Though Dexter claimed she was his, that she belonged to him, Natalie didn’t really know him. His touch made her uneasy. Subconsciously, she’d tense.
Nothing remained subconscious—nothing. Dexter required her thoughts and feelings on everything he did, that she made him do, and on every reward or punishment.
“Tell me how it felt when I slapped you.”
“It hurt.” The answer was honest and not overthought.
“No, bug.” Dexter touched her chest, the spot between her breasts where her heart metaphorically resided. “How did it feel?”
The talking was worse than the actions.
It was one thing to be made to stand in a corner for hours, like a rebellious child. It was another to describe the humiliation. It was one thing to be required to crawl to his feet and sit like a pet between his knees, another to admit that the shame made her wet.
Without a mirror, she couldn’t see her face, but she could see the bruises that often discolored her skin. The first one on her thigh had faded, but others had materialized. Some were felt more than seen, such as those that sometimes made sitting difficult. Others resulted from restraints or the hard floor.
After Natalie confessed that she didn’t like being bathed, Dexter stopped. Since he’d listened, she should have been happy. Yet she wasn’t. From that time forward, the soap he brought to her each day for her bath was abrasive and strong-smelling. The water without the bath salts reeked of sulfur and dried her skin. The shampoo barely lathered, and of course, the lotions ceased to appear. Natalie was now free to bathe herself—with his supervision—but her honesty came with a price.
Over the weeks, her life became a predictable routine. Sometimes she’d wake before he arrived with her breakfast, other times she was asleep. No matter, she quickly learned the sound of his arrival, and after a few slow-to-rise mornings that resulted in his desired punishment, Natalie always stood as she’d been instructed, presenting herself for his entry.
After breakfast was exercise time. There weren’t many options in a 12-by-8-foot room. Dexter’s requirement was that she continued to move. Walk, dance, run in place, do jumping jacks, or sit-ups, the choice was hers, but standing still or sitting or lying upon the bed—the only furniture that remained permanently in her room—was forbidden. This activity continued nonstop and lasted until he arrived with her lunch. Though she had no way to tell the time, she knew it varied. Some days, exercise went on and on until continuing to pace took the last of her energy.
Meals were earned, never to be expected. Usually she sat with Dexter at the small table. Sometimes she was permitted the covering of her blanket, other times not. If he were feeling particularly dominant, she ate on the floor, at his feet, her food coming from his fingers. She soon learned that the number of chairs at the table was the deciding factor. As she stood in his desired position, her breathing would quicken if the door shut with only one chair in place.
It meant her walking for the day was done. On all fours, she’d approach his feet.
Between lunch and dinner was what Dexter referred to as his time. It was when Natalie’s job—her ability to earn a reward—was contingent upon his pleasure and often her humiliation. He’d remind her that only he could do these things to her, only he could mark her skin and debase her. The world would see her as his queen, but first, she needed to please her king.
As the weeks passed, her virginity stayed intact.
It wasn’t that he didn’t touch her; he did. His fingers and hands roamed her face, neck, and collarbone. She’d stand or lie—whatever position he requested—as her breasts, tummy, and behind were pleased or punished. He saw all of her, yet he never breached her vagina.
The inattention to that particular area, combined with his actions and dominating presence, awakened her arousal, creating a desire for things she’d never before considered. Erotic, sensual needs monopolized her thoughts.
Where at first she’d thought of her parents and family, over time, it happened less and less. It wasn’t because she didn’t care about them, but that they lost their relevance. Dexter was in control of every facet of her life.
He was her god and her devil. His presence and approval infiltrated even her dreams.
At night, her hands would ache to give herself relief. When he’d first forbidden her self-pleasure, she’d thought it would be the easiest rule to keep. Now, it was nearly impossible. There were even times that her hands wandered in her sleep. Quickly, she’d awaken and move them within sight of the cameras, scared she’d lose the bedding she’d earned, with merely one rub of her clit.
Masturbating had never dwelled within her thoughts, but when she was alone with the memories of his most recent Dexter-time, the need was almost too great not to face. She recalled the way her hands had been outstretched and tied to the bed’s metal frame. How her knees were bent beneath her and a bar had been positioned, attached to her ankles and also bound to the bed. How he’d verbally described his view.
Tears dampened her pillow at the memory. It was mortifying enough to know she’d been on display, her ass in the air and her most private parts exposed, but when that was accompanied by her own body’s betrayal, a glistening essence leaking down her thighs, it added to her agony.
Bathing was next on the schedule after Dexter-time and then dinner.
After dinner, there were minutes or hours before the lights went out. That time was spent either alone or in Dexter’s presence. That was up to him, his schedule, and his responsibilities.
Natalie didn’t know what he did when he wasn’t with her. She knew nothing about anything beyond the door. All that could be seen from her designated place, the place where she was to stand when he entered or exited—assuming she wasn’t bound or being punished—was a gray hallway, the opposite wall made of concrete blocks.
Wherever Dexter went or whatever he did, he was clean and smelled of fresh air and spicy musk whenever he entered her room. Wherever he spent his time away from her, it wasn’t in a dingy cement room. Despite the things he did to her, she found herself missing him when he was gone. Maybe he’d been right. Maybe she was insane. Who would actually want this man’s presence?
The only true measure of time came with her period. She’d always been regular: every four weeks like clockwork. Telling him wasn’t necessary: she’d awakened with the realization.
Of all the humiliations she’d endured, this wasn’t one. While she anticipated his anger over the soiled sheets and even perhaps demoralizing words, she hadn’t expected his understanding. Feminine hygiene products appeared and her schedule lightened. Natalie wanted to tell him that she wasn’t ill. It wasn’t like needing a pass to be excused from gym class. Yet the reprieve was welcomed.