I stay that way for a long, long time. I know I should be thinking. I should be trying to figure out what’s going on, what Andre wants, and what I should do, but my brain isn’t working like that.
All I can feel is loss and loneliness. I want him to come back.
Finally, he does.
I rouse from my stupor when the heavy steel door scrapes open. Andre’s footsteps thud an unhurried rhythm across thefloor. When he enters my field of view, I drink in the sight of him: big and dark and powerful. But he doesn’t direct anything at me. He doesn’t even look at me as he walks by. He is, however, aroused.
But it’s only the stiffness of his cock that gives it away. He’s otherwise entirely cold as he sits in the chair ten feet from me. His expression is blank. I start shaking because all we’re doing is starting again.
I can’t do this again.
“I have to pee,” I tell him.
“So pee.”
My throat tightens. “Please, Andre.”
He’s unmoved.
Except … I know that he’s not. His cock is hard. He’s affected. He’s just masking it.
“Please.”
His nostrils flare slightly. He gets up from the chair. He comes to me like he did earlier, but this time, he doesn’t look at me when he crouches. He unbuckles the cuffs on my ankles then my wrists. Then he stands up.
I don’t know exactly why I do it—for a reaction, I guess, for his attention—but I reach out and grab his thighs and bring my face against the prominent bulge of his hard cock.
Then everything happens fast. Andre lets out an awful, broken cry as his body strings tight. He grabs me from the chair.
The world flips and spins. I shout in surprise and fear, flailing as I’m wrestled to the ground. Andre is behind and above me. He has a hand on my throat. His other starts slapping my bare ass. I cry out at every sharp sting. Rather, I try to. My cries are choked and garbled and drowned out by Andre’s awful, primal scream of rage.
I really do have to pee, and it’s too much. I lose control. He keeps spanking me as I urinate on the floor. I don’t think he’s going to stop. I think he’s going to kill me.
But then the spanking does stop and he yanks away from me, releasing my throat. I gasp and choke and curl up on my side in the mess as it runs to the drain. I start crying and coughing.
At first, I’m only aware of myself, but then I hear Andre’s ragged breathing and heavy, pacing steps.
I expect to hear the heavy thump of the door at any second, but his footsteps stop.
His hands grip me and drag me back, out of my mess. Then his footsteps retreat toward the door and out, but I never hear it shut. I should get up, but I don’t. I can’t. When Andre returns a minute later, I haven’t moved.
He pulls me up, wrapping me in a towel. He scoops me up off the floor and carries me out.
Shivering, I huddle against his big, warm body. I don’t see much, only a vague impression of a dark hallway then a set of stairs. We emerge into a large open space that I dimly register as some kind of living area with old brick walls and high windows letting in dim evening light. It surprises me. I thought it was night. I thought it was yesterday.
Andre carries me past a kitchen and into a dark bathroom. His elbow shifts, hitting the light switch. The space floods with warm light. He walks a few more steps then lets me down. My knees buckle as my feet hit a plush bathmat. I press into Andre. I cling to him. He tenses but doesn’t push me off. He reaches past me into the shower. I hear the water come on, then Andre turns me and pushes me toward the shower. When I step inside, he closes the glass door behind me.
I stand under the warm spray, not moving, just letting it pelt me as I watch Andre through the glass. He walks over to the walland stands facing it. He leans forward and rests his forehead against it. His hands go on top of his head, fingers interlacing.
When Andre finally turns, putting his back to the wall and watching me, I pick up the soap and start washing myself. I keep my eyes on him through the foggy glass. I can’t see his expression. Maybe he’s not wearing one.
Andre straightens suddenly.
His head whips toward the door and he darts out of the bathroom. Startled, I drop the soap. I crank off the water and listen.
At the sound of a heavy crash, I throw open the shower door and bolt out. Naked and dripping wet, I run out of the bathroom. I drop instinctively to the ground when gunfire erupts. Men are shouting. There are crashes of furniture and more gunshots.
I’m close to the kitchen, so I dart into it and hide behind the island. I peer over the counter to see two men fighting in the dim space of a huge living room area. One of them is Andre. The other is a big man with long dark hair. At the end of a brown leather couch, a body is facedown on the hardwood floor.
