The door opened almost violently, slamming against the wall loudly. My heart rate sped and I pressed myself closer to the wall, hoping that he wouldn't notice me on his way to the bedroom. My hopes died before they truly had time to bloom as his angry brown eyes bore into my stormy-grey ones.

I flinched as his fist pounded into the wall next to my head, breaking through the plaster, leaving yet another hole. I swallowed fearfully, trying to stop my body's trembling—without much success. He leaned in closer. I could tell immediately that he had been drinking, and judging from the size of his pupils, he'd been snorting something too. Perfect. As if he wasn't already rough enough completely sober.

"Why the fuck are you shaking like a damn leaf?" he asked, bringing his face closer to mine. I tried to back away but I couldn't. "You're scared of me, aren't ya, Boy?" he asked, roughly grabbing my face in his huge, dirty, calloused hand. I winced, a whimper escaping. He did this every time he came home drunk. It was as if he forgot almost everything. Who I was, how I came to be there, the sick, twisted relationship that he was forcing on me.

He licked my cheek, dragging his tongue up the entire side of my face. I closed my eyes, trying my best to keep the tears from escaping. He groaned in pleasure and I bit back bile. "That's right," he murmured, his words slurring slightly. "You're my little Toy."

Toy. Or Boy. Those were the names he called me. Or, his favorite: Boy toy. If you wanted to get technical, I suppose that's exactly what I was—a boy toy. I was a boy. I was his toy. End of story. But I hated it so, so much.

He grabbed my upper right arm tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh, his dirty, too-long nails breaking the skin. I winced.

He dragged me down the long hall and around the corner, into the bedroom. He purposefully slammed me into things along the way. A wall, the kitchen table, a doorway…

Once in the bedroom, he threw me to the floor. I cried out, landing hard on my side. He kicked me in the stomach, hard. I gritted my teeth against the pain and tried to keep from screaming. He kicked me again, grinning. "Come on-scream for me you little bitch. I wanna hear those sweet, sweet shrieks."

I shook my head, trying not to cry, but it hurt so very, very much. When I screamed, it turned him on. When he was turned on, he wanted sex. I didn't want to be raped tonight if I could help it. I preferred that he beat the shit out of me instead.

His hands fisted in my blonde hair—almost waist length now after the years I'd spent in his captivity—and yanked. Despite my best efforts, I did scream for him. He pulled me to my feet, clutching me to him. One hand remained in my hair, the other around my waist. His fingers rubbed against my bare stomach. I winced. It was already bruising from the kicks.

Using my hair, he pulled my head back at a sharp angle. It hurt. His nose skimmed along my throat, followed by his hot, wet tongue. Had it been a girl that I loved doing this to me, I would've loved it. Being as it were however, I was terrified, hurt, and sick. I wanted so badly to beg him to stop, but I knew the rules about speaking. I wasn't allowed to speak. Period. The only noises I was allowed to make were those of pain. Screams, shrieks, whimpers, etcetera. No exceptions.

I gasped as he bit me. It wasn't just your standard nibble—he actually bit me. I could feel the warm blood trickle down my neck almost instantly. I was going to have one hell of a hickey.

I felt his fingers on my stomach move down, slipping closer toward my jeans. His rough fingers slipped inside, rubbing over the skin just above my boxers. I whimpered. He pulled a little harder on my hair at the sound, pressing himself against me. The height difference between us was enough that his hardness was pressed into the curve of my back, and thankfully not lower.

Then he forced his dirt-caked fingers into my boxers, wrapping them around me. I shuddered. He growled in my ear, nibbling my lobe. He squeezed hard and something between a sob and a scream fell through my lips. It didn't feel good in the least—it hurt like hell! But he wasn't trying to make me feel good, just himself. And my pain seemed to be the most erotic thing in the world to him. I hated it. I hated being here. I hated this man. But being underweight and malnourished as I was, I was powerless to stop him.

He laughed at my pain, pulling his hand out of my pants and shoving me to the floor. I did exactly what you weren't supposed to do—I broke my fall with my arms. I screamed. It felt like I had broken my right wrist, but since I hadn't heard—or felt—the bone break, it was just a sprain. It hurt enough to bring involuntary tears to my eyes.

I immediately sat back on my knees, clutching my arm to my chest. He just grinned down at me; his eyes alight with demented pleasure. He took his shirt off and threw it at me. I knew in my head that it wouldn't hurt—that it was just cloth—but I still flinched away from it.

He took a step closer, undoing his belt. My eyes widened in fear. It had been a while since he'd beaten me with it. I had truly hoped that it didn't excite him anymore, that he had gotten over that particular type of torture.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked mockingly. I just stared back at him. He slid his belt out of the loops and held it firmly in his hand. He hit me. I shrieked as the metal buckle made contact with my right shoulder blade. "That's what you get for being a stupid little bitch," he said, hitting me again. I screamed again.

"Repeat after me," he commanded in a deadly voice. I nodded, my wide, terrified eyes locked on his crazy ones. "I am a filthy whore," he stated.

"I…I am a f-filthy w-whore," I sobbed. It felt so strange to speak. I literally hadn't spoken a word in years. He whipped me with the belt again. I shrieked for him again.

"I am a dirty slut."

"I-I a-am a dirty s-slut." Another hit. Another scream.

He laughed maniacally before saying, "I am unloved."

I bowed my head, looking at the floor, trying to push the pain away. "I am…unloved." I cried harder, knowing that this fact was completely true. I was unloved. No one loved me. No one wanted me. If somebody had, wouldn't they have found me by now? It had been seven years. In seven years they could've scoured the entire state of Wyoming. It had like, no people in it. How hard would it be to find me? He hit me and brought me painfully out of my thoughts.

"I am useless," he said, his voice filled with his sick pleasure.

I curled further in on myself and whispered miserably, "I am useless." He whipped me again. A choked scream fell through my lips.

"I am worthless." His voice was full of something; I wasn't sure what it was. But I knew I didn't like it.

"I…I…I am…worth…less." This one hurt to say more than the others. Was it because it was true? I was worthless. Unloved, uncared for, unwanted. I was just a useless, filthy whore—a dirty slut. A pet, a toy. A sex slave. My life held no meaning except to please the sick, twisted, demented, maniac that I had been forced to call master. I had no worth, no value. I was truly worthless.

He hit me two more times before dropping his pants and coming to stand directly in front of me. He knew I hated this. He knew that it made me physically ill to pleasure him this way—which was why he did it. A long time ago, he had once confided in me that he wasn't that big of a fan of oral sex. He liked it, just not nearly as much as regular or anal. But since he had discovered that it literally made me sick to perform oral sex, he insisted on it every time, just because he was a sick bastard and wanted to torture me.

He leaned forward slightly so that his cock was just centimeters from my face. I could feel the nausea already. My stomach jerked and rolled in a very uncomfortable way. I closed my eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths. In the middle of my calming exercise, something touched my nose. Realizing what it was immediately, I flinched away so violently that I fell onto my back.

He growled in frustration, stomping over to me. I stared up at him, trembling. I didn't want him to hurt me. But all the same, I knew he would. I held my breath and braced for the pain right before his foot came down on my middle section hard. The pain and the force of it left me breathless. I could've sworn that I heard something crack. A rib probably. I felt the tears flowing freely down my face as the pain escalated when he ground his foot into me.

"Like that you fucking son of a bitch? No? Then I suggest you fucking do what I say!"

I tried desperately to get a breath, but I couldn't, not with his weight on me. I just nodded furiously, hoping that he would let up. With a grunt, he stomped on me once more before backing up just enough to allow me to sit up. It took me a lot longer than usual to get to a sitting position.

He grabbed my hair, pulling me up to the level that he wanted. He had complete control of me now, and I wasn't even going to try to stop him. I had gone into victim mode. I just did what he wanted. No resisting. Period. I didn't have it in me at the moment to resist in any way, even if I had wanted to. Right now I just wanted the pain to end. My back felt like it was ablaze, the welts and gashes left from the belt were agonizing. My newly broken rib almost overshadowed everything else with its pain. Not only did it hurt, but there was another pain higher in my chest. It made it hard to breathe. Maybe the rib had punctured one of my lungs? And then there were the little pains. The bite on my neck that stung ever so slightly, the bruise on my arm, the little cuts his nails had left.

He forced my head closer to him, brushing my lips with his shaft. I gagged. He slapped me. I gasped and he forced himself inside me. It was just as bad as I remembered it. He used his grip on me to control everything—how deep he went, the rhythm—all of it. He shoved himself in as far as he could go, thrusting deep into my throat, choking me, cutting off my already limited air.

He kept up a hard, fast rhythm, choking me with every thrust. I was trembling, crying, begging silently and praying for it to end. The nausea in my stomach wasn't listening to me anymore; it crept up into my throat every time he thrust himself into me.

After what seemed like ages he finally finished, pouring his thick, hot, disgusting seed down my throat. As soon as he pulled out of me and pushed me to the floor, I grabbed my hair in my injured right hand and supported my weight with my left while I emptied the contents on my stomach onto the hard wood floor. As a result of not having eaten in over a day, I had no chunky bits of food to disgorge, but something came up that caught my attention. Blood. When you puked up blood it was never a good sign.

I just stayed where I was for a few seconds, my shaky arm trying to hold me up. I could feel it. Something inside me was wrong. I knew almost for sure that he had broken a rib, and I could tell from the blood, how difficult it was for me to breathe, and the pain in my left lung that the broken rib had punctured it.

I was rudely brought back to reality by a swift kick in the ass—literally. It dumped me face-first into my own puddle of vomit on the floor and I threw up again. It was a reflexive action. There was nothing left to come up so I was stuck with painful, sickening dry heaves.

He grabbed the wrist that was holding my hair back—my right one, the injured one. I managed not to scream, but only because my throat was busy trying to force the contents of my stomach back up.

"You think you can just do that huh?! You little goddamned motherfucker!" he screamed, shaking me. Then he stopped, waiting for me to look up at him. He was so mad he was seething with the anger. I flinched back from him, only to be stopped by his hand tightening around my hurt wrist. When he spoke, his voice was nearly hot enough to scald. "You are going to clean that up! Do you hear me?!" He shook me once more for good measure before continuing in a voice that was so calm it was deadly. "You are going to lick that up. Every. Last. Drop."