Uncovering you 5 confess.., p.1
Uncovering You 5: Confessions, page 1
Table of Contents
About the Series
Important Note from Scarlett About the Uncovering You Plot Timeline
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
UNCOVERING YOU #5: CONFESSIONS
Copyright © 2014 Edwards Publishing, Ltd.
All rights reserved.
Edited by Gail Lennon.
Cover design by Scarlett Edwards.
Interior design by Scarlett Edwards.
Published by Edwards Publishing, Ltd.
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Blaine, WA 98230
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Uncovering You 5:
by Scarlett Edwards
July 25, 2014
Uncovering You 5: Confessions contains scenes of intense emotional and physical abuse. Readers with sensitivity to such subjects are advised to proceed with caution.
About the Series
The story of Uncovering You unfolds over multiple volumes.
Uncovering You 1: The Contract
Uncovering You 2: Submission
Uncovering You 3: Resistance
Uncovering You 4: Retribution
Uncovering You 5: Confessions
Uncovering You 6
Important Note from Scarlett About the Uncovering You Plot Timeline:
Please keep in mind that the prologue from Uncovering You 1 took place in December 2014. Scenes in this book take place in December 2013.
Note the one-year difference.
Cold. Always, so cold.
I huddle into myself and try to stop my teeth from chattering.
It’s no use. What little heat my body produces is powerless against the AC blasting into the room.
I can’t see anything. All my familiar comforts are gone. All I know is the shape of the armchair.
I don’t even have a blanket. Or a cloth I can use as one.
I thought my captivity by the pillar was bad. Hah! This is worse. I’m trapped on this tiny island. I can’t move. I can’t walk around. I can’t do anything. I am barely alive.
All at once, the lights above me sputter on. I wince and shy back, covering my eyes with my forearm. My heartbeat doubles in raw anticipation.
Once a day, the lights come on. They stay on for exactly fifteen minutes, Jeremy told me. That’s all the time I have to run to the bathroom, empty my chamber pot, quickly shower, and change into something fresh for his arrival.
There’s no fighting it. I can’t refuse. I push myself up, my whole body trembling, and grab the disgusting, lidded, clay container. I hear the contents slop around inside as I hurry toward the bathroom.
I dump the chamber pot into the toilet. The first time I did it, the smell was enough to make me vomit. I almost—almost—made the mistake of trying to clean up, before remembering that time is short. Once the clock is up, my collar is reactivated. This means that, if I’m not in my chair in time…
I shudder. I didn’t have time to shower that day. When Jeremy came for his nightly visit and found me reeking of vomit, he was not happy.
What happened next is a memory that I never want to revisit.
I turn on the shower, hot. Hot as it can go. I step in, forcing myself to stand under the scalding stream.
The shower used to be my sanctuary. The hot water, a method of control. I could stand there and feel the water burn my skin. I could control the pain I felt and—consciously—opt for more.
Stonehart caught on to what I was doing after just three days. He had forbidden me from self-harm before. He did not like me breaking his rule.
The shower does not work as it used to. He had someone come in and fix it so that the hottest stream of water was not enough to burn me. I hate him for it.
But, I have to admit, in a futile, hopeless way, that it was probably for the best. Jeremy was looking out for me. He did not want me hurt.
“Hah!” The laugh bursts out of me. The ludicrousness of that thought is appalling. None of this would be happening were it not for him. I wouldn’t need to burn myself under scalding water were it not for him.
The heat seeps under my flesh and into my very bones. I count off the minutes in my head. There’s no warning before the lights turn off and my collar is activated. No indication that time is running short.
The only thing I can rely on to get back before the time is my mind.
At thirteen minutes and ten seconds, I step out and quickly dry myself. I grab a new robe—the only thing I’m allowed to wear these days—and throw it over my shoulders. I pick up the chamber pot and turn for the door…
I stop. Shit! I forgot to brush my teeth.
Thirteen minutes and fifty seconds.
I don’t have enough time. But if I get some mouthwash…
I rummage through the cupboard and pull a bottle out. I glug some down and swirl it around, then spit it into the sink.
Fourteen minutes, ten seconds.
I’m running out of time. My heart starts to race. I grab the chamber pot and rush out.
Fourteen minutes thirty seconds. Fourteen minutes thirty-one seconds.
The chair’s up ahead. The lights are still on. Still, this is going to be close.
Forty seconds. Forty-one seconds. Forty-two seconds.
I start to sprint. The clock in my mind is not infallible. Who knows if my timing’s off? It could be late, and then—
My wet foot slips against the floor and slides out from under me. I cry out as I hurtle to the floor.
Forty-three seconds. Forty-four seconds…
No! No! I look up at the chair. It’s so close…
Forty-five seconds. Forty-six seconds…
I push myself up, chamber pot forgotten, and hurl myself to the safety of the armchair.
I do not make it.
All the lights go off. And, at exactly the same moment, a wild torrent of electricity pulses into me.
I shriek in pain and crash to the floor. My limbs flail around me.
The last thought I have before I pass out is of that cruel, deceiving number:
I wake up slowly, drifting from the realm of sleep into the world of the living.
My body feels like it’s made of rubber.
There are hands on me. Touching me. Holding me. Lifting my body, directing me up. Moving me.
It takes my brain too long to realize what is happening. When understanding finally clicks, my eyes burst open—to pitch blackness.
But those hands are still on me.
I try to fight them, desperate to break out of their grip. My muscles are slow to respond. It’s as if my entire body is being pressed down by a thick layer of honey.
“Easy. Easy, Lilly,” the voice soothes.
That voice. That horrible, smooth, terrible male voice.
Stonehart is here.
“Easy now. Relax. I’m taking care of you. You’ve had a little accident.”
Revulsion and hatred and disgust course through me at his nonchalant choice of words.
“I’m just helping you back up,” he says. I feel myself settling into something soft. The chair? It must be.
“There you go.”
I open my mouth to speak, but not a single word comes out. It feels like my tongue is made of wet cotton.
Stonehart brushes my jawline with strong, warm fingers as he regards me closely. I cannot see him, but I feel his proximity. “Let’s try to avoid situations like that in the future, hmm?” he suggests. “You know you have to be back in time.”
Then he stands up, pulls back, and walks away.
Only when his footsteps fade out of hearing do I collapse to my side and cry.
I wake up an indeterminate amount of time later. My previous grogginess is gone. My body feels like my own again.
I move my arms and legs without that strange restriction. What happened? Did he drug me again?
I take a cautious sniff of air. There’s no lingering smell. It means Stonehart helped me out of that soiled robe.
I bury my face in my hands and try not to sob. This is humiliating. Who would do this to another person? Who would make me live through this nightmarish darkness twice?
The cold surrounds me again. I stuff my hands into my armpits to try to keep my fingers warm. My ears are freezing.
How much longer? I think in despair. How much more of this will I have to take?
“Open yourself to me.”
His voice echoes in the dark. It’s strong and virile.
I have to obey.
Shaking and trembling—not from fear, but from the incessant cold—I slide down in the chair and spread my legs. Already, my mind retreats to a faraway place.
He pushes into me. The hard rigidness of his cock makes me give a little gasp. I know better than to fight or resist in any way.
Why would I? Stonehart always gets what he wants. Challenging that only makes things worse.
So I lie there, wretched and forgotten, allowing him to pump his hips into my limp body. I am nothing but an empty vessel to him. A warm place to stick his dick.
Although even the ‘warm’ part could be contested.
I close my eyes and wait for this nightmare to be over.
The lights come on again. I sit up, slightly dizzy, a little nauseous. I notice the blood running down my leg.
I look at the seat of the chair. It’s stained red.
Oh God, how didn’t I notice before?
But I know perfectly well how. After Stonehart left, I huddled up and let my mind go blank. Awake or asleep, it makes no difference. As long as I did not think things were… well, they were…
I mean, they were…
They just were. I can’t say they were tolerable, or horrible, or anything at all. They just were.
I can’t allow myself to attach emotions or feelings to them. Maybe once I get out of this, I’d be better suited to reflect. Right now, with no definitive end in sight, all I can do is exist.
Kind of like a slug.
After my shower, I find a box of tampons and bring them back with me. I also carry an extra towel to place over the stain. Jeremy—Stonehart—whatever, I don’t even know why I don’t think of him by his first name anymore—forbade me from using towels as blankets. He said that all things have their proper use, and I was not to bastardize that.
This, I hope, is different.
The lights turn off after I’m comfortably settled in my chair. I give myself only ten minutes now, to shower and come back.
I don’t want to suffer any more “accidents.”
How long has it been? A week? Two? Maybe more?
My bet is on “more”.
I can feel the remaining pieces of my sanity slowly crumbling away. What is an existence like this worth? Where do I find the strength or will to keep fighting?
I scoff. I’m not fighting. Fighting would be foolish. Idiotic.
Fighting would earn me further punishment.
Is this what will become of my life for the next five years? A state halfway between a zombie and a human?
Everything I ever held dear has been stripped away. If Stonehart’s goal is to show me how little control I have left, he doesn’t need to do anything more.
In the back of my mind, I wonder what happened to Rose. It’s the first time in this second—or is it third?—imprisonment that I allow myself to think about the kindly woman.
Does she know where I am?
Has she done anything to help?
And I thought I could count on her as a friend. I thought—
No. I stop myself from sliding any further down that slippery slope. Rose has no influence over Stonehart. I remember the dove. Rose can’t do anything to help me while I’m in here.
It’s not her fault. I cannot hold it against her. If I ever see her again—
I stop myself once more. Will I ever see her again? I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of anything while trapped in this dark hole.
Stonehart wants me to break. I laugh. I’m already broken. I am so far gone that no amount of reflection or soul-searching will ever rescue me from the pits of despair.
I have no friends, no love, no goals or hopes or dreams or aspirations.
Stonehart has squeezed all of those out of me.
It’s just sleep, wake, rape.
I come to face down on the chair, and realize that I’m being fucked.
It’s a strange sensation to wake to, especially since I know that it’s been going on for some time. I can hear Stonehart’s pants behind me. He did not start recently.
He’s been going at it for a while.
It’s a testament to how far I’ve fallen that I don’t even care. It’s a testament to how numb I’ve become.
I don’t let the mixed feelings of pain and pleasure distract me. I simply close my eyes and wonder if I can drift back into sleep…
My meals are brought to me on a cart. Stonehart wheels them in himself. He leaves them close by, within arm’s reach, and then leaves.
Even though he does not speak when he does it, and I cannot see a thing, I know that it’s him. I’ve become so accustomed to his presence that I could pick him out if I were blindfolded and in a crowd of fifty.
Part of it is the way he breathes. His breathing is slow and controlled. It reflects the purpose he seems to find in whatever he does.
His breathing also mirrors his voice. I wonder if he trained himself to speak the way he does. That baritone rumble seems to come effortlessly to him. However, for some reason, I can picture him practicing it as a youth.
I yearn for someone to speak to. I need a confidante. A friend. I feel so utterly alone and so completely useless.
What have I done to improve my position with Stonehart since I was first given access to his mansion? Nothing. Nothing at all. From the minute I entered his house, it’s been nothing but blunder after blunder after blunder.
Then there was the surveillance room disaster. The dove. The nighttime adventure in his office. Falling asleep on the day I knew to expect him.
I’ve long since come to grips with the fact that anything bad that happens to me is my own fault. Would Stonehart have ever punished me if only I’d done what he asked?
No. If only I’d been a little smarter, a little more astute… things could be different now.
I yearn for the days when the TGBs meant something. Stonehart claims he is a man of his word, but he promised me that TGBs earned would not be taken away.
The irony hurts so much I want to cry. He did not take them away.
He just snatched away all the freedoms they granted.
What a stupid system, I think to myself. Why would he even introduce them if he never meant to use them properly?
Probably as a way to taunt me. As a way to tempt me with the promise of ultimate freedom. As a way to ensure my behavior.
I flip over on the chair and scoff. He didn’t need to tempt me with TGBs to get me to behave. All he needed to do was leave me in the dark like this two or three more times.
Because right now, I am sure that I will never, ever do anything to displease Stonehart. Ever again.
He doesn’t even know what this latest stint has done to me. My resolve to get back at him? Gone. My resolution to get revenge? Vanished. I know, in my heart of hearts, that the best I can hope for is to simply tread carefully enough in the next five years to avoid finding myself in the dark again.
Discomfort and discontent boil up inside of me. Why was I so stupid before? In the days before I was bound to this chair, I had it made. I was living in a magnificent mansion with a stunning view of the sea. I had access to every nook and cranny on the property—well, almost.
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