Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  He caressed my face, running his fingers over my earlobe, down the column of my throat, the back of his fingers brushing across my collarbone. My breathing became broken, heavy. This was wrong, yet it didn’t feel so bad. My fear sat heavily and low in my belly, but farther down a different kind of weight was taking shape. I made a sound of protest, begging him in my wordless way to stop. He paused long enough to breathe me in before he continued. I shook my head slowly, trying to pull back but he held my head firmly in his other hand.

  “Look at me,” he said, his voice controlled, but wavering. I shut my eyes tight, slowly shaking my head again. He sighed. “I want you to look at me.”

  I didn’t obey, frozen with trepidation. This can’t be happening. Not to me. But it was happening, and I was unable to stop it. I whined, pulling my head back against his hand. He grew further agitated when I drew my hands up, touching his wrists.

  “No-o-o,” he said softly, as if reproving a child. My hands shook badly and my knees felt as though they might buckle. He tightened his grip in my hair, forcing my head up. I closed my eyes even tighter as soft, tearless sobs broke past my lips. I was treading the thin line of his patience while falling off the thin line of my sanity. He leaned in, kissed my cheek, then the nape of my neck. I sighed fretfully, pulled away, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. He touched my lips with his thumb, trying to hush my sobs and whimpers.

  “Where is all your bravery now, Pet? No clawing, no hissing? Where’s my tough girl?”

  My heart sank into my stomach. I had no idea where my bravery had gone. Had I ever really been brave? I don’t think so. I never had to be brave. I settled for being invisible, the person behind the camera. How I wished I could be invisible now.

  My voice was gone, strangled by the magnitude of the moment. I was in the grips of a panic attack when he let me go. I slid to the floor, covering my face with my hands as I told myself repeatedly, I am not here. This is a dream, a horribly fantastic dream. Any moment now, I’m going to wake up. I brought my knees to my chest and rocked back and forth. The mantra just made it seem more real.

  I didn’t cry when he picked me up. I knew it was coming. I felt hollow, as if my body were merely a shell holding my broken soul inside it. He carried me toward the bed, effortlessly standing me in front of it. Slowly, my eyes lost focus, as if my brain had begun shut down procedures. I simply stood, waiting. He swept my hair over my left shoulder, standing close behind me. I could feel his cock against me, hard, foreboding. He kissed my neck again.

  “No,” I pleaded, voice cracking. So this was what I sounded like, completely desolate. “Please…no.”

  His soft laugh fluttered against my neck. “That’s the first polite thing you’ve said.” He wrapped his arms around me as he spoke in my ear, “It’s only a pity you haven’t learned to speak properly. Feel free to try again. This time say, ‘Please no, Master.’ Can you do that?”

  I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to do anything but what he asked. I stayed silent.

  “Or maybe,” he licked my ear, “you need a push.”

  He stepped away from me abruptly, leaving my back open to the chilled air. I sunk to the floor, balling the comforter into knots as I pressed my forehead against it. He crouched behind me, rubbing my back. The will to fight him swelled inside me and, although I knew what I was getting into, I couldn’t stop myself. I threw my elbow back, hitting him in the shins. Pain shot through my elbow, and I couldn’t move for a few seconds. Shins of steel.

  “There’s my tough girl,” he said coldly. Grabbing a handful of my hair, he dragged me from the bed. I screamed wildly, digging my nails into his hand trying to get loose, but all my struggling was for naught. It was over before it began as he rolled me over onto my face and dug his knee between my shoulder blades. I was pinned. Defeated.

  “I hate you!” I roared. “I hate you, you horrible son of a bitch!”

  “I suppose it’s lucky for me that I don’t care,” he said, pitilessly, “I’ll tell you what does bother me; you still haven’t learned any manners. You could’ve gone easy, Pet, but I must confess…” I felt his breath on the side of my face, “I like it better this way.” He reached for something on the bed above us. I strained to see what it was, but his knee dug into me savagely.

  He labored to grab hold of my wrists, but quickly caught them both firmly in his left hand as he tied them together with soft cord, almost like silk. I cried as I struggled under him, still trying vainly to get away.

  I shut out any idea of the pain, of him tearing through my innocence, decimating my body. The eventual degradation, the afterglow of shame. This was better I supposed. I preferred him sick, twisted, and sadistic. It made it easier to define how I felt toward him. Gone were the images of the gorgeous angel sent down to save me. I had no business dreaming of his blue-green eyes, or the way his golden hair would feel in my hands. Even the smell of him would make me sick now. At least this way we would both recognize this for what it was: rape, not seduction, not the fantasy. There was no confusion. He was only the monster now. Just another monster.

  He pulled me off the floor by my wrists and, in one quick movement, hoisted my wrists over one of the bedposts until I stood precariously on tiptoe. I hung there on display; my body stretched tightly—everything exposed, my breath short. He grabbed my face roughly, “You know what your problem is, Pet? You haven’t learned to choose wisely. Dinner could have gone differently, but you chose this.”

  I had some smart-ass comment on the tip of my tongue. They were words meant to make him as angry as I was terrified, but then he kissed me. The kiss was violent, possessive, meant to lay waste to my comment where it crouched, ready to attack. There was no tongue; he was too smart for that, just the hard press of his full lips against mine. It was over before I had a chance to react.

  He went to the cart where the food had been and riffled through a black bag. My eyes widened. Where the hell did that come from? Nothing in life is as ominous as a black bag; a black bag meant business. A black bag meant planning, preparation, thoughtful packing. I suddenly felt very light headed.

  He returned with several items, smiling at me as though all this were normal. He set the items on the bed with care and due diligence. A leather collar was lifted for me to see; a wide leather band with a metal loop on each end, one of which had a small lock attached to it and a key. The collar also featured a little loop in the front. He put the collar around my neck quickly. Once secured, it put pressure on my throat. He dangled the key in front of my eyes before placing it on the nightstand. There was a long chain, similar to one used to walk a dog, but with a clasp on each end. He placed the chain over the bedpost making a loud clanking sound that startled me into screaming, and then fixed both clasps to the loop at the front of the collar. I had to look up at the ceiling to keep from feeling strangled. It became difficult to breathe the harder I cried, so I stopped, but the tears continued to fall down my face, making puddles in the crevasse of my ear.

  Please. Don’t. Don’t do this. I wanted to say the words out loud. To beg him. But I couldn’t form words anymore. I was too scared, and too angry, and too…prideful. All the things I should have done came all at once. More sobs.

  He ran his hands down my arms and massaged my breasts in his hands; my body trembled, my nipples peaked. Two thick leather wrist straps replaced the ribbon, fashioned very similarly to the collar around my neck, small chain links dangling on each end that could be locked together. He unhooked the chain from my collar to turn me around. I was relieved to be able to breathe. I didn’t much care that it was now being attached to the links of the wristbands. I had more freedom to move now, the chain had more slack and I could put my feet squarely on the ground. My forearms were pushed together, and then tied to the bedpost in front of me. This position made it completely impossible for me to move away from him, my arm muscles tensed under the strain. I was really scared now; I couldn’t hide it. He had me and only he knew what that meant.

&n
bsp; He stood back, presumably to assess me, or perhaps he was just admiring his work. Either way, his actions filled me with a sense of impending finality. I had challenged him and he had accepted. I stood facing the bed, my arms laced to the bedpost from wrist to elbow. I wore nothing but the mockingly sexy under things he had picked out.

  “Spread your legs,” he said evenly. When I didn’t, he came up close behind me insinuating himself between my legs. I let out a stunned yelp when his left hand cupped me between my legs. I tried to pull away. Useless.

  “If you don’t start doing what I say, I’m going to open up that little pussy of yours with my entire hand. You understand?” His voice was level but firm. His question was not a question at all, but a reinforcement of his threat.

  I whimpered loudly, but I nodded my head.

  “Good, Pet, now let’s have what I asked for.”

  He stood back once more and waited. Slowly I opened my legs, wider and wider, until he told me to stop. “Now move your hips back toward me.”

  I did as he instructed. I rested my head in the crook of my bound arms.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, pausing for the desired effect.

  “Fuck you,” I whispered, trying to hide my fear.

  The first blow struck me on the calves, flashing through my mind as a blinding white light. My mouth opened in a scream that was devoid of sound. I was most certainly not fucking ready for that! Frantically, I tried to look behind me. There was a belt in his hand. The scream that had been struggling to come out of my chest finally burst out.

  The second lick of the belt overlapped the first, coming so fast I couldn’t have expected it. My knees buckled, swinging my body toward the bedpost in front of me. My pubic bone struck the post. I wailed in pain, choking on my tears.

  “Straighten your legs,” he boomed. “If you black out, I’ll only revive you.”

  When I simply hung there by my arms, he continued. I heard the next blow before I felt it; the belt cut the air with a whistling sound before landing across my thighs. I struggled to get away. I moved this way and that, nearly pulling my arms out of the sockets as I twisted away from the blows. But time and again they landed on my skin. I screamed so hard, for so long, that I was unable to take in air.

  He brought the strap down with impossible force as he whipped my ankle. I immediately straightened my legs to rub my ankle with my other foot. He whipped at my calves as I jumped up and down trying to alleviate the pain. I picked up my feet, attempting desperately to rub away the sting. I never felt pain like this. I never dreamed pain like this was possible. My entire body tingled and throbbed and itched with pain.

  “Please, God, stop!” I shrieked. He hit me across my lower back. I thought I might faint.

  “No…not God. Try again.” A torrent of blows came crashing across my body. I wailed and shook. I writhed as I pulled on the bed trying to get loose from my bonds.

  “Master,” I yelled, “Master!” It hit me then, like the lashes he dealt out, as I screamed that hideous word, Master. He had finally won. I’d been wrong, the pain wasn’t better. Oh God, anything but the pain.

  “Finally,” he said grimly. “But don’t think you’re done, not even close. You have plenty to atone for.”

  I cried harder than I ever had in my life. Tears got sucked into my lungs, sobs caught in my chest. More? I can’t take any more.

  “Please, Master. Please, no more.” He paused long enough to pull my panties down. They were so drenched with sweat they stuck to my burning skin. I panted against my forearms, he had to stop. He had to. Was he trying to kill me? He cast the panties aside and pressed his fingertips to the welts across my backside. I moaned. He stood up, and brought the belt down across my buttocks, making a wet slapping sound.

  “Much better,” he said. “Every time you feel my belt I want you to tell me why you deserve it.” The belt landed with so much force across my butt that it wrapped around to strike between my legs. I clutched the bedpost in my hands pressing my face against my forearms, biting down against the pain. I could not search my mind fast enough to answer him, all I could do was scream and beg him to stop.

  “Do better,” he said and whipped me behind my knee.

  “I’m sorry I hit you!” I screamed; it was the only thing I could think of.

  “I hit you…what?” he growled. The slaps came so fast I lost track of how many. I bucked and screamed under the strap that beat me.

  “That I hit you, Master. I’m sorry.” It was a game, I knew that now. If I forgot to say ‘master’, he hit me several times; otherwise, he only hit me once.

  By the time it ended, my throat was raw, my body burned, and the word “Master” came easier to me than crying. My hair was strewn everywhere, sticking to the sweat that covered me from head to toe. My knees had given out on me during the beating. I hung by my arms, panting for breath. He was panting, too. He grabbed a brush from his bag and I whimpered.

  “Please, no more…Master, please, no more.” My voice rasped weakly, but he heard me.

  “Shhh, Pet.” He brushed my hair back gathering it in a bun on the back of my head. He gave me water as well, as much as I wanted. Most of the water dribbled down my body but it felt so good I found myself spilling it on purpose.

  I shook violently as I was untied. It was only a matter of unclasping the chain from the straps and untying my forearms, but as he unleashed me, he also unleashed an all new pain. I collapsed onto the floor and rolled onto my face. The prickling of the carpet tortured my skin. I yelped at the feel of his fingers digging into my abraded flesh as he lifted me.

  The comforter was much different. It felt cool, inviting, and I writhed against it, lifting my backside into the air. I didn’t care about what I looked like anymore. I had no decency or shame. He misted my body down with water and all I could do was moan.

  “This is going to hurt a little but I promise you’ll feel better when I’m done.”

  My body tensed. I pressed my buttocks together, afraid he wasn’t done with his belt yet. I flinched when his hands made contact with my wounded flesh. He rubbed me down with cold cream, the feel of it so delicious I leaned into his hands as he put it on. I was sure he broke skin in some places.

  I wanted to cry when he stopped, but didn’t. He lay down next to me, his face close to mine, but I did not turn away. I stared him directly in the eyes. But when he smiled, it was warm, inviting, kind even. Somehow, and against all odds, it still reminded me of the first time I met him. I shut my eyes.

  Exhausted, I fell asleep again. This time I did not dream.

  Chapter Five

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  Caleb shut the girl’s door behind him and locked it, putting the key in his pocket. He put his forehead to the closed door. He saw her body again, laying face down on the mattress, welts crisscrossing the back of her body from shoulder to ankle. He wanted to trace each one with the tip of his tongue, leaving no part of her untouched. Through the door he could hear her muffled crying, and a strange shiver ran through him.

  Tension coiled inside him, manifesting in his entire body, his muscles tight. He stretched his hands and then fisted them tightly, knuckles popping then relaxing. He loosened his body further, forcing himself to unwind. It was three in the morning. He was wired, sweaty, and in need of something, anything—a woman maybe. He looked away, the soft hue of the lights muted but illuminating enough.

  He liked this house. He liked it more with each passing week he spent inside it. From what he was told, it was once a sugar plantation until the Mexican revolution put an end to slave labor. The land was barren now, but the house still stood. The owner had spent hundreds of thousands remodeling the home, allowing for electricity throughout, though many things were still incomplete. The large, square kitchen still looked like it was falling apart, but you could see flashes of the new and modern. It had a fire stove, but a state-of-the-art microwave. The ceramic tile under his feet was probably original, but the fireplace was electric. In fact, the only room in
the house that was completely finished was the one he currently occupied—the master suite.

  In the background the girl continued to cry, and the sound of her sobs seemed amplified to his ears. When he shut his eyes his brain immediately sought the memory of her flushed body tied to the bedpost—open, at his complete mercy.

  Caleb let out a sigh and adjusted himself. Perhaps he’d visit the bar up the street and find a more than hospitable woman to take his mind off the girl behind the locked door. He raked his fingers through his hair and expelled another rush of air as he made his way across the kitchen. He opened the fridge door; the cool, swampy air felt good against his skin, too good. Every nerve ending in his body was alert at the moment. Even the clothes he wore added a friction when he moved. Propping his elbow on the refrigerator door, Caleb leaned in and wrapped his fingers around a bottle of Dos Equis. The condensation on the bottle instantly reminded him of sweat. He thought of the girl again, and other girls, past slaves; he never tired of their salty taste, and sweet smelling sweat. Only women could boast of such a thing. Only women were capable of being so fucking sexy you wanted to lick them clean when they considered themselves dirty. He shut his eyes, leaning his forehead against the freezer as he indulged in the base sensations that coursed through him. He smiled, faintly to himself, before it slipped away. He opened his eyes and pushed away from the fridge, shutting it softly. He had conquered and she had submitted. A small victory, but it was a start.

  Caleb popped off the cap on the bottle, letting the metal skid across the granite counter. He brought the beer to his lips. Strong, cold, carbonated fluid rushed down his throat dissipating some of the heat in his body. There was no denying how good he felt. He felt powerful, and nothing was more important than power. Even the girl seemed to know it, or she wouldn’t have tried to defy him at every turn.

  Caleb leaned against the counter, drink in hand but not drinking. The girl is absolutely crazy. His mouth tilted up at the corners, the smirk threatening to become a full blown smile. If she knew who she was dealing with, she wouldn’t try to provoke him so much. She was downright adversarial. He winced, remembering how her knee had collided with his balls. Fuck! She was lucky he hadn’t put a belt to her ass right then. Yet, if he had, perhaps the food incident might not have happened.