“You’ll write what I want you to write, and that’s that, goddammit!”
Moira flinched as a meaty hand slammed the table in front of her, punctuating the sentence with a slap.
“No,” she breathed firmly, “I won’t. I’m not a smut writer, and I won’t start just because you’re threatening me. I write what I want, and kidnapping me won’t matter, you fucktard. You’ll never get what you want from me. Sick bastard.”
Moira could hear him grinding his teeth as he growled under his breath at her refusal, but she refused to cave in to his sicko demands.
She’d been here for just over 3 nights now, or 4 days…she couldn’t really tell. She knew she was underground in some kind of bomb shelter, since she could smell the musty, mildewy smell of old water on concrete, but he’d fixed the place up…almost nice.
Creepily so.
The walls were covered with faux wood panels, that had pictures and paintings hanging from them, to add some semblance of “windows”, even to having curtains hung around a few. It was – homey – and macabre, all at the same time.
The table at which she was now seated was real wood, a deep butcher’s block kitchen- style surface, ready to seat at least 6 people, but currently only holding her and an old manual typewriter, a fresh ream of paper, & a cup full of freshly sharpened Number 2 pencils.
Exactly like she’d told Author’s Gazette last month when she’d done that article about her writing habits, & her quirks about liking to have pencils on hand for the odd note-taking, twirling, putting up her hair in a bun when really getting serious, & chewing on the erasers when she got stuck on plot points.
“Alright. Well, you’ll stay here until you write what I want, then.”
************
“Are you going to write it yet?”
“No, go to hell, asshole.”
“Supper’s on the table.”
“Carrots and cheese sticks again?”
“Bologna tomorrow. You know you get meat once a week.”
“Fuck off”
“Write it.”
“Die.”
****************
“Maybe…maybe if I just… No, I can’t. But…then he’d let me leave, right? Yeah, sure, after all this time…he’d just let me go. What, it’s been how long? How many weeks, months…ohh…god…so long…he’s never going to let me go…”
***********************
“Write it”
“Never”
“WRITE IT!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
“THEN JUST DO IT ALREADY!”
“no”
“Then die”
“You first”
*************************
“Crunch…crunch….crunch…..”
“carrots all gone…hehe hehe…”
********
“OH GOD! What did you do!!”
The blood dripped from the table, smeared along the walls, spelling out “Never” before slumping into an indecipherable scrawl near the bed where the dead woman lay. All her fingers bitten off, strewn about on the floor and tabletop.
“No, dammit! I never got my story!”
He flipped her over onto her back, furious, noticing as he did so, that she was smiling, with her own thumb, firmly wedged in her own mouth and throat.
Well…it was an opposable thumb, after all.
Brea's Air 
The. pun. Oh my gosh. Great story!
Thanks!