Trigger warnings: Non-consent, abduction, forced imprisonment, drugging, brief mentions of suicide, degradation, forced BDSM, and cruel punishments (including but not limited to starvation and isolation).

Note: This story, including all names and people, is entirely fictional and not based on any real life experiences or events.

If you like this story and want to read more, you can find a list of all my stories here!💜 You can also find a list of the parts of this story whenever they are published.🥰

A week later, I wake up to something new.

One of my favourite books and a small piece of chocolate sit right in front of my eyes, and despite it all, my heart warms a little at the sight of it. I immediately devour the chocolate, moaning a little at the taste of sugar.

Despite working at a gym, I’m still such a sugar addict. I can’t go more than a day or two without something sweet, and during my period? Lacking sugar was one of the worst parts about having my period here, honestly.

Next, I pick up the book, and I immediately recognise it as mine. It’s one of my favourites – a romance between a European princess and her grumpy bodyguard. The lettering on the cover is slightly faded, and I know it’s mine because the one I have is faded in the exact same way. The spine is also cracked in several places.

I thumb the pages for a minute, thinking. There are two possibilities as to how he got this. The first one is that he took it either right before or during my kidnapping, but why would he do that? If he grabbed it before, he would’ve risked me discovering that it’s gone missing, but if he grabbed it during my kidnapping, then that just seems like such an odd detour. Why bother? I mean, this could all still be part of his plan for me, but it seems odd to plan such a small detail weeks ahead of time.

The other option doesn’t make much sense either, though, and that’s that he grabbed it from my house after he kidnapped me. Since my house is the last place I was seen – I have my neighbour Trisha to thank for that – I imagine it’s been crawling with police for a while. Why take the risk of being caught sneaking into my house just for a book? I mean, maybe he grabbed more of my things as rewards down the line, but still, that’s such a huge risk to take for so little.

Maybe he works for the police? But in that case, I think stealing items from my home would still be pretty difficult. It’s still a crime scene, and he’d be surrounded by his colleagues, all gathering evidence and taking photos.

But…that’s where my last theory comes in. What if it’s not a crime scene anymore?

It’s only been a few weeks, something like a month and a half I think, but if he left zero evidence, then they might’ve just given up on me already. I can’t imagine my friends or family would give up so quickly, but the police? Yeah, I can totally see them abandoning my case like a hot potato when they find zero evidence.

My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and my captor enters, carrying my breakfast in his bag.

I put my book away, then go to kneel and take off my dress, but I also can’t help but ask, “Why did you give me this?” I point to the book.

He sets the bag down in front of me, then crouches, his hand coming to my chin in a gentle, yet firm grip. “Everything has a price, my girl. This is a reward for being a good girl and obeying my rules.”

My cheeks heat. I hate that his praise feels a little good, but how can I feel anything but pleased that he grabbed one of my favourite books for me? And…this sucks to admit, but I’m starting to feel a little more normal. The solid stone walls of my cell have stopped closing in on me when I try to sleep, and the touch of my captor doesn’t make me cringe as much as it used to.

Is that a worrying sign? Yes. Absolutely it is.

But my point is just that if he wants to reward me for doing as he says – and he doesn’t try to make things worse for me – then I’ll do it. For my sanity’s sake if nothing else, since up until now, I’ve had nothing to do with my time. Now I can read a book, which is infinitely better than what I had.

And so, I just nod and say a muttered “Thank you.”

He smiles, then begins feeding me. He begins fingering me at the same time, which is a real distraction honestly, but it feels good, as well. His fingers are thick and calloused, and the friction is a nice reprieve from…well, everything.

Since he won’t let me masturbate myself, I don’t think I can be blamed for enjoying this. It’s insane, sure, but so it being overjoyed at getting a pillow.

Once my meal is finished, he withdraws his fingers, and I cringe when I see how soaked they are. He brings them to his lips, tasting me with his eyes locked with mine.

And then he leaves, taking the chocolate wrapper with him.

I spend the entire day reading the book he gave me. I read it over and over again, since I have nothing better to do, and by the following day, I feel like I can recite it from memory.

He brings me a new book, which I quickly finish, and then another and another the following few days.

I didn’t realise how badly I needed another form of stimuli until now. I’d grown used to long, boring days of daydreaming and sleeping, occasionally interrupted by being groped and fed. I feel a little more sane now, since he’s given me something to do.

Just I finish my fifth book for the third time, my captor comes in to give me my last meal of the day.

Honestly, I feel much better now. And I hate it. I hate the way a smile threatens to tug at my lips when my captor comes in, carrying my food and another book of mine. Don’t get me wrong, I still despise being here. I still hate being at his mercy and not being able to leave or talk to anyone else. But that’s why these small glimpses of my old life make me a little happier. Being able to sit down and read a book for a few hours instead of staring at a grey wall is…nice, in a very, very fucked up way.

I take the book, then let him finger me as he feeds me. But this time, he doesn’t stop touching me when I finish my meal.

I eye him, too scared to speak up and ask him what he’s doing. His eyes focus on the area where he’s violating me, slowly going in and out with two fingers and rubbing my clit with his thumb.

I groan, because no matter how much I wish he would stop, it also feels good. Just like usual, shame and pleasure intertwine in my heart as I chase the climax he brings me closer to.

But then he withdraws his hand, and I wince at the loss of friction. When I look at him, his eyes wrinkle on an amused smile, but when he speaks, his tone is pure fire. “Do you want to come, my little pet?”

My cheeks heat with humiliation and desperation. Because I do want to come. I haven’t had an orgasm since the one I gave myself – the one he punished me for – so being so close to one just now and having it ripped away from me fills me with so much frustration.

I don’t answer at first, but one of the few things I know about this man is that he’s patient as fuck, so he just stares at me until I softly shake my head.

He huffs a laugh and says, amused, “I think my little Hannah is a liar.”

“I’m not lying,” I reply softly, but part of me knows that I desperately do want to come.

“Okay,” he says, and then just…stands. He just leaves me on the floor, thrumming with need and desperate to feel the orgasm he ripped away from me. He walks towards the door, and I catch him pausing before he scans his thumbprint, like he expects me to ask him to stop. But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut, determined to win this stupid battle.

And so he just leaves, and I make sure to push the part of me that regrets not speaking up far, far down.

Yeah, I really regret not stopping him from leaving.

I feel pathetic, the way I desperately want to finish what he started. I almost break several times. I could easily bring myself over the edge with a few touches, that’s how bad this is, but I stop myself each time, knowing his punishment would be extremely cruel.

When he comes in to feed me the next day, he doesn’t even touch me, and I barely keep from glaring at him the entire time. I expect him to ask me if I want him to touch me, but he says nothing.

I guess it tracks. He’s nothing if not patient, and I assume part of him gets off on making me break and ask first. But he must know by this point that I’m stubborn.

It feels weird to say thinks like that. That we just know things about each other, like we’re friends or something. I mean, he clearly already knew things about me before he took me, but I’ve only really gotten hints as to what sort of person he is. At the end of the day, I don’t really know anything about him. I don’t even know his name.

It's occurred to me before, that it’d be nice to know his name. Maybe use it to play on his small bit of compassion, hidden beneath layers of cruelty and sadism. I haven’t had the courage to ask him about it, but now that we’re sort of…good, in a way, I muster up the courage to ask.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes widen in surprise, and a small, ridiculous part of me feels smug at having surprised him, like it gives me some small amount of power in our dynamic.

His visible surprise fades quickly, and I get the sense it’s because he doesn’t want to show a single point of weakness. “I’m not giving you my name, Hannah,” he says, shaking his head. I don’t miss the subtle display of power, using my name at the same time as he denies me his.

I don’t reply, because what can I say? I don’t want to admit defeat by accepting his refusal, but I also can’t ask again, since I know he won’t give in.

He stands, picking up the empty container of food on his way. He looks at me one more time before he leaves, and I have to smother the urge to ask him to stay.

I am so, so fucked.

The next day, I wake up to my captor leaning against the wall, and a small piece of paper in front of my eyes.

I eye him at first, scared of what he has planned. He’s rarely been in my cell when I wake up, so I always wake up terrified when he’s here.

But I first pick up the piece of paper, and my heart climbs into my throat as I read the beautiful cursive.

Rule number four: You will always be respectful and submissive, and you will refer to me as “Master” when you speak to me.

Master…

Is that what he wants to be to me? He’s called himself my owner before, but he’s never demanded I call him anything like that. It feels demeaning to say it, especially since he’s only offered it as an alternative to his real name, refusing to share that part of himself with me.

I guess that’s the point of it, though. He wants to shove it down my throat that he owns me, and he wants me to accept it by calling him…Master.

Bile rises in my throat. We had an uneasy understanding up until now. I’d let him feed me and touch me, and occasionally I’d suck his dick. It wasn’t great, but it was better than any realistic alternative.

But now that I asked his name…I think he’s realised I’m getting too comfortable, and he wants to shake things up. Maybe he always wanted things to progress to this point, to where I have to call him my Master, but me asking for his name was undoubtedly the final push he needed.

A tear rolls down my cheek before I realise it. It’s not even that I’m scared, or that I’m sad that I’m still stuck here. No, it’s much worse than that. I realise when the tear rolls off my face and lands on the paper, blurring the word Master in the most poignant way, that I’m crying because I had some hope yesterday that we understood each other. Some stupid, little part of me hoped that we might be equals in some twisted way. That maybe if we both knew each other’s names then we might develop something beyond this ridiculous prison.

But no. He’s denied me that, and he’s made sure to hammer it in by demanding I verbalise his ownership of me.

We’ll never be equals, because we can’t be. And even in some horrible, twisted world where something grows out of this, even in some scenario where he feels something for me beyond a sadistic need to torture me…He will always be the one in power.

And I’ll always be the one beneath his boot.

More tears roll down my cheeks at the realisation that I’ll never make him respect me as my own person. I look at him through my blurry vision, finding him still leaned against the wall, like an immovable statue. He doesn’t come to comfort me, just stays there and lets my world shatter without interference.

I eventually, somehow, manage to calm myself down, and only then does he speak. “Crawl to me, Hannah.”

I sniff, obeying his command. I hate being obedient, but I know there’s no point resisting. I crawl to his feet, then wait there for him to tell me what he wants. He crouches in front of my kneeling body, eyeing me. I’m still covered by my dress, since I didn’t have the opportunity to remove it, but he just takes it off himself, leaving me exposed.

“Such a beautiful little girl,” he mutters, and I barely smother the whimper threatening to tear itself from my throat. His hand reaches out, and he tucks a stray piece of my hair behind my ear, then pets me there. It’s such a gentle, kind gesture, petting me like that, but that’s the point, isn’t it? That even his kindness to me is still all just a part of his horrible strategy to make me into an obedient pet.

I’ve sometimes enjoyed the feel of him petting me, but I don’t this time. I hate it, and I wish so badly that I could remove his hand from my body. But I can’t, because he’d just punish me for it. My only choice is to let him touch me, corrupting the sweet gesture into something horrific.

“Do you want to be fed?” he asks.

I nod hesitantly, because I know where this is going.

“Ask nicely for it, my pet.”

My heart sinks, despite how I knew it would come to this. It’s obvious he wants me to call him Master as I ask for my food, but I don’t know how the fuck to do that. I can sound the word on my tongue but pushing it out of my mouth is impossible. It feels too much, just too fucking humiliating to reduce myself to that.

His head drops, like he expected this, and then he begins standing, grabbing the bag of food on his way.

I panic when he moves towards the door. “Wait!” I exclaim, and he pauses. “Please, don’t go. I…fuck, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just starts placing his thumb on the scanner by the door.

“No! Master, please don’t go.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air when the word leaves my lips. Just one, little word and everything has flipped upside down. His shoulders relax, just a smidge, and my breathing calms.

I hated saying it, but I know I need to eat more than I need to avoid humiliating myself. I huff a small sigh of relief when he turns, his eyes a dark fire as they collide with mine.

Then he places the bag on the floor.

But then his hand moves up to his head.

And every part of me stills when he begins taking off his mask.

Thank you for reading!💜 By the way, I'm going to be posting the next few parts every three days instead of two. I'll be busy this week and next week and I don't want to risk running out of finished parts when I don't have time to write. Thanks for understanding!💜