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Minka Arzegotti · (01-24-2017)

“Don’t wipe it away.”

{He has me standing in the corner of my small room, the one I’ve had no choice but to call home for much too long now.

I don’t bother asking him please, I just do what he tells me and put my hands back to my sides. Saying please is pointless. We would only stalemate until he wore me down with his relentless stare. His heavy breathing. Eventually he would get his way, just like every other day, and I would feel even worse for fighting back and losing. This way I was making what little choice was mine left to make.

He just stands. Watching. Minutes go by. The muscles in my legs ache, and the humid room, pungent with my own smell, hugs my skin in its fur coat air. The sweat mingles with my heavy estrus and a chill raises bumps on my thighs every time the tiny oscillating fan turns to face me.

Another crimson line traces down my leg. I feel its warmth reach out and tough my knee. This week’s plain cotton panties are soaked through, red, nearly black, by the flow coming out of me. I don’t feel the shame I felt the day before yesterday, or the day before that, any longer. Feeling only leads to pain.

He moves closer. Slow. Kneeling in front of me like someone lighting a candle for a memory. It is almost reverent, the way he crawls to me. Someone watching might see me as the one in control, with this man on his knees before me. How little they understand.

As repulsed as I am, as terrified as I am, I know he will not rape me. He never does. His one attempt lead to nothing but anger and frustration on his own part. That was the first day.}

{After he threw me into this room and locked the door for hours, leaving me with nothing, not even a light. Letting me scream and claw and kick at the walls until I was exhausted. I didn’t even realize I was just wearing myself down for him, making myself less of a fight.

I offered pathetically little resistance as he bent me forward across the cheap cot he had me tethered to like a dog in a yard. My Gryffindor panties were pulled away from under my sundress.}

“Don’t look. Don’t fucking look.”

{He grunted in my ear, shoving my face away whenever I turned it toward him. My naiveté. Assuming my tears might elicit sympathy.

I felt him, his rubbery softness, his coarse thatch of pubic hair, chafing against my backside for what may have been an entire quarter hour before he finally threw me aside and swore loudly, kicking me in my stomach and ribs as he fastened his jeans. I bawled and covered my face because I hadn’t yet learned that it only egged him on. My panties stayed stretched around my thighs while he beat me. I blacked out and woke up with them still there, and heard him in the adjacent room finishing himself what he could not while in here with me.}

{Now he takes my hands with nearly convincing gentleness and places them on either side of his sparsely coiffed head. His face dips and his nose is less than an inch from the slight swell between my legs. He breathes me in just as a new rivulet of my menses draws a line like yarn across my pale inner thigh. I match it unwillingly with a single tear, which thankfully rolls down my cheek while he isn’t looking at my face.

He takes another long breath and holds it in, trapping me in his lungs like he’s trapped me in his room, and then he abruptly stands. This is how our time together always ends. What looks like a sudden wave of guilt and shame passes over him, tidal, then vanishes back behind his everyday face once more. His hands, though, they always shake. His skin reddens.

His hand comes across my face hard, knocking me backward onto the cot and splaying my legs wide open. He turns away, spitting on the floor.}

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Filthy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re a whore. A slut.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You fucking make me sick to my stomach, you dirty cunt.”

“I’m sorry.”

{He stares at me as I gather myself, bringing my knees together to disguise the red. He ponders my apologies. Determines if they were sufficient. If I meant them.

I did.

He accepts my capitulation and walks to the small shelf near the door where he set the single glass of water nearly two hours before, upon his entrance to the room. The water must be the same 80 degrees as the stagnant air by now.

He looks at me and takes a sip. Something new. It awakens a dread inside me I was not expecting. That water is mine. The only moisture I’ll receive until we do this again tomorrow night. I would cry if I weren’t already so dry.

He then overturns the glass as he always does, watching the water cascade onto the old, hard wood floor. Then he drops the glass, and it shatters. Tiny slivers hidden in the pools. He doesn’t move yet. He holds me with his gaze for agonizing moments. The water is slipping away between the cracks in the boards.

Finally he steps away, unlocking and opening the door long enough to exit. I hear the bolts slide into place as I leap onto my hands and knees and start dragging my arid tongue across the floor, passionately kissing life into my veins before it all drains away. The invisible shards of glass again open the soft pink of my tongue.

There is no more pain. Only thirst. And briefly, respite.

Until tomorrow.}

“Please, Mister Shadows…

I know you don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything. You might even hate me if you’ve ever been against my brother Luca, and you almost certainly have. He doesn’t make many friends, and he is easy to resent.

But please, just hear me out.

I don’t want to be here. Not in the ring, anyway. Not in a fight. I don’t have a choice.

A while ago, somewhere in California, I was taken. I was trying to find Luca, and I foolishly let my hormones get in my way when I got distracted with his partner Austin Fernando. Stupid. So stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking, why I thought that Fernando would be anything unlike his persona on screen… that he wouldn’t just use my schoolgirl crush as a means to an end.

I’m embarrassed of the things I did with him when I should have been focused on Luca. On finding my brother and bringing him home.

And when Fernando ditched me one night while we were out after something shinier and prettier caught his eye? After he let me walk with no destination other than perhaps a bus terminal in the middle of the night, exhausted, scared, desperate… yes, I got into a car when a ride was offered to me. Yes I was stupid enough, again, to trust a man.

And now, weeks…. Months? Later… he’s making me fight. He says I have to fight so he can see me bleed without having to do the work himself. He just wants to see me hurting, like he does every day. So he can vicariously fuck me through a television screen to make up for his inability to do it for real.

But he says if I win, he will let me go. He says it is my only chance of ever living anywhere other than the filthy room he’s chained me in. This is the only shot he will give me, David.

So please… please. Again, you don’t owe this to me in any way, but… please help me be free. You don’t have to even be beaten or pinned or anything. Just let me run. Let me run and grab that flag, then run out the back door, and keep running.

Before he changes his mind.

Please."

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Help Me {part one}
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