The hours melted by as tediously as if someone had written in old, cracked chalk on a blackboard and then smeared their hands across it to erase the markings.
The exact edges of where one ended, and the next began were startlingly fuzzy. There were no windows in the room Emma was kept in; day became night became day again -- or so it must've. She'd have sworn she'd been there for all eternity.
Of course, her judgment wasn't that sound; how many times had one of them stooped at her side to inject -- whatever it was they were injecting -- into her?
Her head was heavy with an impenetrable fog; she was constantly nauseated and 'swishy', the room spinning, sending her into an unending free-fall.
The emptiness of her stomach was a blessing and a curse; she was so hungry, she thought the vary marrow of her bones ached hollowly.
She felt like she was buried alive; where was she? Where were the people looking for her?
She wanted to get out of this damned house if it would only slow down enough so she could find the door.
The spinning never stopped, though; her head never stopped swimming; she had an entire ocean between her ears.
When Emma decided to toss a limb out, it was less in the hopes of stopping the spinning at first and more to prove that she could still move on her own. Her barefoot left the meager, little mat they'd put down for her and made contact with the cold wood of the floor; solid. Firm.
The knot of bone at her ankle made impact, and a mild pain shot up her leg.
She thought the spin stuttered, just a little. Like someone had taken a metal rod and poked in between the spokes of a moving wheel.
She tossed her other leg outward. The movement seemed to reawaken a restlessness in her.
"Hey," she muttered. Her voice cracked in her throat, a spark of sound leaping from a sudden flame.
She was not alone in this room. They always kept at least one person there with her, just to keep watch.
He wasn't 'watching' her at all, though.
His gaze hadn't slid over her in an uncountable amount of time. He hadn't spoken either.
Which he was it anyway? They never looked her way, so she couldn't see what color his eyes were.
Blue-Eyes was taller, but the man in the room with her was sitting! Everyone looked the same size sitting.
She tried the same tossing movements with her arms, and pain nipped up her right wrist -- the one from which she was still handcuffed. The clinking of metal on metal confirmed this. That's right; she was chained up to the metal leg of the table, laying at his feet like a dog.
"Hey," she said again, a little louder, hoarse but complete.
The man didn't so much as blink. The room wasn't spinning so much anymore; speaking required focus which centered her somewhat. The edges of her vision were wobbling, though, tilting like she was on a boat, like the room was trying it's damnedest to spin. Her stomach churned. She was a little nauseous.
Now she found the vitriol collecting in her throat and ripped sound from it like one started a lawnmower.
"Didn't you hear me, you son of a bitch? I'm
talking to you.
"
The end of the sentence grew in volume, shredded and pitchy like the sound was forced through broken glass.
The man gave no indication she'd said anything at all.
"Aren't you listening to me?"
The resounding, answering silence would say, no.
"Don't you have any more stupid little questions to ask? Don't you need something to take back when you go running back to your boss?"
She tried to flail a leg out to hit the leg of his chair, but she couldn't reach it. Instead, cold concrete sent a deep ache through her shin.
The oversized, grubby, cotton t-shirt they'd stuffed her in provided very little protection from the empty chill of being half-naked and as hungry as she was. It smelled somewhat musky and had a few holes by the neck; it had probably been one of theirs.
Her nipples poked out, the hard, little buds obvious through the fabric. She wondered if her captor noticed. She kicked her leg out again, this time in the hopes that the sound would get his attention. When it didn't, her temper flared again.
She needed
food
. She was cold. She kicked her legs out, again and again, now just trying to make noise rather than hit her mark.
Fuck, she needed something other than to stew in her own misery in someone's filthy shirt because she thought she was going to go fucking nuts.
With all the kicking she'd done, the hem of the shirt had ridden up above her hips, where the tuft of curls between her legs was revealed.
She lolled her gaze up to the man at the table, who was reading. He didn't seem to notice.
There was no fire behind the rage she felt -- had been feeling -- it was bone dry now and terribly brittle.
The first day she'd been here, they'd left her alone, and she'd fought and screamed and all but kicked the damn door down. Now she lay curled at his feet like their unwilling, little pet.
She glared at the man sitting before her; his hair was a dirty blonde, and he wasn't wearing glasses. Brown-Eyes.
When she raised her hand to touch herself, it was so tedious, it was almost like she was lifting something separate from herself, something leaden, tied to her, intent to make her sink, when she was trying to swim.
The movement was non-negotiable, though; if she couldn't seize his attention, she could at least make herself feel something other than empty.
She let her hand fall and land between her legs, moving her fingers, parting the hair there, spreading her lips.
She was dry; still, as she dragged her fingers against herself, the feeling wasn't unpleasant.
After a few moments, traces of wetness collected at the pads of her fingers.
As she moved her fingers, she could feel the weight of her arm across her torso, pressing her breasts. For once, the heaviness didn't feel quite so stifling or sluggish. She felt the soft jostle of her body with the movement. As the wetness began to grow, she realized that she was starting to feel a little less terrible with almost tearful relief.
She stroked her fingers along the now-wet seam of her cunt and delighted in how silky it felt now; what magic her touch worked in just a few minutes.
Her fingers found the slight dimple, where her body curved inward, marking her entrance. She thought of how recently it had been used, although it was difficult when she wasn't quite sure how much time had passed.
She'd had three meals since then, and she couldn't imagine that they fed her more than twice a day. That meant they'd fucked her from anywhere from a day and a half ago, to perhaps three days ago, at most, she'd guess.
Emma started to ease her finger in, a little hesitant, not necessarily because she was still newly wet and she was worried about stretching herself out, but because she'd gotten to wondering if remnants of their seed remained in her. It was as if her fingers were hiding away from her captors only to find more of them inside.
Her tight heat accepted the slow push of her index finger, and at a surprising sing in friction along her inner walls, she felt her thighs give a slight twitch.
A contented sigh left Emma that cracked in her throat midway through.
Now she was so focused on her own actions that she didn't even notice the way Brown-Eyes' gaze flicked down to the junction between her thighs.
Emma's finger was pumping in a slow rhythm now, easy, letting the sucking heat of her cunt pull her back in as a delightful warmth started to gather in her gut.
On the next outdraw, she added her middle finger and hilted them inside her to the knuckle. There was an audible wet sound.
Not only comfortable with the girth but craving more from it, Emma began to move her fingers faster, the easy rhythm she'd started with growing, picking up the pace, pumping moderately, and then eventually, pumping furiously.
The vicious rub against her inner walls fed the heat growing inside of her, and as her knuckles crashed against her folds, she could feel the jostle of her breasts against her arm.
She was fucking herself with the need to get off now; fuck Brown-Eyes, fuck this room, and fuck whatever they'd shot her up with.
She could feel herself clench around her fingers like her body was trying to hold her hand there. She was close; her breathing was ragged, her heart was racing, and her skin felt like it was washed in heat -- she felt more alive than she had in
days
, with her blood running hot and cold and her stomach flipping--
Suddenly, something warm and tight closed around her wrist as her thighs were thrown apart and her fingers were ripped from her swollen cleft.
"
Ah
!—"
Emma cried out, both out of shock and the agony of having her release snatched from her when it had just nearly been within her reach.
Brown-Eyes had moved so quickly, she barely had time to register the screech of chair legs against the wood floor. He was holding her hands back against the mat as he straddled her waist, keeping her pinned under his weight even if she was already chained up to the table. Emma thought she could feel the hard, hot bulge of his erection through his trousers against her stomach, and for a moment, she thought he was going to fuck her again.
She felt a flutter -- panic? Or maybe something else she was too proud to admit -- meanwhile, the patch between her legs still hideously wet. She clenched emptily; she'd been so close to her release, it'd be more of a crime not to fill her now.
Instead, though, Brown-Eyes reached into his pocket to pull out a small silver key. She struggled beneath him the best she could, hips bucking, legs thrashing, but with his weight and the weakness of her current state, it might as well have been the wind that he felt.
He leaned over her to put his weight down on both her arms, moving her free wrist towards the one cuffed to the table. When they were close enough that he could keep both down with one of his arms, he leaned heavily onto her and undid the cuffs, only to redo them so that they were both cuffed around the table leg.
"
Fucker
!" she barked in his face.
She pulled and jerked beneath him, but even as he took some of his weight off her, she still couldn't go very far. Her poor cunt was still pounding with her arousal.
Brown-Eyes' gaze slipped over her form, pausing where the t-shirt still rode up at her hips.
