I Am The Wind

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T
his book is a work of fiction.
Names, places, events and characters a
re fictitious in every regard.
Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I Am The Wind

Copyright©2011 Sarah Masters

His and His Edition

Cover art and design by
Emmy Ellis

All rights reserved.
Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

Published by

loveyoudivine Alterotica 2011

Find us on the World Wide Web
at

www.loveyoudivine.com

I AM THE WIND

BY

SARAH MASTERS

Dedication:

For all those souls who have suffered but broken through the barrier of mistrust to find they can indeed love and trust again.

CHAPTER ONE

The Beginning of the End

T
here’s only so much cock you can take up the arse in one day before it feels like your rim’s going to rip right along with your soul. Wanted cock, but not quite so often, and as for the soul… I thought Ted loved me in his own way. Turns out he really didn’t give a flying fuck.

For now, my arsehole’s all right, but I’m not so sure about my soul.

I’m here now, with Alfie, and Ted’s in the past. Shame he doesn’t stay there. You know how it is—the past remains in your head, doesn’t it, churning out memories every so often to let you know it’s still there. And Ted…I’m sure he’s watching me, documenting my every move. So if that’s the case, he should know I’m here, yet it’s been four weeks and no one’s arrived on a trusty white steed to rescue me.

That knight in shining armour lark is all a load of bollocks anyway.

I shouldn’t be here at Alfie’s, yet I want to be. I shouldn’t have gone out that night, yet I did. Hindsight and all that. They say it’s a wonderful thing, but most of the time it isn’t. Not really. It gnaws at you, taunts you, and what the fuck’s wonderful about that? What the fuck’s wonderful about being incarcerated by a man some would call a freak? What’s wonderful about me
wanting
to stay here?

I don’t know. I just don’t sodding know. But it
is
wonderful.

What I
do
know is when Alfie comes in here, all broad shoulders and rippling muscles beneath his T-shirt, I want him to fill my arse again. And that isn’t right, is it? To want someone who’s kept me locked up like this. It’s consensual locking up, but not.

Odd to explain, that.

Maybe
I’m
the freak. Maybe
I’m
the one who has something wrong with him.

The other week, veins buzzing with too much alcohol, the need for picking up a bloke—any bloke—driving me out to the clubs, I spotted him as he lounged against a wall in The Mason’s Arms. When I think about it now, if he’s one of those mental abductor types and has yet to show it, he’d probably spotted me first, chosen me. At the time, my mind on one thing and one thing only, I’d not been in any state to think too clearly. Four years of failed relationships behind me, I’d decided no-strings fucks were the only way to go, and that night was just one of too many to count where I got spruced up in order to attract a bloke and get some attention.

And we all need that, don’t we? Maybe that’s why I’m still sitting on this dirty concrete floor in his cellar or whatever fucking room I’m in. Maybe my need for a relationship—any relationship that’s more than a quick shag, a brief connection that leaves me colder than I’d been before—keeps me from trying to get away.

I mean, who the hell would remain here by choice?

A bare lightbulb gives off a measly glow in the centre of the ceiling, highlighting the old wooden beams directly surrounding the cream-coloured electrical cord. Spider webs, they’re everywhere up there, complete with fat, eight-legged buggers no doubt waiting for flies or whatever to get caught. Eaten. And I can’t help but liken it to my situation. I’m caught, Alfie the spider waiting for me to make the wrong move so he can eat me whole.

Jesus.

A hacksaw sits in the corner, the red handle indistinct in the shadows. But the blade, the bit of the machine that can cut off a man’s leg in no time shines, the edges the same as dolphin’s teeth, except they’re pointed. I wonder if he plans to use it on me, to be the weirdo people would undoubtedly say he is and hack off my limbs one by one, him watching me bleed to death. Would he bury or burn me after…well, after I’m gone? Or would he be like those killers you read about, who freeze the bodies or mummify them and keep them forever?

I don’t sodding know about that either.

Footsteps sound on the stairs outside the wooden door opposite me. My stomach contracts, and not just from a speck of fear either. I never know when he’s going to turn funny—whether he even intends to. That’s where the fear comes from. But the excitement? I enjoy seeing him, enjoy studying his features, the way his nose slopes up at the end when I view his profile, and the shell of his ear, plump and ready for sucking. I wonder, then, whether his cock needs sucking but shut the thought away. He hasn’t shown any desire for me to do that, just asks if I mind him touching me, wanting me. He gently primes my arse with lube, suits up and pushes in, telling me he’ll make me feel good. And he does. I just wish he’d let me make him feel good too.

God, he makes me hard, makes me wonder why I even
get
hard when this situation is about as messed up as you can imagine.

It isn’t normal to think this is okay, surely?

Stockholm Syndrome, that’s the term I’ve been trying to remember for days. But it isn’t that. It can’t be, when I fancied him something rotten in The Mason’s, went with him willingly after he’d chatted me up for a bit. Who wouldn’t, with his sexy-as-fuck grin that puts dimples in his cheeks, his tousled brown hair sometimes hanging over his eyes, and that undeniably hot sway he’s got going on with his hips. He’d got me then and he’s got me now.

I’m not going anywhere any time soon. Not if I have a say in it.

I suppose I could get out if I gave it enough thought. Get rid of the cable tie that binds my wrists. Somehow. Rub it over those hacksaw teeth or something. Wait behind the door for him to come inside and smack him on the head with the hacksaw handle. It’d be easy, to knock him out, run up those steps behind the door over there and get the fuck away. He’s a big guy and I’m pretty small, but with the element of surprise on my side…

So why am I still here?

He inserts the key in the lock, and the door swings open, bashing against the wall. A shower of loosened breezeblock crackles on the floor, and I wonder what’s got him so riled. He stares at me, brown eyes blazing with all kinds of anger, cheeks flushed, mouth set in a grim line.

“What’s up?” I ask, so familiar with him now, my chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe.

“You thinking of leaving?” He strides towards me, arms bowed at his sides, emphasizing the breadth of him, the sheer size of the bloke.

“What? How the fuck can I leave? I’m tied up. Locked up. You’ve seen to that.” I laugh a bit to show him I don’t mean any malice.

“Yeah, but you’re thinking of going, aren’t you? Of leaving me. Like he did. Like they all did.”

I have no idea who he or they are, and I’m not about to ask. Prying might set him off, get him angry as fuck, and I don’t fancy being hit today. Tonight. Or whatever time of damn day it is. I want to get inside his head, to find out what’s going on in there, why he’s doing this. If I’d done that with Ted, maybe I wouldn’t be here now.

“I’d have stayed, you know, if only you’d asked,” I say, manoeuvering to get up. It’s difficult with my hands tied, but I manage it, drawing upright as he comes to stand in front of me.

I have to tilt my chin to look at his face, him being a head taller. He smells of aftershave, Jean Paul Gautier if I’m not mistaken. You know, the bottle that’s the shape of a man’s torso. Blue glass. I almost smile at the fact the body has no cock, just a swollen bump in place of a dick.

“Yeah, you would say that,” he says.

His voice, it does things to my insides like no other voice has.

And he has a point. I suppose I
would
say that. But I mean it. That first night, me giddy from booze and him giddy on me agreeing to go home with him…it was enough. Except he’d panicked the next morning when I’d dressed, me saying I’d ring him later and maybe we could get together again. I know now, after hours of dissecting everything, it was that word—
maybe
—that had started the ball rolling, his spiral into panic getting a firm grip, ending with me being put down here, him creating the ruse of needing me to help him haul logs upstairs for the fire. Except there weren’t any logs. Wasn’t anything down here at all back then except the toilet in the corner. He told me he was sorry, that he couldn’t let me leave, and if I liked him as much as I’d said I did the night before, he’d fuck me, make me feel good. I wouldn’t need for anything.

He’s been hurt in the past, I get that—what else could it be?—but keeping me here isn’t going to solve anything, is it? If he gets caught, he’ll be in deep shit and then some. I don’t want him in trouble. I want to help, get him talking, make him open up so I can understand why he’s doing this. Help him to trust again, have him see I’m not going anywhere, that when I do leave, to go to work—
if
I ever get another damn job—I’ll come back. It’s got to be worth a shot, worth the hard work. Let’s face it, I’ve got fuck all else to do with my time. No job, again, rent paid by the social.

He stalks over to the hacksaw, stands in front of it with his back to me. Is he thinking of using it? What’s it doing down here anyway? It’s the only thing here apart from the toilet, the rickety wooden table and chair, and my steel bed he brought down a few hours after he locked me inside.

“You going to use that?” I ask, thinking it’s better to know what’s coming my way if I can.

“Not on you, no, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

I had been, and relief weakens my legs. My knees jolt, and I brace myself for toppling forward and cracking my head on the concrete. Lifting my arms, I hold myself steady on the wall beside me, heart tickering nineteen to the damn dozen.

“What do you use it on then?”

I’m pushing it, talking to him this way, especially if he turns out to be some nutter in the end, but what have I got to lose? I live in a crummy bedsit—doesn’t matter if they discover I’m gone and rent it to someone else, and no one gives a shit about me. Mum, the last time I spoke to her, when she found out I’m gay, kicked me out and told me never to come back. Never to darken her door again, filthy little bastard that I am. I have no other family, it had just been me and Mum all along, so me going missing will hardly cause a stir, will it?