Collared

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Chapter 2

As soon as the handcuffs holding me up were released, my spent body collapsed to the ground. Pain radiated everywhere. And I meant everywhere. “Red. Red. Red.” I continued to silently cry my safe word even though he was gone, disappeared from our play room.

He’d violated me.

My master, my Dom, the love of my life and the man who was supposed to protect me above all else, had just shattered me into a thousand pieces. I didn’t know that I’d ever be able to pick up.

I couldn’t think. All I could do was feel the fat, salty tears streaming down my face and the pain that emanated everywhere. My wrists hurt from where he’d had the cuffs too tight; my shoulders sore from my arms being raised above my head for far too long, longer than he’d ever let them- even on his worst days before this one. My throat was hoarse and painful from where he’d shoved himself inside of me against my will over and over. My vagina hurt from his rough penetration without proper lubrication. My thighs would be bruised and painful from where his hips had slapped roughly against mine.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d bruised me like that. But it would be the first that didn’t bring sexy flashbacks that made me cross my legs in the middle of work meeting. These bruises were the wrong kind, the kind so wrong that they’d forever be burned into the back of my brain and make me want to vomit when I remembered.

Because I was always going to remember.

Reaching around myself, I cupped my ass, finding it wet. When I pulled my hand away, there was blood.

He’d known my limits.

He’d heard me yell my safe word over and over.

But he’d ignored it.

He’d raped me; he’d raped me in every single one of my holes, even the one I’d never let him have because it was a soft limit and I wasn’t ready. My ears were still ringing with the horrible, vile words he’d spewed at me. ”Whore.” That had been the word he’d used while he’d been slashing me with the whip. With every lash, the yelling of the derogatory term louder and louder. It was the first time he’d uttered it in a way that wasn’t meant to increase both our pleasures.

Once he’d finished with that word, he’d moved on to ”slut.” He’d forced himself down my throat repeatedly while he’d slapped my face and made me choke on him.

I was a submissive. I loved rough sex. Craved it. Craved submitting myself to my master. Craved the blurring of the line between pleasure and pain. But this has been different. When I gave him my submission willingly, my body relaxed, becoming pliant just for him and his pleasure. But he’d stolen it from me this time, taken what he thought was rightfully his even though I’d told him I didn’t want to give it to him. I’d felt every inch of him making me want to vomit, making me choke, barely able to breathe.

And when it was over, he still wasn’t done.

“Bitch.” Using that word had been a limit. Whore, slut, those were okay. I loved the derogatory words, especially when they were accompanied by him claiming me as his.

But they’d been hateful. I couldn’t even think about the things he’d done to me while screaming that vulgar word.

And when he’d finally broken me, taken a part of me I’d never given to him or anyone else, he’d spewed all of them at me, rapid fire one after another, barely breathing between the words.

Broken.

He’d broken me.

Reaching to my lower back and the curve of my ass, I felt there. There was blood there too, less than lower, but the whipping he gave me must have opened my skin.

It was going to leave marks all over me, evidence of the violence he’d subjected me to. Marks for any other man I chose to be with in the future to see. Nobody could ever see what he did, see how weak I’d been to let him do that to me.

I was still crying. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be strong, to pick myself up off the floor and get out, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I let myself collapse to the floor and felt the sobs consume me. I had no idea if Eric was still in the house. He wasn’t Master Eric anymore; he’d never be my master again.

I had no idea how long I’d been laying on the floor when I finally pushed myself up and stood. A pain shot right up my leg, making me collapse back down. Steadying my breath, expecting the pain this time, I stood again. Stumbling, I made my way to the entrance of the playroom.

The house was completely silent as I walked down the hall to the bedroom. Opening the door, I found it the way I’d left it that morning. The bed was pristinely made, the same bed we slept in every night. The same bed we were in when he told me he loved me for the first time, when he asked to collar me, and when he’d proposed to me.

The large, shiny, princess cut diamond glinted on my left hand. Taking it off, I set it on the foot of the bed. Then I undid my collar and set it there with it. Walking to the nightstand, grabbed the delicate platinum chain that had an E engraved with diamonds dangling from it and set it on the bed with the other items. It was my public collar. And I didn’t want any of the jewelry anymore. None of it.

Going to the bathroom, I avoided looking at myself in the mirror; I didn’t want to see what I looked like. Instead, I stepped under the shower. When the water hit my back, I yelped in pain. Looking down, I saw the normally clear water running pink down the drain. I didn’t move again until it finally ran clear. Grabbing my sea sponge loofah, I put my coconut scented soap on it and scrubbed everywhere. This would be the last time I used something coconut scented. It was his favourite. I didn’t need to do anything for him ever again. I wouldn’t. I was gentler when I washed my lower back, but even still running the soap over the fresh wounds hurt. I’d be lucky they didn’t get infected. Delicately, I cleaned between my legs, hissing at the stinging sensation there. I’d been bruised post sex before, had felt him inside me for days, but this wasn’t the same, it didn’t feel the same because it had been taken from me instead of given to him willingly. Next, I cleaned my butt. The bleeding there had stopped, but it still hurt. It had been the worst pain imaginable.

Danny had always lightly teased me about anal penetration being one of my soft limits, but now it would be a hard limit. Because there was no way I was willingly going to put myself through that again.

But I wouldn’t need to call them limits anymore. I would never trust another Dom in my life. I was out—back to vanilla men for me.

Stepping out of the shower, I dried myself delicately. I still refused to look at myself in the mirror; I didn’t need or want to see the shame in my eyes. Grabbing the cream Eric always used on me for aftercare, I rubbed it into my lower back. A shocked gasp left me at the stinging sensation. It didn’t feel like it usually did, probably because he’d never injured me before, never broken the skin of my body.

I couldn’t text Danny and ask him how to do aftercare of my ass because then he’d have questions. Questions I wouldn’t answer, not now, not ever. Instead, I pulled up trusty Doctor Google and typed in how to care for yourself after anal sex. I was torn. Ibuprofen would help with whatever swelling, but I also knew it could potential make me bleed. But I desperately needed soothing for the pain. I opted for Tylenol and hoped it would have the same effects. Eric kept all types of oils and creams in the bathroom, so I dug through until I found a bottle of vitamin E. Gently, I rubbed it around my hole, biting my teeth through the pain.

When I was done, I pulled on a pair of loose joggers, forgoing underwear that could increase the friction and pain. I pulled on a sweatshirt and quickly packed as many of my clothes and belongings that would fit in a single suitcase.

I was done.

I wasn’t going to be one of those women who stayed.

Eric, my fiancee, had raped me. I wouldn’t stay. And I wouldn’t be coming back.

I must have been high on adrenaline, otherwise I didn’t know how I would still be so calm and functioning. I had a car, but Eric had purchased it for me. I wouldn’t be taking it. I didn’t even want to take the phone he’d gotten for me, but I had to. Pulling up the ride share app, I ordered a car and lugged my suitcase downstairs.

Nothing in this house was mine. It was all Eric’s. When I’d moved out of the house I’d been sharing with Sam, Danny and Ellie, I let them keep everything. Why would I ever need it? Eric had a house and everything we’d ever need. I’d thought we were going to be together forever.

That’s what it had felt like in the beginning.

But even then, I should have known. I should have seen the red flags and run far and fast.

But I didn’t. And now I was suffering the consequences of that choice.

I was waiting outside when the car pulled up. I didn’t have anything with me; I’d left my keys behind, locking the door behind me. I didn’t need them. The car I drove wasn’t mine and the house would never be mine again.

The driver helped me load my suitcase into the trunk. Once I’d slipped into the backseat, I pulled my phone out and made sure my location settings were completely off. Eric wouldn’t expect me to leave. He’d broken me down so slowly over the last year and a half that I hadn’t even realized it was happening. This had just been his last stand, his attempt to completely break me. I’d have to get a new phone and a new number as soon as possible, but I wouldn’t be able to until at least tomorrow.

As my drive drove silently, I reflected on the last eighteen months of my life. The signs were there. So many damn signs I saw and chose to ignore because Eric was my dream Dom.

That very first night, the night of the coming out party, had been the night I should have fled from him, turned him and his advances down and spared myself the last eighteen months.

When I’d shown up at the coming out party with Sam, Danny and Ellie, I’d finally felt like the truest version of myself. I’d been wearing a black bodysuit with stockings and sky high black stilettos. My hair had been pin-straight and pulled back into a tight ponytail. Eric had instructed us to park where we usually did and walk around the back. Once I’d texted him that we’d arrived, he’d opened the back door. He’d been wearing leather pants and a clean, pressed, white button-down shirt. He looked every bit the dungeon master he was. I’d been ridiculously shy and intimidated by him. What would an experienced Dom want with an untrained brand new submissive?

That was the whole point.

I didn’t know any better.

Well, I did. But I refused to listen to my inner voice.

“Abigail,” he’d smiled at me. “Can we talk in private before you join your friends?”

I’d waved them off to find the bar and where they could collect their wristbands for the night. “I’d like to put this on you,” he’d told me, holding up a collar. “It’s a protection collar. Do you remember what that means?”

“Yes, sir,” I’d replied. “It just means that I’m not available. I’m under your protection. It will prevent other Doms from talking to me.”

“May I put it on you?”

“Yes.” Turning, I’d offered him my neck by lifting my ponytail off where it laid between my shoulders.

That was clue number one. He’d never wanted another Dom to be able to speak to me, not even on the night of my coming out party.

Ignored red flag number two came out at the end of the party and he’d asked if I wanted to do a scene with him. “Yes sir,” I’d replied. He’d walked me to his playroom in the club, his hand on my lower back. At the time, it had caused butterflies in my stomach, tingles all over my body. Now I knew it was my body’s way of telling me what my mind hadn’t yet known.

Danger.

“Should we talk about limits, sir?” I’d asked when he’d locked us inside.

“You’re a brand new submissive, Abigail. You’ve got no idea what your limits are yet.” I gulped. During class with Quinn, he’d emphasized the importance of always knowing your limits. That’s why there were categories of hard and soft. Soft limits were open for discussion, given the right dom and the right set of circumstances.

But because I’d been naïve, I’d trusted him. He was the dungeon master. Of course, he wouldn’t hurt me.

And he hadn’t.

The scene that first night barely qualified as a scene. It was basically vanilla. He’d spanked me and that was about it.

I’d had two orgasms, but it definitely hadn’t been the magical experience I’d been expecting from my first scene.

After that, we started a contract. A three-month one. We discussed limits after that, but looking back on it, he was the one doing the discussing, deciding what I would and wouldn’t like.

I’d been adamant about no anal penetration in any form. It was a hard limit for me. For most female subs, it wasn’t a limit at all or a soft one, something she’d only do with a partner she trusted and loved. Maybe someday it could have moved to a soft limit, but when he’d been an asshole about it, I’d dug my heels in. Yet still, it had landed on the soft limits. And now, after the way he’d just violated me, there was no way it would ever be anything other than a hard limit.

He’d stolen that from me, my ability to choose to change my mind myself.

Him breaking me down had happened so slowly that I hadn’t even realized it was happening. Throughout our entire relationship, I still worked at the radio station. He paid for everything. That meant, at least, that I had enough money to start over.

He’d been putting his final puzzle pieces into place, the ones that would isolate me completely and make me his prisoner instead of his submissive. Throughout the last months, he’d been dropping hints he didn’t like my friends. I hardly ever saw them anymore as it was. Slowly, so slowly I hadn’t even seen what he was doing, he’d pulled me away from them. The lines had been classic, “I just want to spend time with you.” Or “can’t you see them next weekend, I had something special planned for us.” He’d never wanted me to dance with them at the club and when they’d started going to the one on the other side of town, he’d refused to take me, stating that it was a rival business and inappropriate.

And going by myself had been out of the question. Even if I’d gone while wearing a collar. His collar.

It all made so much sense now.

I’d been so naïve. So fucking stupid.

He’d planted the last seed only last week. We’d been cuddled on the couch, watching a movie, when he’d spoken. “After we get married, you’ll quit your job, right?”

“Um, I hadn’t thought about it,” I told him.

“You’ll quit your job.”

That was it. No discussion. And absolutely had nothing to do with living a BDSM lifestyle. I could work if I wanted to.

“I like my job.”

He hadn’t even given me the courtesy of a response.

And the worst part of all, despite the obvious red flags, despite the signs, despite the pit in the bottom of my stomach telling me it was a bad idea, I still would have married him.

Until he did what he did.

Fresh tears were rolling down my face again when my driver finally pulled up to the hotel. “Thank you,” I said quietly while taking the handle of my suitcase he’d slid to me.

Walking in, I kept my eyes cast downward, a habit that was hard to break.

The receptionist was friendly, but she seemed concerned as I handed her my card and told her I wanted a room for an entire week. She couldn’t hide her surprise when it went through without a problem. I’m sure I looked horrible, and this was a nice hotel. It wasn’t five star, but it wasn’t a motel off the interstate either.

“Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.”

She handed me the keycard with the room number written on it and I made my way to the bay of elevators.

The first thing I did was order room service. I wanted to text my friends, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with the bombardment of questions that would come from telling them I left Eric. It would have to wait until the morning. If I told them the truth, they’d want me to report him. I should. But how? The way women who report are treated is unfathomable. How could I put myself through that?

I couldn’t.

I was too weak.

While I waited for my meal, I unpacked my suitcase and listened to the news in the background. I wasn’t really absorbing it at all, but I couldn’t be left alone with my thoughts.

When my dinner arrived, I tipped the waiter who’d brought it to me.

My Uber driver and the man in my room had both been men, but I hadn’t been afraid. They weren’t Eric. Not all men were like that.

Hopefully, I’d be able to remember that.

After I finished my dinner, I saw the knife sitting on the plate still—unused.

Picking it up, feeling its weight in my hand.

That was the first night I cut.

The blade was sharp. I hadn’t been suicidal. But I wanted to feel anything other than the pain Eric had caused me. Anything was better than the shame.

But the pleasure it brought afterwards, the sense of control, the sense of pride it gave me, made me want to keep doing it.

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