But she just sat there, limply, weeping against the door. Naked. Alone. Helpless.
She was like a pulp, I had beaten her will down too quickly. I needed to rebuild her so I could have my way with her for a while longer. She enjoys my ruthlessness, but not if I just take. I need to give too, otherwise she goes hollow and vacant. I can see the fear when she’s left alone and used. But I can keep using her, as long as I give her just enough to latch onto. Plan B was a slow burn, destroying her bit by bit, savoring her destruction. I thought she was like me on the inside, made of stone, so I came in hard, but she’s not like me. So, I need to dismantle her slowly or she’ll be fucking catatonic in a week or two. I want this pain to linger.
So I did the only thing I know how. It’s what I do when it comes to women. I can’t give them affection, or love, or intimacy. That all died in me long ago. So I give what I can: Relief. Pleasure. Abandon.
I watched the life come back to her eyes behind the tears as I fucked her with my hand. Her tears are a shield, to allow her to believe she is a victim, but she knows she wants it more than she’s ever wanted anything. I brought her back, so I can tear her down again. I’ll keep doing that until she’s got nothing left to give.
Every time I have a plan with this bitch, she throws it off even by just a hair.
I shouldn’t have allowed her to come though. Her pleasure should only exist if it’s in the process of pleasing me. I gave her that relief after I had already been sated.
Problem is, after I fuck her, I never feel sated. I get the fuck out of there, because I always want her again. I want more of her. And something about when I gave her her own relief pleased me, and it had nothing to do with keeping my cock happy. I’ll admit, that’s concerning.
I don’t know what happened over the years, but she’s different from the image I had of the person who so cruelly took whatever good I had left in me and burnt it to a char.
But, the damage from what she did still lingers to this day. And everyone has to pay their debts.
It’s only fair.
14 Years Earlier
Backstreet Boys – Everybody (Backstreet's Back) - Extended Version
Mia said she had to run home right after school, but she gave me her address so that I could stop by after I found my sister. I pretended I didn’t know her address. I’m not a creepy stalker or anything, but we live in a small town. That information just kind of falls on your lap, especially when that address belongs to the most beautiful face you have ever seen.
After some teasing and a small guilt trip from Jude, I walk over to Mia’s house. My stomach sinks with nervousness as I ring the doorbell. That’s not just because I am about to be spending one on one time with Mia, but because her dad is the sheriff. He is well acquainted with my household and it’s not because we have invited him over for dinner parties. My dad has been put in the drunk tank more times than I can count and the cops have been to our home plenty of times. I always tell the police everything is fine at home. I know if I say what really goes on, they’ll separate me and Jude.
A dog goes on a hysterical barking frenzy and shortly after, she answers the door, holding it by the collar.
“Come in! He’s friendly, but he’s a bolter and I reaaaally don’t want to spend the afternoon hunting him.”
She’s changed into more comfortable clothes, a light blue tank top and black leggings. Her tits are small and perky, and her nipples harden from the draft when she opens the door. Her hair, which was loose earlier, is braided into two pigtails and there’s something really hot about that. When she turns, I adjust the waist on my pants to hide my enthusiasm.
I follow her through the foyer and it’s really hard not to stare at her ass, but I try to look elsewhere.
“I figured you might me hungry, so I put a pizza in the oven.”
She has no idea, but some nights I don’t know if I’ll come home to a meal. And I am always hungry, apparently it’s because of my recent growth spurt. I shot up from 5’8” to 6’0” this past year. I’m thinking I have another three to four inches of growth, my dad says that’s what happened to him. You’d think that the height would stop assholes from fucking with me, but I only got lankier. 6’0” isn’t intimidating when it comes in a 155 pound package.
“That’s great, thanks.”
“I figured we could just go to the den. My mom is resting upstairs, so we try to keep the main areas quiet.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, still wrapping my mind around the fact that I am in Mia Tibbett’s house.
We take our soda and pizza to the den and pull out all of our assignment materials. We spend a few minutes planning out the electrical grid we are designing for our physical science project. But while eating, Mia turns the conversation off the topic of schoolwork.
She’s resting on her stomach, giving me an unintentional view down her shirt. This is fucking awesome. “Sil...” she looks uncomfortable, her brown eyes gaze down to the floor.
“Yeah?”
“If this is too personal, you can tell me to shut up. I know I can be a little well, too open for some people. My dad’s always telling me I shouldn’t be so quick to say what’s on my mind...but...I know you said she died during childbirth, but do you miss her, wonder about her, your mom?”
The question really throws me back. No one ever really has asked me how I feel about my mother’s death. Jude and I used to play games, where we would “cast” an actress as our mother or pretend what she would be doing at the present moment if she was still here, but those games faded as we got older. And my dad, well, it was in our best interest to not remind him of her.
“I’m sorry, that was rude. I shouldn’t have asked that,” she says, shaking her head in embarrassment. “I talk too much.”
“No...it’s okay.” Yes, it was intrusive, but no one has ever cared about what I thought. And she really put herself out on a limb to ask. “Yeah. I think about her. How about how my life would have been different. But I can’t say I miss her. We don’t talk about her much. I think my dad resents me and Jude for killing her.”
“You didn’t kill her!” Mia says in horror.
“We did. She bled to death because of us.” There goes that morbid mouth of mine, she’s going to tell everyone I am a freak. But to my surprise, Mia doesn’t seem to be weirded out.
“Don’t look at it that way. I am sure she would have wanted you and your sister to live over her. That’s what moms want.” Her eyes turn sad, like her words brought something to the surface.
“Why are you asking?”
She hesitates for a second. “I never knew anyone who didn’t have a mom. And my mom, she’s sick. Really sick. And...I don’t know why I’m blabbing over here.”
“No, it’s okay. I know it’s probably hard to mention it to people who might not get it.” Story of my life.
“Yeah...I mean my friends care, but...” she chokes up. “Nevermind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
I nod.
“Okay, let’s change the mood in here!” she says, getting up to her feet and putting a cd in her player. Backstreet Boys booms throughout the den.
“For the love of god,” I say.
She starts dancing, in a purposefully goofy way, and I can’t help but smile. I always imagined she would be serious, or afraid to look silly. But nope, she looks incredibly stupid right now, and I wonder if she can be any more perfect.
“Okay, Mr. Music Snob, what would yoooou like to listen to?”
I pull out a cd I shoplifted a few weeks ago.
“Radiohead? What kind of a name is that?”
“What kind of a name is ‘Backstreet Boys?’ Those ‘boys’ hardly look like they come from any backstreet.”
She laughs hard, plopping down beside me and starts singing the awful song loudly in my face. I roll my eyes, but this is the most fun I have had in a while. And her house, it’s so nice, and clean, and safe. And I wish I could just stay here with her and never leave.
; Fiona Apple – A Mistake
It’s week six and my “arrangement” with Tax is becoming something of a routine. It’s my dirty little secret. Every Tuesday, I come into the office at five am, and I have the ever loving shit fucked out of me by a vicious, mysterious, and gorgeous demon.
I ask the same questions, and I get variations of the same answers.
I try to get him to let me kiss him, or even take off his clothes so that I am not alone and naked when we are together. And I keep failing.
I still scream, beg, howl, and come so hard that it feels like I swallowed a fucking sex grenade. I don’t cry as much anymore. My crying was an act of rebellion, a protest, both to Tax and myself. And it’s too exhausting to keep putting myself through that. It’s easier to accept my situation than endure the pain of crying about it. Eventually I will get through his hard shell and convince him to give me back my freedom of choice.
My feelings are still conflicted, yet the shock of my predicament is starting to wear. It’s becoming a part of my life, just like my job at Alea, or taking my clothes to the dry cleaner. And while I feel helpless, there is a side of me that looks forward to Tuesdays. I never say those words in my head, but I feel it in the way that my skin tingles with electricity, my heart races, and my entire sexuality aches in anticipation of our next encounter.
I want him, and I don’t want him to leave. These have been the most trying weeks of my life, but I have never felt so connected to anyone before. I have never liked or even loved anyone the way I hate Tax Draconi. But that hate is so strong, it sometimes morphs into other feelings. Hate can become so ingrained in you that it becomes part of your identity, your psyche. You define yourself with that hatred, so that if it leaves and there is nothing else to replace it, you lose a piece of yourself. I think when you feel anything strong enough it becomes its opposite. I think you can love someone so hard that you hate them. And I think you can hate someone so hard you grow attached. That’s why some people spend their whole lives hating someone they repeatedly invite into their lives: they don’t even know who they are without it.
And with Tax, I think I am starting to hate him so hard that I...I think you can’t truly loathe someone unless you care. Because not to care is indifference.
Indifference is truly the most evil of emotions.
Tax is my rival, and there is something about me that enjoys our rivalry, even if I am always on the losing end of the battle.
Tax and I have a secret world. We are on this earth surrounded by billions of people, and yet, this thing we have, it’s just us. It’s fucked up, it’s insane, but it’s something I can only share with him. Only Tax can get me out of my head, turn me into pure wanton sex. With Tax, I am stripped, both literally and figuratively. It’s nice to let go like that when sometimes my job and having no family to fall back on makes it feel like the world is crumbling on my shoulders. Our thing, it’s becoming part of me, and I am beginning to feel possessive towards our unique relationship.
But I keep those sentiments inside. On the outside I always approach him scornfully. I snarl, I sneer. Then he fights back, reminds me of his power, and I relent, and then I beg. It’s a ritual at this point. One where we both accept these bizarre circumstances by convincing ourselves that we are still only doing what we originally agreed on. I am his sex slave. Period. He’s doing this to make me pay for something he won’t disclose, and I am only doing this because I am being blackmailed. That’s all this is.
It’s always a battle in that conference room and it always ends with both of us coming.
But every week, things become more familiar, he holds me a little closer when we fuck, his eyes are a little warmer when he greets me. The shifts are minuscule, but I feel them.
That’s what I am relying on, those small hints of humanity. Over time, if I can get him to grow fond of me, I can find a way out of this. But I learned early on the process will be slow, and if I try too hard, he recoils even more. It has to happen on its own time. It’s possible that the only way back to autonomy is by allowing myself to develop feelings for him.
So today, as I walk through the parking lot, there are butterflies in my stomach, my heart does race, my pulse does fire, my inner thighs do heat up and it’s because I am looking forward to seeing Tax on the frontlines this morning.
The door to Alea’s office is locked. That’s a first. I fumble through my purse, looking for my keys, and that’s when a hand comes over my mouth.
“Don’t say a word, bitch.”
I drop my purse, its contents explode all over the floor. But just as soon as fear hits, I smell him, his signature aroma, his musky cologne, and I feel...relief. Relief because he is the devil I know.
But the rage that bleeds from his body into the air around us feels as fresh as the first time he fucked me at knifepoint. It’s like we are back at square one.
His hand presses hard against my mouth and the other wraps around my waist. He lifts me off the ground and drags me to a bathroom, locking the door behind him.
He pulls my skirt up past my ass and pushes me over the sink. I look up at the mirror and this time, unlike the very first surprise attack, he’s not wearing a mask. His eyes stare back at me in the mirror, but they are hollow, entranced with arousal.
He pulls my hips out angrily and tugs my panties to the side.
My pussy blooms with warmth and my juices spread out of me in anticipation of his brutality.
He reaches forward and rips my blouse open. I learned on week three to always pack a spare.
He rips my bra down, so that my breasts bulge over the tops of the cups. And my breathing turns staccato as I view the show in the mirror: the tall, incredibly striking, sexual beast behind me.
My dad used to warn me that the devil doesn’t have horns and a pitchfork, he’ll appear as the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He’ll make you laugh. He’ll make you feel good. You’ll do things you never thought you would, but he’ll tell you it’s okay. And before you know it, you’ve sold your soul to him. That’s how I know Tax is my devil.
My breasts are propped out, my body bent over, waiting to be used by the beast however he pleases.
To my surprise, he sinks out of sight, and I feel his long tongue slide inside of me, his mouth embracing my pussy. He hums with arousal as he laps up my wetness, navigating the flesh with his tongue. Discovering, conquering, giving.
If he just wanted to use me, he wouldn’t do this. He does this because this is about my pleasure just as much as it is his, even if he won’t ever admit that.
It doesn’t take long before I am exploding all over his mouth, clenching the sink as my legs dissolve under me. My high heels slip out from under my legs as they shake from the quake of my orgasm. I call out his name in thanks over and over.
I tremble in front of the mirror, as he rises back in sight, like a predator rising out of the brush. He pulls my ass out again with one hand, while reaching forward and squeezing the soft flesh of my breast so hard, I yelp.
“Shhhh...” he whispers into my ear.
His curved hardness presses in between my cheeks and I silently plead for the chance to fuck him today.
“I gave you something, now it’s my turn to take,” he says. I expect to take him in my mouth, but he reaches over my shoulder and pumps the soap dispenser several times as an aqua-colored gel pools in his hands.
I watch in confusion and he brings the hand down and rubs it in between my cheeks, right to the spot that he has only toyed with thus far. I gasp as he slides two fingers into the tight space, and my curiosity immediately turns to fear. Fear of him forcing his thickness into the tightness. Fear of the unknown.
I grimace as he reaches his long fingers deep into me. And he holds them there for a while. Another finger, swirling, moving, stretching me out.
“Breathe,” he commands, and I let out a huge exhale. I didn’t even realize my chest had become so tense.
He glides those fingers in and out of me, with each th
rust, the strange feeling becomes more familiar, more pleasurable. And then he stops.
I look up at his eyes in the mirror, he tugs on his lower lip as his body pushes forward and I feel the intense pressure as he forces into me. He lets out a huge sigh as soon as his head is in. It’s unforgiving, and so tight. It hurts and I am scared I won’t be able to handle it, that I won’t be able to please him.
Once he is a quarter in, he reaches around and covers my mouth. “I’m going to break you in. It’s going to hurt like hell, and then it’s going to feel good. Don’t fucking scream. Understood?”
I nod, but I am so terrified I won’t be able to comply.
And then he pushes the rest of the way in and I let out a gravely groan into his hand. It’s so harsh, I shiver in his grasp. The feeling of his cock in my ass is so violent, such a violation.
“Fuck, Mia,” he says, every muscle in his body sinks as he sinks into me. He never calls me by my name when we’re fucking.
A tear trickles down my cheek because it’s so intense, but I breathe like he told me, into the security of his hand.
He pulls out slow and pushes in slow. Each thrust picks up a little more speed. Suddenly, there is a sharp stabbing pain. I jerk violently, but his arms around me firm up and he pins his wide chest to me. “Shut up,” he says. “Just breathe. It’ll feel good if you relax.” His tone is unusually assuring.
The searing pain dissipates as a couple of tears run down my cheeks and rest on the hand that covers my mouth. I take a few deep breaths and Tax continues to pull out and push in, pulling me up to a standing position so that I rest on his chest behind me.
He fills me, taking me in the last place that was free of his ownership. With each thrust, I learn to enjoy this new sensation. I watch in the mirror as Tax stares into my eyes, his towering frame swallowing mine, his huge hand nearly covering half of my face. The collection of serpents on his neck dances as he tightens his grip around me.
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