Page 61 of Enzo
I locked the door, then started the shower,
I let my feet soak for a while, then unplugged the bath, stood under the shower, and stared down at my erection through the falling water; I closed my hand around my cock. The sensation was strange—parts of me felt nothing, and other parts screamed with hypersensitivity. This was the first time since forever that I’d wanted to touch myself.
My fingers trembled as they traced the scars, the ridges, and the valleys that hadn’t been there before. I winced as I hit a sensitive spot. The steam from the shower clouded around me, but it couldn’t mask the evidence of what had been done to me.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice echoing against the tile.
I tried to stroke myself the way I’ve seen in porn, instinctive, but my body wasn’t responding right. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel the metal, the constriction, the pain when John had locked me away as a punishment, putting that key out of reach with that smile on his face.
“You’re mine now,” he’d said. “All of you.”
My hand froze. The memory was enough to make my stomach turn, but my erection didn’t fade. I took a deep breath and tried again, more gently this time, avoiding the worst scarring.
The scars weren’t just physical; they ran deeper than skin, through muscle and nerves.
I leaned on the shower wall, feeling the cool tiles beneath my shoulder blades. The contrast with the hot water made me shiver. Each touch brought pain where I expected pleasure, numbness where I needed to feel. The water ran down my chest, tracing patterns around my scars before continuing its journey downward. I closed my eyes, trying to remember what it was like before. Before John. Before the cage. Before I’d become this fucked up version of myself. My breathing quickened as I found a rhythm that workedwithmy damaged flesh rather than against it. The steam enveloped me like a cocoon, and I could pretend I was whole again.
I kept my movements slow, testing. A jolt of pain shot up from a gnarled patch of skin, making me hiss through clenched teeth. But I didn’t stop—not this time. I worked through the pain, and my knees buckled when I found a spot that felt good and focused there. My breath came faster now.
I can do this
It’s mine again.
Every stroke was a battle between pleasure and memory, between sensation and scar tissue. I leaned harder to the tile and thought of nothing, focusing only on the feeling. Not John. Not the cage. Not the night Enzo had found me half-dead in the garbage, my body ruined and fever-hot from infection.
Nothing happened. I wasn’t anywhere near close. I couldn’t do this.
I winced, adjusting my grip, finding the places where feeling still existed without pain. My forehead pressed against the cool tile as water cascaded down my back.
“Come on,” I whispered to myself, to my body, like coaxing a frightened animal. “Come on.”
The mechanics were there—I knew what to do—but my body had forgotten how to respond. Doc had told me about nerve damage, about scar tissue forming where it shouldn’t. “The physical wounds will heal,” he’d said, cleaning blood from places that should never bleed, “but the rest… you’re fucked.” Doc was blunt as hell, but he’d kept me alive, and for that, I’d forgive him for telling me the worst of everything.
A sudden flash of memory: John’s voice, the click of the lock, the way he’d tap the cage with his fingernail and threaten me when I kept my secrets and cried. I shuddered, nearly losing my erection altogether.
“No,” I growled, forcing the memory away. “He doesn’t get to take this from me!”
But it was already too late. Nothing came. My arousal faded, leaving only emptiness. I curled up under the pounding water, slid to the bottom of the tub, and cried until I couldn’t breathe. Knees to my chest, arms locked tight around them, I wept like I hadn’t since those first broken days after Enzo found me. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, lost in the stream of water swirling toward the drain.
“Fuck,” I choked out, the word sharp in the echo of tile. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I slammed my fist against the bath—not enough to bruise, just enough to remind myself I could still feel something. The water turned cold. I didn’t move. Time blurred. My forehead rested on my knees, and I let the cold seep in, too numb to care, but a thump on the door jolted me back to reality.
“Robbie?” It was Enzo’s voice, gentle but concerned. “You okay?”
I swallowed hard, my throat raw from crying. The water had gone cold now, my skin prickling with goosebumps.
“Yeah,” I managed, the word scraping past my lips. “Fine.”
“I’m coming in unless you tell me not to.”
“I locked the door! Go away!”
I clambered out of the bath, grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped myself in it, and then struggled into the robe on the door, rough against my hypersensitive skin. I pushed my feet into godawful bright orange shower slippers and let myself out. I couldn’t look at Enzo or bear to see the pity I knew would be there.
“Robbie?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped, scurrying down the stairs to my room.
