Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

  “Carry your clothes, Jasmine,” he commands robotically. He has my clothes neatly folded, stacked in a small pile in his massive hands, and I take them because I don’t have the energy to throw them only to have to pick up each item again.

  He doesn’t wait for me to speak, I don’t think he even expects me to as he moves toward the door, grabbing my shoes from the floor on his way — but then he stops short. Tilting one of the sneakers, he stares at it for a long moment before he turns those flat brown eyes on me.

  “You hurt yourself,” he accuses with that ridiculous deadpan delivery that makes everything he says some kind of joke — but this might be one of the funniest things he’s said. A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat, and it cracks out in a dry, choking huff.

  “Really?” I tuck the bundle of clothes against my chest just so I can point at the shoe that looks so damn small in his grip. “You’re worried about the fucking shoes hurting me?” My brain is too tired for this bullshit. Another weak laugh croaks free as I watch his placid expression twitch, a tiny movement as he slowly turns over the comment, but I’m too impatient to wait him out. “You hurt me. You! With the fucking wooden stick, and the goddamn belt, and— and you fucked me in the ass! YOU HURT ME; NOT THE FUCKING SHOES!”

  It feels good to yell at him, but there’s no real satisfaction in it. He never rises to it, never shouts back, and that was the last of my energy anyway. When he comes closer, those heavy boots thudding on the concrete, I’m ready for whatever he wants to do — but he only grabs my chin, which is more like grabbing the bottom half of my face because he’s completely out of proportion with normal people.

  “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Jasmine. It’s wrong.”

  ‘Wrong? You want to talk to me and God about ‘wrong’ right now, motherfucker?’ The thought flashes through my mind, the urge to say it aloud even singes the tip of my tongue, but with him tilting my head back I can’t open my mouth even if I want to be that stupid.

  “There is blood in the shoes. I’ll clean you up.” He releases my face and turns his gaze to my feet like he’s sizing up one of the cows outside. “You’ll clean up the mess you made tomorrow.”

  Rolling his shoulder is the only warning I get before he bends and tosses me over it like a fucking caveman. He turns toward the door and I see it. On the floor where I stood while he hurt me, violated me, there are dark smears on the pristine concrete. My blood in smudged footprints. He wants it cleaned, but now I’m almost upside-down, scrambling to hold onto the clothes, and as soon as I secure them I wonder why I did it in the first place. I don’t care about the clothes, but I maintain my death grip on them as he carries me outside, balancing my weight like he can’t even feel it. He tilts me, wrapping one arm over my hips as he opens the door, and then I’m fully in his arms. Cradled by the monster that won’t end this game once and for all.

  It’s somehow worse to be held gently by the man who has done everything he can to destroy me with violence and false kindness. Yeah, he’s held me like this before. Carried me when I was too weak to stand after he was done teaching me another lesson.

  Just one more thing he calls ‘love.’

  At least he doesn’t kiss me this time. The spell breaks and he leans into the cab of the truck, dropping me into the seat, and I yelp. My whole body goes rigid as pain flares violently between my thighs. Breathless, I stare at the ceiling of the cab and wonder if I actually did break something on the damn wooden rod. It would be a kind of glorious irony if one of his punishments ruined the only reason he was keeping me alive. What’s the use of a sex doll you can’t fuck?

  Although, why I think a broken pelvis would stop him… I don’t know.

  As I pull in slow, shuddering breaths, the shock wears away, the pain fades, and I know I’m not broken. Or, at least, my bones are still intact. After a few moments, the exhaustion starts to win, and my tense muscles shake with effort to keep my sticky ass off the seat. Shifting my weight, I lean into the center console and carefully lower myself. Even as cautious as I am, I become keenly aware of the fierce welts, the deep bruising I’m certain I’ll see in the morning, and the throbbing ache that seems to own every inch of space between my legs.

  This time was definitely worse.

  He shuts the door without comment, and I watch him walk around the front of the truck. Slowly, not a care in the world, no rush because I can barely sit. He knows I won’t be fighting back anytime soon, won’t be running again — maybe ever.

  No, you can run again. You just have to plan better. Find your shoes, not whatever unfortunate girl wore the ones you just bled all over. Don’t give in.

  ‘Don’t give in.’

  I’ve said those words in my head almost every day of this hellscape. I screamed it at first, promising myself I’d fight. Filled with so much fucking hope the day he found me, took me, hurt me that first time. But with each day, each new failure, that voice gets quieter. Softer. Weaker. And I know there will come a day when I don’t think it at all.

  Then a whole week. A month. A year.

  I’ll be as empty and dead as I need to be so I don’t have to be here anymore. Maybe that’s what Stockholm Syndrome is… finally escaping and leaving the version of you in place that doesn’t get tied to the wall of a barn and brutalized by some fucked-up double penetration designed by a monster. As I try to shift in the seat, another stab of pain steals my breath on a gasp, and I’m having trouble finding a downside to that possibility. If I’m honest, it sounds like a pretty good plan. I wanted to be an actress before this hell, I wanted a lot of things in life, but now playing the part of his ‘good wife’ might be the only thing that makes this nightmare bearable. Just give in and commit to the only role anyone ever chose me for.

  How fucking sad is that?

  The truck rocks as he climbs in and shuts the door, the internal light glowing on his forehead where twin, fading lines trail from hairline to eyebrow.

  I did that to him. Early on. During the first week when he climbed on top of me, trying to fuck me again in the middle of the night. I’d aimed for his eye, but just ended up making him bleed. It had felt like a victory until he realized how much safer it was to take me from behind. Before I’d spent enough time in the barn to know better than to try to hurt him.

  Now I know the truth.

  There is no defeating him. There are only two options — escape, or die here.

  * * *

  Him

  Jasmine isn’t talking. I know this is just her thinking about her punishment. When she gets angry, when she yells, it means she doesn’t understand… and that’s when I have to remind her of her place.

  Here. With me.

  But when she’s quiet, meek, I know that the punishment has made a difference. Thinking about it, about why she earned it, will help. It’s only through pain that we learn the harshest lessons life has to give, and she has to learn. I’d be failing her as a husband if I didn’t teach her.

  Still, even making soft sounds of pain in the passenger seat, Jasmine is perfect. Her dark hair is tangled around her shoulders, and I reach to pluck a leaf from it — but she winces, so I leave it. For now.

  She’s dirty, filthy from lying on the ground after she realized her mistake. There’s nowhere for her to go, nowhere she’s supposed to be except here, and I know that is what made her stop running. It’s why she lay down by the driveway and waited for me to find her. If she’d made it out to the county road, someone else might have tried to take her from me.

  That idea makes me grip the steering wheel hard, my heart pounding in my chest. Vision tunneling on the dimming light that coats the dash, and I force myself to turn the key in the ignition before I lose myself. Dad’s truck turns over, rumbling under us, keeping us safe — Jasmine is safe — and I know they’d be proud of me. For finding a wife that will meet their expectations as soon as she understands. Jasmine has always been so close to perfect, and Dad taught me how to correct mistakes. He taught me how to fix the smal
l imperfections that would keep her from realizing her true potential — and I won’t fail her. Not again.

  I’ll do whatever it takes to make her right.

  Shifting the truck into gear, I turn toward the house and let the truck roll slowly over the uneven ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her flinching, wincing. Her breath catches on the bigger dips, her body shifting as she lets out the smallest sounds of pain.

  This is the way I should have always done it. Pain is educational. Suffering brings us closer to glory when we fall short of the state God has meant for us. Jasmine is still learning, and I love her for her strength. It’s just one more piece of proof that she was always meant to be mine.

  “Wait here. I will carry you,” I say as I turn the truck off in front of the house. Most of the lights are still on from when I searched for her, before I’d realized she’d left, and so the windows still glow in the weak light of morning.

  I’m tired, but when you love someone you take care of them. Punish their mistakes, lead them to the true path, and tend them when they need you.

  Jasmine needs me now.

  I take each step carefully around the truck, keeping my eyes on the dirt instead of on her naked body. If Momma was alive she’d be angry that Jasmine isn’t dressed, but the clothes are so dirty, and so is she. She needs to be clean more than she needs to be hidden. No one will see her nakedness except me, and I can see her. Husbands are allowed to see their wives as God intended.

  That is the thought I pull front and center as I open the door, and her soft curves are revealed again. Part of me just wants to take her to the bedroom, to hold her against me and tell her how much I love her — but we both need to be clean. You don’t get into bed when you’re dirty. I know that, and so does she.

  “Leave the clothes, Jasmine,” I command, and I’m comforted by how she tries to tuck the shirt and shorts into a neat stack as she sets them on the center console. She understands. She knows that what she did was wrong. She took her punishment, and now I can remind her of what a good husband does when his wife is penitent.

  I pick her up as carefully as I can, mindful of the marks on her backside as I lift her against my chest. Her weight is a comfort, a reminder of my responsibility, and I kick the door shut so that I can carry her home.

  The stairs up to our bedroom call to me, but I avoid their temptation and march straight to the downstairs bath once we’re inside. As soon as I set her on the small counter beside the sink, she flinches, hissing air between her teeth as her delicate fingers clench at the edge. White-knuckled and taut. Yet, for once, her knees stay apart, like she is welcoming me as a wife would a husband.

  If only I hadn’t spilled my seed in the barn.

  Brazen, I stroke my hands over her smooth thighs, the golden hue a reminder of just how much of herself she’s allowed to be seen by others. I feel the jealousy, the urge to protect what is mine, but I push it back down as I turn away from her to gather the antiseptic and a cloth. Forcing my eyes to look only at her feet, I shake my head and dig out the gauze from its small case near the back of the cabinet. Dad built this furniture with his own hands, and he’d be proud of how it supports my wife — of how I am supporting my wife. I won’t be tending to the marks from the belt, because punishments don’t deserve first aid, but she’d hurt herself before I’d ever found her. I’d gone out to the edge of the property, worried for one fleeting moment that I’d lost her to the dangerous, corrupting world outside.

  But, no. She knew better than to go so far. I found the end of her tracks. Found where she waited for me, and for that she has earned the care I can provide.

  I don’t rise from the floor as I shut the cabinet. Instead, I move to kneel in front of her, delicately lifting one foot, and then the other, to see the damage she’s done. Blisters, already broken and weeping, several spots on her heel and the balls of her feet are raw. Bleeding. That is what ruined the shoes, marred the floor in the barn. I know I shouldn’t have left the barn in such a state. The longer the stains sit, the deeper they’ll embed themselves, but we both need sleep.

  To be clean, and to sleep.

  The bottle of antiseptic is heavy, barely touched, and I’m careful as I tilt it onto the rag. Just enough to wet it, and I feel it bubbling against my fingers before I even drag it over the bottom of her foot. Jasmine jerks, whining, but I catch her ankle to keep her still.

  “Please…” she whimpers, softly, and I am sure this hurts. I remember the sting of the antiseptic too, and I steel myself against her quiet sounds of discomfort as I disinfect her injuries. The cloth is a mixed set of dark smudges of dirt and the pale pink of her blood before I’m done. Cleanliness is important, more important than her comfort for now, but I will welcome her into our bed soon. I will remind her that she has not strayed so far that she cannot be saved.

  In a matter of minutes, I’m finished. Twisting the cap back onto the little bottle, I raise my eyes to the place between her legs. I shouldn’t look, shouldn’t stare, but her flesh is flushed pink and swollen. Through the thin smattering of hair, she is still shining from the lubricant I provided. It had been a gift, but she hadn’t understood it as such. She’d screamed, fought, and I had done what any good husband would as I’d held her firmly until she’d accepted her mistake, and her punishment.

  She cleansed herself through the pain, while I became weak. Unable to hold my needs as I watched her naked body jolt and twist.

  I will punish myself later. For spilling my seed in a forbidden place… but even the memory of her body accepting me in all ways has my manhood twitching. Tempted by the gift of Eve that is inherent in all women.

  Stop.

  Tearing my gaze from her, I stand and turn the tap on in the bath. Waiting for it to warm, I begin to disrobe again. This time, I keep my back to her, folding each item and setting it in the wire-frame hamper until I am naked, and steam balloons out of the basin of the tub. A sharp tug pulls the curtain around the curve of the bath, and I switch the flow to the shower head, testing it with my hand and adjusting the temperature until it’s only warm, not so hot it would burn her perfect skin.

  “Come here, Jasmine,” I beckon, holding out my hand.

  Pain flashes in her expression as she slides off the counter, ignoring my hand as she approaches, but she comes to me. As much as she wants to be chaste, she knows where she belongs. I take her hand anyway, helping her into the stream of the shower before I join behind her. Jasmine relaxes in the warmth, breathing deeply, her eyes closed as she steps forward and lets the water sluice over her head and shoulders. I can’t resist the urge to touch one of the trails flowing down her side. She twitches, tenses, and I brace my other hand on her opposite hip.

  “I want to shower alone,” she whispers.

  “No.” I shake my head, but she can’t see it as she stares straight ahead. “I will help you.”

  Jasmine moves slightly, a little further into the stream, and I appreciate it because it means some of the warm water hits me. I take advantage of the chance to grab the soap, lathering it up on my own skin before I start to wash her.

  This… this I’m certain she understands. The washing of feet, the cleansing of another to show care, reverence, love. I’m positive Jasmine feels it with every swipe of the soap, just as I am positive I should not enjoy this. My manhood should not react to the supple feel of her breast. Not now. Not when I am caring for her like this.

  Still, some things are simply beyond the capacity of man. We are flawed, fallen, and therefore driven by the traits Satan drew out of us in the garden. But I refuse to be ashamed of my nakedness, of the steadily hardening length at my hips, because Jasmine is my wife. Each of our unions is blessed.

  “Don’t. Please don’t?” she pleads as my fingers slide over her backside, gliding down the crack to clean her. Her small fingers wrap around my wrist, but she doesn’t try to move my hand away. She just twists, and the swell of her breasts shines in the pale light.

  “You have to be c
lean,” I explain, using the slickness of the soap to move one finger inside just a little. Remembering the way her body gripped me, pulled, urged me deeper with every squeeze until I was lost. She whines, releases me to obey like the good wife I know she can be, and perhaps I linger too long as I glide my finger back and forth. This is where I spent myself. Not in her womb, not where it may be fruitful, but, still… my seed is not a sin inside her. I try to remind myself that I only entered her other hole because she was being punished, and it would have been wrong to end her punishment for my own satisfaction. Part of her redemption was the dowel, the belt, but the other was in redeeming herself to me. In serving my needs. “Clean yourself, Jasmine.”

  I direct her hand between her legs, and she only fights for a second as I press closer to her back. Pushing her hand to the valley at the top of her thighs as I work my finger back and forth, preserving the memory of the tight, forbidden place I’ve allowed myself to explore. She used such vulgar words, still so angry, embarrassed at being punished for her transgressions, but it is my job to show her that there is nothing hidden between man and wife. Nothing is truly forbidden in the eyes of God when two people are bound together as Jasmine and I are.

  The first stroke between her thighs is stiff, tentative, and I push harder, forcing her hand flat against her skin as I guide her fingers through the process of cleaning away the lubricant. “Like this, Jasmine,” I whisper.

  “Please stop…” There is something else in her tone, perhaps tears, more contrition for her failings, but all of that has been cleaned away. Just as all of the dirt and grime is being carried away by the water.

  When her touch is still tentative, I abandon her back entrance to hold her hip in place and push her fingers inside. She trembles, a keening sound leaving her lips as she presses back against my chest. Seeking shelter, my guidance, my hand — and it would be wrong to abandon her now. Wrapping my arm over her waist, I hold her still so that I can trace her folds. Erasing the lingering mess, dipping my fingers inside her to ensure she is clean. I feel her shudder, her back arching, which brings her backside in contact with my manhood and my response is instantaneous. Completely hard, pulsing, all I want is to be inside her again. The right way. Where my seed is meant to lie.