Free The Executioner by Suzanne Steele

it goes much deeper because though it is dysfunctional on so many levels as far as how the outside world would view it, it is the only thing that our fucked up lives recognize as being real.
    He spends the rest of the night bathing me and rubbing my body down with lotion that smells of mint. I can feel the healing agents within it as the lotion, mixed with his words of praise, heal the hurt that has been inflicted—a pain that I have come to crave.
    Tonight, he turned what had only been my written ramblings, into our reality. My words are now more than a story, they are my new life. I am owned, I am wanted, I am loved…



Chapter Eleven
    Dr. Winslow
    Once again, my hard soled shoes can be heard as I make my way towards her cage. I loom above her and she grabs the bars on the ceiling of her enclosure as she looks up at me.
    She’s looking into my face, pleading, as I look down on her and state, “I like this view of you looking up at me, and the concept of you being my research subject is alluring to say the least.”
    She’s searching my face earnestly and I tell her, “The Stockholm Syndrome has begun to set in, young lady. I will own more of you as the days go by. Tick, tock, tick, tock,” I mock her.
    “It’s time for your shower, little one.”
    “Noooooooooo,” she wails .
    “I hate you!” she screams, “Why are you doing this to me?”
    She is kicking, screaming, and throwing a tantrum, much like a five year old would do.
    I unlock the cage and she scurries to the back of it, terrified. I pull her out by her hair and she immediately bows at my feet, prostrate in a state of submission.
    I chuckle, “You are very cunning. I know about your past: the abandonments, the group homes, the running away, and the emancipation at sixteen.”
    I bend down and force her to look at me by grabbing a handful of hair and lifting her head.
    “Be careful… I have the wit, the wisdom, the will, and all of the skill that I need, to possess you! I set my sights on you. I am in control and I chose you. It’s bath time and if you don’t obediently follow me, I’ll drown your ass.”
    She timidly walks behind me and follows me to the bathroom.
    “Get in the shower,” I calmly demand of her.
    “With my clothes on?”
    “Yes, with your dress on. I have no intentions of taking you sexually. It isn’t your pussy I want. I gently tap the side of her head as I speak. “It’s this—your mind. I then tap a finger over her heart, “and this—your emotions.”
    She looks relieved and steps in the shower, allowing me to lift her arms and latch them to an O Ring device that I had installed.
    I grab the removable shower head and spray water into her face, “You defiant little bitch! Your counseling session yesterday left much to be desired.”
    She is shaking her head, choking, spitting, and screaming out “I’m sorry.”
    “One more for good measure, bitch!”
    “I’m not a bitch, I never have been!” she screams, offended that I would insinuate that she not a woman or person who deserves respect. I owe her nothing; she owes me!
    “Take a deep breath,” I chuckle as I all but drown her with the shower device.
    She violently shakes her head as snot and water fly off of her water logged face.
    “Bitch doesn’t like to be called a bitch, does she? The thing about it is I don’t give a fuck what you like, what you want, or what your opinion is! I own you, and I will do as I see fit, bitch!”
    “No one owns me,” she mumbles.
    “Want to bet?” I say, as I glare in her eyes, daring her to defy me.
    I bury my face in her ear. “You’re my research subject. You should be flattered I have chosen you.”
    I instantly change and grab a loofah, liberally soaping it up. I begin bathing her from where I am standing outside of the shower. I scratch and scrub her down as I clean her already bruised and battered body.
    “I want my research subject clean and smelling good,” I say, ignoring her screams and cries of