78 - Three Weeks

**Aurora POV**

Twenty days. Twenty fucking boring ass days. Or at least I think it's been 20 days. I have been stuck in this room, by myself with the TV (thank God for Netflix and Disney+), books and my inner ramblings for what I believe is now twenty fucking days.

The only humans I "interact" with are two massive giant beast-looking men who look like a bad version of those criminal brothers from Tangled who come into my room along with a maid twice a day when she brings me food and changes my linens and restocks my snack box by the TV.

I guess I also get daily visits from “the bastard” as I like to call him because saying his name recognizes his existence and I would love to not have anything to do with him. He gets off on pain and suffering, literally.

Just like all the other days, my morning inner tantrum monologue is interrupted by Groucho and Grumpy entering the room. I bestowed these nicknames on my bodyguards when they refused to engage in friendly conversation. Plus, the names fit their darling personalities.

Their booming voices startled me and made me shoot out of bed. I would have been no doubt tangled in my sheets if they hadn't forcefully removed them from my body.

"Time to wake up!" Groucho said in his very thick Slavik accent. Maybe Russian? Not sure though. Some sort of Eastern European would be my best guess. I can't keep calling them Guard One or Two. I guess I could, but Groucho and Grumpy are more entertaining and it suits their bland personality to boot!
Ugh. I hate it when they do this. Just let me stay cocooned in my bed even though it gives me nightmares, it’s better than living in the reality of my cage.

"Up. Now. To the wall!" Grumpy scowls and looks at me expectedly. I trudge to the far wall near the window. I'll just go back to bed after this and mess up everything like I have done every day. I guess I should be grateful that I get clean sheets; at least they won't smell like *him*.

"Hands" I hear one of them order. They sound so similar, and they are just too massive to fight. Like walking boulders with bad crew top haircuts. I swear these are not men but walking steroids out of the 80's. I place my hands with open palms above my head on the wall as I have done since they started this. It is sadly the new routine.

It was almost three weeks ago that I tried to escape and learned of Brianna’s resurrection and lifetime betrayal. He electrocuted me twenty-six times before I passed out that day. Twenty-six times my body convulsed and every cell in my body felt like it was being shocked by lightning. And the asshole jerked off watching me. He just dropped his pants after the fourth round and pumped until he came all over my body. Four times he emptied his balls over my skin and then rubbed it into me like lotion, including my face.

I was still tied the next morning when I finally woke up and remained that way, without food, water, or a shower until that evening when he came in and released my bondage. He didn’t stay, thankfully and when I returned to the room after a scalding hot forty-five-minute shower where I rubbed my skin raw, there was some chicken noodle soup on a tray but I refused to eat it. I know I should have, I did need my strength, but I was afraid it was going to be poisoned.

The day after that, day three since my escape attempt, I had been awake for several hours before I heard the clicks of the locks. I thought it was that asshole again, but instead, it was the two mountain steroid men and a maid. They entered the room swiftly, the guards both guards placing a hand on their guns and staying close to the open door, and the maid hurriedly put down a tray of food, the steam from the edible creation still rising. She departed as quickly as she entered and the two guards followed her, slamming the door and I heard the clicks of the locks. I released a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

The meal was precut roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, steamed veggie mix of broccoli, green beans, baby carrots, and yellow squash. A bowl of applesauce and even two dinner rolls were placed on the silver tray. An apple juice box like I was a kid. No knife though.

I remember how my tummy growled ferociously just as I started thinking I was not going to touch it. But against my better judgment, I let my salivary glands water and proceeded to inhale the food. The flavors were decent, the potatoes a little chunky but it was certainly more than edible and that was good enough for me. My tummy was satisfied and the headache I had because of the crying dwindled to more of an annoyance.

Thanks to what I presume would be that little camera in the ceiling, as soon as I was done and put the tray back by the TV, and settled myself on the edge of the bed, the same guards came in with the maid and she removed the tray. No words were said, and I was too tired to say anything.

But then things changed starting on day four. That next morning I was woken up but these two burly men who told me to go to the wall instructed me to put my hands palms flat on the wall and to face it. One of them came behind me and, while he did not touch me, he was so close that I could feel his body heat caging me.

Out of curiosity, I would gently move my head so I could see maids running about and I could hear lots of footsteps around my room. The guards were barking orders in a different language, and I could faintly hear small feminine voices replying to them. Maybe 15 minutes passed before I felt their presence shift away from me and soon I heard retreating steps and then the familiar clicks of the locked door.

When I spun around. The bed was made, the sheets clean and fresh, the surfaces of all the furniture and even the wooden floor still had a shine on them like they were wiped down. A fresh breeze scent lingered in the air. Sitting on the table by the TV was a tray with Pancakes, crispy bacon, fruit, and apple juice. I guess it was breakfast time.

After I was done with the meal, a maid would return to pick it up and the guards stood at the door, hands on their guns. What I presume was dinner followed later where the maid would bring the tray and then pick it up later because they would not return until the next morning. I only had to go to the wall in the mornings, which I deduced quickly was so that the maid or maids could clean the room without me in the way.

If I tried to ask a question, I was rudely told to shut up. One time I tried to keep a fork for a weapon, it was the only time the guards laid a hand on me. They barged in without any warning, one picked me up and took me to the wall, pinning me roughly with his whole body while the other searched for the room. When they showed me the fork, I tried to act innocent and made a sarcastic comment to which they did not even bat an eyelash. How rude! See, the nicknames for my guards were fitting! Plus, they had this intense resting bitch face, and it just made me a little happy inside to name them. That night, the bastard electrocuted me again until my wrists bled with the friction.

Speaking of the bastard, almost every night I was visited by him. He came in and slept in my bed, forced himself against my body. The first time he did that, I naturally protested. My disobedience got my arms cuffed tightly behind my back and a dildo gag in my mouth. Now, every night that he visits, he just cuffs and gags me, saying I have to earn freedom. Because of our height difference, my hands were always very close to his manhood and I often ended up touching it. Even woke up a few times with him jerking off in my hands with his morning wood. He fractured my right pinky finger when I tried to grab his dick and injure him. He made it clear I would lose a finger the next time if I tried anything hostile so I always kept still from that point on.

He made sure that there was never any space between our bodies and used his hands to fondle every inch of me that he wanted.

About ten days after this new routine started, the bastard came in and he reeked of alcohol and I could smell rank floral perfume and that musky after sex from the door.

Luckily for me, he showered before climbing into the bed. But that night, he didn’t dress in his boxers or the sweatpants he stored in my closet. He just stripped his towel off and got in bed. He took out the usual chain but secured it to the headboard this time before straddling me and cuffing my hands to the headboard. His member kept bouncing against his defined rock-hard stomach and my barely clothed one. It was standing proud and he lust in his eyes.

That night, he didn’t use a gag to suppress my screams of protest because he forced his raging hard-on down my throat; he then took his knife and held it against my neck while he got off. He kissed me passionately for the first time, tasting himself on my lips and forced his tongue practically down my throat when he finished. Of course, I spat on him since I was a glutton for punishment, and so in return, he slapped me a few times until my lips busted before forcefully kissing me again and again and again. I had a bruised lip the next day and a sore throat.

He hasn’t done anything else since then except grind on me in the mornings or mark my neck or breasts with large, sloppy hickies. He would steal unwanted kisses every so often but his lips usually found my cheek or my forehead when I would turn away. If the bastard doesn’t remove my cuffs in the morning when he leaves, Groucho or Grumpy gets the pleasure of doing it before escorting me to the wall.

But today something happened that would change my fate. Little did I know it would end up being one of the worst days of my life.