The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12924
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

My eyes flutter open. I can make out a blur of red on the floor in front of me. I hear a door open and footsteps approaching. Two arms pull me to my feet. My eyes stay focused on the red blob on the floor, but I lose sight of it as my body is being walked out of the room.

I’m led down the hallway by the two arms. My whole body shivers, and I look down and see that I’m not wearing any clothes. I’m stopped in front of a door. A hand opens the door, and we enter.

I’m brought into the bathroom. I jump a bit when the door is slammed behind us, but an arm still supports me around my waist, hugging m close to someone’s body. The other arm extends out in front of me, reaching into the shower, and it turns the shower on. The arms are pushing me into the shower when it all suddenly comes back to me. I brace myself against the entrance of the shower, and turn around to see my assailant.

It’s the Psychic.

“No.” I look down at my body, and I see I’m naked. I grab the closest towel, and I cover myself.

He looks me in the eyes. His jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. “Come on, get into the shower.”

He comes toward me, arms extended, when I scratch him across his face like a cat. My nails, which have been long unkempt, cut into his face, drawing blood. He touches his wounds and sees the damage on his fingers. He looks back at me, and again I’m trapped in his gaze.

“Get into the shower,” he commands.

I’m about to do it, when I impulsively cover my eyes from his gaze. “No, I won’t.” I respond to him.

“I’m not going to hurt you, dear, but you need to get into the shower, now.”

“Why?” I scream back at him.

“Because you are covered in shit, blood, and cum.”

“Well, then shouldn’t we wait for a rape kit,” my words drip with sardonic venom.

Suddenly I am grabbed, and forced to look him right in the eyes. “I shot them.”

I stare back into his eyes, stunned.

“I shot them, all of them. And you want to know why? It’s because they didn’t do what I told them to.” He waits for that to sink in.

I drop my towel right in front of him and I get into the shower, but I jump back out. It’s way too hot. I glare at him as I adjust the temperature and get back in.

I close the curtains, allowing myself the luxury of privacy. I wash everything off my body, and I watch as the swirls of red and brown go down the drain. I wish I had steel wool and bleach to clean out my vagina.  I scrub hard, trying to remove at least three layers of skin, but the men penetrated deep. My hand trembles and I drop the bar of soap. I go to pick it up, but my hands can’t keep a hold of it. Then, I’m overwhelmed by sadness, and I collapse onto the shower floor, crying.

I cry about everything: about being kidnapped, about being gang raped, about my parents, about my friends, all of whom assume I’m dead, and I might as well be dead because there’s no getting out of this situation. I’m stuck until I’m rescued or killed. Those are my only options. I’m not clever enough to get myself out of here, and I’m not even pretty enough to have a claim made on me by the Psychic. This is the future I have to look forward to.

After what seems like a lifetime, I run out of tears. The water washes over me, and I can’t sit here any longer. I don’t know where I’m going next, but I can’t stay on this shower floor any more.

I stand up, and I turn the shower off. I open the shower curtain and jump back, forgetting the Psychic is still in the room with me. He’s looking away from me, allowing me the privacy, with his arm extended handing me the towel. I grab the towel, and I cover myself quickly.

“Let’s go,” he goes to put his arm on my back, but I push him away.

He looks at me, a warning in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say without even thinking.

Without a word, he puts his hand back onto my lower back and leads me out of the bathroom.  I retreat as far into myself as I possible can as we arrive at my room, the scene of the crime. We walk toward the bed, and my foot is punctured by something. I look at the floor and it’s a thorn from a rose. My eyes linger on the rose, as I’m led to my bed.

He opens the covers for me, and I stand there, not sure of what to do with myself. He comes to me and strips the towel off my body like I’m an invalid, and I go underneath the sheet. He tucks me in, and I close my eyes, waiting for more blackness.

Instead, I hear him pull up a chair. I open my eyes, and I look at him, wondering why he’s still here.

“What happened?” he asks.

I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk to him. All I can do is stare at the floor.

“Why won’t you tell me what happened?” he presses on.

I can't be bothered to respond. I don't know why he cares. If his intention was to have me, I'm tainted goods, and I should be taken out with the trash.

I’m suddenly overwhelmingly tired, my eyes so heavy that they can’t help but close.

“You’re tired.”

I open my eyes, and I see him leaning over me. He comes in close, and I’m trapped in his grey eyes.  “Sleep well.” His gaze releases me, and he shuts off the lights as he leaves, letting me fall into a blissful sleep.

 

The next morning, I wake up, and I see the brick red walls signifying to me that the nightmare is real, and I am still in this house. I turn to my side and almost jump out of the bed when I see the Psychic is seated beside me.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks.

I get up, figuring he’s wondering where his breakfast is, but he places his hand on my shoulder, forcing me to stay on the bed. “Stay here.”

“I didn’t make your breakfast,” I respond, my voice lifeless.

“It’s 3pm.”

I look at the clock. That means I’ve been asleep, maybe, for almost 14 hours.

“I brought you a banana, if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you,” I manage, but not with any genuine gratitude.

“Will you tell me what happened now?” He asks.

I look at the banana seated next to me. It looks like it’s on the verge of turning, if it isn’t actually rotten already. “I want to go home now.”

“You can’t go home.”

“Why not?” I snap, looking at him.

“Because you know my hideout. You know too much. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay.”

And suddenly I see I'm naked again. I put myself back under the covers and I turn my back to him. I look out the window. No words are exchanged, but he’s still sitting there. Finally, he speaks:

“I like to be in control of everything that happens in my house, but…”

I can register that the Psychic is talking, but I’m not paying attention to anything he’s saying. My window is wide open allowing the cool autumn breeze to enter the room. The trees have all turned. That means I’ve been in this house for two to three months, and my heart beats anxiously thinking of what I have to look forward to.

I leap from my bed to the open window with the goal of propelling myself outward, when I’m grabbed from behind and pulled back into the room and away from the death I was looking forward to. I flail wildly against him, but his skinny arms hold more strength than I could expect. He throws me onto the bed and straddles me.  I flail as best as I can, but he secures my arms and brings his face close to mine. I headbutt him, which ends up probably hurting me more than it hurts him. In my moments of disorientation, his large hand easily takes both of my wrists, while the other one holds my head down.

“You have so much control over the situation,” I seethe.

He leans in close, his pointed nose almost brushing against mine. “Trust me. I do.”

Then, I just snicker at him. It’s the most condescending thing I’ve ever mustered up in my whole life.  He looks at me, with an unwavering expression.

Suddenly, I feel a jolt from my pelvis, like a bolt of lightning, sending ripples through my entire body. It was as if I just had one wave of an orgasm. I try to settle myself from the shock when I look at him.  He’s smiling at me, as if knowing. Then he gets up off of me and leaves.

             

My nap is haunted by nightmares, which are actually more replays of what has actually happened. When I wake up, he’s there again.

“I have your dinner.”

I don’t feel the need to respond to him.

“Will you tell me what happened now?”

“Why? You need something to masturbate to tonight?" He looks at me, giving me nothing, "You have your imagination of course, but it just wouldn’t be the same as knowing what really happened.”

As expected, he doesn’t respond to me, but I don’t know what exactly I was trying to elicit from him.

“Why am I alive?” I ask in earnest.

“The house is clean and you cook very well.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I’m shut down. I have nothing to say. I look at the ‘dinner’ he brought me, and it looks like a shitty sandwich.

He grabs it and goes to the door.

“Wait!” I call out.

He stops.

“I am hungry.” 

He comes back to me with the sandwich in his hand.  He makes like he’s handing the sandwich to me, when he snaps it out of my reach. “You can have the sandwich after you tell me what has happened.”

My stomach rumbles painfully. Head bowed, I explain:

“The skinny one cornered me in the bathroom. He went to attack me, but I got him good in the balls, but then a fat one grabbed me. They dragged me into my room where two others were waiting. They threw me on the floor, called me a slut, and then the skinny one raped me. Another one ass raped me and skinny was cuming on my face when I guess you came in.”

There’s a pause now.

“Would you like the morning after pill?” he asks.

“You can push me down the stairs if I’m pregnant,” I respond.

He stands there, and I can feel his eyes on me, and then something happens. I am drawn into his eyes once more, and in the greyness, I see nothing. Why does he need to know any of this?

“I need to know what happens in this house, so I can organize my men better. I need to know what I can expect from you in terms of a recovery from this.”

“How can I recover from it? I’m still in it.”

He looks at me, still. Then, he leans in closer to me, and looks me very, very deeply in the eyes.

“I can make you feel better.”

I look into his eyes wondering what he could mean by that, but then I look away from him. After a moment, he places the sandwich on the nightstand, and he leaves the room.

I take the sandwich. I take a bite, and it tastes like some sort of delicious chocolate hazelnut spread with banana mixed in.

I eat the sandwich, grateful for it in the end. It tastes more wonderful than it should. When I finish the sandwich, I lie back onto the bed. Then, as I wait for sleep to come to me, I realize he answered my thoughts.

 



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