Story: The Room.

Rating: NC-17 (violence, sexual content, language)

Disclaimer: If you have any problem reading about one of the “lads” as a very dark, cruel person, please do not read this.
I have no ownership over the celebrity referenced in this story. I created the characters of my own free will.

This story is based upon a rather frightening thought that came into my mind after seeing this person in another film. It seemed they had a potential “dark” side that might be brought to the surface, under certain circumstances…
I decided to try to put the thought to paper and hope it comes out as something interesting…


Please provide feedback!
~~~~~

Hard.
Cold.
Dark.

Heh, that’s almost funny. It’s always dark for me. When you’re blind, light means nothing. Sound, smell, touch. That is my light. But this dark is more menacing; it’s no human sound, besides my own. Only the mechanical sounds, the thuds, the noises from somewhere “out there”.
Until he comes back.

Then I prefer the dark.

Pain.
Despair.
Fear.
No, no fear, no despair!
Strength.
Resolve.

He won’t conquer me. He won’t.

If you could see me right now, you’d be frightened. I’m in a room, rather large. There are no windows, at least none that I can sense. There’s only a long table in the far northwest corner, a chair near it that he uses sometimes, and a dingy mattress in the far southeast corner. There is a door on the west wall that is always locked. He comes through it. There is a bathroom that you enter along the southernmost wall. There is no door. Only a toilet, a small shower and small sink.

I’m on the mattress now. My hands are chained behind me and the chain attached to the hook on the wall. My hair is hanging down in my face, but I haven’t the strength to flip my head back to move it. He forgot me this time; forgot to free me. He's not done this before.
My clothing is an old shirt: much too large for him, much too large for me. I don’t know where he gets them. But he brings another one every time he comes. And he changes me into it after he’s done.

It must be about 6pm, Tuesday… I think. He’ll be here soon.

Do you wonder how I tell time when I cannot see?
I cannot touch a watch face or hear a clock chime where I am.


I count the seconds, the seconds of my life that remain.

I have to try again, to make him talk to me. To make him see me as more than an object – to see me as human. It’s my only chance to live.

Would you like to hear a bit about me? Then I shall tell you who I was… before he found me.

Oh......chilling! This is really intriguing. Post more!

Thanks Ambrosia! I'm glad you're reading! I admire your writing, so I'm glad to know you're checking mine out too :)

A bit more...

~~~~~
“Ay Minna! How are you, child? Come, give us a kiss!”
I find my way through the crowd, carefully so as not to bump anyone too harshly with my red and white cane, and find his hand waiting for at the edge of the counter.
“Hello, Papap. Love you. I’m well, and how are you?” I ask him as I reach up to kiss his scruffy face and fold my cane at the same time. My grandfather takes my hand and pulls me around the counter to receive his hug and kiss back.
“I’m busy, Kitten! Here, you do the register! I have to wait on the customers!” he tells me as his voice booms out, asking who is next.

Yes, a blind girl helping check out market customers, working the cash register. And I do my job well, mind you. I can tell any coin by its mere weight. Paper money, that’s a bit harder. I have to trust my instincts that customers are telling me the truth about what they’ve handed me. But most don’t lie. They love my Papap and he loves them. Those who have lied have found his wrath to be quite devastating. I know my money in the cash drawer because I have a special fold I use for each denomination – the upper right corner is my clue, and I’m almost never wrong.
So, I feel my way about the register, getting my bearings, place my cane under the counter and start ringing people up.

“Samuel! Having the beef again?” I tease the young man in front of me as I hold out my hand to take his payment.
“Minna, how do you know it’s me? I just don’t understand!” he sighs, but I hear the smile in his voice.
“Drakkar, Sammy. That and Ocean Breeze soap. Even if you change your cologne, I’ll still know who you are, love. And who could miss the smell of that sandwich!” I say back as I quickly recheck his change and hand it back to him.
“You are such a love, and a miracle too. I’ll see you tomorrow; same time, same place,” he calls as I hear him open the door to leave. I move onto the next customer.

That’s part of my typical day. I work at my grandfather’s market – “Martin’s”. You pronounce it Mar-teens. I’ve ever only called him Papap, my version of Grampa, which I could not say well when I was little. He and my grandmother came to England around 1950. They took me in when I was 4, as my mother was single when she had me and could not deal with my disability. I don’t recall much about her - she was so young and foolish when I was born and my blindness was simply overwhelming to her. She dealt with it by verbally and physically abusing me when she couldn’t handle life anymore.
Luckily for me, she moved back here, to her parents, and they saw what was happening. My grandfather demanded I be given to them, which she immediately did and then left, never to come back again. I don’t know to this day whether she is dead or alive. To be honest, I never missed her, which I know is terribly cruel, but I never felt I actually knew her. I know my grandparents were hurt, but they moved on and worked hard to show me love and what I could accomplish, blind or not.

They refused to allow my blindness to prevent me from doing anything. They quickly took me to a school to learn Braille and to learn how to move about in the world of the sighted. I learned to read quickly and I love books; they are my greatest indulgence. Then, they made me attend a regular school, to learn to be with other children, not just blind children, like me. At first, I was angry with them for doing that. Perhaps I was especially fortunate, but I was accepted rather well and was rarely teased or hurt by other kids. I had many friends and they helped me with everything I needed. I even learned to skate (and roller-blade). I still have to use the cane, but people tend to get out of the way of a crazy blind girl on blades! Believe me!

When I was about 16, my Mamam, as I called her, passed on. I was devastated, but held strong to help Papap deal with it. That’s when I started working in the market – and I’d been there for 14 years.
~~~~~~~~~
I lived in a small town in Northern England. I like to be where I can walk everywhere I need to go. My apartment is a small two-bedroom just 4 blocks from the market. It’s an easy walk. I knew most everyone in the area, and they all tried to watch out for me, as I did for them, in my own way. You see, to a blind person, sounds, smells, and touches are all visions. I “see” the world quite well, without eyes. I can tell where another person is in relation to me by listening to their breathing and by their scent. I can tell what buildings or large objects may be near by the resonance of sound bouncing from them or between them. I can tell what my neighbor has cooked for dinner. And I can…

Oh, Hell. Footsteps. He’s back, he’s coming.

Thank you! Of course I'm reading your stuff, I absolutely adore your style. This fic. sounds really good and creepy. The last line of the chapter.....*shivers* Post more, I can't wait see what's going to happen, and also, who is holding her captive.

Wow, Doni!
This is definitely "different" and so captivating! I so much loved the start... ldescribing a life "without light" is quite a challenging task, but you are catching the real deal of it, I mean! This is the impression I have...

I adored this:

Please, don't let us wait long for another chapter. I can't wait to see where you will lead us.

:bloom:

I had read this earlier and didn't have time to reply.
It's very interesting.
I'm curious to know who "he" is.
:yay:
Keep posting!

~Stacy~

Wow.

This is brilliant, Darlin.
I absolutly love it.
You're writing style is amazing, it's really amazing.
It's magnificent.

You're very talented and I can't wait to read more.

Thanks for replying guys! It was an interesting path, doing this story. And I'll be curious to see who you think the celebrity is... :lalala:

Stacy - That's just what I wanted to happen :) Any idea you wish to post yet? ;)

:blush: I'm not a writer who holds confidence in my own writing style. I do it for fun, and your comments mean so much to me. Thanks! :cloud#9:

Ambrosia, you were the first to read this! I appreciate that very much! :bloom:

Ursi :) I'll be interested to see what you think... This is nothing like my other writings. And you've always been there for me! :yes:

I'll put up the next section tomorrow - I'm afraid my computer might "eat" the story from my PDA. It's acted a bit flaky recently...

Okay, I'll guess........based on what you said at the beginning about seeing this person in another film with a "darker side"
So, my first guess would be Viggo.
Second, Billy.

Now, post more so I can see if I'm right. ;-)

Hmmm, I like your guesses... But I'm not saying yet :) Here's more -
~~~~~~~~~~
The door opens and he comes into the room. The light switch clicks and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. There she is – in the corner, on the mattress. Why is she there? Oh wait, that’s where I had her… last time.
Oh hell! I left the chains on! She’ll be in such pain after being that way since last night. What a fucking idiot I am! Is she alive? I’ll take her into the shower and let it warm her up.
~~~~~
Do you see? I do care! She thinks I don’t know who she is, what she is. She thinks I’m just a dumb fuck who only sees her for her cunt. She’s wrong. They’re all wrong.
~~~~~~~~~
I can feel as he kneels on the mattress and reaches over me, hear the chain being removed from the hook. His hands are warm as they take mine and turn them so he can reach the lock. The key turns and I feel the handcuffs open and he slips them off. I can’t stop the sob of pain that comes out as my arms fight to move back toward their normal position. But they’re so numb; I cannot move them on my own. His hands slip under my arms and lift me up, turning me so I’m on my back now. He takes my arms at the elbows and rubs them a bit, as if trying to make them feel again. He then takes my hands and does the same: rubbing my soft skin with his hands. His touch is almost gentle, almost kind.

Why does he do this? Why does he do something nice before he hurts me with himself?

His hands move up to my shoulders and this touch causes extreme pain. A small scream passes my lips before I can control it and he stops – pausing. I tense and wait for the soft woosh of air movement that will come before the strike. But, his kind streak holds tonight and it does not come. I almost allow myself to believe I heard a small “I’m sorry, love” mumbled under his breath while he was rubbing my hands.

“Minna, I’m going to start the shower and let it warm up, and then I’ll take you in,” he says to me, without cruelty, without sadistic pleasure in his voice. Oh, I do hate these times, because I know he’ll make up for it later on.

“Wait, Sir. Please. Do you have any water with you?” I whisper.
“Oh, yes! You must be thirsty. Here, I’ll get it,” he says as I hear him walk to the dufflebag he always brings. “Would you like a sandwich? I’ve brought you one as well,” he asks.
“No thank you, Sir. Just water, please.”
I call him Sir because he will not tell me his name. I silently hope he will feel a sense of respect for me, seeing that I use a term of respect for him. So far, it hasn’t helped.

His soft footsteps are coming back to me now. He always takes his shoes off when he comes into this room, so his footfalls are quiet. I don’t know why and I’ve not been able to get him to tell me. Perhaps he thinks I cannot hear him this way.
He’d be amazed how much I could tell about him just by the sound of his feet touching the floor, that first night after he brought me here. He has smooth feet with soft skin. No calluses or hard spots. I would hear this when he walked. This tells me he wears shoes most times and does not walk about bare footed very much. I suspect his job, which he must have since he comes to me mostly at night or on weekend days, does not involve hard labor or outside work. I wonder what it is he does.

“Here, drink,” he says, holding a bottle to my lips. I try to lift my hands to take it, but they’re still much too sore and weak. So, I open my mouth and allow him to give it to me, much like a baby would take its mother’s breast. I suck down as much as I can in one breath, then stop and wait for him to take it away. “Thank you,” I tell him, “I’ll have more after the shower, if I may.” He gets up and walks to the bathroom.
~~~~~~~

“Minna, get up. The water’s ready,” he tells her. She struggles to make her arms work, to push herself up. Damn, she can’t yet; her arms are still pained; she couldn’t even take the water herself. He reaches down and grabs her under the arms, pulling her up to her feet. She’s actually slightly taller than him, by an inch or two. He likes this, for some odd reason. She sways slightly, reaching a hand out and almost touching him for balance. But she quickly pulls it back; yes, he saw her do it. She wouldn’t touch him, allow him to help.

The bitch.
No, she’s just weak. That’s all.

“Be still now,” he says as his hands move down to the top button on the shirt she has on. For a few seconds, he stares into her eyes, as if confirming yet again that she cannot see him, cannot somehow identify him, cannot see into his soul and find his torment.
His hands shake slightly as he unbuttons each button on the shirt, allowing the material to drape open. Even now, he still reddens in shame at seeing her nudity. He wonders if she can feel his shame, emanating from him as heat or scent, something she could detect. She seems to know things she shouldn’t, things she couldn’t. But she doesn’t react; she simply stiffens slightly… waiting.
Once all the buttons are undone, he slowly slips his hands under the shirt and slips it off her shoulders. As he looks down and takes in her beauty, he feels his maleness begin to harden, straining against his boxers, his jeans, the friction of the material serving only to heighten the excitement.

No, he tells it in his mind, not yet. You can’t have her yet. She needs to be cleaned, she needs to feel better. She’s been hurt.
Leave her alone.

Yet, his hands cannot resist coming up and cupping her ample breasts, reveling in the small pink nipples. Mindlessly, he allows his thumbs to stroke them both for a few seconds, until he returns to his senses, and sees what he’s doing. Then, blushing again, he stops and takes her hand,
“Come on, let’s go take a shower.”

So, yeah, I should be studying right now, but I just had to peek in here and read this. Very glad I did! This story is really intriguing. I like how you gave a bit of insight into her captor's mind.
Now, I must alter my guesses. As, Minna is taller than the captor, I am thinking that it must be one of our hobbits. For, Viggo and Orlando are relatively tall, yes? Now, scratch Elijah because this is in the Lads section. So, I choose Billy. Now, my theory could be blown out of the water if Minna just happens to be a really tall girl. *grin*


Post more when you can. You're keeping me in such suspense with this whole hidden identity thing!
hugs,
Amber

I do have some guesses now!

When I read this quote my first impression was Orlando. However, he seems to be a popular 'bad guy' at the moment so it may seem too obvious.

This was interesting because my first impression was Elijah. Yet, like Ambrosia said, it's the lads section. But, it doesn't nesessarily mean it can't be him.

Before starting to read this chapter my first guess was Dom. I actually think that it's him. He's got a bad boy image, but people don't usually use him as one. I think it would be something if it was him.

Excellent chapter though!
~Stacy~

I love you guys! All the fun guesses!

A little NC-17 guys -- you've been warned!

~~~~
I can feel heat coming from him, as he touches me. Is it anger? Is it embarrassment? This I cannot tell and this brings the fear into focus. What will he do? Will he throw me down here and take me again, with such force that it tears and bleeds again? Or will he be more sadistic, touching and probing, pinching and forcing, until I’m crying from pain and frustration? Or, will he simply do what he said, take me into the shower?

It appears he will.
~~~~~
Once in the shower, he puts her under the strong stream of water and turns her so that it is focused on her shoulders, where he’s sure it must hurt. He’s angry with himself for being so stimulated last night that he left her chained. How stupid! Now look at her wrists; they’re all bruised and dark. He hates leaving marks, although he does it often. And look at her eyes – they’re drawn and sunken, red from crying. He’ll be better to her, he promises himself. He watches as her hair, dark red, turns to deep auburn as the water wets it. He loves her hair, the softness, the color, the smell when it’s just been washed and dried.
He rubs her shoulders, her arms, trying to undo some of the stiffness and pain of her imprisonment. She’s moving more now, he notes. She’s able to rub her hands up and down her arms, as if warming herself. He guides her head fully under the water, readying her to have her hair washed. She knows the routine; it happens almost every day. She easily brings her hands up to her head now, pushing her hair back so he can apply the shampoo. He gently massages the soap into her hair, careful not to tangle her long hair in the back, and then turns her so he can rinse her. Once done, he turns and moves into the water fully himself. He then turns to her and, placing a soap bar into her hands, tells her, “Wash me, Minna.”
~~~~~
He’s washed my hair, which I am ashamed to admit feels good, every time he’s done it. I’ve always loved having someone play with my hair, and his hands actually seem to relax me when he does that, even for the few seconds it takes him to finish. Now, I have to wash him. I’ve done this many times too, but like when he undresses me, what will he do?
“All right,” I tell him, “what would you like me to do first?”
“My chest,” he says softly.
I hold the soap and I feel for the washcloth hanging on the wall. His hand stops mine as he whispers, “No cloth, just your hands.” Oh God.
I put my hand up and feel for him, feeling the sharpness of his unshaven beard when I touch his face rather than his chest.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I say quickly, moving down to find his chest and the coarse hair that starts just below his neck. Bringing the soap up to that spot, I slowly rub it and feel a lather begin. I rub until his entire chest is soaped, but stopping just at his waist, not wanting to go further.
“Is this all right?” I ask quietly, hoping he’ll answer, tell me something that I can respond to. But instead, his hands grab mine roughly, and I resist, expecting him to force them down. But he brings them up and puts them on his shoulders, wordlessly asking me to wash his arms. I do so; the soft hair there forms a new lather, allowing me to clean him to his hands. He turns and I wash his back, again stopping at his waist. Now, I’m at a standstill, not sure what to do next. He turns back around, and in doing so, I feel him brush against my thigh – he’s erect. What will he have me do now? I cannot speak now. He takes my hands and puts them on his hips. “Finish the job,” he says, his voice husky and determined.
~~~~~
He watches as she carefully washes his body, touching yet trying not too. He sees how she stops before she gets too close to his sexuality, frightened of it, yet wanting what it holds. But she’ll finish him, in more ways than one.

“Finish the job,” he tells her brusquely. She slowly moves the soap down to the patch of very coarse hair, soaping his waist and hips, moving to the hair around his penis. He guides her hands to it and places both of them around the shaft, urging her to continue.
He doesn’t always make her do this; sometimes he simply washes himself and allows her to do the same. But today, he needs this, more than ever.
His hands guide hers as he makes her stroke him, his already throbbing member now slick with soap and hot with desire. But he won’t hurt her this time, he promised himself. She needs him to be gentle.
“Just rub me, Minna. That’s all, love. Just rub,” he groans. As she does so, he can feel the soap and her soft hands slide sensually over the sensitive tip, setting off explosions in his head. He slides back against the wall, pulling her with him, making sure he doesn’t fall in the slippery shower stall. He’s almost there, he can feel the pressure rising in his groin, pulsing, wanting to be expelled.
“Rub my balls, squeeze them.” His voice is so guttural, so animalistic now, he’s not sure she understood. But her hands move down, to the soft flesh between his legs as she takes him in her hands and squeezes gently. She’s shaking violently; he can feel it in her hands and see it in her body, as she stands before him. She’s frightened… and he cannot stop what happens next.

He doesn’t want to take her this way; she doesn’t like this way; he knows this. Yet, he orders her “On your knees, bitch, now.” His hand reaches behind her, grabbing her hair painfully as he forces her down in the stall. She goes down hard, and he hears her cry out, but it’s too late now. Her fear has become his enticement.
Her hands spread out to press against the wall to keep from falling, and he uses the opportunity to take her head forcefully between his hands. “Open your mouth, open it now,” he growls.
She begs him no, not that way; she’ll do anything, anything but that. Her hands are on his, trying to pry his hands away.

But he knows the truth; she’s a whore and she likes it rough. She wants him this way. And she’ll have him.

“You know what I’ll do if you use your teeth, cunt,” he says as he forces his way into her mouth. Her head rocks back as she gags on him, but he continues his brutal attack. Shortly, it’s over and she’s in the corner of the stall, hunched over and retching, trying to breathe again.
And he's standing over her, the anger returned.
~~~~~
Oh dear God, Help me. This night is going to be Hell.
~~~~~

Oh no! He got angry again. :( Poor Minna! Post more!!!!!

:wub: Oh this is so cool, I love dark fics. :wub:

Welcome Chrissy! Yep, it's kinda dark (okay, it's REALLY dark). But it was interesting to write!

~~~~~
It’s not as bad as the first night was, when he found me and brought me here. It never has been as awful as that. But it’s hellish none the less.

He’d been stalking me for days, but I hadn’t known it. No one had. How stupid I was. I’d caught his scent several times. Yet I didn’t put things together.

He’d come into the market, only one time. I was just getting off shift, but I heard the door open and went back to the register for Papap. He’d only wanted a bottle of Guinness, which I bagged and gave to him. He had an unusual scent; one of ink mixed with leather. It smelled rather nice, I thought, in an odd sort of way. I could tell he was staring, so I smiled and said “Yes, I’m blind. Be kind enough to ask rather than stare.” He was startled but apologized and paid me. I finished up, kissed Papap goodbye, and walked home in the cool evening air. The scent was there, but I foolishly ignored it.

Four days later it happened. I was walking home and heard a small cry coming from the alleyway near my apartment. I thought it sounded like Claire, Mrs. Cameron’s young daughter, so I went to investigate. It was stupid, I realize now. I heard his movement before he reached me, felt the threatening scent he exuded as he approached, but I wasn’t fast enough to turn and run. A piece of fabric closed about my throat, cutting off my scream, and that is all I remember, until I woke up in this room.

The attack that night was... brutal and obscene. He was so angry - called me terrible names, punched and kicked me over and over. I pleaded with him, Why? Why was he doing this? He kept saying I asked for it, deserved it. Once, only once, I heard him call me another name - Kiera. I filed this away; saving it for another time. If there was another time for me.

He finally moved on to sex as his weapon. Once he'd ripped the clothes from me, using my scarf to tie my hands, his mouth and his hands became relentless. He violently kissed and sucked and bit my body, pinched and grabbed and bruised me, everywhere. When his head moved between my legs, I was sure the entire area could hear me cry out.

But no one ever came; no one ever does.

When he moved his body between my legs, his penis became his sword, bound to sacrifice me, through blood. I fainted with pain at some point, waking to find myself in water. It took a few panicky seconds to realize it was a shower and not an attempt to drown me.

And his personality was completely changed.

He was washing me, cleaning away the blood and semen and sweat from his attack. He was washing my face right then, taking care around my eyes, where it was already swelling from where his fists had landed. He had me cradled on the floor of the shower, talking mindlessly, saying "Oh Sweet Jesus" over and over. When he saw my eyes had opened, he stopped and touched my face. I thought he was crying, but I've never been sure. All I know is he asked if I could stand, which I did, barely. He stood me up, finished rinsing me off and put me on the toilet, wrapped in a towel. He finished his own shower, came out and dried my body, then put me in the first of many oversized shirts I would wear from then on. He actually had a comb, specifically for long hair, which he used to comb my hair for me.
It was very strange - and frightening.

He left me that night, on the mattress in the corner. He left a sandwich, an apple and a bottle of juice on the table, which I found after he left and I'd finally had the courage to explore this room. And he left a note, written in Braille, that said "For my Minna." What exquisite planning he’d done.
~~~~~

Let me tell you what I know about him: When he’s angry, his voice changes. The timber is lower, his accent more pronounced. Even his scent changes, becomes more sweat and sex and blood. His body becomes hard and hot. And he uses it only to cause pain, to release some demon within himself.
When he’s normal, well, what I think of as normal, he’s very different. His voice has a high resonance and his accent, while still prominent, has a lilting sense to it. His behaviors are not terribly refined, but they are not cruel. He still takes me against my will, but his actions are less demeaning, less intent on causing lasting pain. But he speaks to me then, not much, but he will talk. And he’s told me I will not leave this place. Not ever. Not alive. And he cries when he tells me he cannot prevent this.
~~~~~
The tears come furiously, for both of us. I’m in the corner, curled into myself, knowing he's done for this night, and praying he’ll simply leave.
His tears come from knowing he’s broken his promise again, and the shame hurts as much as leather against skin. He’ll never be free, it will always be there. God, he should have left her sooner -- The one who hurt him, made him like this; he hates her. And now his hate finds its way into the one he loves most. The one he found and brought to this place, to be his forever. His Minna.
He never intended to hurt her at first; truly, he didn’t! He saw her that day and he was taken: that dark red hair, her fair creamy skin. But her eyes; what was wrong? They didn’t focus on anythingin particular, yet they seemed to see into his soul. Terror filled his heart – she knew! All his faults, all his inadequacies – they were a book for her to read.
But no, she didn’t see anything; she told him she was blind.

But her words, they were harsh, demeaning.
No, she was simply asking you to be kind, not stare at her.

He has to leave, now, before he hurts her again.

Walking over to her, he kneels down and turns her head to face him. “Stand up,” he orders her, but his voice is not as insensitive as before. As she stands, he turns her sexuality away from him, and brings her arms into the sleeves of the shirt. “Button it, Minna, and turn around.”
She does as he tells her, shaking slightly. He forces away his aggressive thought and focuses instead on her face, tearstained and bruised. Doing so causes his tears to flow again. He kisses her face softly and walks her to the bathroom. He takes the washcloth and wetting it, gently wipes her face. But she surprises him and speaks.
“Sir, tell me who you are. What have I done to you? Why do you do this?" She's asked this before, but never so directly.

~~~~~
I can't take this anymore. It's been so long I've been here. And if I must die here, I'll die finding out who this is and why he's doing this to me.
~~~~~

Hmmm, he's sort of got a split personality deal going here. So sad that he won't let her go. But, you've given us another clue. He's got an accent. I wonder...........

whoa! that was amazing! I wonder too, Ambrosia!! *thinks* Hell, it could anyone of the guys...most of 'em have accents! Great job!!!! Can't wait for more

Lauren

Oh, I so wanted to be mean and not post this next chapter until I asked you all to guess again. :tsk: :laugh: :pirate:

But I'm too nice :angel2:

It shall be revealed who we're dealing with below...

And yes, the personality is very split. :lmao: :cry: <== like that

~~~~~
He sighs. What can he tell her? She knows who he is, he feels it. "I've told you, Minna. I'm the one for you."
“How long, Minna?" he asks. She somehow knows time, even without being exposed to the days anymore. He asks her this question often, ever since she told him once that she'd been there 4 days, yet he'd never told her the day or time. And she was right. There was something special about her, something that allowed her to know things she couldn't know. And that was something that frightened him most of all.
"Four weeks and 2 days," she answers quietly. "Too long," she adds, more defiantly.
She's never spoken to him like this. What's happening? And can he control himself, before he hurts her again?

"Watch your mouth, Minna. Don't make me angry again," he says tensely, watching her face. She turns from him and angrily stalks out of the bathroom. He's always amazed to see her navigate the room perfectly, never tripping, never missing her mark. She moves to the table, feels around until she finds the water bottle, then goes to the mattress and flings herself down on it. He sees her wince as she lands, and redness creeps into his face, knowing this pain is from tonight's rape.

She can hear him come out, and she takes a drink of the water in an attempt to calm herself. Once he's back in the main room, she says to him, "I never did anything to make you angry tonight. Nor any night. Don't blame me for your personal demons. Don't blame me for any of this!"
~~~~
His shock is evident immediately; it's like a bolt of electricity has just come into the room and the static is bouncing from wall to wall.
She cowers as he stomps over to her, but just as quickly recovers and her face becomes defiant again, even as he pulls her up from the mattress and pushes her roughly against the block wall behind her, pinning her there with his body.

At least she cannot feel hardness yet below his waist; she may have a chance to reason.

"You are so pushing it, lass. Do you want me to take you again?" His voice is quavering; it's not as harsh and cold as she expected.
"No, Sir, I don't. I’ve never wanted you to hurt me," she pleads, her own voice shaking. "But you do. And I don't know why. I only want to know who you are, why you feel you need to do this. Maybe... maybe I can help."

She allows that last statement to hang in the air, as she carefully brings her hands up between them, placing them against his still bare chest. She can feel his heart pounding, can feel the heat in his breath as he leans against her. He slowly moves back a few inches from her, staring intently at her face.
"You can't help me, Minna. No one can," he says, his voice and body suddenly weak and defeated. He wraps his hands around hers, which are still on his chest. "If only I'd done things differently."
"Tell me who you are. Tell me what haunts you. Then tell me what I can do." Her voice seems so honest, so innocent. He wants to believe her.

He loves her.

He does.

So, all he has to do is say it.

"Billy."
~~~~~

I was right!!!!! But, oh, my sweet, precious Billy doing all these cruel things. It breaks my heart. Really, really great update, though. Maybe, Minna can get through to him somehow. I hope so, at least.

So, what movie was it that you saw him in with the darker side? Unfortunately, I've only seen Billy in Lotr and Master and Commader. I haven't been able to find any of his other films.

Post more soon! I love this fic.

BILLY! Man, I did not expect that. I was thinking it was Dom and hoping it was Orlando cause I love dark Orlando fics, but Billy?? Wow that was a great shocker.

Unless... he lied to her about his name.

Oh whoa.

That's friggen brilliant, honey.

You're amazing!
This has got to be the first story I've read with Billy as the bad guy.

You're such a great writer.

:blink: :blink:

BILLEH! DA BILLEH?

Omigod! :cry: I need to re read this from the start! You are one sneaky writer! I would have never guessed, honesty! And in a way I am glad I succeeded in reading it in one go... didn't have to torture myself about who it might be for too long!

Amazing dark story, lady!

*bows*

Breathtaking!

:bow:

OMG, you all make me feel so special :blush:

Yep, Ambrosia, you had it from the start. Here's some Billeh-laced brownies for ya, dear.
And it was actually a combination of "Sniper 470" (he's all alone and obsessed with a gun, which is his only protection in his little space capsule. And I perceived a few cracks in his personality having happened as a result of his seclusion) and "Taggart" (he played a young man with Asperger's syndrome. Very innocent and takes things very literally).
I think the whole thing got wrapped up in my mind and developed into "what would happen if he were..." And I can't explain further because it would give more story away. :)

And I am so glad I surprised many of you! Yay!
Yep, Dom makes a very "good" bad boy... But so does Billy :tsk: :yum:

~~~~~
Did I imagine this? "What did you say?" I ask quickly, squeezing his hands, hopeful he'll feel this as reassuring.

"Billy. My name is Billy."

"Hello Billy," I stammer out, and I'm surprised when tears start to fall from my eyes. He's told me, he's finally told me something personal about himself. I let my hands move up his chest, to his neck, to his face, to where his stubble is just starting to grow again. I let them glide up to his forehead, but he suddenly reaches up and stops me.
"What are you doing?" he asks suspiciously, his grip tightening on my wrists.
"Please. Billy. You know what I look like. I want to know you too. I can only see people with my hands. Please?" I ask.
"You just want to be able to identify me," he says, his voice beginning to lower.

I'm surprised when I feel my heart tighten, not in fear, but in indignation. I have no hidden agenda - I truly want to know who this person is before me.

"No, that's not true, Billy. Authorities don’t put much credence into descriptions from the blind, anyway,” I tell him, then add “I want to know who YOU are, the real person. Not the image I have in my mind. I won't leave here, you've said this. And I believe you. So, I want to see you. I want to know you. Please." My words are quiet, but determined. And amazingly, I mean what I say.

Dear God, what’s happening to me?

"All right," he answers, and I hear the higher lilt in his words. I’m still safe, for now.
He lets go and allows me to take my hands back up to his forehead. I feel and realize his hairline recedes a bit. His age may not be what I thought. But his hair is soft and silky, cut very short and spiky. I let my fingers linger for a moment, suddenly realizing I’m actually stroking his scalp, feeling the hair spring up between my fingers as they move back and forth to touch him. I stop and take my fingers down, slowly, to his brow and find where his eyes lay and how his upper profile feels. His brow is strong, and his eyebrows are as soft as his hair. I’m starting to feel a color come into mind – ginger? Strawberry? Reddish, none the less. I’ll wait until I feel his beard, as I seem to get stronger feelings from the jaw line than anywhere else.
I whisper to him to close his eyes, but I can feel they’re already closed. I gently touch them and am surprised to find they are not sunken and angry as I expected. They are perfect in shape, placement and design. I blurt out, “You have green eyes,” and I feel him stiffen, and the heat start to flow into his face.
“How do you know that?” he growls, his hands reaching back to my waist and grasping it, hard.
“I…I can’t explain it, Billy,” I say and the words come tumbling out before I can stop them. “I feel colors. I always have. When I was small, I touched my Papap’s face and told him his eyes felt like soft ash, and asked him what color that was. No one had ever told me about the color gray. I just… knew.”
Fully expecting his anger to consume him again, I wait. But I will not turn away or cower this time – I’m finished with being meek and submissive.

So, imagine my surprise by what I hear next: “Minna, what’s a Papap?”

“Oh!” I exclaim, and then scramble to explain, “That’s what I call my grandfather. He was the older man in the shop when you stopped in that night.” I know I’m pushing this, probably more than is safe. But it’s the first time he’s really spoken seriously with me, and I’ve got to try.
“Your grandfather? Really? You work with him? I was …” and he stops.

Damn, please! Keep going! Tell me something more about you!

I quickly fill in the space -- “Yes, yes, I worked with him. He and my grandmother raised me. When she died, I started working with him, to be with him. He was all I had.” I don’t even realize I’ve used the past tense when I describe this. But Billy hears it, and this is quietly filed away in his mind.

Billy tells me now, “Please, finishing looking at me. Tell me what you see.”
I bring my hands back up and find his eyes again, letting the feeling of their greenness warm my fingers. I then let the fingertips slide carefully down the grooves on each side of his nose. It’s not small, but not large either. It has a rather chiseled feel, one might call it regal. I spread my hands out to feel the full size of his face, gently brushing his sideburns; his nose seems to fit his face well.

An odd feeling is taking over me – and it scares me to death: I’m enjoying this, being able to touch him freely, being able to see him for the first time. My psych classes from school are kicking in…
What’s the syndrome, when a captive starts to care for their captor?

Stockholm Syndrome.

You studied this, wrote papers on it. Oh please. Stop this, Minna!

But I can’t. I realize I’m actually thinking he’s rather handsome.

I hesitate touching his mouth, for what images it might bring back to me. And what stirrings it might arise in him. But I do so, placing all ten fingers on his lips and letting them infuse whatever might come from this place. But nothing terrible happens, just the warmth and touch of his breath, going in and out. I move my fingers to the sides and let just my thumbs stroke his lips now. Very softly, I feel them start to part.

What is he doing? I can feel his face changing. Oh my God – he’s smiling. The emotion emanating from his face right now is pleasure, something I’ve never detected in his being, even at his moments of climax. His hands take mine and he kisses both my palms before putting my hands back where they were. Finally, I touch the scruff of beard along side his cheeks and down over his chin. “You have a dimple,” I tell him, feeling the small crevice and sliding my finger down through it. He whispers, “Yes, from my father’s side of the family.” Something else new…
I think I know his hair color now, and it’s not the dark brunette I’ve felt when his body is against mine. I believe that was the anger and despair I felt in him.
“I can tell your hair color, Billy. At least, I think I can.”
“Tell me everything, everything you see.” His voice is husky, but with emotion and curiosity. And so, I begin to tell him, “Your hair is light, reddish I think. Your nose is very noble…” and so it goes.
~~~~~

That was such a wonderful chapter!
Amazing.
You're story is just astounding.
I love the way you write and describe everything.

It's beautiful.

I can't even begin to tell you how much I enjoyed that chapter. It was brilliant! I love the way she felt all his features, and could tell the colors of his eyes. So good!

Sigh, I have yet to see Sniper 470, although I want to so much! And, I've never seen the Taggart that he was in, either. I'm Billeh deprived! ^_^

Post more!!!! This story is my new addiction.

Here's more...

I’ve described him well, it seems. He becomes excited the more I relate about him. He’s sat me down on the mattress and he sits beside me, like a child listening to a favorite story told by his favorite teacher.
He starts telling me things, about himself. And he’s asking about me and my past.
He lived with and was raised by his grandparents for a time, after his parents died when he was in his teens. It was frightening – his mother died the same as my Mamam; a heart attack, very suddenly. He knew and loved his parents, unlike myself. He seemed overly angry at my mother for abandoning me, but I explained it was better for me to be without her anyway. He accepted this, but I could still feel him seethe. He is fascinated by how I adjusted to the world and how my senses have adapted to blindness. I asked how he has access to Braille printing facilities (he’s left me more notes than the first one), but he would not explain.
But always, I sense his anger towards women; it is quite obvious in his voice and manner. What is not yet obvious is why.
His grandparents love him, so that’s not where this originates. His mother seemed very loving and allowed him much more freedom of expression than even his grandmother, so that’s not it either. He has a younger sister, whom I can now tell he would die for.

Should I do it now? Ask who Kiera is? Will I live (or die) regretting this?

Initially, I don’t have a chance.
I’m startled when he takes my hands, brings them to his face, and kisses both palms. Then, he gets up and walks over to the chair, where he leaves the duffle bag, and I hear him rustling, finding something in it. He walks back to me and I feel something being placed behind me. It’s almost soundless, heightening my reaction, trying to determine what it is.
“I want to do this right, Minna. At least once, you deserve to be treated properly,” he says. He stands again and takes my hands, pulling me up to stand before him. His arms are clumsy as they reach out and one wraps around my waist, while the other comes up to cup my face.

What is he doing? Alarms are going off in my head, but some part of me stills my body to wait and see what he will do; wanting what might come next.

Without warning, his lips are on mine, not crushing with pain, but crushing with passion. My initial reaction is to freeze, not move. His hands take mine and wrap them around his waist, as his quickly encircle me again and begin to explore. His tongue is pressing against my lips, urging me to allow him in. I can’t; I can’t simply give in to this, after all that’s happened.

“Minna, please. Just once, I want to make love to you, lass. I know you’re hurt. I’m so sorry, love. I’ll be very careful, I promise. Please… I love you, Minna.”

He what? My heart must have stopped in my chest because I cannot breathe.
He can’t LOVE me.
That’s not possible.
He hates me.
Doesn’t he?

I can’t want him, this man who uses my body as his personal punching bag, who rapes me every time he comes to me. Oh please, Minna. You’ve lost your mind. Don’t give into this!

Dear Lord, please stop this, because my body is about to betray me.

“Billy, I don’t… I can’t… Oh please, just don’t hurt me again.” My voice is a mere whisper, but he hears and he stops his kisses, and I can tell he’s looking straight into my eyes, if only they could see him.
“Minna, you’ll only feel love this time. I promise you, only love.” And his head descends, taking my lips once more, sealing my surrender.

I feel his hands slide up to my neck and begin unbuttoning the shirt I have on. My body actually trembles at his touch, and I’m no longer able to push away the longing feelings coming to the surface. I want him.
I allow my hands to move, slowly sliding up his back, taking time to feel every inch of his skin I can. I let them come around to his chest, to the patch of hair in the middle, my fingers twisting into the curls there. But he takes my hands and puts them at my sides.
“Let me undress you, first, Love,” he whispers.
His hands slip under the shirt and push it back over my shoulders; I hear it fall to the ground. My senses are extremely acute right now; the sensations are almost overwhelming. His hands take mine and I can tell he’s staring at me, not just my face but all over. I can sense his breath in many places as he looks up and down, his breathing becoming heavier. Then, I hear the slightest sound; the friction of water on skin.
“Billy, please don’t cry,” I tell him, “Do I really look that awful?” I quietly say, the words catching in my throat.
“Minna, Minna. How do you know these things?” he replies, his voice choked with emotion and tears. “And nay, lass. You’re far from awful, Love. It’s just… to see what I’ve done to you. It breaks my heart. How I wish I could undo it now,” he says as he takes one hand and cups it around my face. I turn into his hand, and bring my own up to find his face, wiping away the tears that have fallen from his eyes. “Please love me, Billy,” I tell him, my words genuine.

I was so happy to see an update, for I've been thinking about this story all day when I should have been studying. ^_^
This chapter was excellent. I'm almost crying over here. Just a beautiful job! I have such sympathy for Billy even though he's treated Minna so badly. But, I just can't help myself. That last line.....

*bawls* That was so heart wrenching. You are such a wonderful writer. I loveeee this story!

I'm rather speechless.
This story...
It's so beautiful.

It's amazing how you write it.

Minna is such an amazing character.
I love her.

Thanks :) You guys still make me blush :blush: Of course, writing most of the story also made me blush...

More tomorrow - I promise.

This fic has made me over-emotional now! I feel like crying! It's so beautiful.

As I promised...
This chapter is VERY NC-17 - if you're not 17 or older, stop reading now!

~~~~~
With that, his hand brings my lips back to his and I do not resist his probing this time. His tongue darts in and tastes every inch of my mouth, relentless in its quest to know me. And I respond, pushing back with my own, tasting his being in a way more intimate than I’d ever expected.
His other hand has wrapped around me, pulling me to him to feel his need. For the first time since I’ve known him, my body does not recoil at this touch. In contrast, I respond by pushing closer into him and wrapping my arms around his chest.
“Oh God,” is his shaky reply.
He finally ends his onslaught of kisses, pulling back slightly. He unwraps my arms from him and places them against his chest. My fingers again intertwine into the soft hair there, reveling in the smooth skin beneath. His hands move to my hips and start to push down. He softly whispers “Kneel down, Minna,” and we both slip down to the ground.
His body and hands guide me back on the mattress. I’m surprised when my head hits a pillow that’s been placed there. “So that’s what that was,” I think to myself, remembering when he took something from his bag. I lay back, feeling him straddled over me. I can feel the rough material of his jeans against my legs. His hands are gentle as they glide up my stomach towards my breasts. I’m fighting the urge to tremble when he touches them, and when he does the sensations are incredible. The gasp I make catches his attention, causing him to check that I’m all right. “Yes,” I murmur, allowing these amazing sensations to wash over me.

I was no virgin when he took me that first time. But I was inexperienced; always some young man only interested in his own pleasure and release. After a couple boyfriends, I gave up on men and sexuality and concentrated on doing things that pleased me in other ways. But this, this is so different right now.

~~~~~
He watches her expressions intently, looking for any sign of pain or distress. He’s astonished to see the flush come into her face, one he recognizes as desire. She’s responding to HIM, to HIS touch, to his passion. Oh, if only he could have her like this always.
He loves her voice, coming in short whispers now, as she responds to his touch. He loves the fact that he can cause her pleasure, rather than pain; he can’t wait to take her to the ultimate level of satisfaction to see her expression as she climaxes with him. He can already see the excitement in her being as her nipples have hardened to tiny nubs beneath his hands and within his fingers. These thoughts are making it painful for him, his essence still restricted by the clothing below his waist. But, before he can move to correct the problem, her hands move down to do it for him. He watches, fascinated, as her hands quickly move about, finding the snaps on his jeans and undoes them. Then, they slip around his waistband, underneath, as they begin to push the oppressive fabric down to free his waiting desire. He lifts himself up so she can pull his jeans down over his hips, and he can’t prevent the deep moan that occurs when the rough denim finally moves down away from his cock. He holds his breath as, after she’s brought them down near his knees, her hands slide up to find the waist of his boxers. She slides her supple fingers beneath these also, and again begins the descent. His “Ahh!” is involuntary as she maneuvers the material over his throbbing penis, finally freeing it from its bindings.

“Hold on, Minna, let me get these off once and for all.”

His voice is rasping, barely there as his throat is thick with his want for this woman. He kneels down again, leaning over to again take her breasts in his hands, massaging, kneading, watching the areolas become dark and tight. Her hands are up on his chest, her fingers stroking from neck to midway down. He knows she can feel his erection as it is laying against the downy hair that covers her sex, pushing into her lower abdomen. And he smiles to see that she does not recoil, but lifts herself slightly to feel it more. Suddenly, her hands begin to wrap around him, slowly moving down to rest on his hips. Then, very slowly, they come lower, moving to the front, and touching the coarse hair above his cock. She grabs the hair gently, curling her fingers into it, moaning as she does so. He thinks he might die before she can touch him there, where his whole being has manifested in this moment. Then, it happens; her gentle, supple hands grasp the shaft, sending sparks of all colors shooting before his eyes. He leans back, pushing himself farther out to her, to expose the entire length to her. Her fingers slide up and down the shaft, stroking over the sensitive tip, feeling the slickness already there and rubbing it into his skin. He can tell she’s “seeing” again, what he looks like, what his maleness means to her.
“Oh Sweet Jesus, Minna, that feels so good,” he tells her as his hands cover hers to stop the delicious movements before he comes right now, “But you have to stop or I’ll burst right now.”
“No, you can’t do that, not yet,” she says dreamily. He smiles again.
He pulls her hands away from him, placing them on her stomach, as he leans into her, whispering in her ear, “Now, it’s my turn.”
His head lowered to her neck, and he nuzzles and kisses his way down between the soft mounds on her chest. He relishes every moan, every staggered breath she takes as his lips and tongue move up to her taught nipple. He sucks gently, and her hand shoots up behind his head, both pulling him away and pushing him into her in the same move.
"Oh Billy, please, please. Don't...stop."
He lets one of his hands find its way down to the soft mound between her legs. He shifts himself up, allowing her legs to part as he moves now between them. Her knees instinctively bend and open, giving him full access to the sweetness of her gender. His lips never leaving her breast, he lets his hand slip down, between the large folds to find the smaller ones beneath and he is surprised to find wetness there. For a moment, his mind panics, thinking perhaps she was bleeding from his earlier assault. But his nose tells him this scent is not blood, but sex. She is actually wet in anticipation of him. Joy soared in his soul; he was hers and she was his. Knowing she was bruised there, he very gently uses one finger to stroke between the silky folds, finding the nub that he knows will cause reaction. She gasps, throwing her head back, startling him. But, in one fluid movement, she arches her back up and thrusts forward, causing his finger to go inside her. Billy watchs as she moans loudly, over and over, "Oh God."
"Minna, are you all right? I don't want to hurt you," he asks. Her response is to arch against his hand again, forcing him deeper. She says, begging "Please, Billy, more. I want to feel more of you inside me."
He complies, inserting another finger, feeling her tighten against him. The sensation is incredible; he'd been with several women, but none had been this responsive. None had allowed him this level of freedom with their bodies. He begins to thrust his hand into her, gently at first, then picking up intensity as he feels her quivering against his hand. He lifts his head from her now swollen nipple, red and puffy from his lust, and watches her face. Expressions of agony, ecstasy, calm and chaos all reign in her now. She is bucking her hips against him, her hands flat at her sides so she can rise and push with every thrust. "More, Billy. More!" she screams. He can feel her climax building and he knows she is close. Praying he would not cause her more pain, he turns his hand so all four fingers can slip inside and his thumb slides over her swollen clit. He finds when he curls his fingers up, he feels an indentation inside her. When he rubs it, he now knows there really is a "G-Spot" in women. She explodes against him, writhing and rising up off the mattress, moaning and crying and calling out. He can feel the extreme tightness on his hand, the gripping sensation happening over and over. He can feel her wetness spill out, into his hand, onto the mattress. After several moments, she becomes quiet and spent. He looks down and is overcome with emotion. For the first time, since he had known her, she looks peaceful and content. And he feels some comfort that he is the one to bring her that.
~~~~~

sighssssss........that was nice. ;-)

Loved that line. Greatness, as always!

*See's warning*

*Looks around*

Well... no ones here to stop me!

*Reads on*

I caught you, Nobody... Stop reading! :)

Well, it's probably too late anyway... :laugh:

whimper. When I saw your name, I thought you had posted more. whine: please, post more. ^_^

Yeah, it is to late.

And I knew there was something I forgot to do last night!
I forgot to tell you what I thought.

I totally blame it on the whole blonde thing I have going for me.

*Shrug*

Anyways.

Brilly!

You're such an amazing writer.

*Joins Ambrosia in whining*

Post more, please.

*Puppy Dog look*

Such a talented writer... I never thought it would be Billy! :no: He seems like the most sensitive hobbit... (besides Elijah) Well, great story! :bow:

That was great!

Billy--wow! I would've never guessed! Sure fooled me. Sorry this is so short--can't think of anything to say! Whoa! That was just amazing! *clappies*