[Image] The White Key [Image] [Image] part 2 My staccato footsteps echo through the hallways, the sounds bouncing up and around and off the massive walls, coming back to haunt me, mocking. I have been here before. My desperation and my need to be unnoticed war against each other, resulting in a quick stride; almost running but managing to look natural. I hurry as much as possible towards a destination that I am aware of, but vaguely cannot remember... /Panic./ /Flee./ /But to where?/ ************** Awake. I've been in this room before; once I believed that I'd escaped it and now I am returned. I can move now. At first I lay still and move nothing but my eyes, flicking here and there, taking in the surroundings and searching for him /my tormentor/, roving around but seeing nothing. It may very well be nothing but a ploy, cruelly meant to reassure me, to lull me into a false sense of security until I am sadly disabused. I reach out with all of my senses, hearing nothing but the dull tick tick of a clock, smelling nothing but a slight musky cologne sprayed onto the sheets I lie on, feeling nothing but smooth silk, seeing nothing but a dark inky black. I close my eyes and I wait; I wait for hard hands to clamp on my shoulders, uninvited hands to caress my body and make me shudder with revulsion. Nothing happens. What does he want now? I sit up cautiously, fully expecting him to be comfortably sitting across the room in the deep armchair, watching me with a caustic smile. No one there. In fact, the room is empty, filled with nothing but that high-pitched silence that hurts your ears and make you want to scream until that void is filled. The room has not changed at all since last I left it. The floor is richly carpeted with a plush thick black carpet, wonderfully luxurious against one's toes, the walls and ceiling are painted a stark white, a shocking contrast to the floor. The furniture, severely elegant in their simplicity are either white or black. The windows that would have usually provided the color, looking out into lovely gardens and carefully cultivated arbors, but now the blinds are closed, allowing pale shafts of white sunlight to slant in and die in the devouring black. I cross the room to the windows, at first pulling and pushing at the blinds to open them but then degenerate to struggling as they refuse to open. At closer inspection, they are somehow locked closed. My hands falter and fall to my sides and I bite back a low cry, knowing that somehow *he* is watching, watching and smiling. The effect is much like a normal person suddenly turned color-blind; he knows what he is now missing and continues to search helplessly for what he has lost. Color. I must have color. The room is stifling with its lack. I am suffocating. There is a mirror on the wall, framed with a sleek black and white gilded edge. I look into it with the feverish desperation of a drowning man; I clutch and am rescued by the sharp green of my own eyes. It is the green of emeralds, clear and brilliant in their depth. It is like a fresh breath after inhaling suffocating smoke. My mouth quirks. Obviously put here to keep me from going entirely insane, the mirror is a huge ostentatious affair, the only decoration to speak of in the sterile room. I study myself, mometarily refreshed with the two blobs of color staring back at me. Now I notice I am not dressed in my usual pullover shirt and jeans; I am dressed in a black elegant suit that is specially tailored to my body, emphasizing my narrow body and lean lines. A white streak is dyed into my jet-black hair. In short, I am back where I started. Nothing has changed. I turn away from my image and cross the room back to the bed with its black silk bedcover. I sit. I wait. Time passes. No one comes. The silence grows thick and lays heavily. I am bored and wish, wish for anything to change the monotony. The room is sound-proofed, so I cannot hear anything outside. I stare at the clock. Tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK Hours pass. Then days. There is nothing to do. There is nothing I CAN do. Restlessly with increasing agony I ransack the room for something, anything. There is nothing, the drawers and shelves completely bare. Unused to going for so long without pencil and paper, or a musical instrument of some sort, I would settle for a book, a child's game, just one picture, even. I am lonely. I can do nothing but stare at the clock. Occasionally an arpeture on the wall opens silently and some food and drink lays on a tray. If I do not touch it the arpeture closes. There are many of these. I stare at the clock. I lose track of the days. I cannot sleep, thus losing the last occupation readily open to me. The meals come and go with steady regularity. There is nothing but the dull monotonous TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick TICK tick I do not remember when I begin screaming... Finally, without a voice, I fall silent. Then the door opens. Yoshikawa walks in. We stare at each other in silence, he knowing full well my insane and illogical joy at seeing someone, anyone. Even him. He begins laughing, his eyes still on mine, a loud cruel booming, filling the room with its richness where dry silence had reigned. It only grows heartier as I begin to silently cry, too weak to do more than simply bow my head to hide my tears. A callused finger tips my chin up. He is close to me now, deep eyes drinking in the evidence of my shame, my loneliness, my sorrow. He leans in and laps up the tears, his tongue and breath hot against my face. Insanely, I find myself leaning into the touch, the loathsome touch I always felt would cause my skin to crawl off my flesh. I shudder as I crave more of it. This was what he had planned, wasn't it. Yet I cannot help myself. I close my eyes and drift in my shame, unable to control the evidence from sliding down my cheeks. A soft chuckle, all the more hurtful from its humor and laced with the scent of rum and mint, wafts past my face. I know he is regarding me with that amused smirk he has. Abruptly the finger is gone and the sound of the door opening comes to my ears. My eyes snap open and reflexively I fling myself at his feet, not being able to help what I am doing and hating myself for it. I clutch at his pants legs and sob. "Please...." An idle, "Hmmm?" and then, "Did you need something?" This is hard. I manage again, "Please." I look down, gritting my teeth, hating myself. But I would go insane should I be left alone with nothing but the blank room once again. He makes a move to remove his leg from my grasp. "You're going to have to be more specific than that." He clenches a hand in my hair and pulls my head back painfully so I have to look up at him. He looks bored and glances at his watch. "I'm a busy man. If you're done...? I'll be busy for a couple of weeks- you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He watches me closely, his slight smile widening almost imperceptibly as my eyes widen in panic. Tears threaten again. Finally I force myself to choke out, "Don't leave me alone..." The hand in my hair tightens and he purrs, "What was that?" I repeat, with my teeth clenched, "Don't leave me..." and then I add, "Please, *sir*." The threatening tears fall. He releases me, leaving me to kneel in solitary desolation on the floor. He moves to stand directly in front of me. He seems to be considering my request. I wait quietly, knowing his price, knowing that he is just toying with me, knowing that he will make me beg. A finger trails up my cheek. Idly, he asks, "And what's in it for me?" Knowing my lines, I reply, "Anything you want, sir." "What a good little whore you are," he smirks. He unzips the front of his pants. "Suck," he orders, his tone of voice slightly bored and implying that he might very well leave anyway if the payment is unsatisfactory. Tears continue to fall as I reach in, trying to repress the shudders, and draw it into my mouth. He makes no sound, only burying both hands in my hair to pull painfully. I alternate licks with sucks, trying to ignore the deep base of shame and self-hate growing deep in my belly. I feel dirty, so defiled that I wish to die. I should have killed myself when I had the chance. I try to detach myself as much as possible, trying not to gag as he thrusts deep into my throat, banging against my nose painfully as he pushes and pulls me by my hair into his crotch. The scent of him alone is nauseating, a deep biting musk that assails my nostrils. I try to control my breathing and my gag reflex, knowing that his wrath should I throw up onto his lap would be earth shaking indeed. Thankfully I can feel him coming, the penis in my mouth throbbing faster and his breaths coming raggedly, but he stops. I moan involuntarily, my last hope shattered. He withdraws slowly from my mouth. He smiles again. Wordlessly I understand his command and go over to the bed, taking my own pants off, noting my lack of underwear. I fold them and set them aside slowly, risking his anger. He does nothing but chuckle as he watches my hesitation. Finally I can delay no longer and I lay on my back on the bed, both legs drawn back. I close my eyes and wait. This time he takes the direct approach, nudging against my entrance with no lubrication or preparation, forcing in smoothly with only a grunt. I bite my lip, bite it hard enough to draw blood. It is as painful as it always has been from the beginning; each consecutive instance does not make it easier. And it has been more than two years since someone had forced themself on me. I should have killed myself. He thrusts slowly now, his eyes burning hot on my face, drinking in all the nuances and grimaces on my face as I struggle not to show pain, not to scream, not to react. I don't want to give him any satisfaction. But that is beyond my control. He thrusts deeper, and I bite my lip harder as the burning pain flares into white-hot agony. A hot tongue swipes over my lip, lapping up the blood and inflaming the soreness. He then clamps his mouth over mine, the thick slimy tongue pushing uninvited into my mouth and twining around sleekly, arrogantly sure of its dominance. I do not fight. I lay inert, knowing that resistance would gain me nothing but more revulsion and agony. I cry harder. That is the only thing I have the freedom to do now. He rams harder and harder, his breath coming in quick gasps. He releases quickly into me, and then relaxes, continuing to thrust languidly as if to remind me that my ordeal isn't over yet, and not for a long time. I turn my head to the side. Please, don't leave me alone to go insane in this stark room. I paid you. He withdraws, the sudden emptiness welcome. Then he slaps me, hard. "I am the master, not you. *You* do not ask *me* for anything," he hisses. Then he is gone and the slamming of the door accentuates the clicking of the lock. I roll over. I do not cry. What's the point now?