Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  I put my hands on the ground and began to drag myself forward. My legs trail behind me as I inch along. I use my left knee to propel myself ahead. Eventually, I find a rhythm, using my hands and legs in tandem. It's awkward but doable. By the time I reach the wheelchair, I'm sweating and breathing hard. I'm out of shape, but that won't be a problem in time. The more I use my arms, the stronger I'll get.

  I just have to be patient.

  As a child, I used to climb trees and run around barefoot. As an adult, I walked the Great Wall in China. I've hiked up to great temples in Tibet and scaled the ruins in Peru. Now, my biggest challenge is getting into a wheelchair without falling on my ass or collapsing from fatigue. When I'm finally seated in the chair, I can only sit there for a long while as my heartbeat returns to normal. I'm so distracted that I don't hear him coming until it's too late to prepare myself.

  He looks so sharp, like the tip of a knife.

  A shiver of anticipation snakes up my spine.

  I drop my hands to the rubber wheels of the chair and roll a little backwards, like I'm scared of him. Like I want to run. I know it'll just piss him off more. He pushes himself away from the door and takes a step closer to me. “Adrienne,” Dorian says, my name smooth from his lips but I can hear the warning tone. He may be cold and impassive on the outside, but underneath the facade, he's angry as hell with me. Otherwise, he wouldn't have come. I was not in his well-ordered schedule for the day and he has a busy day tomorrow as well. He doesn't want to be here, but I've forced him to come and deal with me. My impudence was too irritating and dangerous to ignore.

  Good.

  “What did you do today?” he asks. Like a husband coming home from work and seeing his wife in the kitchen, sweeping the floor. Dispassionate. Bored. I debate quickly on how I should answer, since he already knows. I wonder if I should try to push him further. I wonder if the game is worth it. I stay silent too long for his liking, apparently, and a crack in the facade shows itself. “I don't have time for this,” he says, impatiently. In half a second, he's in front of me and grabs me, his fingers cutting into my chin as he angles my face to look at him. “What were you doing today?”

  “Nothing,” I lie, my mouth moving automatically.

  “Don't bullshit me.” He drops his face until it's inches from mine. I can smell his cologne in the air all around me. I breathe deep. I know the room will smell like him for hours, after he's gone. I don't know if that should make piss me off or soothe me. At this point, I'm completely confused when it comes to him. He clears his throat, drawing my attention back to his mouth. “You were behaving recklessly.”

  “What if I was?” I reply, my eyes on his lips, his teeth. I like his teeth, I decide. His touch is better than I remember it being. I'm so starved for his attention. And now he's come for me, just like I knew he would. Like I wished he would.

  “I won't let you destroy my property.”

  “Your property?” I touch the wheels of the chair delicately. “It was a gift.”

  “I'm not just talking about the chair,” he says, stroking his thumb beneath my bottom lip. “Everything in this house is my property.”

  “Everything?” I repeat, dumbly.

  “Don't play the fool,” he says. “It doesn't suit you.” He clicks his tongue. “I know what you were doing today. And I can't allow it.”

  “If you're not here, how are you going to stop me?” I ask, innocently.

  “I could tie you down,” he cocks his head. “But you might like that too much.” I stare up at him and he stares down at me and I wonder just how long I can keep this up. “I can keep you drugged. Delirious. Pliant.” A pang of fear hits me and he can sense it. His eyes light up with barely contained glee. He knows I hate the drugs. They scare me. They're probably the one thing left in the world that does. Even if waking up every day to this life is a nightmare, it's somehow better than being half-asleep. When I'm drugged, it's like I'm not dead or alive. I just am. I'd rather be dead if that's all life is going to be. “Ah,” he says. “Now I've got your attention.”

  “I want to go outside,” I say, pushing the fear away. I can't back down to him. Not now.

  “It's cold,” he replies. “You'll get sick.”

  “I don't care. I need air. I need oxygen. I need to hear the wind and the birds and...”

  “Plan an escape?” he asks with a small, hard laugh. “There is no escaping, ma petite. If you continue being difficult, something will have to be done.”

  “If you continue to ignore me, something will be done. But you won't like it,” I spit out, tired of this deceptively cordial conversation we're having. I wish I could claw his cruel, beautiful eyes out. I wish I could run out of here and never look back. I wish so many things.

  “Is that a threat?”

  I know the shit is about to hit the fan.

  He lunges for me, grabbing me around the neck and shoving my head back. I gasp in surprise, although I should have seen it coming. He stands at his full height, towering over me in the chair. I'm at a severe disadvantage, but I always am when it comes to him. I punch and slap at his chest, but it doesn't deter him. He walks around to the back of the chair, without dislodging his hand from my throat. Tears well up and blur my vision as I struggle against him, trying to breathe. He runs the fingers of his free hand up my cheek and into my hair.

  “You and I must come to an understanding,” he says as my vision starts to darken. He squeezes the hand around my throat and I feel my body jerk involuntarily. I'm about to pass out and there's nothing I can do about it. He holds me in his unwavering iron grip. Suddenly, there's no question about who's in charge, if there ever was. “I make the rules, and you will obey,” he says. I can't answer, so I don't. I just close my eyes and wait for the darkness to take over. Then he drops his hands. As I choke and gasp for breath, he wheels me out of the room and down the dark hallway. The portraits of long dead people stare down on us as we pass. The stairs come into view and my breath stills in my chest.

  He's going to push me over.

  A girl can hope.

  He jerks me to a stop at the top step. The stairs stretch down into the foyer and I can see the checkerboard black and white marble floor below, beckoning. I lean forward, the cool, musty air of the house holding me in its embrace. It's so quiet. So dark. Our breathing is the only sound. The chandelier above gives off a soft, warm glow. I'm not afraid of it, I decide.

  Tonight is as good as any to die.

  “What do you see down there?” he asks me, fisting his hand in my hair and pulling my head back. I stare up at him and he stares down at me, his face as stony as ever. “Do you see what I see?” His voice echoes in the hard, cavernous space.

  “There's nothing there,” I say, trying to keep from whining at the pain.

  “Look again,” he sneers, his patience nearly spent.

  “There's blood,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from the earlier abuse. “Everywhere.”

  “And what else?”

  “There's a body. Of a woman.”

  “Not any woman. You,” he continues. “But you're barely recognizable. Every bone in your body is broken.”

  “I'm dead.” I raise my hand and find his wrist through the tangle of my hair. I was too weak to push myself over, but he's not weak. He's angry and he wants to hurt me, maybe enough to act without thinking. “Do it,” I whisper, my voice so light I can barely hear myself. “Let me go.” He works his jaw, his eyes hidden under dark shadows in the low light.

  “No!” he roars suddenly, taking me off guard. His voice filling my ears, he yanks me out of the chair and throws me to the ground. I land hard on my hip, the carpet beneath me barely cushioning me from the unyielding floor. I flick my eyes up to meet his, fluctuating between fear and anger. He stands stock still, silhouetted in the light from the chandelier. I can see him clench and unclench his hands, like he's trying to maintain control. Then he turns and grabs the wheels of the chair. He lifts the chair like it's nothing and throws it, his
muscles straining beneath the suit. It crashes down the stairs, the sound like an explosion in the quiet house as it tumbles, unfettered, to the bottom.

  He grabs me and I scream, because I can't help myself. He has me on edge. I don't know what the hell he's going to do next, and it's thrilling and terrifying at the same time. His fingers are twisted in my hair and in the simple chemise I'm wearing. I hear fabric ripping and I realize he's torn the expensive silk, but he doesn't give a shit. He drags me to edge of the top step, the soft skin of my ass burning against the carpet and then sliding against the slippery limestone. My hands grip his arms and I barely have time to grab the bannister before I slide right over.

  The wheelchair lays on its side on the floor below, bent and twisted. The wheel turns forlornly, but nothing can save it now. Pieces of metal dot the stairs. It's destroyed behind repair. Seeing it down there, my mind goes blank. That could be me. Do I want that to be me? I don't know. He slaps my face, bringing me back to the present. I scream again, shoving against him, and we struggle for a moment at the top of the stairs. It's precarious, but he doesn't seem to notice.

  “Is that what you wanted?” he snarls in my face as I try to push him away.

  Below, I hear voices. I know the nurses are downstairs, watching my humiliation once again. Maybe others. I twist my face so that I can peer through the balustrades. I can see a figure I'm sure is Irina, yet her hair is glowing red in the low light. Like a flame. But then she lifts her face, it's not Irina after all. Her face is pale and her eyes are big and round and knowing. She looks the same as the last time I saw her. Her red hair is a curly halo around her face, the features fine and beautiful, untouched by time.

  It's my mother.

  She shouldn't be here. She is most definitely dead.

  I grab for the slippery stone bannister, trying to get a better look, but he won't let me. He holds me fast no matter how much I squirm. I feel my mouth drop open and then I'm screaming and screaming and I can't stop myself. He yanks me back so hard my arm feels like it's going to break. I tumble onto my back on the carpet, the chemise up around my waist. I'm half naked, but I don't care.

  “Je suis désolée!” I hear myself screaming, but it's almost like a dream. I'm not myself. I'm a child again, a fourteen year old running through the tall grass behind the house. Trying to escape. “I'm sorry! Please! Please!” He grabs my wrist and starts dragging me down the hallway. I hear voices again, but I can't make out any words. My ears are muffled from the screams and my heart is pounding loudly, besides.

  “Don't touch it,” Dorian says, his deep voice cutting through my cluttered consciousness. “Don't you fucking touch it. Leave it there.” He's pointing over the bannister, barking demands to whoever is standing down in the foyer.

  Vaguely, I wonder if my mother still is down there. I can hear myself screaming, but there's no stopping me now. I know this feeling well. I'm beyond reason; I'm hysterical. My logical mind is pushed to the back and the other me, the one that I've been hiding away, shows herself. He bends and hauls me up over his shoulder, carrying me back to my bedroom, the sumptuous prison. I push my hair out of my face, trying desperately to get another good view of the foyer, but I can't. I can't see her. I can't see anything in the darkness.

  *****

  I see red. Literally, I see red. I want to beat her face to a pulp or pound her pussy into oblivion. I haven't been this angry in a long time, maybe ever. I throw her on the bed and she flops onto her side like a rag doll. She's in spectacular form tonight, but then again, so am I.

  Apparently, we bring out the absolute worst in each other.

  I don't know what I was expecting to find when I decided to drive up after my last meeting of the day. All I know is I'm pissed off and horny as fuck. On the bed, she's fallen quiet, finally, arching her back and breathing heavily, her eyes rolling around like she's gone mad. Maybe we both have. I yank off my suit jacket and slam the door shut. I toss the jacket on the chair and stare down at her. Her hair is stuck to her sweat-damp forehead and she raises her arms to cover her face. She lets out a low, mournful moan but I ignore it and yank off my belt. I force her over onto her stomach and grab her arms. I loop the belt around her wrists and tighten as she screams into the mattress. Then I roll her back over. There's a jagged tear in her chemise and I hook my finger in it and I rip the thin fabric right down the middle, exposing all of her flushed skin to my gaze.

  “Apologize,” I say, my voice calm despite my raging pulse. “Apologize for making me destroy the gift I gave you.” She struggles to push herself up on her elbows. Tears streak her cheeks, and there's blood on her lip. I have no idea why she's bleeding, but seeing it makes me even more angry. I don't like how this has spun out of control. I don't like it one bit. Her amber eyes are wide and frantic. She works her jaw and then she leans forward and spits on me. Her saliva is blood tinged, and it stains my white shirt the second it makes contact. “You're going to regret that,” I say trying in vain to keep my voice level and smooth.

  What is it about this woman?

  It would've been so easy to have done it, to have thrown her down the stairs and watched as she tumbled to the bottom. It would've been painful to admit defeat, but it would've put an end to this mess I've created for myself, this strange situation. Seeing her broken and destroyed would've been a bitter pill I would've had to swallow. A sacrifice. I can try to think of her in those cold terms, and pretend she hasn't gotten to me, but she has. The thought of her dying makes me more than angry. It makes me want to destroy everything. I've decided to keep her, keep her for myself, and I'm a stubborn son of a bitch. She's mine now, and there's nothing that either of us can do about it.

  I throw off my clothes because I can't wait any longer. She shoves back on her elbows, pulling herself up to the headboard, trying to put space between us. I crawl onto the bed and her nostrils flare as she pushes back to the pillows. She gasps as I part her legs and bury my face in her pussy, dragging my tongue up her slit and tasting all of her bitter sweetness. But I don't stop there. I drag my tongue through her damp curls and up her stomach, swirl it around her navel, and then continue north. Over her ribs and the nicks and scars in her soft skin. I suck her right nipple into my mouth and she bucks her hips against me. I smile an evil smile, releasing her tit.

  “You want me to fuck you?” I say. ““Is that what all of this is about?” She pinches her face and yanks her shoulder up, like she's trying to free herself from my belt. I push her flat on her back, pressing my full weight down onto her so she can't move. The head of my cock presses in between her soft thighs, and it would only take a bit of maneuvering to shove myself into her pussy, so rebellious and yet, so so wet.

  But that's not my plan.

  I'm going to deny myself that pleasure, because I'll be denying her as well. I want to be selfish tonight, ignoring her need to come. I want to leave her unsatisfied and begging. I want to leave her screaming for more. Then she'll be punished. I shove myself up on my knees, pinning her beneath me. I stare down at her as run my cock over the line of her chin. My heart is racing and my breathing is jagged. She meets my level gaze with her own, but I can feel her heart going a mile a minute as well. I clench my thighs, squeezing her ribs just enough to make her uncomfortable. She gasps and I take advantage of her open mouth. I dip my thumb in between her teeth, holding her open and letting her get me all wet.

  I want all of her. I'm so selfish.

  I take my thumb back and run it all over her tits, tracing the circles of her right areola with her own glistening saliva. She shivers and perfect goosebumps break out over her skin.

  “Just do it,” she says between clenched teeth, rolling her hips like she has a chance in hell of throwing me off. I smile, because she wants it but she can't have it. I hinge up, leaning over her. I drag my cock down her face, over her nose. My balls drag across her cheek. She tries to turn her face, but I don't let her. I smack her lips with my heavy dick and she parts them on command.

  But I
don't let her have me.

  Not yet.

  I sit back on her stomach and grab her tits, not gently. I roll their soft, sensitive weight in my fingers, squeezing and caressing until she thrashes her head and whimpers. Then I twist her nipples hard until her eyes pop open and she lets out a ragged moan. She squirms beneath me, but I pinch them harder. She goes still, her amber eyes finding mine. They glow in the light from the lamp and the fiery hate in them turns me on more, if that's possible.

  “Good,” I say, the word escaping before I can stop it. I tweak her right nipple hard, just because. She muffles a moan and I can't stop myself from telling her how I'm going to punish her. “You're not going to come,” I say. “You're going to lay there and take it.” She narrows her eyes, but she doesn't respond. “Say 'yes, Dorian, I'm not going to come,' ” I say, just to fuck with her further.

  “Yes,” she says, her voice soft and hoarse. “I'm not going to come.”

  “Dorian,” I prod. “Say my name.”

  “I'm not going to come, Dorian,” she mimics, her voice flat.

  “Ask if you can suck my cock,” I demand, tweaking her nipple again. It's turning a dark blush color from the abuse. Fuck, I want to taste it, but I don't. She takes a slow breath, my weight on her making it hard for her to breathe.

  “Can I suck your cock?” she says after a minute, her face blank. The words make my dick hard, despite the dead look in her eyes.

  “I don't think so, Adrienne.” I stroke my hand over the head of me, trying to keep myself in check. I position myself over her chest, running my cock over her swollen tits. They're beautiful, pinched and tight and abused. Just like how I like her. I buck my hips, sliding the head of me up the valley of her breasts. Then I draw them together, pressing their warm weight against me. The visual of her perfect tits on either side of my cock almost makes me come right then and there. I close my eyes and I pump myself in and out of the soft, tight space, running my thumbs over her pebbled nipples. I drop my head back, focusing on the feel of her. Her soft, fragrant skin. The pumping of her heart beneath my cock. Her ribs expanding against my thighs.