You're naked except for the steel around your throat. I can hear the hammer pounding the red hot metal and I see the sparks falling like burning snow. I chose not to smooth out the collar because I wanted to keep the divots. I wanted it rough on your skin. I took your exact measurements to ensure it dug into you when you swallowed. The padlock is far heavier than it needs to be so it weighs you down. I wanted it to mimic the feel of my boot pressed into the back of your neck. There's some slack in the chain that goes from your collar to the headboard. I welded the headboard together from rusty scrap metal I picked up at a salvage yard. The bed is bolted to the floor. I found it and the mattress in an old abandoned mental institution. I hope when you're alone you can smell the despair.
Do you know I paid a jail guard $100 for the pillow and sheet? You can't buy fabric that shitty online. I imagined you endlessly tossing and turning trying to get comfortable and now patches of red are covering your body. Can you see how much I fucking care about you? Everything in the room I handpicked. The nightstand I found at a flea market. I bought it because it looked like it had washed ashore and sat on the beach for twenty years. The gaudy art nouveau lamp I found at an estate sale. The base is bronze and the shade is blown glass in the shape of a snail shell. I tested seventeen different light bulbs to get the lighting perfect, you fucking whore. Look at what I did for you.
Surrounded by you on the bed are various stuffed animals next to a cordless magic wand vibrator. Did you use up the battery? I left you alone for not even five hours. I see the wet spot soaking the mattress. You make me sick the way you're trying to look innocent hugging the powder blue unicorn. Do you think those sad little girl eyes are going to manipulate me?
I hold a bowl of water out in front of me because a glass would be too easy. The chain jingles as you crawl towards me. You slurp up the room-temperature liquid. "Do you need to use the restroom?" My tone has the compassion of an abandoned refrigerator.
You shake your head, "no" without removing your lips from the bowl. Droplets fall down your chin, over the tattoos below your collarbone, and onto your breasts. Your hair is clumpy and greasy. Your makeup is days old and nearly rubbed off. But they're still hints of the pretty girl you used to be. I enjoy seeing it. It's like an echo of a package unopened. And now that you've been used, you're in transition to something else- something more honest. I take the bowl from your lips and you chase after it by stretching your neck trying to get one more sip. The chain pulls tight and I hold the bowl less than an inch away. Your lips are about to get close enough for one more slurp but, instead, I set it on the nightstand.
Returning my attention to you, I reach out. You wince and fall back. "Shh, it's OK," I reassure you as I pet your hair. Our colleagues are taking summer vacations in warm tropical destinations. They're sitting at tiki bars and sipping umbrella drinks. And you won't leave this room for two weeks except for when I drag you down the hall by your chain to shit and piss. How does it feel to see the monster in the man you love? Can you tell I've completely lost myself in this role?
I snatch the chain and yank you towards me. My hand crashes into your face. "Look at me!" I scream. You're shaking. Your tear-filled eyes glisten. I grab your cheeks and force your mouth open, "You're nothing. Do you know that?" After I slap you again I spit into your mouth. I cover your lips and mash my palm into you as if I'm trying to shove too much garbage down the drain. The ball in your throat struggles past the collar when you swallow. "That's it."
I can tell the taste of me is still on your tongue by the way you bite into your lip. I reach between your legs. Your cunt is soaked. "Fucking whore." I slap you again, this time with your juices coating my fingers. I wipe them on your lips and force them into your mouth, four fingers wide stretching your face. "You like that? Huh? You like when I fuck your slutty mouth?"
You nod as you squeeze your tiny unicorn. I shove my hand deeper until you gag. "Yeah, take that. Yeah." I want to strip away any hope. I want to peel back the layers of you until I reach the empty center. We're only four days into this little project of ours and it seems as though you've been my prisoner for years. Every time I open the door, am I bringing you food, or have I come to use your body again? Will I be a gentle husband taking care of his bedridden wife? Will I be a brutal man who lost control of his rage? I never know. When I'm out in the world, walking up and down grocery aisles, or putting gas in the car, I can hear your cries, and the erection between my legs grows.
I'm not even sure how long I've been shoving my hand into your mouth. But drool is all over your chin. It's dripping onto your tits. I scoop it up and fling it at you before I slap your chest so hard it knocks you back. I grasp your face and pull you onto your knees. I slap your chest again and you fall back again.
"Do you know when I'm preparing your meals I think about the way you look at me? You're so afraid of what comes through the door. But without me, you'd be fucked." I grab your hair and pull you so close our lips almost touch. You open your mouth as if you expect me to kiss you. "I want you to fucking think about that. I'm all you have." I hope my breath is stale on your skin. I lean over and you rest your head on my shoulder as I slip a finger inside you. "You get that, don't you," I whisper into your ear.
You've learned I don't want you answering my rhetorical questions. That was a lesson I taught your first night. You hold still and I put another finger inside you. "No one's coming, not your friends, not your family. I'll take better care of you than any other person alive."
My three middle fingers stretch you. "Every girl grows up wanting a man to love her as much as I'm gonna love you." You make a sound. I can't tell if it's a cry or a moan. "Did you fucking say something?"
I lean back to see your face. Tears fall from your eyes. You whisper. "I get it. " You rub the bulge in my jeans. "Please. Let me show you I want to be good."
I have claw marks covering my body. You broke the skin when you bit my shoulder. I didn't want to choke you until you blacked out. I didn't want to beat your ass with the cane until you bled. I had no choice. I needed you to see my resolve. I can't tell if I've broken you yet. Your other hand joins in to rub me through my jeans. "Is this more bullshit? How do I know you're not trying to get me to let my guard down?"
Unzipping my fly, you say, "Let me show you."
