Breaking Beth Page 12

  She didn’t want to die, and he was going to prove it to her.

  “Take a breath,” he warned her a split second before he blocked her nose and mouth with the soaked cloth, holding it taut to her cheeks as he started to pour again. Thirty seconds this time.

  * * *

  Beth

  Beth wanted to let go, wanted to breathe the water deep and end this nightmare, but her fucking body wouldn’t let her. Her mind fought her, overruled her, flooded her system with adrenaline and raw panic until she was fighting the cuffs and choking on water as her useless lungs sought air.

  And then the bastard gave it to her, lifted the cloth so she could drive out the water with painful convulsions, loud, strangled sounds, pulling oxygen back in that did nothing more than drag this hell out a little longer.

  Whimpers were slipping from her, tears burning her eyes, but at least they were invisible amidst all of the water.

  “How much more can you take?” he asked, one of his favorite questions, and she refused to look at him. Instead, she stared at the ceiling, occasionally racked by coughs as her lungs found a new pocket of water. “Say it, slut. Now.”

  A new edge to his voice. Hard and cold as steel.

  The automaton was angry, which meant she was winning.

  Dying, but winning.

  Cloth and water returned, and she tried to breathe it in, to finally die, but she choked instead. And with the choking came more panic, more automatic responses, her body keeping her alive despite her best efforts — and with the jerking of her lungs, the feeling of drowning, came so much pain. Everything burned, her head spun, and she was screaming, sobbing as he pulled back again and her body emptied as much of the water as it could.

  Refusing to die. Refusing to end this.

  The broken wail that left her was all self-pity, because the rage was leaving her with every second she spent without air. Even when he wrenched her head back by her hair, ice cold eyes burning above hers, she barely had the energy to hate him.

  “Say. It,” he hissed into her face, but all she did was cough. Sputtering water from bruised lungs. In the haze of her wheezing breaths, the grunt as he shoved her head to the side — Beth could hear a dull, patterned vibration. But then it was gone, replaced with the cloth, the deafening sound of water smothering her, drowning her.

  Head swimming, she couldn’t coordinate thoughts. Everything narrowed down to the urge to breathe, to the feel of water forcing its way up her nose and into her throat. No way to stop it, even as her body jerked weakly, mindless whimpers and cries broken by desperate choking.

  Air came again, but only after she’d heaved what felt like a gallon out of her nose and mouth. Her breaths were hitched, almost every indrawn breath resulting in a wracking cough that only exhausted her further.

  There was a dull beep, and she opened her eyes, the blurry shape of him coming into view near the other table. He had set the pitcher down, and he was talking. “—not your concern. She will live.”

  Those words pried something loose inside her, something important, something foundational that had been holding other things together. Something she’d been standing on as she fought to win against him. Whatever it was, it had been holding her, and when it snapped, everything else… shifted. Tumbled. And there was only the avalanche. Absolute chaos took over inside what was left of her mind as he moved back towards her, carrying the pitcher in one hand, a cell phone pressed to his ear in the other. A flicker of thought reminded her that she should be afraid, but it was only a second before it slipped away, left her staring at pale blue eyes almost glowing with anger.

  “Watch and see,” he hissed, and then the phone was gone, a dull beep and then the cloth was back.

  Drenched in black, suffocating, Beth wanted to breathe. She just wanted to breathe, wanted to turn away from the water so she could find air. Thoughts were short-circuiting, tumbling on half-finished cycles but still repeating.

  You have to win.

  Are you winning?

  Win. Don’t give in. Win.

  A convulsion shook her, lungs choking on water. The cloth was gone, she could see light, but air couldn’t get past the water. Too much of it, filling her mouth, running out of her nose, burning her eyes. Everything felt so far away, but the pain was still close. Prying between her ribs like a monster trying to rip her chest open. Lungs on fire.

  On fire underwater.

  How was I supposed to win again?

  “Say it. Now. Say it now, slave. Call me Master!” The man’s voice was close, his warm exhale brushing over the cool flesh of her cheek, and as his hand tightened over her throat one of her hands tried to lift.

  Stop…

  A metal clank held her arm in place. No way to stop the tightening grip, the throaty whimper as air squeaked out of her lungs. Then came the soaked cloth, another river of water.

  Drowning.

  It was supposed to be peaceful, right?

  But it wasn’t. That was a lie. The panic pulled her up from the edge of the abyss, kept her out of the peace as her heart raced, as her body twisted, kicked. Another painful eruption of water, endless, then, after one breath of air, she was under the cloth once more.

  Water came again. Water washed inside, swelled against the broken foundation inside her, the thing that was so important, the thing she’d held onto… and swept it away.

  All of it.

  Gone. Nothingness. The thing was important, so important, but it was splintering, and there wasn’t enough left to know what was missing — what had been taken.

  It was just gone.

  Sunk to the bottom, somewhere far out of reach. Far away, under the water.

  Just like she was.

  Lost.

  Empty.

  Free.

  Sixteen

  Anthony

  Anthony leaned against the wall, breathing hard, staring at the almost perfectly still figure of the girl on the shining metal. A weak cough shook her, water running from the side of her mouth, her eyes unfocused on the ceiling.

  For a moment he’d been sure that he had killed her, and then he had forced her head to the side, dropped the pitcher and lifted her shoulder. Holding her in place until biology took over and water had poured out. A quiet, meek gasp, another cough, a gagging heave, more water, and then she’d been limp.

  Vacant.

  Barely perceptible breaths expanding her ribs, and he had stepped back.

  Anger still flickered somewhere in him. At least, the closest thing he could feel to it… because she hadn’t said the word.

  She’d broken first.

  His phone vibrated repeatedly in his pocket, but Marcus would have to wait. Collecting himself, storing the strange flashes of rage away in his mind, he pushed away from the wall and approached her.

  No reaction, no increase in breaths, no sudden twitch to make her limbs fight the cuffs.

  Nothing.

  Turning the handle at the end of the table, he lowered it flat again. It had been tilted at exactly twenty-five degrees. He had never passed thirty seconds on the waterboarding. Yet, the girl was blank.

  Walking to the head of the table, he leaned over her, bracing one hand on the other side of her so he was directly in her line of sight. Brown eyes stared straight through him, lips parted as air rattled its way into her lungs and whispered its way back out.

  Fuck.

  He despised expletives, but there was no other internal reaction that fit this moment. The girl was supposed to submit, to break enough to call him Master, to accept her position — she wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  Anthony caught her chin in his fingers, squeezing hard enough to bruise, but all it earned was a blink. A slow flutter of damp eyelashes.

  “Speak, slave.” It was a command. Everything in his tone demanded an answer, the pain he delivered with the force of his grip was irrefutable, but the girl didn’t even react.

  Standing upright again, he slapped her hard. Her head whipped to the side… and
stayed. Staring at the opposite wall, breaths still disturbingly slow as the pink outlines of his fingers formed on her skin.

  Fuck.

  Another set of vibrations came from the phone in his pocket, and he glanced up at the camera in the ceiling and shook his head once. The buzzing stopped a second later.

  He needed to think. Something other than useless expletives.

  The girl was broken, that was undeniable. She might come back in a week or two. A month. And he had customers who would pay extra for the opportunity to do things to her in this state — they might even wake her up. Bring her back from this vacant state, to be useful enough to sell to one of his traditional clients.

  If not…

  Anthony sighed and looked her over. She hadn’t lifted her face back towards the ceiling, had not moved at all as far as he could tell. Even her hands were open, palms towards the ceiling like a doll.

  If he couldn’t get her responsive, couldn’t form her into any kind of obedience, then there were always people who didn’t care about things like that. They did not pay as well, there was no acclaim in selling a girl to those parts of the world, but it was some profit.

  And if she wouldn’t respond, then there was no other use for her.

  Broken dolls simply weren’t entertaining.

  Epilogue

  Anthony

  Four Weeks Later

  Anthony sat in front of the fire, his shoes on the leather ottoman to enjoy the warmth as he tapped out replies to emails.

  The business never stopped.

  Customers in almost every time zone across the globe. So much hunger. So many dark wishes to be fulfilled.

  A call interrupted his email screen, and he rejected Marcus so that he could finish typing. More confirmations that his feed would be online again soon… there were just so many decisions to make. What would the customers want from him now? What would the customers allow him to do… and keep paying?

  The girl, Beth, had opened so many new avenues, and she had no idea about it. Marcus’ new slave was already coming like a porn star on command, even though she cried whenever they finished. Entertaining? Yes. Effective? That was yet to be determined.

  Most of their customers were not interested in pleasing the slaves they purchased. That relationship was decidedly inverse, which was what Marcus failed to understand. Slaves should seek to please their Master, regardless of any benefits they received from the interaction. Whether it be food, or comfort, or pleasure.

  Marcus was training girls to expect pleasure, and that would eventually be disastrous.

  Finishing his email, he assured another long-term customer that his feed would continue soon. Even tempted him with the promise of new recordings.

  Then another interruption, more buzzing. He was calling again. Tapping the answer button, Anthony held the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

  “How is she?” The abrupt question made him smile, leaning over to wake up the tablet so he could watch her on the internal camera feed.

  “Busy.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Marcus snapped.

  “She’s with a guest.”

  “You’re running a fucking whorehouse now? Is that the deal?” His brother growled on the other end of the line, and Anthony let him continue his rambling. “This is ridiculous. You said you could fix her.”

  “I am fixing her, Marcus. This is what will wake her up.” Or it wouldn’t. But that conversation would only make his brother more irritable, and therefore more irritating.

  “Who the fuck do you have over there? Sam?”

  “No, Sam is not here.” Today. “And I’m sure you understand that discretion is important to our customers. It is not necessary for you to know, so you don’t need to.”

  “That’s bullshit! We’re supposed to be partners, and you told me you’d fix Beth. Handing her over to your friends isn’t fucking fixing her!”

  “First, these are customers, not friends. Don’t be ridiculous.” Anthony reached for the glass of sherry and took a small sip, savoring it before he continued. “Second, we may be partners in this enterprise, but how I handle my slaves is my business. I haven’t called you to ask about the number of orgasms you’ve given that slut in your house, have I?”

  “At least my slave isn’t catatonic.”

  Shrugging, Anthony glanced at the tablet again. The customer had her on the bed, knees bent towards her shoulders as he fucked her hard. Of course, the girl was unresponsive, staring off toward one wall, but it didn’t seem to dissuade the man atop her at all — which was promising. Very promising. “My slave is doing just fine, and while I adjust her behavioral issues, I plan to take another one.”

  “What?” Marcus growled.

  “She takes almost no supervision and, while she is adjusting, I may as well produce another more amicable slave.” Anthony lifted the tablet and switched camera angles so that he could see the girl’s empty eyes as she rocked against the bedding.

  Was she even aware of the man inside her? Had she felt the flogger? The cane?

  “You can’t be serious.” His brother laughed as he spoke, and Anthony dropped the tablet from his view. The girl had become boring as soon as she’d stopped responding, stopped fighting. There was no fun in fucking her when she didn’t scream, or cry. It was like masturbating with a warm doll — effective, but not satisfying.

  “Of course, I’m serious. You have your business, and I have mine.”

  “Well, your business isn’t done. You haven’t sold Beth.”

  “I can sell her today, if you’d like?” Anthony offered, and reveled in the growl that came across the line.

  “Where? Your friends in South Asia?”

  “Again, they are business contacts, not friends, Marcus. And yes, I have contacts in Thailand who would love to add a pretty little blonde to their offerings.” The idea was tempting, it would take an email, then a phone call, and she’d be out of his house.

  He would just need to finish working through the list of customers who had wanted to try her first.

  “You can’t sell her like that, Anthony.” Marcus huffed. “She’s not even there. You didn’t break her, you shattered her. Fuck, you have to feed her! Those assholes in Thailand won’t do that, you might as well kill her.”

  “I don’t kill slaves.”

  “Right. You just ruin them.” Laughing, low and bitter, Marcus leaked pride into his voice. “At least I’ve got this one almost ready to go so our customers don’t leave and go to some other operation.”

  “Your first auction, already? It hasn’t even been three weeks. Are you sure you want to bet before you’ve even done the kitchen test?” Anthony lifted the tablet to switch to Marcus’ feed. The small, dark haired girl was in his punishment room, complete with his collection of BDSM-style furniture and tools.

  “She’ll pass.”

  “We’ll see,” Anthony answered, but Marcus laughed again.

  “Beth didn’t pass.”

  Anthony smiled slowly, tapping until her room showed on the feed again. His customer was finished, and she was lying flat on the bed, legs slightly parted. “I never tried the test, Marcus. That’s the difference here. I know what they are ready for, your pride blinds you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No, I’m not interested in incest, but I’m sure your whore could use another few orgasms to ready her for the kitchen test.” He smiled, tapping his fingers against the glass of sherry. “Maybe I’ll come and help with it.”

  “I don’t want you here,” Marcus hissed.

  “Oh, but that’s not really your choice, is it?” Waiting, Anthony turned back to the feed of the dark-haired girl. Sated and asleep. She was responsive, even though she no longer fought Marcus. But she would probably fight him. Call out for his brother, call out Master hoping to be saved, but Marcus would never interrupt him. He’d let him take her, let him hurt her so that she learned what her future could be. So that she could accept it.

  “Erin isn’t read
y, yet.”

  “Then she isn’t ready for the kitchen test either, is she, Marcus?” He traced the girl’s figure on the screen, waiting.

  “Maybe next week. I’ll check on Beth later.” With that, Marcus ended the call, and Anthony set the phone down, allowing his brother a few more days with his first girl in the new house.

  It wasn’t like he had nothing to entertain him. Beth was still a set of holes, a broken doll that he could do what he wanted with, and as soon as his customer gave his feedback and left, Anthony could enjoy himself.

  A knock sounded at the door, and he stood to let the man inside.

  Once he was gone, he could stand Beth in the shower and wash her clean. It would be easy. She stood when directed, bent in the ways he made her. Just like a doll. And then he could take her to the living room and play with her as he relaxed — they had only made so much progress on her gag reflex, and it would be another marketable component if he could get her to the point where she took a cock down her throat without gagging quite so loudly.

  Anything to get more money out of his Thai contacts when he finally got rid of her.

  Then, Anthony would need to look at the list of potentials and choose who he’d entertain himself with next. Maybe this time he’d narrow the customer list, keep only the more hardcore customers… the ones who liked it when he hurt them. Made them suffer.

  Marcus could have the pleasure, the companionship, the gentility.

  Anthony would handle the destruction.

  It had always been a talent.

  The End

  End Note

  Need a minute? I understand, lovely. I’ll wait.

  . . .

  Okay, now that you’ve read Beth’s history, I want to hear what you think. Talk about it in the Dark Haven group with me, or send me an email, or chat with me. Reach out as you process Marcus and Anthony in a new light. I can almost guarantee if you go back and read ‘Security Binds Her’ now you’ll listen to their conversations in a much different way.