“Ican’t.”
“Why not? Is that not good enough for you? You need me to throw you to the ground in the woods, hold you down, and force my cock inside you?”
I moan and work myself on the dildo.
“Or maybe you need me to come into that office on the 24thfloor, bend you over your desk, and fuck that pretty hole?”
I bite my lip as my balls draw up tight. I jerk my cock. I work myself harder, hitting my prostate with every stroke. I don’t see the apartment anymore.
“Are you imagining it now, me fucking you there?” my tormentor asks. “Or maybe you wanthimto do it. Would you let him? If he’d seen what was in that box and known what you fucking need, would you have let him yank down your pants”—I whimper—“and shove his cock inside you”—I whine and fist my dick harder—“and fuck you until—”
I cry out, clenching on the dildo as cum leaps from my cock. I rock and moan through the waves of it, chasing the sensation, milking myself on the toy, stroking myself through the end of it. Then I pitch forward and catch myself on my hands. I shudder and gasp.
Then the bliss fades. I come back to myself. I see the apartment around me. I see my cum on the floor. I pull myself off the dildo, spasming at the sudden emptiness. I curl up on my side on the floor.
“You’re beautiful,” my tormentor tells me through the voice modulator, through the phone.
I don’t reply. How would he know? He’s not here. He can’t see me.
He asks, “Why are you upset?”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“I want to hear your real voice.”
There’s a brief pause, but I’m not surprised when he says, “No.” My eyes sting anyway. He presses, “Answer me. Why are you upset?”
My stomach knots. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t like that I’m revealing this part of myself.
“I just feel …”
“What?”
“Alone.”
I usually have this sort of awful, floating, untethered feeling after jerking off. I had hoped it wouldn’t happen with him being on the phone, but it’s actually worse. Most of the time, the feeling is vague, something I experience as its own thing. Now, I feel it as an echo of what I used to feel when my father would pretend that I didn’t exist.
He didn’t do it all the time. Sometimes he was mean. Just words. He never hit me, but, god, he could be so mean. That was better, though, than when he would pretend that he couldn’t see me.
If not for our cook, Rose, I might really have believed that I wasn’t there.
Through the phone’s speaker, I hear, “Put your hand on the collar, Elias.”
Hearing that name, the one I chose for myself, brings me back to the present. Sometimes I forget that I’m no longer who I was because, in so many ways, I still am.
I do what I’m told.
I always have. Usually that means being silent, going away, being visible only in my work. But it means something very different with my stalker, my tormentor, my … savior.
He tells me, “You aremine, Elias. That’s what that collar means. And whenever you’re wearing it, that’s what you’re going to understand. Whether I’m physically with you or not doesn’t change that fact. You belong to me. I am in control.”
My fingers curl around the leather strap, tightening it at my throat until I really, really feel it.
“You will put that collar on the second you get homeevery single day. You will sleep in it. Do you understand me?”
My breath hitches, choking me against the leather.
