually, she knows, she’ll lose the feeling in her fingers. In her toes. The extremities are the first to go. They’ll turn blue, then black, then fall off. Even if they don’t fall off they’ll lose feeling. She’ll never regain it. They’ll be dead. It’ll creep over the rest of her after that. Legs. Arms. Nipples. Already stiff, they ache further at the thought.

The tears are warm, but only for a second.

She screams again. Wordless. At the door. At the ceiling. At the bowl. She twists and turns and struggles against the cuffs and leash and gets nowhere.

She’s going to die down here. Alone. Cold. Naked. He’s going to leave her here until she dies.

She doesn’t know how much time passes in the cooler. How long he leaves her chained to the wall. Eventually, after straining and grunting and crying and pleading with her body, she’s rewarded with a stream of urine down her legs. She sobs into the crook of her arm, pushing harder, and there’s a faint tinkle when it hits the bowl. It’s not what he wanted. She keeps going.

When was the last time she ate? This morning? She doesn’t eat before coming here. Not anymore. Not after the last two times where she’d almost vomited, where she had vomited, where he’d threatened to make her eat it.

That means something should be coming soon, right?

Soon?

Please?

But she can’t force herself to go. She tries. And tries again. She’s sure that a vein bulges in her neck. She’s sure that her face is red. A cold sweat breaks out across her body, made worse by the chill in the air.

She’d learned about it in school. How to help herself go if she needs to. The class had mostly laughed when their massage instructor talked about it: use a fist and gently follow the big intestine around the abdomen, working in the same direction that the digested food goes. Use two hands. Be gentle. It helps ease stomach aches, constipation, even cramps from gas. Go the other way to help relieve runny stool.

But her hands are useless right now, tied above her head, and there’s no coffee or fiber bars or prune juice in sight.

She’d heard straining like this is bad for the body, too. It leads to hernias. Or hemorrhoids. Or something with an H. She’s never had to worry about it before.

What if she’s destroying her body right now and she won’t even know what’s wrong with it.

As if being locked in a cooler isn’t doing the same thing.

She shivers. Her teeth chatter. She tries to keep moving, to keep the blood flowing, but chained to the wall as she is there’s little she can do.

Eventually she stops trying. Her movements slow. Her body aches from holding the same position. She curls in on herself as best she can, searching for the warmth from her own body. She whispers through chapped and trembling lips that she’s sorry. She’s sorry she lied. She’s sorry she didn’t go outside to give Jamal the clothes. She’s sorry she lied. She’s sorry.

GM: Celia doesn’t know how long she’s left down there.

Just that she’s very cold. Her skin is starting to feel numb. Her breath doesn’t seem to leave as much of fog.

Eventually, there’s the echoing sound of footsteps.

Then the door opens.

A man’s outline strides through the gloom.

A man dressed in clothes. Those seem like such a luxury now.

“How are we feeling, Celia? Nice and cool?” smiles Paul.

Celia: She thinks for a minute that she’s imagining him. That she’s delusional. She has to be, right? She can’t be this happy to see him. Not him. Not Paul Simmons, Daddy’s friend, the man who had turned her into… this. Whatever this is. It’s an effort to lift her chin, an effort to bring her eyes to his face. Even the blink takes its time, lids inching down past her pupils and then back up just to make sure he’s real.

His smile is as empty as the rest of him.

She nods, though, because her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth, and a shiver runs down her spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the chill in the air.

GM: Into a whore.

Paul slowly pats her head like he might a dog’s.

Then he stares down towards her feet.

“You still have not filled your bowl, I see.”

Celia: His hand is warm. Whatever else he is, he’s physically warm. Her knees creak when she shifts, pressing closer.

She tries to speak. To say she couldn’t. But the words don’t come past the chattering teeth and the stutter makes them nonsensical. She ends up shaking her head.

GM: His hand is warm. So much warmer than her skin. It’s not much warmth, felt through her hair, but it’s something.

“Would you like to leave this room, Celia, and come back upstairs?” Paul asks.

Celia: Another nod. Up and down, up and down. She stammers something that might be a “please.”

GM: “But you haven’t filled your bowl,” says Paul in an almost crooning voice.

The hand withdraws from her head.

“Why should you get to come upstairs if you haven’t filled your bowl?”

Celia: The handcuffs clank against the steel ring in the wall when she tries to follow his hand. She whines at the loss, tiny though it was, and slumps back. Her eyes drift toward the bowl.

“C-ca-can’t.”

She can’t go. She’d tried. Her body isn’t listening to her.

GM: Paul makes a tsking noise.

“If you couldn’t complete a homework assignment, Celia, should your professors still give you an ‘A’ for it?”

“When your classmates worked so hard?”

Celia: That’s not fair.

This isn’t homework. This is… whatever this is. Homework isn’t forcing her body to do things it can’t.

Except when it is, right? When her dance instructors tell her to lift her legs a little higher, to straighten the line of her body, to point her toes, to get higher off the ground with her jumps?

Celia bites her lip, then shakes her head.

GM: “The other whores I’ve left down here have filled their bowls.”

“So what would you do with one of your professors, Celia, to make up the missing credit?”

Celia: Her stomach twists at the idea of the others.

“Ek-eks… extra w-work.”

GM: “Extra work,” says Paul thoughtfully.

“That would be very generous of me to let you do extra work in place of filling a bowl.”

“I would need to be in a very good mood to be so generous towards such a pathetic whore.”

Celia: Pathetic.

Whore.

The words slam into her. Her lower lip starts to tremble, liquid pooling in the corners of her eyes. But she nods again, shuffling forward. As far as the cuffs and collar let her, pressing her face against his thigh, then higher. She searches for the fly on his pants with her mouth.

GM: Celia feels the collar dig into her skin as the leash pulls taut, but she reaches his crotch. By just enough.

Paul makes no effort to help her.

Just stares down at her impassively.

She’s so cold.

Celia: This is what he wants, isn’t it? What girls like Sami do when they get kicked out of college? They show up in flashy sports cars and fuck the dean to bribe their way back in, only it didn’t work.

It didn’t work.

Because Celia had stopped her.

She did that. And she can do this. The collar cuts into her throat as she leans further forward. It’s like a vice around her neck, but only for a moment. Just long enough for her to find the zipper with the tip of her tongue, to flick it up so she can tug it down with her teeth.

The legs on either side of her threaten to swallow her in their warmth. It’s more important than the air trying to get into her lungs, isn’t it? Celia leans a little further to find what she’s looking for, breath cut off by the leather collar.

GM: Paul doesn’t say anything as Celia strains and chokes to unzip his fly. Doesn’t help her. Doesn’t pull away from her. Just studies her. Celia’s eye flicks up. Her sight has adjusted to the gloom.

Paul’s blank face looks like someone who’s swatted a fruit fly with a glancing blow, not fast enough to squish it outright, and is watching it slowly die.

Celia feels a bulge against her cheek.

Celia: She doesn’t hold his gaze for long. She can’t. Not when that look makes her want to wither and die. Her eyes return to the bulge, the firm flesh within. The warm flesh within. She’s not close enough to touch the whole of her to his thigh or waist, but the tip of her nose, her cheek, her lips—those all find the sweet relief of his heat.

It’s almost there. All she has to do is—

No. Another barrier. She touches her tongue to fabric and realizes he has something on beneath the pants. She whines, an almost inhuman sound that spills her frustration and desperation to the man towering over her. Her wrists burn where the steel cuts into them, useless fingers clenched tightly in the leather booties.

Useless.

Stupid.

Of course he has something else underneath. And she’s on her knees like… like a whore.

Celia looks up the length of his body to find his face.

GM: There’s just that same blank look. Like he’s staring at a fruit fly that stupidly landed in a wine-filled glass and is drowning itself.

Equal parts stupid and pathetic.

He stares down at her.

Then he spits on her. Wet saliva runs down her face.

“Get on with it, you stupid whore.”

Celia: So she does. While his spit drips down her cheek she tugs at his underwear with her teeth until the elastic around his waist gives, freeing him from the confines of his clothing. And there it is. The cock she has become so familiar with these past visits. She brings him into her mouth.

She can’t imagine it’s very good. She can’t reach to bring all of him into her mouth. Her lips only go so far down his shaft before her air cuts off and she has to come back up just to breathe. But she does what she can.

GM: Paul doesn’t say or do anything. Just waits and watches as she chokes herself trying to suck him off. The collar’s unyieldingly stiff leather digs painfully into her raw, cold flesh. When he finally cums, Celia’s just started to pull back for breath. Paul’s seed shoots inside her open mouth and hits her teeth and tongue before immediately dribbling down her chin like so much drool.

“This was the only thing you could think of,” rings Paul’s cold voice.

“This is the only thing you are good for.”

There’s a faint patter as some of the cum leaking from Celia’s face drips onto the floor.

Celia: It’s warm. Before it starts to dry. Little globs of it drip onto her chest when she finally pulls back, then slide slowly down her stomach.

What must she look like to him? A teenage whore on her knees with her hands fastened in booties and a collar around her neck, saliva and cum on her face and chest.

Her cheeks redden. The heat loosens her tongue.

“It’s what you wanted.”

GM: Paul’s foot suddenly smashes hard into Celia’s gut.

“My whore’s tone is displeasing to me.”

Celia: The air whooshes from her lungs. She chokes when she loses her balance, collar digging painfully into her throat. Steel clinks against steel before she can right herself; there’s not enough give in leash or cuff to curl inward, but she shuffles back as best she can, shoulders rounding as if that will protect her from another blow.

GM: Paul makes a fist in Celia’s hair as he seizes a painful clumpful of it and pulls her head back. He still hasn’t tucked away his penis.

“I am no longer in a good mood, my whore. I suppose you had better try again to get me into one.”

“Thank me for my generosity.”

Celia: What else is there? What else is left when she’s already covered in his cum? Her lips move silently for a moment, then form the words he wants.

“Th-thank you.”

The heat from moments ago is gone.

GM: Paul grabs Celia’s ear and twists it as hard as he can, as fast as he can, all but pulling her head after his retreating wrist. The collar chafes further against her neck’s sore flesh.

Her dad sometimes does that.

With her ear.

“Start sucking again, you stupid whore.”

Stephen always wants a break after she sucks him off.

That’s usually when he starts or resumes fingering or worshiping her, if she hasn’t gotten off already.

Celia: She’d thought the older they got the longer they need.

Maybe that’s not right, though.

The shriek withers before it can do much more than begin to pass her lips. She brings the flaccid cock back into her mouth, collar once more digging into her flesh.

GM: It seems like she got that part wrong, for Paul’s shaft is already quite firm when Celia pulls it back into her mouth. Paul steps even further away this time. Celia tugs against the leash as far as she can. The skin around the collar feels awful. Really raw. Is it starting to bleed? She can’t pull away for breath as often. It’s easier just to keep going, even she can’t breathe as easily. She’s starting to feel lightheaded when Paul blows his load again, this time fully inside her mouth. The salty taste is heavy upon her tongue.

“Let it dribble down your chin and onto the floor, then lick it all up.”

Celia: The cold. The lack of air. The ache in her limbs. It all starts to go away after a while. There’s just him. His body. His cock. His release. Getting him there so that this is over. So that everything is over. So she can take her money and go and never come back. She’s too cold to cry. She just sucks like he tells her to.

And when he cums in her mouth she almost swallows—he prefers it when she swallows, doesn’t he?—but stops at his words. Her tongue pushes it forward past her lips. It dribbles, like he asked. Only when she tries to lean over to lick it up—this has to be the last thing, doesn’t it? please let it be the last thing—she’s stopped short by the collar. Her mouth is nowhere near the floor.

GM: Paul smiles his plastic smile.

“I suppose you had better get less stupid, my whore, if you wish to devise a means of taking my seed into yourself.”

Celia: It’s impossible. The leash is tied tight. She twists, lifting her eyes to the ring, pawing at it with her covered hands.

They do nothing for her.

She tries again, stretching as far as she can to get at the knot with her teeth instead.

GM: It’s slow, torturous, tedious going, but she starts to make progress.

Celia: She keeps at it. Lick it all, he said. Don’t be stupid, he said. Her jaw aches by the time she gets it loose. She all but falls onto the floor to lick up the evidence of his arousal—

And realizes that it has all but solidified against the floor.

GM: Paul just waits expectantly.

Celia: She gets there. Eventually. She scrapes her front teeth against the jizz where it sticks, and when she’s done licking the floor is spotless and her tongue is… somewhere beyond numb. Her words slur when she tries to thank him as she suspects he wants.

GM: “Quite stupid of you, my whore,” smiles Paul.

“Now I know a tied lead is insufficient to restrain you. I will be certain to use a locking mechanism when next I do so.”

“Or a gag.”

Celia: Celia lifts her head from the floor. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to apologize or not, but she wheezes one out past her raw throat.

GM: “Wait here.”

Paul tugs Celia back to her old place and re-ties her leash. He turns and leaves, then returns a moment later.

He’s carrying a space heater.

And a hose.

Celia: She’d thought it was over.

She’d thought it was over and she can go.

But this… this is… she’s not sure what to make of it. She watches with wide eyes, knowing that despite the heater it can’t be good.

GM: “Why did I bring you here, Celia?”

Celia: “Fo-for lying.”

GM: "You are a whore, Celia. Whores are duplicitous creatures. Whores lie by instinct. We will train you out of that instinct. We will start easy, because you are a stupid whore, and I will explain the rules of our game. I will ask you questions that will tempt you to lie. You will tell me the truth. If you lie to me, I will spray you with the hose. If you think about lying to me, I will spray you with the hose. If you tell me the truth, I will turn on the heater. Do you understand?”

Celia: Heater or hose. Liars get the hose. Truth gets the heater.

She nods her head up and down.

He can’t really mean to spray her with a hose, can he? She’ll freeze. Her fingers will get frostbitten. They’ll turn black and fall off and then she’ll never be able to do what she wants to do.

GM: “Shall we begin with something easy, Celia? How old are you?”

Celia: “Nineteen.”

GM: “That one was very easy, Celia. Do you think you deserve any time under the heater for knowing how old you are?”

Celia: “N-no, Mr. Simmons.”

GM: “That is correct. You do not.”

“What is your major?”

Celia: “Dance.”

GM: The hose is in his hands. She doesn’t see where it came from, doesn’t even see him move, but there’s a hiss, then a spray of ice cold water. It splashes across her.

Celia: She shrieks, twisting, trying to get away from it, but the lead holds her steady and the position on her knees with her arms above her head leaves her little room to move. There’s nowhere to go. Celia takes the blast of water to the face and chest. It plasters her hair to the sides of her head and runs down her naked torso. Her nipples, already pebbled in the cool air, ache further as the water touches them.

GM: Paul leaves the hose on for several seconds, dousing Celia from head to knee. She’s shivering and chittering when he finally pulls it off. The water drips down her naked body.

Celia: “I duh-I dih-I didn’t l-lie,” Celia stutters.

GM: “You did not provide a complete answer. That is a lie of omission. What is your other major?”

Celia: “Es-est-thetics.”

GM: Paul just stares at her.

Celia: Celia doesn’t know what it means, but she doesn’t want him to turn the hose on her again. She elaborates.

“Sk-skincare. Makeup. Wa-waxing.”

GM: “The pursuits of a whore,” Paul declares with a sneer. “You’re smooth between your legs. Did you wax?”

Celia: “N-no. Shaved.”

GM: “Why?”

Celia: “I th… I thought you’d… you’d like it.”

GM: “You thought I’d like it,” Paul repeats in a mimicking tone. “Why would you think that I want you to look like a child?”

Celia: “I… I… puh-people like it at—at school—”

GM: Celia’s words are cut off when the cold water blasts across her face again.

Celia: She gives a sharp cry and squeezes her eyes shut, lifting her shoulders and turning her head to the side as if that will prevent it from being as cold as it was before. Tears leak from her eyes when it’s over, teeth chattering.

“Buh-boys,” she stutters out, “I huh-heard b-boys like it suh-smuh-smooth.”

“You thought I’d like it… because I am male.”

Celia nods her head up and down.

“And is that the reason for the absurd bra and panties you wore? You thought I would like them?”

Color spreads across her cheeks, but Celia nods her head again.

“And why,” Paul slowly asks, his plastic smile in place, “would you want me to like it?”

Celia hesitates.

“I… I didn’t w-want to… I didn’t want you to huh—to hurt me again.”

The water catches her right in the face. She coughs and sputters, trying to move out of the way once more. Her knees slip on the cold ground, sending her sprawling—or would, if the leather leash didn’t stop her fall, leaving her dangling at the end of it. Her breath cuts off in a strangled yelp, body jerking to right itself once more. Once she’s up she pants heavily, staring at him with wide eyes, chest heaving.

“Lie of omission,” Paul says flatly.

Celia shivers, shaking her head back and forth as if she doesn’t understand.

“You don’t want me to hurt you,” Paul clarifies, “but that’s not all, is it, Celia?”

“I… I…” There’s little warmth in her cheeks, but the blood rushes to her face all the same. She drops her gaze, shaking her head. “N-no, Mr. Sim-Simmons.”

“What else is there, Celia?”

“I… I… p-please, Mr. Si—I ca— I can’t—”

“Say it, Celia.”

Tears drip down her wet, frozen cheeks. She sniffles.

“I w—I want you to-to li-like me, to-to be geh-gentle, to… to want to… to want to see me.”

Paul says nothing. The hose stays off. Celia stares down at the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. They’re slow, sluggish things, dripping down her neck to land like little pinpricks on her chest. The only sound for long moments is the vent overhead spewing cold air over her. She closes her eyes, head bowed, shoulders lifted as if that will protect her from whatever he must be thinking.

“What does that make you?” Paul asks, his voice low.

“A… a who… a whore. Y-your whore.”

“Good girl,” Paul says at last. His hand touches her hair. Celia leans into the warmth, sniffling. She no longer tries to control the flow of water from her eyes.

“You are a whore, Celia.”

Celia nods her head.

“You are my whore.”

Eyes closed, Celia nods again. The confession seems to take something out of her; she hangs limply from the ring on the wall, spine curled in on itself.

GM: “Good girl,” Paul says again. He runs his fingers through her sodden hair. “Would you like to be warm again? Would you like me to turn on the heater?”

Celia: Celia gives a tiny nod of her head so as not to dislodge the fingers from her scalp.

“Y-yes, Mr. Simmons.”

She hears the hose hit the ground, then a snap. Something warm flows over her leg. Celia looks up—

To see Paul’s cock in his hand, a healthy stream of piss pouring out of it. Celia flinches, backing away, pressing her spine against the frozen wall behind her. She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a shriek, trying to get away. Paul does not chase after her. He continues to urinate where she had been, plastic smile in place. Steam rises from the flow of yellow liquid, and the spot on her thigh where he had peed has returned to a normal, fleshy color. The rest of her body is that much colder by comparison. A violent shiver travels down her spine as the air kicks on above her once more. Her fingers have long since gone numb, and if their game isn’t over…

Hating herself, Celia scoots forward on her knees, letting the stream of urine touch her thigh once more. The area immediately warms. It feels as if the rest of her has been encased in ice. Celia shifts again, letting the stream hit her belly, then her chest, steaming across her nipples. She sighs in relief as the feeling comes back into her body, immediately soothed by the warmth. But her wet hair continues to drip down her back, and Celia finally takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, moving fully beneath the spray of Paul’s piss. It splatters across her hair and down her cheeks, running down her neck and through her hair, mingling with the tears on her cheeks. Blessed warmth spreads through her where it touches her. She twists, trying to get all of herself wet, and is rewarded with a full shower of golden urine.

All too soon the stream cuts off. Paul does not jiggle his cock in his hand like most guys do, but instead wipes it thoroughly against a dry patch of Celia’s skin, multiple times, then tucks himself away. The cold begins to creep back into Celia’s body.

“Did you enjoy the warmth, my whore?”

Eyes still squeezed shut, Celia nods her head.

“What do you say when you are given a gift?”

A droplet of piss clings to her lips. It touches her tongue as soon as she opens her mouth to speak, acidic and slightly bitter. She’s horrified to realize that she’s comparing it to the last time she had ingested his urine, that her mind had already wondered at the dietary differences that altered the taste. Celia’s stomach clenches at the memory.

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons.”

---

Friday evening, 19 December 2008

Celia: Paul hoses her off before he takes her upstairs, no doubt to rid her of the stain of his piss so that she does not drip upon the carpet. The water is no warmer this time that it had been before, and soon he has her in the upstairs shower after removing her booties. Her teeth still chatter every so often as the feeling returns to her limbs and extremities. Unlike last time, this is no quick rinse. Paul has her sit in the tub, tied to the faucet like an unruly mutt, and snaps on a pair of gloves to lather an oatmeal-scented shampoo into her hair and skin. He rinses well, then follows with a conditioner that smells faintly of lavender, and finally towels her off. It’s only when he’s helping her out of the tub so she can kneel on the floor again that she notices the cocker spaniel on the front of the bottles.

Two spots of color appear on her cheeks, gaze dropping to the tile floor while Paul rubs her down and re-affixes the booties onto her hands. He asks if she’s a good girl and Celia nods her head uncertainly, hoping that it’s true.

There’s a zip, a tap on her chin, and Celia takes him into her mouth to “suck and swallow” like he asks. His fingers linger in her hair when it’s over. He pets her.

Like a dog.

GM: “Do you think you should get to leave now, my pretty whore?” he asks after she’s swallowed his cum for the third time.

Celia: Pretty whore. Pretty. That’s better than stupid, isn’t it?

He’d cleaned her. Toweled her off. It had been cold down there, cold again in the shower, but the towel, the towel had been… she’s a good girl, he’d tell her if she isn’t, wouldn’t he?

Good girls don’t lie. That’s the point. That’s the lesson. Should she get to go? She’d gotten him off three times now. She’s been here for… she doesn’t know how long. A while. Won’t it get dark soon? There’s no clock in the bathroom. No clock in the basement.

He’d put the booties back on. That means he wants her to stay, right? Why put them back on if not?

She doesn’t know what answer he’s looking for. What if he’s tired of her? What if he does something else? Something worse? She tries not to think about the hiss. The bloodshot eyes. She keeps her own on the tile beneath his feet.

“…no, Mr. Simmons.”

GM: “No? Why shouldn’t you get to leave, Celia?” he asks patiently.

“I hope you aren’t just telling me what you think I want to hear.”

“There is nothing worthwhile in your company outside of fellatio.”

Celia: Oh.

The tiles blur in front of her. She swallows against the lump that has formed in her throat.

Stupid. Stupid but pretty. This is what she was made for, to be on her knees for smarter men. She doesn’t offer anything else of value. Just her mouth. Her own money. Not even his. He wouldn’t pay her with his. He doesn’t want her. He just wants a whore. A mouth.

“Y-yes, Mr. Simmons. I should… I should go if you’re, um, if you’re done with… with me.”

GM: Paul gives her a humoring smile.

“You did not answer my question, Celia. Why did you believe you should not get to leave?”

Celia: “I, um…” she lifts one hand, looking at the bootie he’d put her in, then placing it back on the ground where it had been.

“Y-you, um, you put these on, and… and I thought you might not, um, be done, because… because if you were y-you could have left them off, or not… not washed me—”

Bathed her. That’s what he’d done. Given her a bath. Washed her hair, her body, her chest, between her legs, dried her off.

Pink colors her cheeks again. She’d admitted downstairs that she wants him to be gentle. She’d made him brownies. She’d shaved. Bought new clothes. For him. To be pretty. Pretty instead of stupid.

Is that his question? She doesn’t remember.

“Because you… you had to… teach me? And it used your time? So you have… before I can go you have more.”

“More of my…” She hesitates. She almost says ‘time,’ but he’d said that it’s not worth anything. “My… me,” she finally murmurs to the floor. “To make it… to make it equal.”

GM: “Listening to you talk is like listening to flies drone,” says Paul.

“It is listening to mindless sounds bereft of intelligent meaning that serve only to irritate the listener.”

Celia: Celia lapses into silence. She doesn’t lift her eyes from the floor.

GM: “Open your mouth.”

Celia: She does so.

GM: She sees a fat black dildo attached to a black panel gag approach her field of vision.

Celia: She’s never seen one this close. She’d giggled once over something she’d seen in a store when she went shopping with Emily, but she’d never… that isn’t… do people really…? She squeezes her eyes shut and tucks her chin, as if expecting him to strike her.

But her mouth stays open.

GM: The dildo goes in. It’s very large. She can feel it titillating the back of her throat. Paul pulls the gag’s side straps tight around the back of her head and secures them.

“This is an improvement, is it not, Celia?” he smiles blandly.

Celia: Her jaw stretches painfully around the black silicone. She can’t speak. But she knows he expects an answer so she nods her head up and down.

GM: “I prefer you this way, Celia.”

“You have nothing worth saying.”

“You say nothing worth listening to.”

Celia: Moisture seeps from her eyes. She nods again. She’s pretty. That’s it.

GM: “I see few occasions when it should be necessary for you to speak at all. Nods and shakes of the head will suffice for the majority of your communicative needs.”

Paul re-hooks a lead to her collar and gives it a tug.

Celia: Celia follows him on hands and knees, eyes on the back of his feet.

She keeps her head down.

GM: Paul leads her to the d-ring mounted to his living room wall. He secures the leash to the ring.

He walks away without a glance back.

Celia: Celia sits on her heels once he puts her in place. She watches him go.

GM: He turns off the lights and walks upstairs.

It’s night out.

Celia: She stares after him.

He can’t intend to leave her here, can he?

Emily will report her missing.

Won’t she?

Or… does she have a shift tonight? Will she even notice that her roommate is gone? Will she assume that Celia went to Stephen’s house to spend the night?

She tugs at the lead, as if expecting it to let her go.

GM: It pulls taut against her collar.

She’s reminded of a dog doing that very same thing. Tugging at its leash and too stupid to realize it won’t go any further.

Celia: She got out before. With her teeth.

Only he’d fixed that, hadn’t he, and she’d let him do it. She tongues the gag in her mouth as if it holds the answer to her problems and finds only the taste of plastic.

Celia puts one hand on top of the other and tries to pull the booties free. There’s no lock, right? He hadn’t locked her? All she has to do is… is just get her hands free and she can untie and find her clothes and go.

GM: She finds the leather quite securely attached around her wrists. There aren’t any locks, but there are belt-like straps… that she might be able to undo with her teeth.

Celia: If they weren’t obstructed by the gag.

She paws at them. Like a dog.

Except she’s not a dog, is she? And she can still use her teeth, can’t she? It’s awkward going, but she lifts one hand toward her mouth in an attempt to trap the belt between her teeth and the gag.

GM: She finds no space to do so. The panel gag is flat on its exterior and completely obstructs the entry of foreign objects into her mouth.

The fat dildo in her mouth is secured via the straps around her head. She can’t spit it out.

She could just undo the gag if her hands were free.

Celia: She yanks again at the booties, dismay giving way to frustration. He can’t just leave her here.

What is she supposed to be, some neatly wrapped present for the black guy at the door?

GM: The house is silent and still. No one answers Celia. The temperature is cool, though warmer than the freezer was.

Maybe she is.

Celia: Celia stares down at her booties. She has no fingers. Has no teeth. But maybe if she stands on one just right, if she puts her foot on the strap and tugs her arm… the leash pulls taut when she tries to stand. There’s not enough give.

The wall, though… she sits, then extends an arm to the wall so that the bootie rests against it. She lifts a leg to pin the strap to the wall and tugs.

GM: The strap remains quite secure in its shiny silver buckle.

Paul mentioned other whores.

Other bowls.

Has he done this before too?

Celia: Do they get extra for being kept overnight? The thought makes her realize he’d never paid her. Is she supposed to stay here until morning? No pillow. No blanket.

She shivers.

Celia lowers her foot back to the ground, staring at the buckle.

Without warning she smashes it against the steel ring.

GM: There’s a sharp dinging sound as steel hits steel.

But the bootie around her wrist remains secure.

What would Emily think to see her here like this, chained up like a dog?

Her mom?

Her dad?

Stephen?

Celia: Emily would be derisive. She’d say that she’d have never given up her pride for this. For money. For her mother’s money. And her mother would be horrified knowing that this was how she’d gotten all of that cash. Her father would… what would he do? Say it’s her place? Say it’s where women belong?

Even his daughter?

She tries not to dwell on it. Tries not to think about Stephen, either. What he’d say. How disappointed he’d be. How disappointed they’d all be.

She tugs again, as if it makes a difference.

GM: It makes as much difference as any other dog tugging its leash.

None whatsoever.

She’s naked like a dog. Collared like a dog. Speechless like a dog. Handless like a dog. Leashed like a dog.

And has an bare spot of carpet to settle down on for her night.

Like a dog.

Just a kept animal pulling at its tether.

Celia: Is that what she is? All she is? Is that all he wants? A naked girl on a leash to wake up to so she can take care of his needs in the morning?

His very own pet whore.

Celia ceases her tugging. She sits.

GM: The house remains silent and still.

She has nothing to do but stare at the wall.

She doesn’t get to read books or watch TV or go on walks like normal people.

She’s just chained to the wall until he decides he wants her to suck his cock again.

Celia: So she sits. And she waits. And when she gets cold enough she draws her legs against her chest and rests her head on her knee.

GM: Her knee is slightly wet. She feels drool leaking from her mouth past the gag.

Time passes.

No one comes for her.

She’s left alone.

Just a pet whore on a leash.

Celia: Eventually she finds a spot on the floor and closes her eyes.

GM: She sees Paul’s plastic smile.

---

Saturday morning, 20 December 2008

GM: Sleep comes poorly and fitfully. Celia wakes up however many hours later. It’s light out. Her eyes are sluggish and heavy. She feels sluggish and heavy. She feels like she only got four or so hours of sleep. She’s sore all over, especially in her mouth. She’s left a wet spot over the floor.

Celia: A night on the floor will do that to a girl.

She winces as her muscles make their discomfort known, slowly stretching her arms and then her legs.

GM: Her mittened hands stretch above her head. She’s reminded of her leash’s presence as it gently tugs against her neck.

No one else is there in the living room.

Celia: Maybe he’s just not awake yet.

Maybe he’ll be down soon and she can do what he wants and be on her way.

He can’t intend to keep her here. Right? She has school. A family.

She tugs gently at the leash, though she doesn’t expect it to do anything.

She settles.

She waits.

GM: It does as much as it does when any dog tugs at its leash.

Celia needs to use the bathroom.

Her stomach growls with hunger.

She’s thirsty too.

She settles.

She waits.

Time passes.

Celia: Her head aches from the pain of not eating. Celia presses her thighs together to keep from relieving herself on the floor. It helps, but only for a little while. Soon she squirms, tugging again at the leash.

No one hears. No one cares. No one comes.

GM: Eventually, there’s the sound of a door opening and closing. A middle-aged Hispanic woman in a beige uniform enters with a vacuum, turns it on, and starts vacuuming the floors. She doesn’t look in Celia’s direction.

Celia: No one comes until the cleaning lady.

Celia whines over the sound of the vacuum, tugging at her leash and cuffs. She does what she can to get the woman’s attention.

And if the whining and banging and tugging doesn’t work, Celia finally just pees right there on the floor.

GM: She’s spared from having to do so when the woman turns off the vacuum and looks at her.

There’s no expression of shock, concern, or pity.

Just bland acknowledgment.

Celia: The lack of expression on her face worries her more than anything else. How many times has she walked in on something like this? How many women have been chained to this same ring? How many have worn this collar?

Celia whines around the gag again, a wordless pitch. She holds her gloved hands over her nethers and squirms.

Like a child communicating that it needs to go potty.

GM: The woman stares for a moment, then turns and leaves.

She comes back after a moment with a pot and sets it in front of Celia.

Celia: She’s not sure what she expected.

She stares at the pot, then up at the woman. For half a minute she thinks to tug again, to beg around the gag for the woman to let her go. But her body rebels at the thought—she simply can’t hold it any longer. She squats over the pot to do her business, eyes averted from the woman’s face and cheeks red. She empties her bladder from everything it has been holding onto since yesterday afternoon.

GM: With her eyes averted, she can’t see what passes on the woman’s face. But she doesn’t hear footsteps, or see the angle of the woman’s feet turn. She watches Celia the whole time.

When she’s finished, the woman picks up the pot and walks away.

She comes back a few minutes later, carrying two smaller bowls, and sets them in front of Celia. One is filled with water. The other contains wet-looking beans. No steam rises from the bowl. The food looks cold.

Celia: How long is he going to keep her?

How long will she be tied to this wall?

She looks at the water, then the beans, then the woman. She lifts a booted hand to her gag.

GM: The woman looks at her blankly, then turns away.

The vacuum clicks back on.

Celia: That’s not fair. She thirsty. She wants the water. She yanks at her gag with her covered hands, shaking her head back and forth as if that will loosen the straps.

GM: Some drool leaks out over Celia’s knees.

The vacuum steadily sounds up and down the room as the woman goes about her business.

Celia: No help from that front, then. Just enough to make sure she doesn’t need to clean up after Celia if she has an “accident” in the house.

That’s something, isn’t it? No doubt Paul would beat her if he found out she’d gone potty on his carpet.

Potty. Oh no. Even her brain has adopted the words of the role he wants her in.

She tugs at the gag again, but there’s no give, and her bootie-covered hands do little to help. After a moment of listening to the vacuum’s drone Celia leans forward over the bowl of water to see if there’s any way to soothe her parched throat.

But the panel gag prevents her from letting anything pass her lips. She shoves at the black gag in her mouth, trying to dislodge it with her tongue. The straps hold it secure.

She has to be able to drink, doesn’t she? He wouldn’t have left her here without food and water, right?

She bangs her booties against the wall to get the maid’s attention again.

GM: The water is right there for the taking. There’s just as much of it as there are beans. She could drink until her tummy visibly expanded.

But she can’t get the dildo out of her mouth. The panel covering stops anything from getting in.

And after yesterday Paul knows to keep her fingers and mouth simultaneously useless.

The maid takes her sweet time vacuuming. Finally she clicks it off and gives Celia another blank look.

Celia: Celia pulls at the gag again when she sees the maid looking. She whines, just like a dog, and lowers her face to the bowl to nudge it with her nose.

Her stomach takes the opportunity to growl fiercely.

GM: The maid just stares at her expectantly, then turns away and clicks the vacuum cleaner back on.

Celia: Behind the gag Celia gnashes her teeth in frustration. She bangs again.

GM: Her only response is the vacuum’s vroom up and down the living room.

The woman is being pretty thorough. There’s not much crud to vacuum to begin with, either.

Celia: Just because she doesn’t have fingers doesn’t mean she can’t lift things. She finds the edges of the water bowl with her booties and starts to pick it up from the floor, eyes on the maid.

GM: The maid vacuums along. Eventually she turns around and starts vacuuming in Celia’s direction. She pays the younger woman no more mind than a piece of furniture.

Celia: Celia slowly tips the bowl toward her to begin to pour the water down the front of her face, hoping that at least some of it finds its way to her mouth.

GM: She’s ‘rewarded’ with the sensation of water running down behind the gag and being unable to so much as stick out her tongue in it. Her lips and face get moister, but no water finds its way down her throat. It feels even worse than just not getting to drink anything.

The maid turns the vacuum off, walks away, and comes back with some paper towels. She dabs up the water that’s spilled over the carpet.

Celia: Celia whines again as the woman draws near. She reaches out with her bootie-covered hand to touch her, then gestures again at the gag and holds a hand to her stomach.

She just wants to drink. Just wants a bite.

GM: The woman glances at Celia when she makes physical contact, then turns back to the water stain and resumes dabbing it up with the paper towels.

Celia: Tears fall thick and heavy down her cheeks. Why won’t she help? All she has to do is undo the buckle, Celia can do the rest, she won’t tell, she won’t tell Mr. Simmons, she won’t say it was the maid.

GM: The woman finishes with the towels and walks away. The vacuum resumes.

Celia is left by herself with the partly emptier bowl and the full bowl of cold beans.

Her stomach growls.

Celia: Anger seizes her. She kicks at the bowls in front of her to send their contents spilling across the room.

GM: The maid eventually cycles back around to them. She looks at the spilled bowls and spilled water. She pulls out a phone and snaps pictures of both, then of Celia.

Celia: Oh no.

Celia whines past the gag again, shaking her head back and forth, pleading with the woman with her eyes. Please. She didn’t mean to. She’s just hungry. So hungry.

GM: The woman tucks the phone away, leaves, and returns with some cleaning supplies. She lifts the spilled beans back the bowl with her latex-gloved hands, then disposes of the gloves. She uses some lemon-scented chemical sprays and more paper towels to clean up the stains. It takes her a moderate while.

There is no sympathy in her eyes for Celia.

Celia: Celia hangs her head. She tries to apologize around the gag but doesn’t know if it translates beyond vague noises.

She’s sorry. She’s tired. She’s hungry. Her head throbs from lack of food and water. She just wanted a drink. She should have been patient; maybe once she was done cleaning she’d have fed Celia. Maybe she doesn’t speak English. Maybe she’d tried helping another girl once and gotten into trouble.

It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault Celia is here chained to the wall but she’d made a mess anyway and now this lady has to clean it. Celia whines around the gag again. She finds a spot on the floor to lay down, lifting her head only when the woman comes close. Tentatively, she rubs against her, a nonverbal apology for wasting her time and making her job harder.

She doesn’t want to think about how quickly she has accepted this collar. She doesn’t want to think about what’s wrong with her that she’s seeking the touch of this stranger to tell her that everything is going to be okay.

GM: The woman glances at Celia when the chained-up girl rubs against her.

Then she glances back at the mess she’s cleaning up. She continues cleaning it.

She finishes, packs up her supplies, and leaves. She comes back for the bowls and removes those too. She doesn’t look at Celia.

She has accepted this collar. She’s already behaving like an animal. Communicating in whines and rubs, and making messes when she’s upset. Exactly like a dog would do.

Celia: Like a dog.

Exactly like a dog. Chained, muzzled, creating messes and accidents indoors. Peeing in a pot, like a housebroken mutt.

He said he’d be gentle the other time when he’d put the collar on. That’s what she wanted. Gentle. That’s why she’d brought the blondies and shaved and worn the cute clothes. And it doesn’t matter, does it? He’d gagged her anyway. Tied her to the wall. Left her.

And now she’s in trouble when he comes home because the maid is going to tell on her, and what if those bowls were the only food and water he’ll give her, and what if he makes her stay again and she can’t stop for something on the way back to her dorm? What if she starves?

Tears blur her vision. She blinks them away and settles on the floor, curling up as tightly as she can.

She waits for him to come home.

GM: It feels like hours pass. They’re mind-numbingly dull hours, punctuated only by the occasional sound of cleaning. All Celia can do is lie there on the floor, naked and chained, in hunger and thirst. All she can do is think gloomy thoughts and stare at the wall.

Eventually, there’s a sound of footsteps. It’s the maid again. She places two more bowls in front of Celia. One is full up with water. The other has peas. Canned ones, as they look a little mushy.

Celia: Eventually she has to pee again, too. But there’s no pot this time, so she holds it, thighs pressed together and mind on anything except her full bladder.

Celia looks up at the maid when the food and water is put in front of her. She doesn’t whine. She doesn’t tug. She just sits up, stomach growling and head pounding. She looks down at the food. Even canned peas look good right now.

GM: The woman turns and walks away.

Celia is left to stare at the bowl of peas and the bowl of water that she cannot eat or drink. Not with the gag and the mitts.

She’s so thirsty.

So hungry.

Celia: It’s a cruel game this woman plays with her.

Celia doesn’t throw the food again. She lays back down, head on her hands. How long has it been? How long can the woman spend cleaning a spotless home?

GM: The sun doesn’t seem as high in the sky, if the lighting is anything to by. She can’t hear any sounds of cleaning anymore. The woman must be done in at least this area.

The bowls of food and drink loom large in her field of vision.

Celia: There’s nothing she can do but wait, staring at the food and water. Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste. If only she weren’t gagged.

GM: Time passes.

And passes.

And passes.

The light overhead slowly dims.

Hours must be passing.

Celia has literally nothing to do but stare at the walls.

And the food and water placed in front of her.

Her throat is dry and parched. Her stomach isn’t growling anymore. She just feels lightheaded. Like she’s only half-there.

Celia: Maybe she is only half there. Maybe the collar he put on her last time choked the air from her when she tried to blow him. Maybe she’s still in the freezer and this is all just… in her head.

The pain is real, though. The ache in her jaw. The cramping in her stomach. The pressure in her lower abdomen.

GM: Time crawls.

And crawls.

And crawls.

Eventually, it’s dark out.

Eventually, she hears a door opening and closing.

Paul appears. He’s wearing his usual suit and tie.

He looks down at Celia.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just gives a slow plastic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Celia: She’s been here over twenty-four hours now. Has anyone noticed she’s gone?

No. That’s the problem with college and living on her own, isn’t it. No one will know. No one will know until it’s too late.

Celia lifts her head to look up at Paul. She doesn’t tug. Doesn’t whine. After a moment she moves to hands and knees. Like a dog.

GM: The plastic smile remains in place.

Paul then turns and leaves.

Celia: Celia stares at his back. She thinks to make a sound, but by the time there’s enough moisture in her mouth to do so he’s gone. Where is he going? Is he going to leave her? Is he coming back?

She takes a faltering step after him, as if he’d summoned her. As if the lead will suddenly untie itself. The collar holds her steady.

She sits back down.

GM: Why wouldn’t it?

Like a dog, she just keeps trying anyway.

Time passes.

Paul does not return.

Celia: Hands and knees is too much of an effort to maintain after a full day and night with no food. Celia sinks onto her side and curls up once more. She doesn’t try to keep her eyes open; staring at the wall only makes the dull throbbing behind her eyes worse.

GM: Sleep comes. Celia wakes up. She feels even more sore. Even more parched. Even more weak. She has a raging, throbbing headache. Is her vision blurry?

She feels like she’s dying.

She remembers from somewhere. You can survive three days without water. Three weeks without food.

Being physically inactive in an ideal temperature environment should give her a little more time.

Her skin looks whiter, though. Dryer. She’s getting dehydrated.

Her only consolation is the empty pot in front of her.

The bowl of peas is gone.

The bowl of water is still there.

Celia: It’s an effort to open her eyes. Rolling over to look at the bowls takes more energy than she has, but eventually she manages.

Her body is empty. Even the tears don’t come now.

She inches forward.

She doesn’t know why she bothers. The gag keeps her from drinking.

GM: The leash pulls taut after she crawls far enough.

Holds her fast.

Holds her firm.

But she’s close enough to fit her mittened hands around the water bowl.

Celia: She can’t do anything but tug it towards her. Maybe if she puts her whole face in some trickle of it will seep past the edges of the gag.

GM: It takes more effort than ever.

But she moves the bowl.

All of that water.

Right there.

In her mittened palms.

If only Paul hadn’t gagged her.

If only she hadn’t shown she could undo leads with her teeth.

Celia: She was trying to do what he asked. He wanted her to lick it off the floor.

Doesn’t that count for anything, that she’d done what he asked?

She lets go of the water. She can’t do anything with it. But the other bowl. The burning bladder; she has to go. She has to. She’s surprised she didn’t wet herself in her sleep. She pulls the bowl towards her. She struggles to her knees.

It’s empty. But she fills it.

Yellow-gold, pungent urine. And everything that wouldn’t come out of her last time. She pushes it all out into the waiting bowl.

GM: There isn’t much to come out, but the stench is ripe and foul all the same, and the deep yellow piss doesn’t make it smell any better. Celia’s bottom feels dirty and unclean. She can’t wipe herself with mittened hands.

Time passes.

All she can do is lie there and feel dirty.

But eventually, she hears footsteps.

Paul.

He looks at her bowl, then at her.

He smiles blandly.

It does not reach his eyes.

“You’re such a disgusting creature, Celia.”

Celia: She dozes when she can. But the footsteps wake her. His smile chills her. She nods at his words, a jerky movement of her chin. Up and down, mindlessly agreeing. She wants to go home.

GM: Paul picks up the bowl.

He leaves.

Time passes.

He comes back. He brings a newspaper and a small table.

He sets the table down in front of her. He places the newspaper on the table.

He moves a chair adjacent to the table.

He leaves.

He comes back with a tray bearing two plates heaped high with food. Bright yellow scrambled eggs, with cheese and salt and pepper. Slices of buttered toast. Strips of crunchy, greasy, crispy bacon. Slices of green and orange grapefruit. Buttered hash browns. Steam visibly rises from the warm food. Celia can smell the heady aromas.

Paul sets the tray on the table.

He leaves and returns again with another tray. This one bears six glasses of coffee, orange juice, and clear water with ice cubes. Each drink comes in two separate glasses.

Celia: Her eyes follow the movements that he makes. She sniffs the air. Her mouth waters. But she stays silent. She doesn’t tug. She doesn’t whine. Her stomach growls again—she can’t help that—but otherwise she’s still. She sits. She waits.

GM: “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, is it not, Celia?” asks Paul. “One should not skimp on it.”

“I’m sure this looks much more appetizing than cold peas and beans.”

Celia: Her collar chimes when she nods her head again to agree with him. She tries not to let herself hope that he’ll feed her.

GM: Feed her.

Like a dog.

Paul sits down, spreads the newspaper, and picks up a bacon slice as he begins to read it.

He bites down.

Crunch.

She can hear him chewing.

Hear the crunch of the crispy bacon.

Paul’s eyes move across the newspaper.

Celia: She swallows the saliva that pools in her mouth. She tries not to stare, but her eyes follow his hands. She watches him chew.

GM: Paul finishes the bacon strip, picks up his fork, and starts with the cheesy scrambled eggs. Steam rises from the forkful of eggs before they disappear into his mouth.

He chews as he reads.

Celia: The tag on her collar clinks against the ring as she lowers her head, shuffling forward beneath the table. She sits at his feet.

GM: She wants him to feed her.

She wants to beg for scraps from his table.

Would she eat them if he tossed them onto the floor?

Like a dog.

Paul eats another forkful of scrambled eggs.

Celia: Not with the gag in.

She can’t do anything without mouth or hands.

She shuffles forward again, rubbing her cheek against his knee.

GM: Like a dog.

Nuzzling against her master.

Hoping for scraps.

Paul takes a long, slow sip of coffee.

Celia: She wishes she had a mouth free. She can do things a dog can’t. She’s already between his legs. It’s what he wants her for, isn’t it? To suck and swallow?

She’s so hungry. So hungry. She just wants a bite. A drink. Just so it stops hurting. She won’t talk. He doesn’t want to hear her so she’ll stay quiet.

She rubs her cheek against his inner thigh.

GM: Paul picks up a slice of buttered toast.

She can hear it crunch under his teeth as he chews.

Celia: She wants to whine. But she doesn’t. She’s heard all about how annoying dogs are when they whine.

She stays quiet. She closes her eyes, cheek resting on his leg.

GM: She can’t see anything. But she can hear it.

Paul’s chewing as he switches foods.

She thinks she can distinguish the different kinds.

Crunch for bacon.

Another crunch for toast.

Wetter for grapefruit.

The eggs and hash browns she can’t distinguish as readily, beyond the clink and movement of Paul’s utensils.

The sips when he drinks.

Coffee? Water? Juice?

Something.

She can smell the aromatic breakfast the whole time.

Time passes.

Paul eats.

Celia: He had two plates. Maybe one of them is for her. Maybe he’ll put it on the floor when he’s done and take the gag out and let her eat. Off the ground. Like a dog.

She doesn’t care. She’s hungry. She’ll eat it off the floor. She’s sorry she lied. She won’t lie again. She’ll fill the bowl when he asks. She won’t talk.

She just wants food. A piece of toast. Bacon. Anything.

GM: Time passes.

Paul seems to finish eating. His silverware stops making noises.

Finally, he pats her head.

“I have a second plate, Celia.”

“The food is cooler now. I’m not sure if you still want it.”

Celia: She bobs her head up and down. She does still want it. She’ll eat cold food. Warm water. Cold coffee. Warm juice. That’s fine. She’ll take it. Off the floor. Out of his hands. However he wants. She’s not picky.

GM: “You do still want it?” asks Paul.

“Well, I suppose you had better earn it.”

He unzips his pants, then reaches under the table to undo Celia’s gag. The attached dildo’s head is slick with drool as he pulls it away.

Celia: The taste of plastic and silicone lingers on her tongue. Her jaw aches; she wants nothing more than to close her mouth and keep it that way for the rest of the day. But she does what she asks. She leans forward beneath the table, collar snug against her neck, and brings him into her mouth.

It’s a familiar act. The familiar taste of him. Familiar motions. She’s tired. Sore. No doubt her mouth is drier than he wishes. But she does what he wants.

It’s why she’s here.

What she’s good for.

All she’s good for.

GM: It’s even more familiar after having a dildo inside her mouth for two nights and one day.

One night and one day?

Two days?

It’s hard to think with how lightheaded she is. How mightily her stomach growls.

She only realizes she’s done when she feels (slight) moisture inside her mouth. Paul has blown his load. It’s time for her to swallow.

“There’s something else we need to do first, Celia, before you get to eat.”

He then shoves the gag back into her mouth and secures the straps behind her head.

Celia: It’s harder to swallow than she remembers. But she does. She sucks until nothing is left, until she’s drained him as thoroughly as she can.

For half a second she thinks to struggle against the gag, to protest. Food. He’d promised food.

But she remembers his foot on her abdomen. The chill of the freezer. The empty, hollow pangs of her stomach.

She looks up at him.

She nods her head.

The charm on her collar clinks merrily at the movement.

GM: “Close your eyes.”

Celia: Celia doesn’t hesitate. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath in through her nose to settle her nerves.

GM: Paul’s footsteps recede.

Time passes.

Then she feels a tug against her leash.

“You may open your eyes.”

Paul leads her out from under the table.

There’s a plate at his feed. It’s got everything. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Scrambled eggs.

It’s cold. There’s no steam rising from it anymore.

But it’s food.

Her water bowl is there too.

Celia: Her stomach growls at the sight. She doesn’t care that it’s cold. She doesn’t care that it’s on the floor. She looks from Paul to the food and back again.

She takes a hesitant step forward, rubbing her cheek against the side of his leg. She doesn’t reach for the food. Booties and the gag keep her from trying to get to it before he tells her that she can.

GM: Paul slowly pets her hair.

“You desire that very much.”

“Don’t you?”

Celia: Celia nods her head.

GM: “Very well, Celia,” says Paul.

“You get what you earn.”

“And my maid informed me that you made a mess.”

Paul pulls out a trash can from behind a couch.

He picks up the plate of food.

Then he dumps it all in.

Celia: She thinks to strain against the leash. But only for a second. Only for a second does the collar begin to bite into her neck when she pulls, unable to help herself, hands outstretched as if she can catch the morsels before they fall. She whimpers when it disappears, lowering her face to the ground to hide her face in her gloved hands. Those and the gag muffle most of her dismay, shoulders shaking in silence.

GM: “It’s such a shame,” smiles Paul.

“If you hadn’t made a mess I would have fed you.”

Celia: Celia doesn’t lift her head from the ground. She’s sorry she made a mess. She says it into the gag, the words as weak and useless as she is, that she’s sorry she made a mess. She’s sorry she lied. She just wants to go home.

GM: “But we can’t allow that, Celia. It is desirable to be clean.”

“It is desirable for my home to be clean.”

Paul pats her head.

“I’m going in to work now. We’ll see when I next remember to feed and water you.”

“And if, I suppose.”

“When and if.”

Celia: Celia lifts her head to look up at him. He can’t. He can’t leave her. She hasn’t had anything to drink. Day two. He can’t. She crawls forward, rubbing against his leg. Water. Just water. The bowl is right there. She just wants a sip. Just a drink.

GM: Paul gives her a plastic smile.

It does not reach his eyes.

“It would be amusing if you died of thirst in my home, chained up like a dog.”

“Most amusing.”

Without further word, he turns and leaves.

---

Saturday night, 20 December 2008, PM

GM: Celia is left in place, chained and gagged and parched and starving, to stare at the wall all day.

The maid comes by several times. She places a bowl of beans and a bowl of water in front of Celia again.

When they’re not consumed, she takes them away, then replaces them with peas and more water a few hours later.

It’s not the breakfast Paul offered, but those beans and peas look like the most delicious meal in the entire world.

They would fill the ache in her crying empty belly.

If she only didn’t have a dildo lodged her mouth.

Celia: Celia doesn’t bother lifting her head to bring in the sight of the food. It just makes everything hurt that much worse when she tries to focus her eyes. Her vision blurs; eventually she just keeps her lids closed. Beneath the surface of her cool, clammy skin her pulse flutters. Cramps make her double her in on herself.

GM: Time crawls.

Celia lies there in a leashed, motionless heap, and silently waits.

Silently hungers.

Silently thirsts.

Silently thirsts.

She’s spent all day with a dildo lodged in her mouth.

There’s barely any drool leaking out.

Actually, pretty much none.

Her headache is like a solid weight crushing down on her head.

She feels like she’s been left here to die.

Celia: Maybe she will. Maybe she’ll die here on the floor and no one will ever know what happened to her. Chained to the wall like a dog.

GM: What does she wish she’d said to her friends and family?

What does she wish she could say to them now?

It’s an idle idea.

But Paul said he’d find her death amusing.

Celia: She can’t even cry because the tears don’t come, not with her body as empty as it is. She wants her mom. Or Stephen. Or even her dad. She’d take her dad at this point. A glass of water. A bath, so she’s clean again. She wants to be clean again.

GM: It’d be so easy for Paul to kill her.

He doesn’t even need to do anything.

Just leave her here for another day, then dump her corpse somewhere.

And she’d have let it happen.

Walked into his house, let him collar her, gag her, mitten her, chain her up.

Handed her murderer the murder weapons, then laid down to die at his convenience.

For his amusement.

That’s all her life is worth to him.

No one knows she comes here.

It’ll be so easy for him to get away with it.

Celia: Except that she’s been all over his house. Left drool on the floor. Spit in the cooler. Hair in the carpet. He’s left his hands all over her, too. The maid can’t clean that. She might get the rest of it.

But she won’t be able to get rid of the cum in her stomach. His.

When he’d made her swallow.

Someone will know.

She makes a sound from behind the gag, half a wheeze. It might be a laugh.

He’s fucked. If she dies, they’ll find him. If she doesn’t die, she’ll tell.

He’s well and truly fucked.

GM: Thinks the naked and starving girl chained up like a dog with a dildo in her mouth and cum in her stomach.

Stupid, says her dad.

Celia: Celia blinks at the voice. She wheezes again, lifting her hands like a child in the crib. He came for her? Her eyes flicker across the room.

GM: Come to beat her bloody, for what a whore she’s made of herself.

For how stupid she’s been.

Whoring herself out and now getting herself killed for her own money.

Smack, will go his hand over her ass. He’ll beat her bloody and lock her in her room.

Maybe he won’t give her any food and water either.

No, the first person she wanted was her mom.

Her mom, who’s always so happy to cook for her. Who loves having dinner with her. Who loves feeding her baby.

Would you like some more to eat, sweetie? she smiles, and Celia pictures her mom’s lasagna. Warm and cheesy and full of sizzling ground beef and roasted veggies and tomato and filling her, satiating her, as Diana scoops a heaping slice onto her plate, smiles and rubs her back, and asks if she wants some buttery garlic bread too, to go with a nice tall glass of cool water.

Celia: Her stomach is never this empty when she’s at her mom’s house. Even when there’s not enough money to go around, her mom always makes do.

GM: How about some garlic bread, sweetie? her mom smiles, and passes a crispy, buttery, cheesy slice of steaming garlic-smelling bread into her hand.

Celia: She loves her mom’s garlic bread. It’s always freshly made. With fresh garlic and the stuff in the can and the powder and a zillion other things, and she didn’t even get mad the one time Celia piled the cheese so high that it didn’t melt all the way through and fell to the bottom of the oven and burned.

Celia gnaws on the bread. Only this time it tastes like plastic and leather. This time there’s no love baked in, no laughter in the kitchen.

Her mom isn’t real.

She doesn’t want garlic bread that tastes like leather. She wants to go home. She wants a bath. She wants food and water and a warm bed.

She tugs at the collar. There’s no give. He’d locked her in nice and tight.

But the booties. Her skin is clammy. Her arms look smaller. Doesn’t dehydration lead to reduced body mass? She’d heard David once say something about his friend making weight for wrestling. She knows girls from ballet who do it to fit their leotards.

Celia struggles to put her foot against the tip of the bootie, pressing it into the wall to secure it. She pulls.

GM: It tastes like plastic.

Like silicone. 

Like a dildo stuck in her mouth.

Struggling makes her bite down on it. She tastes more plastic and silicon against her parched throat.

The bootie is on damnably tight. But she must be thinner.

She pulls.

She pulls.

She pulls.

More sweaty skin along her wrist slowly becomes visible.

Celia: She’s there. Almost. So close. Her skin screams as the leather bootie slides against it; sweat is lubricating enough to offer some glide, at least, but that doesn’t mean the tugging doesn’t hurt.

GM: Almost…

“Well, well, well,” sounds a voice with a plastic smile.

Celia: The voice. The plastic voice from the man with the dead eyes whose only goal seems to hurt and humiliate her.

She freezes.

Then, slowly, she lowers her foot from where it anchors the bootie to the wall. Her shoulders curl inward, spine curving as if to protect the soft flesh of her belly and face. She doesn’t turn. She can’t bring herself to look at him. Better this way. Better to huddle against the wall like a cornered animal. Maybe if she makes herself small enough he won’t hurt her.

She just wanted the water. She’d have put it back on when she was done. She would have.

GM: A cornered animal with a dildo in her mouth.

Celia cannot see him, with her eyes turned away.

But she hears him.

The steady tread of his steps against carpet.

The pause.

He must be right behind her.

Celia: Every step makes her shiver. The closer he gets the more her muscles tense—until he pauses. Until everything steps. She squeezes her eyes shut as if that will keep it from hurting.

GM: That’s when she feels a hand slowly petting her hair.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Petting her.

Slowly.

Gently.

Celia: But the expected blow never comes, and while the first touch makes her jump, there’s no pain. No hitting. No kicking. Just soft, gentle touches that force the tension from her limbs and air from her lungs in a shaky exhale through her nose. Her head hangs, shoulder shaking with dry sobs, her tears stolen by her body’s dehydration.

Celia presses back against him, sitting between his feet with her legs tucked against her chest.

GM: “Oh, Celia,” Paul smiles.

Almost fondly.

He pets her hair.

“Do you know why I do this to you?”

“There is a reason.”

He pets his hand back and forth along her head.

Celia: She thinks she understands. She lied. Lying is unclean. And she didn’t listen to him. She fought him. Instead of doing what he said. She made him repeat himself and wasted his time.

So Celia gives a tiny nod of her head.

GM: “Turn around, Celia,” says Paul, stroking her hair.

“I want to tell you why.”

“I want to tell you why to your face.”

Celia: It’s an effort to turn around. To spin on the floor, shoulders still curled inward, making every attempt to not dislodge his hand from her head.

She looks at his shoes. Clean. Spotless, really, the whole place is spotless. He’s spotless and she’s dirty because she lied and… and because she’s a whore.

That’s what he’s going to say. That she’s a whore. Not a real person. He’s treating her like an animal because she’s not a person anymore. Just a whore. His whore.

Slowly, Celia lifts her eyes up the line of his body to find his face.

GM: Paul is there.

He’s wearing the same black suit.

The same leather shoes.

In the middle of the night.

He’s smiling and squatting down on his haunches. His hand continues to make stroking motions along her head like he’s petting a dog,

When she turns, he takes her chin with his hand. Gently cups it up, to stare deep into his eyes.

Celia looks.

There is nothing there.

They are plastic. They are not real. They are not human. They are plastic. His entire face is plastic. It’s shaped like a human’s face, makes a human’s expressions, emits human sounds, but there is nothing behind it. Hollow. Empty. Plastic. Celia wonders if it would even bleed when cut.

Then he says, plastic smile frozen in place:

“I enjoy your suffering.”

Celia: Oh.

Celia stares.

She tries to ignore his fingers on her skin. The gentle way he has touched her these past few moments. Because his words, the look in his eyes… there’s nothing there. He doesn’t care who she is. What she is. What she did.

There’s absolutely nothing inside of him.

He’s a monster.

Like the thing under the bed. The thing that wore her dad’s face that night that…

Her brain stutters, stalls, stops. She pushes it out of her head.

Her dry tongue touches the gag in her mouth. She wants the water in the bowl next to his feet. She wants a shower, wants to sit on the floor of the tub and just let the water scald her until she feels clean. But most of all… most of all she wants to go home. She wants to go home and never come back because there’s nothing that’s worth this, no amount of money is worth the admission that he torments her simply because he enjoys it.

Celia closes her eyes, lashes brushing her cheeks, and slowly nods her head.

She’s going to die here.

The realization makes her shoulders shake once more. She’s going to die here, chained to the wall like an animal. He’s going to watch her die.

And no one will ever know what he did.

GM: That’s when the hand returns.

Petting her hair.

Back and forth.

Slowly.

Gently.

Tenderly.

“I am going to kill you, Celia,” agrees the smiling plastic voice.

Celia: Her breath falters.

No.

Not like this.

Please.

Celia leans into his touch, hating herself. She’ll be good. She will. She can do other things for him. She can find ways to amuse him. He can keep her like this, collared, on her knees, just not dead.

She doesn’t want to die.

So she leans in, cheek against his thigh, eyes finally opening to look up the length of him once more. She’ll be good. She will.

GM: She hears noise.

Clinking.

Metallic.

Paul is rummaging through a sack.

He removes a shiny set of steel manacles and starts to fasten them around her left wrist.

Celia: He can’t.

For half a second she thinks about fighting him.

But what can she do, starving and dehydrated as she is? What can she do without hands and with her neck chained to the wall and her mouth covered?

Nothing. She can do nothing.

So she does. Nothing. She doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t whine. Doesn’t try to fight him. Just holds still while he fastens the steel around her wrist.

How many days has it been? How long can she go without water?

She might be dead by morning.

She blinks again, but tears don’t come. They can’t. She can only lean against him, letting him support her because it’s too much of an effort to keep her head up at this point.

She’s sorry. So sorry.

GM: Paul fastens the other manacle around her knee.

Then he produces a second set. They go around her other wrist and her other knee.

The chain is short.

Maybe a foot long.

She can’t pull her legs far enough apart, now, to work the booties off again.

The manacles keep her from even standing up.

Paul smiles and strokes her hair.

Celia: She moves her arm to see the stretch. There’s very little give to the chain. But they rattle when she moves. She hates the noise it makes. The clinking.

Celia stills. She doesn’t want to die like this. Not slowly wasting away. Not painfully. Why can’t he just… knife. Bullet. Asphyxiation. Anything but this.

She rubs her cheek against his thigh. Her foot moves, nudging the bowl of water in a silent plea. A drink. A drink, a bath, that’s all she wants. His hands lathering the shampoo through her hair, the soap on her body. Just a chance to feel clean again before she…

What is her mom going to do without her? She can barely afford to feed herself even with the full check. That’s why Celia is here. To help her mom. To right a years-old wrong.

She stills against him, face nestled in the gap between his thighs.

GM: Face planted between his legs.

Fat dildo in her dry mouth.

It’s almost like sucking his cock.

He pets her hair some more.

The hand goes back and forth.

“I will not use a weapon.”

“I will not lay hands upon you.”

“I will simply leave you here.”

“I will watch you die of dehydration.”

“It is an efficient method. Little effort is required to make the site of your death clean again.”

“It should not take long, though it will feel for you as if it takes an eternity.”

“I will take my meals in front of you, and drink copiously in your presence. I will spill water about your person, though not upon you, for I do not wish you to feel clean. I will have speakers brought in. Linked to my shower. You will hear the sound of me bathing. Gargling water. Flushing the toilet. So much water, Celia. I will have a fountain brought in, too. It’s a small thing. Portable. But you shall watch constantly flowing water until you are able to watch no longer.”

“You will die on my floor, chained up like a dog, with a cock in your mouth.”

“And it will be pleasing to me.”

“The death of Celia Flores, my pretty little whore, will be most pleasing to me.”

Pet, pet, goes his hand along her head.

Celia: Why.

Why her.

Why do this to her.

Just because he enjoys her suffering? Is that really it? That’s all it is, he just wants to torment her?

There are so many other ways to torment her. He’s done them before. The photos. The tub. The blondies he had forced her to eat. The freezer.

She can’t cry, but she whines around the gag in her mouth, a sound that might be “please” if her tongue could leave the roof of her mouth.

GM: Paul smiles his plastic smile and runs his fingers along the surface of her gag.

Silenced.

Like an animal.

“Then, when you are dead, I will fuck your corpse,” he continues. “That is why I have not fucked you yet. I wish to fuck the corpse of a virgin. I have fucked corpses, and I have fucked virgins, but I have yet to fuck the corpse of a virgin. I wish to penetrate your hymen and watch your virgin’s blood flow as you lie still and lifeless beneath me, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. I will then turn you over and fuck your anus as well.”

“Of course, if you are not actually a virgin, then death is a suitable punishment for your continued lies.”

“Then when I have slaked my lusts upon your corpse, I will return it to your family. Your mother, I think. You care for her in a way you do not care for your father, and mothers mourn dead children in a way young Stephen will not mourn a dead lover. He can always find another whore to amuse himself with. I doubt the sight of your corpse would distress him for long.”

“I will steal into your mother’s home in the dead of night and leave your corpse upon the living room floor, to greet her in the morning. It will be dressed as it now is. Naked, but for its restraints, with a penis gag in its mouth. I will replace your lead with a steel chain and bolt it to the nearest secure fastening, so that your mother cannot conveniently remove your corpse. Perhaps I will also wait a sufficient period for rot to set in. Your animal nature will be plain to onlookers. It will be plain, too, that you engaged in significant sexual activity at the time of your death.”

“How do you think your mother will respond to such a sight, Celia?”

Celia: Celia stares up at him.

She struggles backwards, scooting until her back hits the wall.

She’d have slept with him. She was thinking it just now, that if he wanted to torment her, if he wanted to drag it out, he could keep her. She wouldn’t run. She’d be good. Just a whore. His whore. One he doesn’t have to pay anymore, even if it is with her own money. She could give him access to her accounts. He could keep the money. Keep her. He’d get both. He could keep her in chains, if it pleases him.

But that. Fucking her corpse. Leaving her for her mother. Implying that Stephen wouldn’t care. And her dad. Will he care? Will he miss her? Even as cruel as he is, he’s the dad she knows. She wishes he were here now, wishes he would put his arms around her, tell her that it’s okay. Even if he calls her stupid, it’s better than the alternative. Even if he hits her until she bleeds.

Celia shakes her head, eyes on Paul’s face. No. Please. Anything but that. She whines again. He can put her back in the freezer. She’ll lie still if he wants to fuck her then. They can pretend. She’ll pretend.

She whines, a sentence that might be another plea, reduced to begging for her life.

She’d wanted to look cute for him. She’d worn a new bra, new panties, had gotten the wax. So he’d like her more. So he wouldn’t hurt her.

Oh, how it backfired.

GM: Paul smiles his plastic smile.

He rises.

He walks forward.

He squats down again.

He plants his palms around both sides of her face.

He lifts it to meet his eyes.

“Celia.”

He stares into her eyes.

He smiles his plastic smile.

“You may now scream.”

Celia: It starts as another whine. The air leaves her lungs but she can’t force her throat to make the sound he wants so it starts, pathetically, as a whine.

She sucks in air through her nose, staring into his eyes, and tries again.

It’s louder the second time. More guttural. A moan more than a whine. Her throat undulates with the effort to keep it going, but it’s not long before she’s out of air again.

Her lungs might already be failing.

So she breathes in again, eyes wide, unable to look away from the monster standing in front of her.

And she screams.