A Starr is Born

My first thought was to panic.

My second thought was to calm down.

My third thought was to try to get out.

My fourth thought was that trying to get out was futile.

My fifth thought was wondering what would get me first: dehydration, hypothermia, or starvation.

My sixth thought was that he wasn’t going to let me die.

My seventh thought was that I’m going to die.

My eighth thought was that I couldn’t let myself die.

After that I stopped thinking.


My eyes flicker back open.

I stare straight up at a ceiling.

I have no idea where I am.

I’m in a bed, covered in warm blankets, that much I know, but I know very little else. I don’t know the day. I don’t know the time. I see it’s bright outside. I register that the trees must be bare. I remember very little else of my circumstances or how I got here.

I crack my toes, re-introducing movement back into my appendages. I’m happy they all seem to be present and in working order. I find myself unable to move much of anything else. I feel too heavy.

My eyes focus on the room around me. I see blurred off-white. It’s unfamiliar and sterile. A dream, maybe? Or a nightmare? Is this heaven? Is this hell? Is this purgatory? Is this a hospital?

My eyes focus immediately on the one shade of color by the window.

It’s purple.

As I settle more, I see it’s a man in a purple coat with greenish-yellow hair. He’s looking out the window, hands folded behind his back. I sneeze, and he turns to face me.

A white face.

He approaches me with a slow and deliberate rhythm to his step.

Red lips, black eyes.

He comes closer to me. Smiles.

Yellow teeth.

“Rise and shine.” His smile is broad and stretches out to the entirety of his face.

He’s smiling, but it doesn’t seem like he is genuinely happy to see me. It’s coming from a face that shouldn’t be smiling because the person smiling isn’t actually happy, and neither am I. I can feel he isn’t here to protect me. He’s dressed like a clown, but I’m not sure he’s very funny.

I lick my lips, “Who are you?” I ask, scratchily. I’m happy I can form words half-way successfully.

His eyes narrow at me. I flinch.

Did I do something wrong?

He slaps me hard across the face.

I guess I did do something wrong.

He grabs me by the chin, forcing me to look at him. He is not a happy man, that much I know.

“I was hoping you had learned a lesson,” he growls at me.

“What did I do?” I ask back.

He puts his hand around my throat and starts squeezing. My arms act on instinct, trying to push him away, but he’s far too strong and far too determined.

“We aren’t going to have games anymore, so stop playing,” he says through clenched teeth.

I try my best to speak, but his grip is far too unrelenting. Things feel as if they’re going to return to blackness. I mouth the words, “I’m sorry” to him hoping the sincerity of my eyes will make him stop. I’m not sure what I did, but I’m very sorry I did it.

He releases me, and I gasp for breath, thankful for his generosity.

“What did I do?” I ask again, weakly.

“Hmm,” he’s thoughtful, “You tried to kill me.”

My eyes go wide, “why did I do that?”

“Because you’re an ungrateful bitch,” he smiles.

I flinch at his words. Something doesn’t seem right about that.

He goes to the foot of bed, staring me down, “and then after you tried to kill me, you fell into the river, almost drowned, and I saved you. That’s the last thing you deserved.”

Whereas something about that seems absolutely right, the trying to kill him part anyway. However, I’m not in much of a position to refute the man who supposedly just saved my life after he could have, and, I guess, should have left me for dead.

“I…I….I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember any of that,” I respond with the utmost sincerity because I don’t remember any of that.

“You don’t?” He responds, cocking an eyebrow.

I nod “no.”

“You don’t?” He comes over to me and pins me down on the bed by my shoulders.

I nod “no” again.

I’m not lying.

“I don’t remember anything about me!” I scream back, my eyes watering. For someone who just saved me life, he really wants me dead.

He eyes me carefully. He releases me, stands, and straightens himself up, smoothing out his hair.

“You’re going to have a hard time convincing me of that one…” He makes some weird clicking noise with his tongue and goes to leave the room.

Days pass and he helps me remember my role. He explains my duties to him. He says that what makes him happy will make me happy, and my happiness is only proportional to his happiness.

For example, the other day I burned his waffles, and he pressed my hand into the waffle iron, and it hurt real bad, and he said, “You see, I bet you don’t like it when you get burned, so don’t burn my waffles!”

I vowed to never burn his waffles again.

Mishaps like that seem to convince him that I don’t know who I am. He claims that I could cook before, and it was the only reason he ever kept me around. It was that and my tight pussy, which apparently hasn’t changed.

As the days go by, I long to see him fulfilled in anyway I can.

This morning, I’m standing by his waffles, checking repeatedly to make sure they don’t burn. My hand blistered in a waffle pattern is a constant reminder of the consequences of fucking up.

He comes in and sits down, and I immediately place the waffles in front of him, which are a perfect golden brown.

I go to grab the syrup.

“Get me the syr-” he demands, but before he has finished, I’ve placed the syrup down next to him.

“You’re supposed to warm it,” he looks up at me, through hooded eyes.

I don’t get it. For someone who has the teeth and demeanor of someone who has no concept of feeding himself, he seems to know how to make demands about how to feed himself.

I take the syrup without hesitation and warm it quickly on the stove.

He’s tapping his fingers on the table, and I realize time is running out.

“My waffles are getting cold,” he calls over to me.

I put the burner on high, and put the syrup back into a dish. I bring it over to him.

“I’m so sorry,” I say hurriedly.

“It’s okay,” he responds uncharacteristically, “You’re learning.”

He tucks into his food. I calm down at his acceptance of my current buffoonery until it dawns on me that one waffle will not be able to feed this man of a man who goes out and does really important and physically demanding things. I rush back to the waffle iron before he can ask me where I’m going.

I hear a pause in his feeding, and I can feel his eyes staring at me, but the man resumes eating.

I feel I’m racing now. If this waffle isn’t ready by the time he’s ready, he’s going to have me for dinner instead because I am ready.

“Can I have some more?” He asks.

Right on cue, the waffle is finished. I take his plate, and I re-fill it, bringing it back to him. I go to take my seat, but he holds onto my waist.

“Stand next to me,” he commands.

I stay, of course. He slips his hand down my waist holding onto the waistline of my pants. He holds onto me, tightly, his ungloved hand tracing around the fabric and my bare skin. As he finishes eating, I stand there, dutifully, being mindful not to do anything offensive.

He grabs me by the waist and pushes my stomach to face him. He lifts up my shirt, and starts kissing and licking at my stomach. Apparently I am desert.

He gets up off his chair and leads me so that my back is against the fridge, all the while kissing and sucking.

I moan.

“No talking,” he responds.

I shut my mouth.

He releases, “I’m too good to you.”

“Yes,” I respond.

“Say it, Auburn.” He looks at me, “Say it.”

I look down at him, “what do you want me to say?”

“That I’m your master, that you long to please me, and that you love me.”

I look him in the eyes.

“You’re my master, I long to please you, and I love you.”

He lips contort into a smile.


I wait for him to come home. It’s late, and I miss him. I’ve prepared him a dinner I think he’s really going to like, and I think he’s going to reward me like he did after I made him breakfast this morning.

I sit quietly in the family room, waiting.

I hear the back door open and turn to see him come in. I rise from the sofa immediately. I smile, but my smile drops when I see him.

He’s more disheveled than usual and slouching more. There are scratches all over his face and dried blood.

“Were you hurt? Are you okay,” I go to comfort him, but he passes by me with barely a glance.

He walks into the kitchen, and I follow him.

“I made you dinner,” I say hopefully.

He keeps on walking, past my impressive display.

He must be really upset. I follow him.

“Honey?” I ask, and he turns around and slaps me hard across the face. I grip my red cheek, and he keeps on walking.

I follow him up the stairs into our room. He goes into it, and I go to follow him, but he slams the door in my face.

I open the door and walk in, closing it behind me, “is there something you want to talk about?” I ask, but as I turn around, he slams me against the door, his fingers firm around my neck.

I calmly accept the action being quite used to it at this point, and he releases me going to the bed.

I follow him, and he turns around and slaps me with such force that I fall onto the dresser.

I collect myself, and I see that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding. I get up from the floor and approach him, quietly.

I move to the other side of the bed and slide onto it cautiously. I sit on my knees, behind him. He makes no efforts to turn around or acknowledge me.

He must be stressed out.

I remove his heavy trench coat, and he lets me slide it off his body. His shoulders are terribly hunched over clearly defected from years of poor posture and self-esteem. I put my hands tenderly over them. I wait to see how he receives the gesture, and he doesn’t break my hand, so I figure I have permission.

I begin to massage his shoulders. My fingers find all kinds of knots that must have been there for ages unattended to by a loving companion. I dig hard, and I am rewarded with an ever so slight moan or guttural noise. He relaxes, slightly, into my grip, allowing me to work the magic he so desperately needs.

I work my fingers into his neck, and he responds to the gesture relaxing his shoulders. I make my way down to his lower spine, making sure to carefully kneed all of the tight areas along the way. He arches his back, as if accepting my gesture, and I take it as one of the biggest rewards I can receive from him. Now I only wish I could remove his shirt and lay my hands against his bare back.

I snake my fingers around him to go for his collar, but he shrugs me away violently. I recoil my hands. I rest them on his arms. I let them be still for the moment. Then, I start to guide my hands back to his shoulders.

I rub them again, re-working my magic all the way down to his lower spine, where I snake my arms around him again, this time to his pants button. He makes no gesture to try to stop me, so I take this as an invitation to really work my magic.

I zip down the fly and reach my hand into his pants, but my hand is slapped away again.

I recoil away from him for a moment. I stare intently at his back, which is making virtually no sign of wanting my company, but I’m relentless.

I slowly make my way back to him, and rest my arms on his back, gently. He doesn’t push me away, so I return back to his legs, running my fingers lightly over his thighs, but firm enough so that he can feel them through his trousers. I trace back into his pants once more.

I reach in and remove his fully erect penis.

He slaps my hand away, but I slap them onto his thighs. There, I deepen my massage. I carefully bring my hands back to his upper thighs, back to his crotch, where he allows me to take his penis in hand.

It’s hard, so I begin stroking. He moans slightly, and his back caves in a little, signaling to me that he’s allowing my boldness. I keep a steady rhythm on his dick with one hand, while I use the other one to reach into his boxers. I find his testicles, and I massage them gently.

I am rewarded with a more pronounced groan, and he leans into my strokes, almost fully accepting my boldness. I take this as a great success. He’s now comfortable enough with me handling his most sacred parts, which must be some sort of symbol of a re-found trust in our relationship.

My stroking increases and his breathing becomes deeper. He arches his head back and I hasten my stroking. My head is cradled into his side, so I can watch my actions.

He’s getting close. I can feel it. I stroke to my maximum speed, being careful that I don’t grip too tightly.

He’s going to cum, I feel it, but then he elbows me in the forehead, and I collapse onto the bed behind him.

Everything is growing fuzzy once more, but I’m conscious enough to see him finish himself off. After that it’s darkness.


I wake up the next morning and see his arms are around me.

Give me one more night. He’ll trust me.