Read Uncovering You 5: Confessions Online
Authors: Scarlett Edwards
Uncovering You 5: Confessions
Table of Contents
Important Note from Scarlett About the Uncovering You Plot Timeline
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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Uncovering You 5:
Confessions
by Scarlett Edwards
July 25, 2014
EDWARDS PUBLISHING
Uncovering You 5: Confessions
contains scenes of intense emotional and physical abuse. Readers with sensitivity to such subjects are advised to proceed with caution.
The story of
Uncovering You
unfolds over multiple volumes.
Currently Available:
Uncovering You 1: The Contract
Uncovering You 2: Submission
Uncovering You 3: Resistance
Uncovering You 4: Retribution
Uncovering You 5: Confession
s
Coming Soon:
Uncovering You 6
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:
Forty-six seconds
.
***
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. All my muscles are loose, but somehow heavy at the same time. It’s not a comfortable feeling.
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.
Oh, God
.
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.