The Cami Files


He hasn’t revealed himself to me yet. He left a note with my first meal stating that I need to earn his presence. When he does speak to me, it’s through a slot in the heavy wooden door. His voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

My favorite silver and emerald watch is gone. He said I must earn that back, too. Yet he wants me up at 7 AM sharp every morning. How am I supposed to know what time it is when I have nothing in which to tell time?

I have no clue how many days have passed since I left my cousin’s reception. I’m still in the same dress I wore to the wedding. My shoes are lost. My favorite ruby-red Isaac Mizrahi four-inch satin heels. It feels weird to mourn the loss of my shoes, especially when I don’t know where I am or how long I’ve been gone. Missing.

The walls are cinder, the floor bare stone. Not even a rug. A cell. Pain radiated up my legs the first time I dared cross the floor to the toilet in the corner. At least he gave me running water and toilet paper that doesn’t feel like sandpaper. When I got back to the bed I looked at my feet, which had been covered in scrapes, with one long gash along the arch of my left foot.

With my second meal, he included a bottle of water. It was already opened when I got to it, but I was so beyond thirsty that it didn’t occur to me that someone might’ve tampered with it. Though it should have, because the next thing I know, I’m waking up to bandaged feet. A vague image of running down a gravel shoulder along a busy highway flashes through my brain. My feet must’ve been cut and scraped during that dash.

I’ve done the Dom/sub relationship before – big mistake that was – so it isn’t like I’m totally clueless. But for some reason I feel like he’s setting me up to fail…




I didn’t see his face today. The two minutes he talked to me, he barked orders about beginning my ‘training.’

He hasn’t given me different clothes. The one shower I’ve been allowed was ten minutes, the water tepid. I had to air-dry my hair, and I have no clean bandages for the gash on my foot. He said I had to earn hot water, like I’m some recalcitrant child being punished.

He left a note with dinner praising me for not badgering him with questions. Apparently he doesn’t want me challenging his authority or something. So far his dick moves have been having me nabbed, and not giving me different clothes to change into.

When I was in the shower someone took my clothes to the laundry, the red dress came back but my panties disappeared. He hasn’t replaced them. This guy is either a total pervert who collects panties as souvenirs, or he just doesn’t want me wearing any. I hope it’s the former. It’s easier to hate him that way. If it is the latter, well, I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

I haven’t missed any meals, so starvation isn’t his agenda. But the proffered fare has been rather basic. Not prison food, but not gourmet either. Obviously he wants me for himself. But if he thinks I’ll be his submissive little slave, he has another think coming. This girl only shows her submissive side to one man, and this stranger – this abductor – isn’t him.

The mattress is still hard and lumpy, but at least it’s a bed. He’s not making me sleep on the flagstone floor. The threadbare blanket was replaced with something a little heavier, for which I’m grateful. I spent most of last night shivering from the cold,  and I’ve been given a beautiful turquoise satin pajama set.

All I need to do – for now anyway – is to stay silent and play his sick little game.



He finally added to my wardrobe. I’m now the owner of four slinky dresses and two sexy new bras. Still no panties. If he were someone else, I’d be turned on beyond belief that he wants me this way. However, I refuse to give this pervert the satisfaction.

The dresses he gave me are slinkier than anything I’d ever worn before, showing far more skin than I’m comfortable with. But they skim my curves rather than cling to them, whispering over my body with a soft caress. And to be honest, they’re not something I’d ever choose for myself. Yes, I’m a dirty girl who loves to play in the bedroom, but I’m not a slut. I still dress modestly out in public. But, because they’re a change from the gown I’d worn to my cousin’s wedding, I’ll wear them.

He talked to me for about ten minutes today after breakfast. Again he praised me for not asking questions, and hinted at a face-to-face meeting soon if I continued my progress.

According to him, I’ve now earned hot water, though my showers are still ten minutes and I still have to air-dry my hair. And the bandages on my feet were fresh. I’d examined them before my shower this morning. The minor scrapes are pretty much healed, though the long gash on my left foot still seeped blood.

I had a weird dream last night, of two men arguing. About me, I think. And money. One was pissed because the other wouldn’t give him the full agreed-upon amount. The other shouted something about damages to the merchandise during shipping. I looked at my feet again. I’d also noticed a large, raw-looking abrasion – like road rash – on my left hip during my first shower, and my ribs have been aching since day one. I don’t think anything was cracked, but I’ve definitely been bruised. Knocked down from behind, maybe? That makes the most sense. I don’t remember.

For the most part, I haven’t been abused or mistreated by my captor, so my only real complaint is why he won’t tell me who he is or what he wants with me. And holding my tongue is getting more difficult with each passing day…


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