Sarah had been trapped in hell for five years.
She had been taken on her twenty-first birthday, from the bar where she went to celebrate. One drink too many, and she'd disappeared. She'd woken up the next morning in her new home: a carpeted, windowless room, equipped with a single twin bed--the headboard was made of metal bars, like it had come from a hospital in a horror film or an orphanage from Soviet Russia--and a small bookcase filled with old second-hand books, as well as a little wooden table and two chairs.
The room was kept at a comfortable temperature. There was an attached bathroom with a shower--no door or shower curtain, but it didn't matter much, since she was always alone when she used it. The books gave her something to do during the long days. She had snacks to eat during the day.
During the day, she wore a chastity belt and nothing else.
That had been one of the most frightening things to her, at first; she didn't know his captor, didn't know his name, but he clearly knew her. The belt had been made to her exact measurements.
At first, she'd wondered if he'd just grabbed her because she fit the belt that he already owned, but occasionally he made little comments about her parents, about her younger brother and how he was in college now and playing basketball for his school. She could only assume this man had been tracking her for a long time before he abducted her, and the thought used to terrify her.
Now it was just a fact of her life. He knew about her; she knew nothing about him, except for what he wanted from her.
He came to her every evening. He brought a dinner for her to eat--sometimes home-made, sometimes takeout--and sat at her table with her while she ate it.
Then, once she was finished, he unlocked her chastity belt and brought her into the bathroom for a supervised shower. If she tried to touch her pussy or her clit at all, there were severe punishments; he managed that part of her hygiene, and he never even bothered to use the water to tease her there. Quick and efficient.
He liked to interact with that part of her as little as possible. Often, he pretended like he didn't even understand what it was for, like he didn't notice how wet she was. At first she'd wondered if it was some kind of issue he had with women, some kind of aversion to women's bodies, but these days she understood: it was a mind-fuck, meant to remind her of her place, the same way he always referred to her not by name but simply as "hole". A way to make sure she remembered that her pleasure was beyond incidental; it wasn't a consideration at all. She wasn't a person to him, she was just a hole to be used.
Under his watchful eye, she would douche her ass each night, getting herself clean for him. Then they would return to the bed, where he used velcro straps to secure her, always on her back. She wasn't sure if that was because he actually liked to watch her aching pussy clench and drip, or if it was to prevent her from rubbing her clit into the sheets, or maybe just because he liked to see her face or her tits.
Once she was fully strapped down, her wrists over her head and her legs spread wide, he would lube himself up and simply fuck into her. He'd stretched her open first for the first few months, but these days, with his dick up her ass every night, she was always open enough. It hurt every time when he first pushed in, a sudden and mean stretch, but it didn't injure her, so he didn't care.
Then he would fuck her ass. He lasted a while, longer than any of the boyfriends she'd ever had, but really it was less than ten minutes every time. By the end, though, she was always loose, no longer hurting, and her pussy was always dripping steadily down her thighs from the stimulation, aching and aching.
Then he would pull out, clean himself up briefly in the bathroom, and leave her there. He controlled the lights from somewhere outside the room; a few seconds after he left, they would switch off, leaving her in the dark. And that was how she spent every night: strapped to her bed, naked, her pussy wet and desperate with arousal and her ass dripping with his come.
Sarah had long since given up on begging for him to let her come. He didn't punish her for the requests, or tease her; he didn't react at all. He acted as if she hadn't said anything, the same way he reacted to anything else that she said unless it was in response to a direct question that he'd asked. She'd given up on trying to get loose from the bindings, too. He did them perfectly every time, and every six months like clockwork he replaced them all with fresh straps, leaving no opportunity for them to wear down.
In the morning, the lights would flip back on again, giving her a couple seconds' warning before he returned. He would bring in a hot breakfast for her--again, often home-made--and set it on the table, and then he would fuck her ass again. Afterwards, he would attend to her.
