He stopped at a door on the third floor and pulled out his keys. He unlocked the door and pulled me in, shutting and locking thedoor behind us all with one hand, the other still firmly gripping my helmet.
When the door was locked, he dragged me through the apartment to a back room.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, stumbling into the room.
He remained silent, pulled me through a door, and finally released me. It took a second for me to gain my footing, although I was still swaying on my feet, my hands shaking from how hard I had gripped onto his wrist.
I looked around the room. It was small. Large enough for a bed, a dresser with a television sitting on top of it, and a large chunk of empty wall with metal rings bolted into it.
It was void of anything homey. There weren’t dirty socks on the ground or take-out containers on the nightstands. Just a made bed, a clean dresser, a black tv, and those iron rings.
“Take off all of your clothes.”
I turned on him, finding him on his knees, looking under the bed. “What?”
“Clothes. Off. Now.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head, taking a step back. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
He pulled something out from under the bed and dropped it on top of it. A black duffle bag. He stood up, ripped the zipper open, and pulled out something I recognized.
The cone-shaped gag.
My eyes widened. “Wait, no, please.” He couldn’t touch me. I was dirty. I was disgusting. I was a pathetic, gross piece of trash. I was nothing.
He pulled something else out, a long stick wrapped in leather with a small loop at the end.
It looked like those horse whips I used during lessons as a kid to make the horse go faster.
My breathing hitched as he stormed over, reared his handback, and brought the whip down on my thigh.
I cried out, my pussy throbbing. “Fuck,” I whimpered, rubbing my thigh. “What the actualfuck?”
“Undress,” he ordered. “Now.”
“Fuck you,” I spat. “N—”
He snapped me again, this time on my other thigh.
I cried out, my muscles tightening. “Quit that!”
He pointed at me and then to the floor, his eyes like ice.
I glared at him, but I didn’t want to get hit again. “You deserved to get slapped in the face,” I told him, unbuckling and then ripping off the helmet. I dropped it to the ground in defiance.
“Trust me, you’ll pay for that too.”
A zing went through me as I slid off both boots, but I held my rage. “You are scum,” I spat. “A piece of shit.”
His eyes were unforgiving, but he said nothing.
“Nothing,” I told him, shedding my jacket. “A patheticnothing.” I was nothing. I was pathetic. “You are worse than nothing,” I told him through my teeth, shaking my head, the feeling of my own skin making my stomach churn. “You are fucking trash. A whore.”
“And?” he pushed as I shoved my jeans off. “What else?”
“You’re a slut,” I snarled, throwing the pants at him, hoping the belt buckle hit him in the goddamn mouth. “A fucking idiot. Dumb. Lazy. Ugly. Worthless.” I threw my shirt at him, trembling, feeling sick. “You fuck everything like a junkyard dog. Your cock probably gets hard at the mere thought of a swinging, unwilling ass.”
“What else?” he pushed, stepping up to me. “Come on,” he ordered, his voice louder, angrier. “What else, little writer?” He almost sounded manic.
