Chapter 20: Zuzanna

I have no idea how Zuzanna got into our house. She didn’t have a key. I haven’t got a clue how she knew I was in the attic. Would our dark torture attic scare the living shit out of her? The sound of someone climbing the attic stairs didn’t even scare me. I was that far gone. I was not feeling well. Overpowering all other sensations was an excruciating thirst, a burning in my throat that made swallowing nearly impossible.

I think I might have scared her when she saw me. I was hurting all over. My back felt I could never stand up again. My knees were not capable of carrying my weight any longer. Without the strap around my waist that was connected to the cage, preventing my fall, I would be a hopeless, sprawling mess of limbs on the cage floor at this very moment. I didn’t have the strength to sit on all fours any longer. The diaper had caught my excrement. It felt dirty and heavy. I had grown accustomed to the smell. My shoulder felt dislocated because of the heavy counterweight attached to my left hand. It was the only part of my body I could move. My right arm had long since gone numb. Maybe I had overused it and my shoulder was paying the price. I tried to ask her to release my ball gag first, but nothing came out.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, Zuzanna kept saying as she knelt in front of the locked cage. I did not know where the key was. I had thrown it away, but where it was now, I had no idea. Without even looking for it, she produced a key and opened the cage. I was so relieved that she - albeit clumsily and with shaking hands - untied my ball gag first. I looked at her and mimicked the word water. Despite wanting to shout it out, my voice wouldn’t cooperate.

Fortunately, she understood what I meant. I saw in her eyes she understood what had happened when she noticed the two water bottles unopened next to the cage. Quickly, she opened one bottle and poured a bit into my mouth. The amount provided was so meagre that it barely moistened my tongue, leaving me still parched and unsatisfied. Pour the entire contents of that bottle into my mouth. I want more and more of it! But she didn’t. She only gave me little sips of water at the time. I hated her. I’ve already suffered, so why did she not offer me more support — wasn’t that the least she could do? There is no need to deprive me of the precious water.

“Easy girl, easy now. Too much at once will harm you. Shh. Easy now. That’s a good girl, little sips.”

I gave her a dirty look. I want to drink litres, not sips. My voice cracked like a Bluetooth speaker on 1% battery. “More...”

“I can’t. It will make you sick. Let me untie you first. It was the first time she was in our attic, dungeon style. And yet without hesitation she walks to the drawer that holds the keys of the padlocks. One key for all, all keys for one. She opened the padlocks not in a logical order, but I couldn’t blame her for that. This girl was as crazy about vanilla as a grandma hoarding 47 Bath & Body Works coupons. When she released the chain on my left hand, the weight dropped to the floor. I hope the fall of the sand bag hurt it. I am beyond words to express the immense relief I felt at being able to move my hand freely, finally unshackled from the dead weight that had previously burdened every movement.

Finally, she had removed all the locks. I didn’t crawl out. I collapsed onto the floor. Unable to crawl out.

“That’s it. I am calling 1 1 2. You need to be checked in hospital. This is as far as my responsibility goes.” She grabbed her cellphone.

“No, please, no!” I croaked. I took a big swig of water. “No doctors, give me a minute, please. I am OK, just tired.” My voice sounded a bit stronger now. Summoning a willpower that even I found astonishing, I managed to free myself from my confinement by crawling out.

“See, nothing to worry about, just give me some time and I’ll be walking like a lapwing.” It’s a Dutch expression: walk like a lapwing - fast and furious. Zuzanna knew me well enough that if once I insisted on no ambulance, I meant it. “I do need a shower and a bath, in that order.” The steep staircase downstairs proved to be a challenge. But I got down in the end. In one piece. I leaned on Zuzanna to get me to the en-suite bathroom in the master bedroom. Zuzanna insisted on helping me to get rid of the bandages over my chest. And took the smelly diaper off and took care of disposing of it. The shower took care of the filth. The warm bath took care of the rest. My tits were not pretty: Red bumps everywhere. I did not have the courage to inspect the damage done to my pussy and ass. I suspect it looked like a battlefield as well.

It was Zuzanna, my most cherished friend, who came to me bearing a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, the potent citrus causing a painful, burning sensation upon contact with my mouth. It felt good. My tongue worked again. My mouth was alive once more. She drained some of the cold water and added some fresh, warm water again. She made me some toast and fed me little bits. And added warm water once more. It was only after what seemed like forever that my cramped muscles eventually relaxed, returning to me the feeling of being fully human again.

Zuzanna had turned into full mommy-mode, helped me out of the bath, and dried my battered body. Our conversation had been limited to practical instructions from her side, and a lot of moaning on mine.

“I will take you to my home, so I can take care of you.”

“That is unnecessary”, I weakly objected.

“I agree, but that is what were are going to do”, she said, rather grimly.

Her expression was one of clear and present anger, her face betraying her displeasure. Given the circumstances, her reaction was completely understandable, and it would be unfair to blame her. With an enormous bed dominating the bedroom and a cage underneath, well, it’s not exactly your average bedroom, is it? I lacked the strength to fight her over that. To be honest, I was in the mood for a little pampering and a bit of comforting attention.

I locked up the house before getting into Zuzanna’s car for the drive to her place. She took me straight to her guestroom. I undressed and went to bed. She tucked me in like a child. Exhaustion was responsible for falling asleep within minutes of lying down in bed.

Zuzanna woke me up the next morning with breakfast in bed.

“We need to talk.” I said. We sure did. Since yesterday, we had said little. Not anything that mattered, anyway.

“I know. And we will. Take a shower. Use that Edula cold cream in the bathroom. I have some clothes for you to wear as well. Whenever you are ready, I am in the kitchen.”

Second day. It always looked the worst. No exception today. The cold cream brought some relief from the itching that I still felt. Ugly. With my bald head, my red titties covered in small rashes. My pussy was hardly visible due to all that redness. Things did not go according to Jutta’s plan, as she had envisioned. It was not her fault. My carelessness and stupidity led to this. I owed it to Mistress Jutta that she had constructed a safety net for me. I should have known better than not to check everything twice.

I came into the kitchen. Zuzanna was kneading dough for a loaf of bread. Zuzanna believed in baking her own bread. She made me a cup of coffee. As I sat there at the table looking at Zuzanna fighting with her dough, memories of our long friendship flooded my mind, mixing with a heavy sense of guilt that weighed down my heart. I recalled the countless moments when Zuzanna had been my unwavering support, always ready with a kind word or a listening ear. Yet, in Zuzanna’s time of need, I had been absent, lost in my own world. The realisation struck me like an icy wave: I had prioritised my own life over the pain that Zuzanna was enduring alone after losing her husband.

I felt a tightening in my chest as I watched my friend, the once vibrant spirit now dulled by grief. The guilt gnawed at me, reminding me of the late-night calls and texts I never sent, the visits I never made. It was a burden I couldn’t shake, an ache rooted knowing that I had let Zuzanna down when she needed me most. I desperately wanted to reach out and take Zuzanna’s hand, to express how deeply sorry I felt, but the weight of my absence held me back. My love for Zuzanna was clear, yet it felt overshadowed by the sorrow of my neglect. As I sat in silence, the air thick with unspoken words, I vowed to repair what I had broken, wishing only for a chance to be the friend Zuzanna always deserved.

“I am sorry”, Zuzanna said with her back to me.