MY SWEET VILLAINTINE

by My Sweet Villain

  My light has long since darkened—if I ever had one—but hers could keep me warm.

  Hair like spun copper riots in damp tangles around her face. Eyes like dark steel cloud with pain.

  I watch her chest rise and fall with measured breaths. She squeezes her small hands into fists, and I recognize exactly what she’s doing. In this horrible place, nearly beaten to death, with a hit man looming over her, with every reason to just let go…she’s fighting for consciousness.

  “Please.” Her voice is scratchy and barely above a whisper, but that’s all it takes. One word. One look at her bruised rosebud mouth and I’m done. Wrecked. I know deep in whatever’s left of my soul—she’s mine.

  “I’ll take her.” I bark the statement back to 4112. Surprising myself as much as I surprise him.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  My jaw clenches and I turn to face him. I hate when people play stupid, so it’s a struggle not to throttle him. “Then I’ll make it simple for you. You want her off your hands. I will take her. Go get her contract.”

  The light shifts in his eyes, cold and calculating. “Of course. We’ll just negotiate terms.”

  “No,” I snarl, then force myself to moderate my tone. “You were going to pay me to kill her.”

  “I have the right to use her body as I see fit. You do not. Until we negotiate and settle on a price.”

  “She’s broken. Damaged property. How much can she be worth?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who wants her.” 4112 smirks. “A very favorable bargaining position for me.”

  My arms tense. The urge to jam my gun into the soft flesh under his chin and ask him how favorable that position feels nearly overpowers me. But I force myself to relax. If I suddenly start killing my clients, it won’t be good for business. “How much did you pay?”

  “Fifty thousand. But I’ve trained her. She’s worth more now. This pliant, come-hungry slut before you is my masterpiece.”

  I turn back to her and absorb even more of the horror. The dirty mat, the way her wrist is bent at an awkward angle. “She’s a mess.”

  “That’s the beauty, my friend.” He brushes past me to crouch down on the floor beside her and smooth a hand over her thigh. Like petting the flank of a horse. “I bought her to break her. She signed up for this.”

  She flinches at his touch. A barely perceptible movement, but I’ve spent my life watching with senses finely attuned. She may have signed up to be used. But she didn’t sign up for his sick game. She didn’t sign up for death. Did she?

  Something unfamiliar flickers in my gut. I don’t have a word for it. A terrible tenderness. A burn to possess her. To heal her and hurt her…just the way she needs.

  My cock twitches. I would be a better owner. I would deliver her from this.

  For what? The only thing I know how to deliver is death…bullets don’t fall in love with their targets.

  “Do you want to be mine?” I ask her. But she just stares blankly.

  4112 snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Answer him. It’s fine. I’m done punishing you.”

  “Please.”

  There’s that word again. Such a pretty word on her lips. Not a word I hear very often. Mine is not a world of persuasion. My targets don’t beg for their lives. They never have that chance. They’re dead—a shot to the head, the heart—before they even know they’re in my cross hairs.

  I do some mental math. Client 4112 has already transferred ten thousand dollars into my numbered account. A nonrefundable deposit. Half of my cleaner fee. Balance due upon completion.

  He’d have owed more for a hit, and he knows it.

  I don’t want to pay this man a penny, even as I know I would pay anything to keep this beautiful, broken doll. “I’ll return your $10K. That’s it.”

  “And I want a future job. A credit. A favor. Anything I want.”

  “Don’t call me to clean up another slave.”

  He looks at the girl again, face softening. “I can’t promise.”

  “If you call me for that, you won’t like the way I choose to neutralize the problem.”

  “Have you ever owned a person? Held their very life in your hands? What am I saying? Of course, you’ve held lives in your hands. But this is different. Taking a person to the very edge of their humanity, seeing how far they’ll bend before they break… It’s heady.” His eyes are bright. Fevered. “I’ve made myself a god. You will too. You’ll see.”

  Bile rises in the back of my throat. “I could just kill you now and take her.”

  “You could. My associates would not like that at all. You’re a businessman. Let’s do business. I agree to your terms. If I have need of a…cleaner…I’ll call another agent. Otherwise, you owe me a favor.”

  He extends his hand, but I don’t want to touch him. I know owing this man anything is a mistake. The girl shifts again; her tiny whimpers of pain are a terrible sweetness. Her will to live… I recognize it for what it is. A fatal flaw. We’re made of the same stuff, she and I. This broken girl’s strength will be her destruction. Or mine.

  It might be a mistake, but I have to have her. I nod my agreement, and our bargain is struck.

  GIRL

  Sir looms over me. “I’m going to transfer your ownership to this man. You know what that means? Answer yes or no.”

  He grabs my face, rough fingers dig into my cheeks, and the new man grunts his displeasure. “No touching.”

  Sir lets go, and my body relaxes. This new man is stronger than Sir. But that doesn’t make sense. Nobody is stronger. Sir is the whole universe. Sir is letting go because he wants to let go. Not because the new man told him. That’s the only way that makes sense.

  “Answer,” Sir commands.

  “Yes.” I know it means he can take me back at any point. He’s told me so many times. He owns me forever. He can give me to whomever he wants, but I’ll always be his.

  “Take her.” I flinch at the words. What have I done to displease Sir? To make him abandon me? I did everything he asked. Even when I thought it might kill me.

  The new man gathers me in his arms. Everything hurts, but I don’t have the energy to be afraid. This is what Sir wants, so it is good. I have to trust and accept.

  MICAH

  I don’t have a place for her in my basement apartment. She deserves a fluffy bed with a mountain of pillows after what she’s been through. All I have is darkness, four walls, and a cot. Everything is hard. Spartan. I grew up with even less; I see no need for pointless luxuries now.

  Survival matters more than anything. She needs fluids and sleep. I set her on my cot and wrap her in a rough blanket.

  “I’m Micah. What’s your name?”

  Her eyes are wide. “Whatever you want it to be.”

  “I know.” This is the life she chose. One of servitude and pain. I can give her what she desires. “I’ve asked you a question, and you will answer it. You had a name once. Tell me now.”

  Tears well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “We’ll work on that, angel.”

  Panic flickers across her face, and she pulls the rough blanket tight around her. “Please don’t call me angel. It’s wrong.”

  A gruff laugh catches in my throat. What is wrong? A monster calling his new slave angel? A man making himself a god? A broken doll who can’t see her own shine? “That’s not how this works. You don’t decide things. That’s my job. I’m going to take care of you now. I’m going to give you everything you need.”

  “You’re going to hurt me.”

  There’s a sadness in her voice, a vulnerability that strips me to the quick, and I know she means something more by that than the twisted sex we both crave. Smart girl. “Of course I am. What shall I call you while I do it? What name do you want on my lips while I destroy you?”

  I don’t tell her that I think I’m going to destroy us both.

  She shakes her head, sandy lashes brushing her cheeks. “Sir
called me slut. Whore.”

  “Those words mean nothing. They may tell me what you are, but they don’t tell me who. Who are you here?” I touch the tip of my finger to her chest. “Inside. I own all of you now. Not just your body.”

  Her eyes squeeze shut, but she doesn’t turn away. “Nothing. Nobody.”

  If I were a decent man, I’d drop her at a shelter. Or an emergency room. Somewhere with people who could actually help her while she can still be helped. Instead, I head to the cupboards over the sink in my efficiency kitchenette. Next to the first aid kit, I find a loose packet of hot cocoa mix. It had to be left behind by the previous tenant because there’s no way I’d purchase that for myself. On impulse, I rip it open, drop the powder into a clean mug, and fill it with hot water from the tap. As I stir it, I watch the tiny pellet marshmallows reconstitute and disappear.

  Her wrist is too weak to support the weight of the cup, so I press it to her lips. “Drink.”

  Tears roll down her cheeks as soon as the liquid hits her mouth. She gulps the watery sweetness, and some of it dribbles down her face. I set the mug on the floor beside the bed, open the battered first aid kit, and begin to tend to her wounds.

  Her tongue darts out, swiping across her chin, catching the drops she’d failed to swallow. Whatever husk of a heart I have nearly breaks for the untamed sweetness of it.

  “Thankyouthankyou.” Her gratitude is too much, too effusive for nothing more than tepid water and sugar. It’s sad. Deeply sad. I wonder what her life was like before she started this one. I think maybe she was always this sad, but I’m desperate to know.

  “I’m going to call you dolorita,” I tell her as I wind a brown bandage around her delicate arm. “Do you know what that means?”

  “No,” she says, still licking her lips, obviously savoring every molecule of chocolate. That she can enjoy anything—want anything—after her time with 4112 is unbelievable. I wonder what she’ll enjoy after her time with me.

  I take a sip from the cup myself—maybe I’ve stumbled on to some magic elixir—and nearly gag. I haven’t had anything but water or black coffee for decades, and this is like drinking syrup. I must have had cocoa as a child, at school or in one of the group homes, but I don’t remember this taste at all. It doesn’t matter. There’s never been much room in my life for sweetness. But her gratitude? I could become accustomed to having that.

  I dry her mouth with the edge of the blanket. “Dolorita means little sorrow. It suits you.”

  DOLORITA

  For what seems like weeks, he does very little but leave me food and water. No more warm cocoa, but I’m a little relieved. Those few sips were delicious but they gave me a terrible bellyache. Each night, he watches me undress and stands outside the shower stall while I wash myself under the steaming jets. His hazel eyes rake over my naked body—a steady, searching gaze. Hard. Clinical. He does not touch me.

  I don’t understand. I exist to be touched. To be used. Each night, I expect Sir to return for me. At first with anticipation, but later with growing fear.

  Micah tells me I’m his now.

  The plain white bar of soap on the shelf smells just like him. I rub it over my body and imagine him sliding it over his bronze muscles, scrubbing his close-cropped hair, soaping his penis with the harsh lather. I slip my soapy hands over my breasts and imagine his hands on me. Rough fingers, thick and invasive. I dip between my legs and furtively brush over my clit.

  He clucks his displeasure, and I shiver. That subtle reprimand is a balm to my soul. I’m not to touch myself. He will give me what I need when he decides I need it.

  Outside the shower, I dry off with the same white towel I used the day before. It’s a little stiff, but it’s not dirty. He watches me do this too.

  There are no other toiletries besides a tube of generic baking powder toothpaste. Even so, it feels like a trip to a spa after my time with Sir. I haven’t been clean since… I can’t remember. Now I fall asleep each night with damp hair and brushed teeth. Safe and warm on my cot.

  For the first time in a long time, I try to focus on the past. It’s slippery and sharp. Remembering feels dangerous. The girl I see in flashes of memory can’t be me.

  When I finish my nightly routine to his satisfaction, he hands me a clean white undershirt from his dresser drawer. The soft cotton hangs loose over my thin frame and lands just below my bottom, barely concealing anything, making me more aware of my nakedness than actual nudity. On him, these shirts stretch taut over his biceps and pecs and tuck into dark work pants.

  “Your bruises are healed?”

  It’s the first question he’s asked me since the night he took me home. I tug at the hem of the shirt and nod. The last had turned yellow and faded away sometime over the past few days.

  “Speak, dolorita. Do you hurt anywhere?”

  I do. My old injuries are gone, but I have a new ache. I remember his cluck as I showered. My heart hammers, but I can’t resist. I have nothing to lose. Dropping the shirt, I let my fingers drift between my thighs again to cup my pussy. “Here.”

  His lips part and slip into a terrifying smile. “Good. From this day forward, the only marks on your creamy flesh will be mine.”

  “Will you mark me now?” I ask before I can stop myself. Speaking without permission is a grave offense. Sir would backhand me into the mirror without hesitation, and I’d deserve it. Micah only raises an eyebrow.

  He grabs me by the hips and pushes me up onto the small counter in the bathroom. My legs are spread, but he pushes my knees farther apart. “Wider. I want to see all of you first.”

  I scoot forward like I’m on an exam table and spread my legs as wide as I can. Cool air plays over my damp folds, and shame heats my cheeks. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. Sir’s unrelenting cruelty stripped me of all my embarrassments. I wonder what else Micah will give back to me. And if I’ll be allowed to keep it.

  He kneels between my legs, flattens his palms against my inner thighs, and brings his face close enough that I can feel his breath fan across my sex. “This is mine, dolorita. You don’t touch it unless I tell you to touch it. Do you understand?”

  Each word whispers over me and sends shivers of pleasure straight up to my nipples. His fingers dig into my thighs even harder to stop my squirming.

  “Yes.”

  “Now pinch your clit for me.”

  I slip my hand between us and find the throbbing bundle of nerves with my thumb and forefinger. It feels so good to put a little pressure there, to squeeze and release, squeeze and release. A little friction and I’d be—

  And then the pleasure is too sharp, his hand is over mine, forcing me to squeeze even harder until it isn’t pleasure at all. Until it’s something hot and terrible.

  “Don’t stop pinching,” he commands, like I’d give this up if given a choice.

  I nod. Then he’s standing, his thick cock jutting out from his open pants.

  “I can’t decide if I want you to suck me or fuck me, so we’ll do both.”

  He traces the curve of my lip with the tip of his finger and then forces three of them into my mouth. They’re thick and salty, not so different from a penis, but they curve a little toward the back of my throat. When I gag, he makes approving noises and rocks them back and forth. Harder and harder. Forcing me backward on the counter until my head hits the wall. I keep sucking, swirling my tongue around the invasion, retching a little each time he goes deep.

  He shoves inside my pussy with a single thrust. I’m not ready for him. His thickness stretches me to the point of pain, and I can barely take all of him. I feel too full. Even the slightest movement is like being torn. Still, my clit throbs between my pinching fingers, a white-hot ball of need.

  “I’m going to come all over you tonight,” he grunts between rough thrusts. “You’re going to sleep with my jizz dripping down your thighs and smeared on your face. I might even come on you while you’re sleeping. You’re going to wake up crusted with my seed, the smell of me so stro
ng in your nostrils you’ll never smell anything else. Now that you’re clean, I’m going to make you filthy again.”

  We fall into a beautiful rhythm of degradation and pain for days and days.

  MICAH

  Every inch of her body is mine. Every orifice. Every thought that plays across her unguarded face. It’s everything I never knew I wanted, and still, I want more.

  I hate it. Wanting.

  I punish her for making me want things I’ve never had before. Companionship. Conversation. Comfort.

  I’ve already bent my rules too much. No property, no public, no details…

  Property is weakness. Anything you own is just something for your enemies to steal. The thought of anyone taking my dolorita slashes through me like a jagged knife.

  But I want to take her out into the world. I want to slip a frilly dress over her naked body and sit beside her at a restaurant while we eat a beautiful meal. I want to shove my fingers into her pussy under the table while she politely tells the waiter our order. The dress is folded neatly in the bottom drawer, just waiting for me to cave further.

  I want to know who she was before. I want her name. I want to investigate her past. I’ve already hired someone to make the discreet inquiries.

  I let her call me by my name simply because I want to wrench it from her throat as her pussy muscles rippled around my cock.

  I might as well carry a blinking neon sign over my head. Compromised. Vulnerable. Target.

  I bought a fucking box of hot cocoa. She’s done this to me.

  I keep her mouth full of my cock as much as possible. It’s much safer than letting her talk.

  DOLORITA

  I wake, disoriented and starving for air.

  My lips stretch over a thick invasion, drool pools at the corners of my mouth, the acrid scent of warm skin fills my flaring nostrils. My screams are muffled at the back of my throat, but his voice is a rough half whisper tearing through the darkness. “Don’t you dare bite down. You know what happens.”