The Cave Ch. 02

I tried again, as if he were teaching me the linguistics of a proper growl, but his finger bumped my delicate clitoris and my vocal cords emitted a sharp, garbled moan instead.

Pratt's weight pushed against me momentarily to get up. Cool air rushed in to remove his warmth and a moment later I felt his hairy hips sliding in between my legs. I heard his low grunt when he drove into me. My heavy breasts knocked around with his swift thrusts and I had to clutch them to keep them still.

We sounded like apes in the dark, an erotic chorus of primal grunts and groans. It was simple that way, reduced to an animal, an untamed, visceral thing without concept of higher thinking or reason, motivated only by instinct and need. When I climaxed, my back bowed off the bed and I hardly recognized the noise I made as my own: a low, primitive cry of something I once heard in a monkey exhibit. Shuddering, Pratt's fearsome howl of release seemed to come from the polar bear display.

Later, as Pratt locked the manacles on my arms, I felt sated.

Sated and rippling with danger.

*

That evening, while Pratt was out hunting, I began counting my days in the cave. I estimated I had been in the cave for thirteen days and I used the chipped edge of my metal plate to etch thirteen slashes inside the niche of my food shelf.

At the time, I wasn't sure why I'd decided to begin a tally on that day. I attributed it to mild boredom while Pratt was away or maybe I was truly beginning to lose count. After that, the days really did begin to slide by.

However, in my memoir, which I sold to a new publisher as a work of fiction—who would ever believe this shit anyway?—I came up with an entirely new theory. I began keeping track of my time in the cave on that day specifically because, subconsciously (and maybe a little consciously, too), I didn't want to leave.

The basic routine I had observed with Amy stayed largely the same. He kept me tied until he was ready to play with me. The preenings became more structured. That first one was just to get me clean but each one after that, Pratt expected form and eye contact. Two meals a day, with as much water as I could drink, 3-5 bathroom breaks, including one right after breakfast and another right before my evening grooming, and there was sex, of course. Twice a day at first and then later it became more. When it became less...obligatory. When I started to initiate it.

Pratt spent a lot of time away from the main cavern, but I could hear him in other parts of the cave, attending to some chore. Rattling, banging, sometimes dragging sounds could be heard.

He spent the better part of one morning sweeping up the soiled straw under my old chains, and then scrubbed my urine stains with what looked like a broken hairbrush and rinsing it with water he'd boiled in an old stock pot. I'm sure the whole area smelled foul to his sensitive nose. When he finished, I felt as shame-faced as Lady looked when she had an accident by the door, but his eyes brimmed with compassion as he kneeled down next to me and fingered all my moist parts to show there were no hard feelings.

It seemed there was always something for him to do in the cave and I wondered if it had to do with the winter months approaching. He would spend extra time with me at night to make up for his absence in the day. Games mostly.

We continued to play those first couple games he taught me, the one where I'd kneel up for bits of meat or catch them in midair. There were new games, too, some with objectives of pure stamina, and while fellating him was its own reward, I took the treats anyway to add to the erotic dehumanization. I tried to perform the games to the best of my ability, without any eye rolling or haughtiness on my part, and in time my improvement was observable. There were no punishments, except for the occasional swat to correct my form, and he always praised me for my effort. Knowing the games, there were fewer turns wasted at the beginning to get me to assume the position, but I think he cheated by making the rabbit treats bigger. I think his favorite game was fetch, but only because I was so terrible at procuring the small oak branch on all awkward fours in a timely manner, while I preferred the shell game. Or in this case the dirty-red-Solo-cup game. He was actually quite fast and it was a little like being hustled at Fortune Bay Casino, except even when the house loses, it wins.

When he wasn't pacing around the other areas of the cave, hunting or torturing me for his amusement (and sometimes mine), he was sitting at the log bench, tinkering with small tools or simply staring at the crackling blaze, or he was working in his dark closet, where forever ago I had once climbed the ledges in there, looking for a spare key to the handcuffs. Sometimes I thought about the other key I'd found there instead. It didn't fit either of the chain locks and I had long ago come to the conclusion it was a found key to nothing, kept for no reason other than to quench his hoarding thirst.

One night, in that peaceful down-time between dinner and my bath, four nights after Pratt played dead, he was toying with something by the light of the fire. I used to be so afraid of those little crafts, as if they were meant to be a utility for my excruciating death, but I hardly wondered about them anymore.

But then I remembered what Amy said, my last night with her, when I had admired her bird's foot ring. She had said, "Yours is probably in the works."

At that moment, Pratt picked up a rusty needle nose plier from the floor to make some adjustment. The crinkle around his focused eyes was so serious it was almost angry, but as he set them back down, he searched for me in the shadows. Finding me, his face smoothed and I saw him visibly relax as his mouth snarled into a half smile. It used to be I'd curl my legs together or shift sideways to hide when he glanced my way. Now I only grinned back.

I imagined what my gift might be. From what I could see, it was something dangly. It wasn't finished and it would take more time before it was, and while I didn't know it at the time, my receiving it would become, what I eventually would think of as, the beginning of the end.

*

It had been the middle of September when Pratt stole me from Highway 169, where I'd left my car running to inspect the animal I thought I'd clipped, and if I'd been counting my days correctly, that would bring me to the beginning of October.

October 6, give or take a day, was the evening of my first escape attempt.

Pratt had been gone for most of the day, rooting around in other parts of the cave. I took small naps against the wall to make the time pass between his occasional pop-ins, when he'd give me a drink of water or release me for a break in the next cavern. The scrape across my chest was at the final stage of healing and was itching like crazy, especially in the places I couldn't reach.

I didn't notice him leave to hunt our dinner, but I was certainly aware when he returned, disturbed from my light slumber by an odious smell.

Pratt gamboled into the cave with alacrity. Eyes shining, he dropped his slay at the edge of the bed and puffed out his chest, his veiny erection hard and proud.

"What did you get into?" I asked rhetorically, scrunching my nose in disgust.

The smell was bad, like raw chicken scraps in the garbage that had spoiled. It was a tough smell to forget and I realized I had sensed it on him before. My first day in the cave: I smelled him before I could see him.

He dropped to his knees and started to slink playfully towards me on his hands, eyes glimmering wickedly, preparing to pounce.

"You stink!" I pressed my shoulders against the wall and turned my head in to avoid his repellent scent. I wished I was standing so I could reach my face and pinch my nose with my fingers.

He leaned over me and I could feel the cold briskness of the outdoors in his soft mink furs as they brushed against my legs. Lowering his face, he snuggled my breasts and I knew what he was doing. I think my cat used to do the same thing on my leg, spreading her scent to mark her territory.

Squirming, I choked on a laugh, trying hard not to gag. "You stink!"

Spreading my legs obscenely wide, he burrowed his face into my pelt of damp pubic hair, rubbing suggestively. I think he got more of my scent on him than he left on me. My resting clitoris began to warm up and fill with blood.

"Frisky tonight," I muttered huskily.

Huffing in amusement, he retreated.

He didn't stick around the cave long and when he returned he was freshly bathed, his stiff virility still present, bobbling with the motion of every stride. His stench was considerably muted, but mine was now gaining power, wafting up from my between my gleaming thighs. Taking a page from Pratt's book, I no longer went out of my way to cover my excitement when it flared up.

After we'd had our dinner, he unlocked me from my shackles and held out his hand for me. I realized it was time for my break and I jumped to my feet. My crotch was wet and irritated and the itch subsided while I walked, when my thighs brushed together. However, I did scratch the healing wound above my cleavage, flaking off bits of scab.

When I emptied myself, I practically dove into Pratt's lap for my clean up, settling into position quickly with my legs spread across his thighs. The muscles in my belly clenched deliciously as he held me down and I libidinously groaned the instant his tongue touched my backside.

Hot from irritation, my nether lips sought reprieve from his scratchy, barbed tongue and the deliberate passes he made over my squeezing sphincter made my hips strain to move. He turned his head, his licks changing direction, and I gave a long, shameless moan as his tropical breath and the assistance of his stroke pushed back the itch momentarily, only to have it blaze up again the moment his tongue left me. Wiggling in his hard grip, I was packed with unbridled tension, fighting for a rhythm, but I was a prisoner to his pace, knowing that at any moment he might consider me clean and stop. I reached my peak, tense with desire, straining for that last nudge.

My orgasm began as a slow trickle, a smooth cascade over the brim. Finally I boiled over, my body undulating out of control as Pratt battled to restrain me. Animalistic cries tumbled hysterically out of my throat.

When it was over, I draped over his lap like a wet towel, vaguely aware of his tongue lapping up fresh saps as they seeped out of me.

The indignity of it all hit me suddenly, a true eureka moment. I was disgusted with myself, my capitulation, how obedient I had become. Another successful trick learned. Another earned achievement of my domestication.

Pratt turned me over in his lap, cradling me, licking me all over in enthusiastic approval, including my face. I could smell my own earthy scent on his breath and averted from it, repelled. The comfort I usually sought from him now felt unreal, utterly patronizing.

Did Amy give herself over to Pratt like this? Or was I now at the head of the class? I certainly never witnessed her undergoing any training exercises like the ones I was excelling at. Had she flat out refused to conform? Did that make her more liberated than me?

A few minutes later, I was leading the way back to my chains.

I felt sick to my stomach. Pratt knew exactly what he was doing. Tying me up, feeding me his scraps, the grooming, the games...even my bathroom breaks had been a way to condition my arousal. I had mastered all the tricks and had achieved some sort of perpetual stimulation that never seemed to end. Was this it? Was this all there was to being here? The routine had been a source of security for me, but now the predictability of everything made me weary and restless.

So what I did next was completely unplanned.

As we approached the spot in the cave where the forks converged, the idea was fleeting. But the closer we got, the more it gained momentum, cementing in my mind until I was convinced if I didn't act on it, I would absolutely expire. Normally I don't believe in signs, but at that moment, one came to me.

Pratt sneezed.

With him temporarily distracted, I turned and darted up the other branch. That's when I realized this was a terrible idea. He was going to catch me in an instant. In fact, taking his long strides into account, it was going to be less than an instant. But as I dashed into the darkness, I heard it again.

Pratt sneezed a second time. And about the time he did, I discovered another fork in the cave. Not so much a fork, but a sideways "T" that gave me two choices: left or straight. I went left. I think Pratt went straight and that's what contributed to my massive head start. It wouldn't have worked as well if I had intended it.

Considering I was naked and barefoot and it was near pitch black, I ran faster than I should have. I could have really hurt myself. Stepped into a hole, twisted my foot, broken something in a fall. Caves had wildly unpredictable terrain. I guess it was fitting for the moment; it's what I was striving to be.

There was light ahead. I could see the cave turned a corner and warm light bathed the rocky floor and slanted against the textured wall.

As an enthusiast of horror movies, I knew the first rule of being chased was not to look back but it was compulsory to do it. All I saw was darkness, but I could still hear his footfalls, his claws clicking on the stone. They were slow and deliberate. And just like the hundred slasher movies I'd seen, he wasn't even hurrying to close the gap. Like a fool, I thought I was ahead.

Careening around the corner, my bare feet skidded in some loose dirt as I stopped. Dead end.

I think part of me knew it, too. The light had been too warm, too artificial. There were candles flickering around the small room and several small animals. They were furless, turned inside out, and appeared to be climbing the walls. I screamed at them. The pitch of it bounced off the walls, honeycombing its way through the cave system.

The animals on the walls were mostly rabbits and I realized now they were dead. In one corner I saw what looked like half a dozen small surfboards stacked against each other. Fur stretchers, I realized. The ones on the walls were mounted on smaller wire stretchers and on some of them I could just make out the inside of their white faces, widened and flattened out on the narrow ends. The air was thickly aromatic of wet dog and the metallic smell of blood, not necessarily unpleasant. It reminded me of hunting season, when Dad used to come home smelling like this after field dressing his own deer.

My lungs were burning from my jaunt and I propped my hands on my hips as I paced to catch my breath.

I expected to be more disappointed this wasn't the way out, but I was actually relieved. Not that escape hadn't crossed my mind once or twice this last week, but every time it did my heart would hurt. And what was out there, anyway? A world of deadlines, a self-reliant cat, a mother I saw once a year around the holidays...and a dating pool that was all dried up—because by the time you're thirty all the best water toys have already been claimed.

It was never my intension to leave; I was feeling plucky and unusually rebellious and I wanted to do something unexpected. I wanted Pratt to know I wasn't always going to come when called. Pun intended, of course.

But now I was thinking more about how he was going to punish me. The anticipation of it was exquisitely erotic.

My toes bumped against some smooth objects on the floor and they tinkled together as I nearly knocked a couple of them over. Something thick and warm spilled on the tops of both my feet and I looked down to find several glass jars lined up against the wall. Some of them were mason jars, some of them were old jelly jars with the labels scraped off. I think one heart-shaped container was a jar of spicy mustard at one time. Now they were all filled with a hot, dense, off-white substance. Each one, aside from the two I had kicked, had two sticks placed over the wide mouth, holding a third stick upright inside the jar.

Candles, I realized with mild surprise. How very Martha Stewart.

Behind me, I heard Pratt approach the archway and I spun around. He propped both elbows against the frame, leaning impassively, almost arrogant. I noticed he hadn't even broken a sweat, although he was breathing hard through the razors of his teeth. He didn't seem especially angry, but his golden eyes were gleaming in malice and for the first time he looked like a wild animal who wanted to eat me. I don't think I was very far off in my assumption and this gave my loins a good stir.

Of course, Pratt knew this was a dead end. That's why he didn't bother rushing to collect me. I didn't have anywhere to go except back to him.

Remembering how Amy had obsequiously kissed Pratt's feet on her last day in the cave, I thought about showing him similar penitence for my revolt. But then his erection started to peek between the flaps of his mink and I lost track of my thinking.

It didn't look like I was going to be reprimanded after all. On a full stomach, I found I was braver to stand up to the face of discipline but this time I was just feeling deviant. I didn't want to go to my chains just yet. I think the structure was getting to me. Maybe I was feeling under stimulated. Or maybe I was just tired of being the good pet.

Caution, baby, I thought, remembering Amy. How many times had my predecessor acted out before Pratt became aggravated by her insubordination?

At first, Amy had been my source of inspiration, my secret pool of courage, but aside from today, I hadn't thought of her in days. My feelings for Pratt were taking a sharp turn into something I couldn't identify and it was just easier to forget about Amy instead of wallowing in her memory, wondering if her fate would also become mine.

Pratt stomped forward and it gave me a start.

I scuttled backwards, into the furthest corner from him, my heels bumping into those slabs of wood, shaped like ironing boards. They began clattering to the floor, one by one. Pratt paid them no attention, his blonde eyes glued to mine as he stalked across the room. I tossed a couple in his path to distract him and then faked to the right, then to the left, but he didn't take the bait. All it did was make me look skittish. His large veiny foot stepped on one board and it made a sharp, woody snap.

I slapped away his hands as they reached for me, but it only made him aggressive, encroaching on my personal space to keep me cornered. He captured my wrists. His shoulder lowered slightly and the next moment I felt his other hand clutching between my legs. I lost my footing as he lifted me up by my pelvis and threw me over his head easily as if I'd been a sack of grain.

Squirming, I tested my limits. I felt quite secure as he carried me. He kept his posture bent slightly forward so that my hips rested on the back of his head and he was holding me by my hands and feet like I was freshly shot buck in the woods, his caught prey. Soon, I hoped to be devoured.

He carried me sideways through the narrow doorway and slightly askew though the tunnels. He took a right at the "T," passed the split and into the main cavern. The fire was still strong as he circled around its heat to the bed.

At my shackles, Pratt leaned sideways and coaxed my body to slide down his right shoulder and the moment my toes touched the fur, I resumed my futile fight. Not because I wanted to escape, but only to express my distaste for the chains right now. I had spent so much time in them and their rustic charm of bondage was losing appeal.