Enslaved
A couple things before you read the latest installment:
1. It's long. Better have a good ten minutes, just in case.
2. It is not for the faint of heart. Or stomach.
3. This is completely from my mind. I did zero research, and have little experience with the subject (to my chagrin).
4. A few definitions:
Uke: Literally, reciever, as opposed to attacker. Also known as catcher or bottom. Normally timid, not aggressive or strong.
Seme: Literally, attacker. Also known as pitcher or top. Normally agressive and strong.
____________________________________________________________________________
He threw me to the ground, the dank, dark floor of the basement. I shivered. The door slammed shut, blocking out whatever light was left, and leaving me in cool darkness. I waited fearfully for a couple minutes, afraid he might come right back, but when his absence prolonged, I relaxed slightly, and curled up on the damp concrete.
I waited there, curled up, to summon the courage to get up, to walk up the steps, to open the door, back into the light I now missed. It’s funny, how you take things for granted until they are gone. I never thought I’d miss sunlight so much. I never craved the warmth of its light so much before.
The minutes ticked by, and I still lay, still, on the ground, thinking of how simple it would be to run up the stairs, throw the door open, and emerge into the bright sunlight.
I didn’t.
I remained there, in the cold dark, counting seconds that seemed like minutes, waiting through minutes that seemed like hours, and hours seemed to crawl by with the speed that couldn’t beat a snail in a hundred yard dash. I did not move, except when a spider landed on my bare arm and I flicked it away. Time crawled-not even that, it sat, nearly motionless, as if waiting for something to happen, but knowing that it wouldn’t until it moved.
Then, at last, the portal at the top of the stairs opened. I leaped hazardously to my feet, and rushed up the stairs as fast as I could, heading for the sweet, sweet light, out of the cold, dark-
He stopped me. His hideously strong hands grabbed me by the collarbone so hard I feared that it would snap. Wordlessly, he backhanded me across the face, punishment for disobedience, and dragged me down, down, back into the cellar, the cold, damp…
He slammed me to the floor. Pain burst red in my vision as my spine hit the hard, unforgiving floor, tearing through shirt and skin, lacerating my back. With a snarl of anger, he ripped off my thin t-shirt first, followed by the rest of my filthy clothes. His nails flashed out, scratching my chin, and then he released me, let me slump down once more on the ground. I felt him move away, and suddenly smelled the stench of blood, of sweat, of fear. The smell of pain.
He returned with a lantern, a flaming kerosene lamp that smelled of death. Steel glinted in it, and my face paled. He was going to kill me! Or worse… I would have shuddered at the thought, but I didn’t have time. As he moved, I saw the metal more clearly. It was a straight razor, the kind of thing people used to use to shave before the smaller, more finessed versions were invented. I tried to be as still as possible, hoping that he, like most predators, would go away. He didn’t, but his motions became slightly less savage as he bent down over me, noxious breath in my face. Before I could react, he had scraped the razor down my arm expertly, removing any traces of hair. His blade sliced back and forth all across my body, destroying any and all hair he could find. Small cuts began to sprout after his sharp, steely instrument left them, stinging slightly. His powerful, sweaty-palmed hands moved me this way and that as he searched out every scrap of hair not attached to my scalp.
I was cold and warm at once, shivering against the cold floor, but warmed by the adrenalin and fear. He tossed the razor aside, finally, and looked at me with demon-glinting eyes. I whimpered like a kicked puppy.
He stood and walked away, and I heard something move, something thin and ropy slapping the floor. Before I could wonder what it was, a tendril slashed into the fire light and slapped my left cheek, drawing blood and sudden pain. A whip? Why would he have one of those?!
He stepped back into the lamplight. He spoke, low and menacing, but with an unmistakable sneer. “Filthy, disgusting creature.” He pulled his whip back, and I knew nothing but pain.
I woke from unconsciousness in agony. It felt like a thousand needles had stabbed me everywhere imaginable, from the crown of my head to my toes. Tears stung bloody lines on my face, and I tried to climb to my feet. I noticed a strange weight on my neck, and reached up, a combination of curiosity and fear. I felt the metal, the tiny hole, the strip of leather around my neck, a rope. A collar? I was chained like a dog?
Testing to see how far I could go, I walked very slowly up the stairs of the basement, watching the ribbon of light under the door. At about the third stair, it pulled taught. I retreated. Then a horrible thought struck me. What if he was still here? Would he suddenly appear from the darkness, to laugh at my fear, to cause more pain?
But no, he wasn’t here, not at the moment. Sighing, I stumbled toward the other end of the rope, attached to a metal loop on the wall. I collapsed on the ground, exhausted and weak.
I woke again with a clenching of my stomach. Crawling away from the wall, my hands searched for something, and I didn’t know what. They found it. A medieval style chamber pot, a small tub, and the tap of the type hoses were attached to. Gratefully, I filled the tub with water and used the pot exactly as expected. Maybe he wasn’t horrible at all! Maybe he, like a good caretaker, just needed to punish me for disobedience.
I took a sort of bath in the cold water from the faucet, and a questing foot discovered a drain, in which I disposed of the waste-water.
Using the rope as a guide, I worked my way back to the metal loop, and sat down. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten-it must have been days! My mouth was parched, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had drank anything… But I guessed that was part of my punishment too. I shivered and rubbed my bare arms, grimacing slightly at the strange, smooth, hairless texture. It was cold and damp and uncomfortable and dark, but somehow it seemed less disgusting. For the first time I could remember, I wasn’t scared.
In fact, there really wasn’t much reason to be frightened, was there? He couldn’t hate me-otherwise he wouldn’t have provided those quasi-bathroom facilities, or kept me safe in here, where no one could hurt me. The punishment thing was perfectly rational too-it was me who had disobeyed him and hurt him first, not the other way around.
The door opened quietly, and light streamed into the room. I looked up at the heavenly light hopefully. Last time the door had slammed into the wall-this time it hadn’t even tapped it. Was that a good sign? Were my isolation, starvation, and dehydration all over?
His silhouette moved down the stairs toward me, closer and closer, eclipsing the light, and then moving around to squat on the floor next to me. A gentle hand rustled my hair gently.
“You’re filthy,” he stated, but with concern instead of scorn.
Well of course without scorn-he liked me, didn’t he? I smiled slightly and nodded.
“Come on, my little uke, let’s get you cleaned up.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the collar. As he raised me to my feet, I couldn’t help but notice how strong he was-and how weak my legs were. He didn’t so much support me as carry me up the stairs. I also couldn’t help but notice he didn’t smell half bad-he smelled a lot better than I did, and much better than the moldy basement. I held his arm as tightly as I could while my legs dangled. I was struck again by his strength, and my weakness.
We entered the bathroom, all porcelain, white, and clean. There was a shower and a bathtub, which he set me on the side of and turned the silvery faucets. My eyes widened as I realized that he was actually going to let me, the filthy, use the same bath as him, the strong, powerful and important one. I concentrated on not smudging the alabaster edge I sat on.
Finally, he judged the water level to be high enough, and he nudged me into the water. The warmth was exquisite, and as I half-floated, half rested on the bottom, I sighed. I could feel the dirt floating away-unlike in the cold affair of this morning. I looked up at him gratefully, and for the first time actually saw him.
He had messy long wavy black hair and laughing eyes, watching me with amusement. He was currently wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. “Like the bath?” he asked, and I wasn’t sure if he was curious or rhetorical. I nodded anyways. He smiled, kneeled next to the tub, and picked up a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. “Ready?” he asked playfully, and I nodded again.
See? I told my cynicism, He was just punishing me for disobedience! He doesn’t hate me-he doesn’t even dislike me! This proves it.
My cynicism didn’t reply.
He opened the bottle and squirted some into his hand before attacking my long, matted hair, working it into lather. I laughed a laugh that was possibly the offspring of a giggle and closed my eyes, letting his fingers gently-or not so gently, when he found one of the hundreds of knots-massage my scalp. I relaxed contently for the next minute or so, until he ducked my head under water with a warning. He held me there, rinsing, until I was beginning to feel light-headed, and then let me up. My hair fell in soaking strands around my face, shrouding me still raw cheeks, clean from the period underwater. I could feel the other myriads of scratches sting then soothe as the water gently scrubbed them. The pain, the dirty, disgusting pain of my shame, my guilt, was gone.
Forwardly, but not altogether unexpectedly, he leaned down and stole a kiss before grabbing the soap. My smile was in earnest as he scrubbed my skin, from my neck to even the bottoms of my feet, with the essence of lye. When he was done, I lay back against the hard, warm surface of the smoothed edge, and released whatever tension was left. I relaxed, floated, and rested. I could have stayed that way all night, but he had better plans.
He took me from the bathtub, and dried me off with a fluffy towel. “Wait here,” he told me, though I couldn’t make myself move if I wanted to, and he returned with clothes. They were white, and thin, and a bit big for me, but he dressed me in them anyway. They were comfortable, and as he led me to bed, they swished slightly as I walked. I laughed again, and said my first words to him.
“Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, but instead lifted me up and placed me in the bed before following me. He hugged me tight to his chest, protectively. He was warm, and the bed was soft, and the pillow even softer…
The sharp sound of an alarm clock jolted me from my peaceful sleep, but a couple whispered words at my ear told me to stay where I was. I didn’t argue, even though I felt disappointed and, it must be mentioned, cold as he left the bed, even though he tucked the comforter back around me snugly. I did, however, go back to sleep, and the next thing I knew, the sun was outside the window, shining merrily at me.
I noticed a note about a foot from my nose, on the bedside table.
Good morning, my little uke. I hope you had a good nights sleep, but from what I could tell you did. Down the hall, in the kitchen, there’s a pantry and a fridge. Please eat something-I don’t want you to starve, and you were so weak last night you could barely stand up.
It was signed with two words: Your Seme.
I smiled, and slid off the bed. Instead of standing, my knees gave way, and I collapsed sprawling on the floor. Using the bedside table as a prop, I pulled myself weakly to my feet, and walked unsteadily to the door, down the hall a short ways, and into a small kitchen.
My stomach growled hungrily, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t eat anything he wanted. I opened the fridge, and saw a quart of strawberry-flavored yogurt. Inspection revealed it to be open and about three-quarters full. I placed it on the table, went to the cabinet, where I found a cereal bowl, and found a spoon in a nearby drawer. I scooped about three spoons into the bowl-and hoped my depletion wasn’t obvious-and returned the carton to the refrigerator. I ate the yogurt ravenously, then walked over to the sink, and turned the faucet on to wash the dishes. Though the running water reminded me of the desert that was my mouth, I forced myself to wash the bowl and spoon thoroughly, with dish soap, dry them with a clean towel, and put them away. Only then did I open the cabinet with cups and fix myself a glass of water. And another. And another. After I was done, I rinsed out the cup, dried it, and replaced it in its spot.
Still a bit hungry, I left the kitchen and looked around. There was the door to the basement, the front door-I remembered that there was a parking lot in front of this building for people’s cars-the door to his room, and three others. Curious to what might be in them, I wandered over to one and carefully opened it.
This room was smaller than the bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom, but it was still a decent size. Bookcases lined the walls, packed with books. Some were normal novels, some were plays, and there was even an encyclopedia and dictionary, but the room was dominated by rows and rows of manga-style graphic novels. I felt the overwhelming urge to go and read them all right now, but I was afraid he might not want me to. So I left the first room.
The second door opened to a much smaller bathroom than the one off the bedroom, without a bath or shower. I didn’t spend any time looking at it any longer. It wasn’t like I had never seen a bathroom before.
The final room contained a computer. There was a red DSL connection cable attaching it to a phone jack on the wall. The room itself was rather small, but it was plenty of room to use the computer. A nearly had to grab the door frame to keep from running and turning it on. Once again, what if he didn’t want me to use it? I left this room also.
At wits end, and beginning to get bored, I returned to the bedroom. There was a TV, and, feeling it probably benign, I turned it on and watched dreary daytime television for the rest of the day.
About an hour after dark, I heard the front door open. I turned off the TV and put the remote where I had found it. I ran to the bedroom door to greet him, but the door opened quickly and I jumped back.
He stood there before me, angry. I thought, panicking, that he had found out that I had looked in his other rooms, which he probably didn’t want me to see, and was going to punish me again. I cowered, and his foot came up and slammed into my gut. I fell to the ground, and I couldn’t breathe. My stomach was on fire, but he advanced and pinned me down with his knees. His brown eyes were wild, and I smelled the sour scent of alcohol. He grunted something incoherent, and his fist smashed into my face. I cried out in pain.
His hands grabbed my shirt by the collar roughly, and pulled my face toward him. They pulled and tore the thin fabric asunder, and then clawed with rough nails at the pale, soft flesh of my chest and stomach, leaving jagged thin red marks on my pale flash. His fists beat me mercilessly, but I knew that I didn’t deserve mercy. I had disobeyed him again-it was my fault.
The pain continued, worsened as he worked himself into a greater rage. I heard bones groan and almost snap, smelled fear and blood and sweat, and tasted the dryness of my mouth, but saw nothing but his furious brown eyes, felt nothing but endless pain. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t even try.
When it was finally over, as I lay covered in bruises and blood and fear sweat and naked on the floor next to him, I cried quietly. I said my second set of words to him.
“I’m sorry!” I tried to apologize, hoping that maybe he wouldn’t be mad, maybe he would forgive me. He didn’t reply, but as I tried to crawl away, he pulled my tight against him, crushing me to him.
“You stupid uke,” he intoned derisively.
I couldn’t disagree.
________________________________________________________________________
It occured to me while I was reading it that it could almost pass as from the perspective of a girl. It isn't. The narrator is a guy. Just aking sure you know.
1. It's long. Better have a good ten minutes, just in case.
2. It is not for the faint of heart. Or stomach.
3. This is completely from my mind. I did zero research, and have little experience with the subject (to my chagrin).
4. A few definitions:
Uke: Literally, reciever, as opposed to attacker. Also known as catcher or bottom. Normally timid, not aggressive or strong.
Seme: Literally, attacker. Also known as pitcher or top. Normally agressive and strong.
____________________________________________________________________________
He threw me to the ground, the dank, dark floor of the basement. I shivered. The door slammed shut, blocking out whatever light was left, and leaving me in cool darkness. I waited fearfully for a couple minutes, afraid he might come right back, but when his absence prolonged, I relaxed slightly, and curled up on the damp concrete.
I waited there, curled up, to summon the courage to get up, to walk up the steps, to open the door, back into the light I now missed. It’s funny, how you take things for granted until they are gone. I never thought I’d miss sunlight so much. I never craved the warmth of its light so much before.
The minutes ticked by, and I still lay, still, on the ground, thinking of how simple it would be to run up the stairs, throw the door open, and emerge into the bright sunlight.
I didn’t.
I remained there, in the cold dark, counting seconds that seemed like minutes, waiting through minutes that seemed like hours, and hours seemed to crawl by with the speed that couldn’t beat a snail in a hundred yard dash. I did not move, except when a spider landed on my bare arm and I flicked it away. Time crawled-not even that, it sat, nearly motionless, as if waiting for something to happen, but knowing that it wouldn’t until it moved.
Then, at last, the portal at the top of the stairs opened. I leaped hazardously to my feet, and rushed up the stairs as fast as I could, heading for the sweet, sweet light, out of the cold, dark-
He stopped me. His hideously strong hands grabbed me by the collarbone so hard I feared that it would snap. Wordlessly, he backhanded me across the face, punishment for disobedience, and dragged me down, down, back into the cellar, the cold, damp…
He slammed me to the floor. Pain burst red in my vision as my spine hit the hard, unforgiving floor, tearing through shirt and skin, lacerating my back. With a snarl of anger, he ripped off my thin t-shirt first, followed by the rest of my filthy clothes. His nails flashed out, scratching my chin, and then he released me, let me slump down once more on the ground. I felt him move away, and suddenly smelled the stench of blood, of sweat, of fear. The smell of pain.
He returned with a lantern, a flaming kerosene lamp that smelled of death. Steel glinted in it, and my face paled. He was going to kill me! Or worse… I would have shuddered at the thought, but I didn’t have time. As he moved, I saw the metal more clearly. It was a straight razor, the kind of thing people used to use to shave before the smaller, more finessed versions were invented. I tried to be as still as possible, hoping that he, like most predators, would go away. He didn’t, but his motions became slightly less savage as he bent down over me, noxious breath in my face. Before I could react, he had scraped the razor down my arm expertly, removing any traces of hair. His blade sliced back and forth all across my body, destroying any and all hair he could find. Small cuts began to sprout after his sharp, steely instrument left them, stinging slightly. His powerful, sweaty-palmed hands moved me this way and that as he searched out every scrap of hair not attached to my scalp.
I was cold and warm at once, shivering against the cold floor, but warmed by the adrenalin and fear. He tossed the razor aside, finally, and looked at me with demon-glinting eyes. I whimpered like a kicked puppy.
He stood and walked away, and I heard something move, something thin and ropy slapping the floor. Before I could wonder what it was, a tendril slashed into the fire light and slapped my left cheek, drawing blood and sudden pain. A whip? Why would he have one of those?!
He stepped back into the lamplight. He spoke, low and menacing, but with an unmistakable sneer. “Filthy, disgusting creature.” He pulled his whip back, and I knew nothing but pain.
I woke from unconsciousness in agony. It felt like a thousand needles had stabbed me everywhere imaginable, from the crown of my head to my toes. Tears stung bloody lines on my face, and I tried to climb to my feet. I noticed a strange weight on my neck, and reached up, a combination of curiosity and fear. I felt the metal, the tiny hole, the strip of leather around my neck, a rope. A collar? I was chained like a dog?
Testing to see how far I could go, I walked very slowly up the stairs of the basement, watching the ribbon of light under the door. At about the third stair, it pulled taught. I retreated. Then a horrible thought struck me. What if he was still here? Would he suddenly appear from the darkness, to laugh at my fear, to cause more pain?
But no, he wasn’t here, not at the moment. Sighing, I stumbled toward the other end of the rope, attached to a metal loop on the wall. I collapsed on the ground, exhausted and weak.
I woke again with a clenching of my stomach. Crawling away from the wall, my hands searched for something, and I didn’t know what. They found it. A medieval style chamber pot, a small tub, and the tap of the type hoses were attached to. Gratefully, I filled the tub with water and used the pot exactly as expected. Maybe he wasn’t horrible at all! Maybe he, like a good caretaker, just needed to punish me for disobedience.
I took a sort of bath in the cold water from the faucet, and a questing foot discovered a drain, in which I disposed of the waste-water.
Using the rope as a guide, I worked my way back to the metal loop, and sat down. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten-it must have been days! My mouth was parched, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had drank anything… But I guessed that was part of my punishment too. I shivered and rubbed my bare arms, grimacing slightly at the strange, smooth, hairless texture. It was cold and damp and uncomfortable and dark, but somehow it seemed less disgusting. For the first time I could remember, I wasn’t scared.
In fact, there really wasn’t much reason to be frightened, was there? He couldn’t hate me-otherwise he wouldn’t have provided those quasi-bathroom facilities, or kept me safe in here, where no one could hurt me. The punishment thing was perfectly rational too-it was me who had disobeyed him and hurt him first, not the other way around.
The door opened quietly, and light streamed into the room. I looked up at the heavenly light hopefully. Last time the door had slammed into the wall-this time it hadn’t even tapped it. Was that a good sign? Were my isolation, starvation, and dehydration all over?
His silhouette moved down the stairs toward me, closer and closer, eclipsing the light, and then moving around to squat on the floor next to me. A gentle hand rustled my hair gently.
“You’re filthy,” he stated, but with concern instead of scorn.
Well of course without scorn-he liked me, didn’t he? I smiled slightly and nodded.
“Come on, my little uke, let’s get you cleaned up.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the collar. As he raised me to my feet, I couldn’t help but notice how strong he was-and how weak my legs were. He didn’t so much support me as carry me up the stairs. I also couldn’t help but notice he didn’t smell half bad-he smelled a lot better than I did, and much better than the moldy basement. I held his arm as tightly as I could while my legs dangled. I was struck again by his strength, and my weakness.
We entered the bathroom, all porcelain, white, and clean. There was a shower and a bathtub, which he set me on the side of and turned the silvery faucets. My eyes widened as I realized that he was actually going to let me, the filthy, use the same bath as him, the strong, powerful and important one. I concentrated on not smudging the alabaster edge I sat on.
Finally, he judged the water level to be high enough, and he nudged me into the water. The warmth was exquisite, and as I half-floated, half rested on the bottom, I sighed. I could feel the dirt floating away-unlike in the cold affair of this morning. I looked up at him gratefully, and for the first time actually saw him.
He had messy long wavy black hair and laughing eyes, watching me with amusement. He was currently wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. “Like the bath?” he asked, and I wasn’t sure if he was curious or rhetorical. I nodded anyways. He smiled, kneeled next to the tub, and picked up a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. “Ready?” he asked playfully, and I nodded again.
See? I told my cynicism, He was just punishing me for disobedience! He doesn’t hate me-he doesn’t even dislike me! This proves it.
My cynicism didn’t reply.
He opened the bottle and squirted some into his hand before attacking my long, matted hair, working it into lather. I laughed a laugh that was possibly the offspring of a giggle and closed my eyes, letting his fingers gently-or not so gently, when he found one of the hundreds of knots-massage my scalp. I relaxed contently for the next minute or so, until he ducked my head under water with a warning. He held me there, rinsing, until I was beginning to feel light-headed, and then let me up. My hair fell in soaking strands around my face, shrouding me still raw cheeks, clean from the period underwater. I could feel the other myriads of scratches sting then soothe as the water gently scrubbed them. The pain, the dirty, disgusting pain of my shame, my guilt, was gone.
Forwardly, but not altogether unexpectedly, he leaned down and stole a kiss before grabbing the soap. My smile was in earnest as he scrubbed my skin, from my neck to even the bottoms of my feet, with the essence of lye. When he was done, I lay back against the hard, warm surface of the smoothed edge, and released whatever tension was left. I relaxed, floated, and rested. I could have stayed that way all night, but he had better plans.
He took me from the bathtub, and dried me off with a fluffy towel. “Wait here,” he told me, though I couldn’t make myself move if I wanted to, and he returned with clothes. They were white, and thin, and a bit big for me, but he dressed me in them anyway. They were comfortable, and as he led me to bed, they swished slightly as I walked. I laughed again, and said my first words to him.
“Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, but instead lifted me up and placed me in the bed before following me. He hugged me tight to his chest, protectively. He was warm, and the bed was soft, and the pillow even softer…
The sharp sound of an alarm clock jolted me from my peaceful sleep, but a couple whispered words at my ear told me to stay where I was. I didn’t argue, even though I felt disappointed and, it must be mentioned, cold as he left the bed, even though he tucked the comforter back around me snugly. I did, however, go back to sleep, and the next thing I knew, the sun was outside the window, shining merrily at me.
I noticed a note about a foot from my nose, on the bedside table.
Good morning, my little uke. I hope you had a good nights sleep, but from what I could tell you did. Down the hall, in the kitchen, there’s a pantry and a fridge. Please eat something-I don’t want you to starve, and you were so weak last night you could barely stand up.
It was signed with two words: Your Seme.
I smiled, and slid off the bed. Instead of standing, my knees gave way, and I collapsed sprawling on the floor. Using the bedside table as a prop, I pulled myself weakly to my feet, and walked unsteadily to the door, down the hall a short ways, and into a small kitchen.
My stomach growled hungrily, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t eat anything he wanted. I opened the fridge, and saw a quart of strawberry-flavored yogurt. Inspection revealed it to be open and about three-quarters full. I placed it on the table, went to the cabinet, where I found a cereal bowl, and found a spoon in a nearby drawer. I scooped about three spoons into the bowl-and hoped my depletion wasn’t obvious-and returned the carton to the refrigerator. I ate the yogurt ravenously, then walked over to the sink, and turned the faucet on to wash the dishes. Though the running water reminded me of the desert that was my mouth, I forced myself to wash the bowl and spoon thoroughly, with dish soap, dry them with a clean towel, and put them away. Only then did I open the cabinet with cups and fix myself a glass of water. And another. And another. After I was done, I rinsed out the cup, dried it, and replaced it in its spot.
Still a bit hungry, I left the kitchen and looked around. There was the door to the basement, the front door-I remembered that there was a parking lot in front of this building for people’s cars-the door to his room, and three others. Curious to what might be in them, I wandered over to one and carefully opened it.
This room was smaller than the bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom, but it was still a decent size. Bookcases lined the walls, packed with books. Some were normal novels, some were plays, and there was even an encyclopedia and dictionary, but the room was dominated by rows and rows of manga-style graphic novels. I felt the overwhelming urge to go and read them all right now, but I was afraid he might not want me to. So I left the first room.
The second door opened to a much smaller bathroom than the one off the bedroom, without a bath or shower. I didn’t spend any time looking at it any longer. It wasn’t like I had never seen a bathroom before.
The final room contained a computer. There was a red DSL connection cable attaching it to a phone jack on the wall. The room itself was rather small, but it was plenty of room to use the computer. A nearly had to grab the door frame to keep from running and turning it on. Once again, what if he didn’t want me to use it? I left this room also.
At wits end, and beginning to get bored, I returned to the bedroom. There was a TV, and, feeling it probably benign, I turned it on and watched dreary daytime television for the rest of the day.
About an hour after dark, I heard the front door open. I turned off the TV and put the remote where I had found it. I ran to the bedroom door to greet him, but the door opened quickly and I jumped back.
He stood there before me, angry. I thought, panicking, that he had found out that I had looked in his other rooms, which he probably didn’t want me to see, and was going to punish me again. I cowered, and his foot came up and slammed into my gut. I fell to the ground, and I couldn’t breathe. My stomach was on fire, but he advanced and pinned me down with his knees. His brown eyes were wild, and I smelled the sour scent of alcohol. He grunted something incoherent, and his fist smashed into my face. I cried out in pain.
His hands grabbed my shirt by the collar roughly, and pulled my face toward him. They pulled and tore the thin fabric asunder, and then clawed with rough nails at the pale, soft flesh of my chest and stomach, leaving jagged thin red marks on my pale flash. His fists beat me mercilessly, but I knew that I didn’t deserve mercy. I had disobeyed him again-it was my fault.
The pain continued, worsened as he worked himself into a greater rage. I heard bones groan and almost snap, smelled fear and blood and sweat, and tasted the dryness of my mouth, but saw nothing but his furious brown eyes, felt nothing but endless pain. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t even try.
When it was finally over, as I lay covered in bruises and blood and fear sweat and naked on the floor next to him, I cried quietly. I said my second set of words to him.
“I’m sorry!” I tried to apologize, hoping that maybe he wouldn’t be mad, maybe he would forgive me. He didn’t reply, but as I tried to crawl away, he pulled my tight against him, crushing me to him.
“You stupid uke,” he intoned derisively.
I couldn’t disagree.
________________________________________________________________________
It occured to me while I was reading it that it could almost pass as from the perspective of a girl. It isn't. The narrator is a guy. Just aking sure you know.