by Poppet
“I'm sorry,” I wail, tears running hot and stinging from my eyes.
“It's too late for sorry, kisa.” Mikah leans back, lighting a cigarette, fogging up the bedroom where he sits on his chair at the bed. Exhaling a stream of smoke he looks back at me, his eyes narrowing. “Don't wail when you cry, God kills people for that too. They throw themselves down and wail as the heathen do. (Hosea 7:14.) Don't do that, ever. When you cry you do it quietly and with shame.” Nodding, I feel like the world is on my chest, crushing my air from me. Breathing is hard, it's almost impossible to cry without noise.
Reaching over he holds my hand, saying, “We enjoyed the stroganoff, thank you for dinner. God is pleased with your cooking. He's so full of mercy, despite being angry with you he still found something to praise. But now … we must talk. God wants me to fuck you but you're not ready, so tonight I'll carry you to the living room, we'll watch your video together, and I'll do the touching, then you touch me. Like we did with kissing. It will help you forget about the pain you're in, I promise.”
Yob tvou mat. (Go fuck your mother.)
I don't want to, I want to spit at him, but I am slave.
I. Am. Slave. Slave gets the whip if slave says no.
All my heart wants to curl up and cry for my pity, but I know it's useless. I must do whatever he says, God said so.
“Yes Mikah,” I mumble, wishing for water.
Stubbing his cigarette out he stands, curling over me and shifting his arms under me to carry me, and I'm ashamed I am still naked.
“I'll get you some painkillers and a drink once I've got the DVD running. Okay, kisa?”
“Yes Mikah.”
When he puts me down on the brown leather couch, he stands with his hands propped on his hips. “Is that all you can say now? 'Yes Mikah'? It will be very boring for me if you can only say two words.”
“I'm afraid to say anything else.”
Instantly his face splits into a magnificent smile. “You learn fast for a blonde. Don't worry kisa, in this house, with me, you are safe. I won't hurt you unless you leave me no other choice. Understand?”
“Yes M– uh, okay.”
“We're together now, kisa. Call me ljubimaja (darling), or honey, or something like that. It might help.”
Nodding, I pretend a smile, “Okay honey.”
Laughing, he shakes his head, walking away to the kitchen, leaving me alone with a TV screen full of a wide open vagina glistening with wetness. It reminds me of how it felt earlier when I followed the instructions. It felt good, and already I feel the tingle between my legs. Lust feels nice, but what if he fucks me? It will break me, I know it will.
He returns with a beer for both of us, handing me pills to swallow, a blanket tucked under his arm. Settling the blanket around my shoulders, he sits next to me, using the remote to dim the lights. “Drink,” he commands, and I do as ordered, swallowing the pills and having a lot of beer because I am thirsty.
“My body hurts, Mikah.”
“It'll heal,” he says, monotone, watching the lady on the TV rubbing her 'clit', her other hand rimming fingers around her 'labia'.
This movie is like taking a biology class. She tweaks her nipples, using big words to describe everything she does in English and Russian, her breath coming hard and shaky, licking her lips often and saying stupid things like ah da papa, papa bolee. (Oh yeah daddy, more daddy.) And I drink my beer through it all, until it's gone and the numb spreads to my toes.
Mikah takes the empty bottle from me, turning me so my legs are on the couch and I'm open to him; to see my 'flower' as he calls it. “Pokazhi pizdu detka.” (Show your pussy, baby.)
Sookin suka. (Son of a bitch.) I have no more fight after my beating, I hurt everywhere and feel sick. I haven't eaten a thing today and yet he'd rather get me drunk and play with my sex than take care of me. He said if I take care of him, he'll take care of me. He lied.
His eyes seem glassy in this half-light, but the numb I feel is good, it helps me not care. A warm hand covers my vagina, fingers curling over to rest on my pubic bone. The heat of his hand trickles into me, it feels nice. No one has ever touched me like that, they stuck their fingers and cocks inside me, but they didn't hold it like he's holding it. His touch is dichotomously gentle, his breath skating down my thighs when he moves closer, watching me like a weirdo.
“Talk to me, kisa. Tell me what feels good.”
I can't feel my lips when I lick them, rummaging for my voice, my mind tangled with logic and nerves while my body does whatever the fuck it wants. “It's okay,” I slur, my head heavy against the arm of the couch.
“Okay?” he says, his mouth tightening just a little, and that makes me worry.
“Uh hmm,” I try to nod.
Maneuvering so he's got better access he rests his thumb on the hood of my clit like the lady showed me earlier, making little kneading motions. It feels so strange, like a tingle coiling up into my belly.
“You know why I call it a flower, kisa?”
“Nyet,” I breathe, losing my voice. Maybe it's from all the screaming I did earlier?
“Because a flower's scent is strongest at night. I can smell you, girl. Your body likes this even if your mind objects.”
“You think too much. I thought boys didn't think so hard.”
His laughter splashes hot air between my thighs. “We think very hard about this, Polina. We live for this.”
“I know.” It slurs, but still sounds bitter.
“What happened to you is in the past, baby. This is now, this is your future. You have to tell me what you like or I'll think you like everything, and you'll end up hating me.”
I already hate you for lying to me.
If I'm honest I would admit that what he's doing is making me very warm down there, and it does feel nice.
“I like it, Mikah.”
“Can I use my tongue?” he asks, staring up my body, already framed by my thighs, the woman on the screen huffing and puffing like a man chopping wood.
“I'm your slave, Mikah. You can do whatever the fuck you want and no one will stop you, not even God.” It takes too much concentration to talk, I'm tired of talking. Closing my eyes I ignore him, shutting him out and breathing in the pain still knifing my ribs. It's not so bad now, the pills must be very strong.
If internal pain showed on the outside I'd be in ICU for the rest of my life. No amount of stitches could staunch the bleeding of my broken heart. The sadness dilutes my blood. I'd never scab, I'd bleed to death. Then, finally, the pain would end.
I'm wallowing in my pity when he sticks his tongue where his thumb was and I flex, then cramp, shock claiming me when his lips close on me and replaces the surprise with lazy heat. My winter boy is becoming summer. Maybe he'll thaw after all.
It feels so nice – uh no – amazing, fantastic, magnificent – I can't remember the rest, that my legs flop open because holding them up is taking more strength than I own. His tongue wiggles and strokes and I lose my mind, every thought between my legs. Curling my fingers into fists I brace against the pleasure, hating him for making me like it. Why do they call women evil when it's men who are evil? I never beat him or sucked him so he loses his mind. What did I do to earn this? I dared to talk to God and now he's sucking my heart out of me, it's torture so sweet.
Reaching up he covers my boob with his hand, watching me when he sucks on my filthy whore hole, and the caress across my nipple and his tongue make me gasp, my voice sounding like he's exorcising me of my demons. I don't even sound like me.
Is this why we have to do it? Is he making me pure of my sin?
Lifting his head he moves up my body, his weight heavy and hard, pushing a finger inside me and sliding it up and down, the side of his finger rubbing something so ecstatic that my blood leaves my head.
“I'll show you why I think you need pleasure, kisa.”
He sounds so fucking smug. Svoloch'. (Bastard.)
He's making it feel so good that I wish him a lon
g painful death. Now my breathing is like that prostitute on the TV and it takes all my will not to speak my mind. Morgaly vikalyu padla. (I'll poke your eyes out, fucker.)
But my ears go deaf and my mind disappears, swallowed up by the abyss. He's the empty chasm with no soul and he's dragging me into the darkness. My body flexes again and explodes with heat, something bizarre worming through me, so sweet and perfect that I want to slap him over and over and over until he cries for his mother like a little bitch.
Sagging, my ears unblock and I open my eyes. The zhopa is smiling at me. “You just had an orgasm.”
“I'm happy for you,” I grumble, still hoarse and unable to speak like a normal person.
“Polina, that is a gift from me to you. It didn't hurt you. See, I promised I wouldn't hurt you and I didn't.”
“But now you'll want me to suck you so you can lose your mind. I'm too sore, Mikah. God beat me good. I don't want to sosi hui' (suck dick).”
“I didn't ask you to fuck me, Polina. You could hold it, get used to how it feels. I didn't say sosi mui hoi suka.” (Suck my cock bitch.)
“Poshyol ty',” I hiss, then slam my hand over my mouth. Oh my god, now I'm dead.
He sits up, his jaw flexing. “Fuck me? Really, Polina? I just made you cum and you say fuck you?”
“Is not for me! You did it for you!” Every word is like I am two years old, like I can't speak without sounding drugged and high.
“Tebe pizd'ets!” he snaps, standing to tower over me. (You are fucked!)
“Zalupa,” I grumble, unable to look at him. (Dickhead.)
“Zavali yebalo, Polina.” (Shut the fuck up, Polina.) He slams his hand down on top of the couch when he braces over me, one hand on the back of the couch, the other on the seat next to me, his nose perilously close to mine. “Tee karova!” (You cow!)
“I'm not! If you gave a shit you'd offer me food, not drugs and sucking pussy! I feel sick, zhopa.” (Asshole.)
“For such a pretty bitch you sure have a disgusting mouth. Do you usually talk like that when someone makes you feel good?” he grinds out, his jaw clenched tight but his voice flat and hollow again.
“You lied to me! You said if I take care of you, you'll take care of me! I haven't eaten all day and you give me drugs and beer and make me open my legs like a whore!”
My heart is pounding as hard as my head and I am shaking.
Mikah grips my hand, then frowns. “You're ice cold. What the fuck, kisa?”
“I told you I feel sick,” I mutter, tears cresting my eyelashes again. “I didn't lie, Mikah. I need bed and food and for someone to kiss my cheek and tell me I'm gonna be okay.”
He's the lord who owns me, and he doesn't give two shits about my pain. Him and every other bastard who's ever laid a finger on me.
“Voz'mi!” he exclaims, standing so fast, his face slack. (Oh shit!). “I'm sorry kisa, I didn't even think you hadn't eaten. No wonder you feel sick, those pills could numb an elephant.” Sitting next to me, pulling the blanket from my shoulders and covering me with it, he tenderly cups my swollen cheek. “What can I get you? Soup? Stroganoff? Cookies?”
“Don't pretend Mikah, I hate liars.”
“I'm not pretending. Jesus Polina, are you always this bitchy?”
“No, only after my arm's been burned and I've puked in a plastic bag stuck over my head.”
“I treated your brand, the pain won't last forever. Now stop being stubborn, tell me what you want or I'll have to guess. Then you'll get what you get and have one more reason to be a cow.”
“Cheese,” I grumble. “Cheese makes me feel better.”
“Okay, I'll be right back. Do you want to go to bed where it's warmer? Do you want coffee?”
“You sound panicked, Mikah. Don't be, you fucking own me, you can neglect me so I'll die sooner.”
He sighs so hard it dries my eyes. “My god but you're a handful. Stop your shit, or I'll put you over my knee and spank you so hard you'll cry for a week.”
Piz'duk. (Bullshitter.)
When I say nothing he leans over me, kissing my cheek. “There, now stop being so catty. I'll get you coffee, and cheese and crackers, then you're going to bed.”
Fuck you and your god.
But I stay silent, staring at the TV, hating that woman for making me feel good. I need to hate him, I need to! But it was nice. I'll die before I let him know that I like feeling like an open flower scenting the night. Now I know why Foma has prostitutes. Do men feel that too? Is that why they want to stick their dicks in everything?
I am … conflicted.
He's being nice. He didn't hurt me.
God did.
I hate you both!
~ Chapter 10 ~
Into the darkness they go,
the wise and the lovely.
~ Edna St Vincent Millay
“Kisa!” calls to me from the study, and I go to see what he wants.
“Yes?”
Mikah turns to me, resting his arm over the back of his office chair, the muscles bulging with the pressure, and I stare at them instead of him, wondering how I can get strong like that. Without my knife I am too vulnerable. “Will you be okay if I leave you for a few days?” he asks, watching my face for the ripple of betrayal.
I'm too astute to fall for hope, I know he's waiting for me to seem happy so I deliberately force myself to look sad, injecting sorrow into my tone. “Where are you going?”
“I have a rib to pay you,” he says in the dead voice.
I now know the dead voice means he is not happy. I don't care if he's happy, I am not happy so why the hell does he think he should be?
Keeping the facade of misery I look at the floor, refusing to say sorry, because I am not sorry.
I suffer, that means you will suffer too. Softly I say, “It's holy and right.”
He can't argue with that, I'm already learning to play this game. Life is always a game. When you meet someone new all you have to do is learn their rules and weaknesses, then make your moves accordingly. It's not manipulation, it's survival.
I am still sore and bruised, I'm broken, and I see flaws where he sees perfection. But stupid girls open mouths and end up with split lips and shattered teeth. Keep quiet, keep your mouth shut and your eyes wide open, watch for the coils and tension because that's when the snake attacks. Instead feed the poison back, it makes the serpent passive, but never docile.
I know I live with a danger so deadly he might kill me in the night, crushing me until I pass out, never to wake. Polina may be slave, but she's not that stupid. I might not know fancy words and social etiquette, but I know how to sleep with a cobra and survive.
Mikah stands, facing me, surveying me with a scrutiny which makes my throat tighten. “The surgery will take all morning, then I'll stay for observation for three more days. The bratva will stop by to make sure you are okay while I'm not here.”
“And then?” I ask, looking at how his first two knuckles on both hands are too large, like he's hit too many men in his lifetime. When he folds his arms like that it's hard to miss the man before me is nothing more than a pretty savage.
Mikah smiles, and it's enough to wither my mind. It's foreboding and soured with sadism. “Then you look after me and give me what I pay for.”
I knew it would come to this. It always comes to this. This is why Polina Scott lives alone and does not date. How did I end up here? How is it that this man thinks he owns me? Oh right, God 'gave me' to him, but God looks just like a man. It's a flaw I can't wrap my head around. God lives in heaven, he doesn't live here 'two states away'. Looking up to his eyes until my neck twinges, I dare to ask Mikah, “How is it that god is flesh and bone? Why isn't he in heaven?”
How do I know he's really god? Where's my proof?
Mikah sighs, closing the gap to brace himself against the doorframe, pressing absently in and out as exercise while he stares at me with the morning light from the window gilding his hair with a halo, veins knitting his arms and sculpting
up his neck. “Polina, I know you're simple, but even the ignorant know about god. He wasn't a stranger in the desert, he was right there with the tribes of Israel. He chose Moses and Aaron himself, he taught them how to be priests, he elevated the slaves of Egypt to his own. Just because he doesn't parade in front of cameras doesn't mean he's not here. He never left, kisa. He's been here watching for too long and he doesn't like what he sees. He still chooses people to serve him, I'm one of them.”
“How do you know he's god?” I breathe, my voice wispy because my breathing is shallow.
I expect him to hit me for asking, but I doubt most things, most people too.
Mikah simply pushes away, shrugging when he releases the doorframe. “Ask and you will receive. Since God chose me I have everything I ever wanted, and then some. You don't know him like I do, no woman will ever know him like I do. God had a woman too, he called her asherah. It means hostage. Just because mankind lives in sin and ignorance doesn't mean the rules have changed. Mankind is wrong, they forgot the laws of the exodus, and as far as He's concerned you are my hostage. You were sold into slavery which means you can never be free. Accept it. Doubt god again and I'll be forced to remind you how discipline is the only cure for disobedience. It's love, beating you is love. I've been patient kisa, but I'm human, unlike god. He might have patience but he's well known for running out of it. He burned Aaron, sent poisonous snakes on the Israelites, he gets angry. Be good, kisa, be very good. Every time you open your mouth you seem to be begging for pain. Be good or I'll give you what you're asking for.”