by Mara Black
"I was afraid." Again, my tongue was running faster than my head, acting on instinct. Something was rising inside me to answer something else in him, and I couldn't even being to comprehend it. "It's so big."
He laughed, loud and harsh, and I felt like I'd been slapped across the face. Letting go of my hair, he stepped back and stared down at me, his erection never flagging.
"There's something else I can smell on you," he said. "Lies. You'd better pray they don't run any deeper than flattery about the size of my cock, because I don't take kindly to betrayal."
"Really?" I stared at him, feeling suddenly defiant. "Because it seems like you enjoy lies."
Tate snarled, grabbing my hair and hauling me to my feet again. He dragged me towards the bed, bending me forward until my face was buried in the mattress. My heart pounded, knees weakening, as one thought took over: this is it. This is how it's going to happen.
His hardness throbbed against my hip, but he made no other move.
"What do you think?" he murmured, quietly - but his tone was just as dark and dangerous as before. "Should I try to fuck the deceit out of you?"
Yes.
Sickness roiled in my stomach at my body's readiness to betray me. I wanted him so badly I couldn't see straight, didn't dare speak, lest I give him the permission he obviously didn't need.
"I can't promise it will work, but something tells me you'd enjoy it." He swiped his finger along my inner thigh, where my wetness had leaked, close enough to make me shiver, but not close enough to give me any relief from the ache between my legs. I heard the soft, wet sound of his fingers in his mouth, tasting me.
I moaned softly, imagining his fingers plunging into my sopping cunt. His tongue licking me open. His cock spearing me, breaking me, taking the last shred of innocence I had left.
"Hmm." He rubbed against me, and I could feel him twitch and grow ever harder. "Maybe not. You need a proper punishment, don't you? Need your master to put you in your place."
The words flowed from him so smoothly, so naturally, like he'd been born to do this. To tease and arouse, to command and frighten, to make me feel like less of a human being. But at the same time, making me feel more alive than I'd ever felt.
Suddenly, his palm connected with my ass. He spanked me sharply and brutally, but each hit sent reverberations through my pussy, making me even hotter through the pain.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
When he stopped, breathing harshly, his cock searing hot against my hipbone, I wanted to scream. Of all the tortures I could have imagined when I first saw heard his voice, this wasn't one of them. Turning my own body, my own soul, against me.
But this wasn't the man I met in the barn. It wasn't even the man who had made me untie his boots, although the glimmers were starting to show through. While Tate had initially seemed hesitant, conflicted, uncomfortable in his own skin, but now he was fully realized. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and how to get it. And something deep inside me was responding, as much as I hated it.
He grabbed my hair and yanked my head upright, forcing my gaze to the mirror across the room. Now, I could see myself in it, ruined and wrecked, with Tate looming over me like a sinister shadow. I hardly recognized the expression on my face.
"What do you think?" he almost purred, his voice hypnotic, the only sound that could cut through the ringing in my ears. "Is that enough of a punishment for you?"
No, God no.
I made an involuntary sound, something between a moan and a sob, afraid to give him the wrong answer. The fear for my life, for my safety, had been eclipsed by the fear that he would stop touching me. That he'd do nothing to release me from this sweet agony, this tension that was on the verge of snapping.
"Answer me."
Some rational part of my brain had survived his onslaught. It took over momentarily, anger rearing up inside me, and I found myself gritting out:
"Fuck you."
The room went cold.
He grabbed my arm and yanked me off the bed, shoving me forward so that I stumbled and landed on my knees, on the floor. His eyes were dark and empty. When he spoke, it was with none of the dark, terrifying passion of before.
"Get out."
I crawled back, a few inches, staring up at him. He was gripping himself through the fabric, so hard his knuckles were starting to turn pale.
He didn't have to ask twice.
I only took the time to grab the sheet, that horrible crumpled-up "dress" I'd been wearing since Stoker, and run out of the room naked.
He didn't tell me where to go. So after I covered myself again, I stayed there outside the door, with my ear pressed against the sleek wood, because I needed to know. But I didn't dare try to watch through the crack, which he still hadn't closed.
I heard the sound of a zipper, the soft slap of skin on skin, and his tortured groan when he came.
I was trembling, confusion and arousal coursing through my body, making my heart pound and my throat dry.
He loves to make you follow orders, but he hates that he loves it. It turns him on, and it disgusts him.
These were all good things to know. I filed them away, while my pulse pounded in my throat, while I tried to pretend like my cunt wasn't hot and swollen from picturing him with his hand sliding up and down his dick.
I wanted to see it. I wanted to see him come apart at the seams, losing that taut control he wrapped himself up in.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door. I crawled backwards, huddling against a bookshelf a few feet away. When it popped all the way open, he looked just as calm and composed as he had when I first walked into the room. Except, not quite. I could see the stiffness that remained under the fabric of his well-tailored trousers. But he had a dress shirt on now, smooth and buttoned up to the throat, with a perfectly-knotted deep red tie around his neck.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his eyes suddenly burning.
I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Waiting for your orders," I said. "You never told me where to go."
He was silent for a moment, looking away from me, letting his eyes wander over the carpet, like he was lost in thought. "Were you listening at the door?"
"Yes," I said. There was no sense in lying. It would only make him angrier.
"Do you know what I was doing?"
"Yes."
"Tell me." His voice was suddenly harsh and demanding. His eyes were fixed on me once more - a challenge, and one I didn't quite understand. "Tell me what you heard."
I kept my head high, even while I hugged my knees to my chest. "I heard you jerking off," I said, calmly. "Jerking off to me."
He was staring at me with an intensity that was unmatched by anything else - even when he'd been staring me down, inches from shoving his cock in my face.
"What do you think of that?" he asked, finally. His expression was dark and unreadable, and I was tempted to write it off as a sadistic question, one that he knew was unanswerable. He wanted me to articulate how violated I felt. He wanted to rub in my humiliation, like salt into a wound.
Only, that wasn't quite right.
Was it?
"I think it doesn't make any sense," I heard myself say. "If you really don't care about me, why didn't you just fuck me?"
Anger flashed across his face briefly, but it was soon replaced by an impassive mask.
"You ask too many questions," he said, taking a step towards me. "When I want to fuck you, I'll fuck you. Not a moment sooner, and not a moment later."
Goosebumps rose all over my body, and my pussy throbbed traitorously. There was a conflict in his eyes whenever he looked at me, some dark hunger tempered by revulsion, but I thought it was only a matter of time before the hunger won out. I could only pray that his desires wouldn't destroy me. For all I knew, he was the kind of guy who could only get off on rivers of blood.
But then again, I knew that wasn't true. He'd gotten off on watching me grovel at his feet. If all he wante
d me to do was scrape and beg and act like a simpering slave, I could do that. I could do that every day of my life, and I wouldn't let it break me. That was what I'd been counting on, when I decided to sign my life away to Stoker.
So that was it, then. I'd become the perfect slave. That was what he wanted. If I could play the part well enough, he'd never want to consider letting me leave. I'd be safe here, in this impenetrable fortress. A cage keeping me in - but more importantly, a cage keeping them out.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, lifting my chin. "I should know better than to question you."
His face finally showed something. Surprise, hesitation - wariness. I silently cursed myself for not having played the part better, from the very beginning. He'd seen too much of my true personality. I'd even told him that I was new to Stoker - he knew that I hadn't been through whatever training they usually inflicted on their girls. If I'd just kept my mouth shut, maybe he'd actually believe my play-acting.
I just had to hope that ultimately, he wouldn't care. Once his dick was hard enough, he'd stop doubting. In that respect, at least, I suspected he was just like every other man.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tate's Rules
"Come," Tate said, making a small gesture that indicated I should follow him. He was back in control again, more or less - but I wasn't sure I liked him this way. When we were in his bedroom, at least I knew what he wanted. This version of Tate was a mystery to me, and because of that, he felt even more dangerous than the version who wanted to possess and devour me.
He was leading me down the hall, to another room that lurked behind a heavy oak door. After he pushed it open and pointed me inside, he slammed the door behind me, and I dimly heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
No windows. That was the first thing I noticed. As if he would be stupid enough to put me in a room I could easily escape from.
You don't want to escape, remember? You need him.
I shuddered. As much as I wanted to ignore the voice in the back of my head and run, I couldn't forget why I was here.
The week before I went to Stoker, I'd had yet another close call. They were getting more frequent, and too close for comfort. I was being as careful as I could, keeping myself scarce and not letting anyone know my name. But still, some of Birdy's men were searching the city again, looking for me. Handing out booze, pills, even some batteries, wool socks, blankets, hats. Anything they could get their filthy hands on. All of it stolen, no doubt. Then again, what wasn't stolen from somebody, these days?
I needed protection. There was only so much I could do on my own, scraping just to survive. At least here, I had a roof over my head, heat, a soft bed - everything I'd been dreaming of for years. And I had a dangerous man. Whether or not he was really on my side, I couldn't say. But he was the best shot I had.
Once I'd walked the perimeter of the room, I sat down on the bed and hugged my knees to my chest. There was a small attached bathroom with a clawfooted tub, no shower, and the rest of the room was full of shelves piled with old books in languages I didn't recognize. A slight musty smell told me that no one had lived here for a while, which didn't come as much of a surprise. Tate didn't seem like someone who entertained visitors.
I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting there when he rapped at my door.
Why knock? It's your damn house. I'm your damn property.
I went to answer him.
"Here," he said, thrusting a plate at me. His eyes didn't focus on my face. There was a hunk of bread, some grapes, and what looked like cheese. Next to it, a small cup of deep red liquid was nestled.
Taking a deep breath, I remembered the role I was supposed to be playing. "Thank you, Sir."
His mouth twisted as I took the plate, and he quickly slammed the door shut as soon as my arm was out of the way.
Damn it. This guy was going to be hard to win over.
As I poked at the food, trying to decide whether he was likely to poison me or not, I contemplated my options. By playing the willing slave, I thought I was giving him what he wanted. In fact, I was almost certain of it. The problem was that he didn't want what he wanted.
I knew what the conflict felt like. Whether he'd meant to or not, he'd taught me very well when he bent me over the bed. We both wanted things that disgusted us.
Come on, Autumn. You're nothing like him. He's the one who created the situation, not you. He's the one who touched you and spanked you when you didn't want it. You're just confused and overwhelmed. You can't have actually enjoyed it.
For once, my inner voice didn't seem so sure of my own motivations. I wanted to believe I was just responding to the stress of the situation, but that didn't seem right. Whatever this was, it ran deeper.
Much deeper.
No, poisoning me would take too much effort. He'd been willing to let me die, but that didn't mean he was willing to kill me. I took a sip of the liquid.
Wine. I hadn't tasted it in...
"Come on, it's not like it'll hurt her. Autumn, honey, come have a sip."
Walking over slowly, feeling like I'd been given the keys to some grown-up world that I didn't understand.
My parents were both bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, but their happiness seemed forced. Something was happening on the news. The radio was always talking, talking, talking now. Hardly any music anymore. Hardly anyone laughing. Just lots of men talking, talking, talking. Every day, on the TV there would be people yelling in the streets, getting dragged away by men in big black boots with plastic shields and helmets.
"For God's sake, it's just wine," Dad was saying, as my mom grimaced, shaking her head. "Who knows when she'll get another chance to have it, the way things are going."
Advancing slowly, waiting for Mom to stop me, but she didn't. I took a sip. A little bit dribbled on my shirt, staining it blood-red. It tasted sour and I made a face. My dad was laughing.
"See? I've basically guaranteed she won't drink until she's forty."
On the TV, people crying about their dead sons. Their dead daughters. It used to be they were talking about soldiers, but now they are talking about ordinary people. Students. Kids. The police chief being interviewed, saying they were just trying to "keep order."
The memory was so vivid, I almost dropped my cup. Tears pricked behind my eyes. When was the last time I'd recalled their faces so clearly? Even in my dreams, I was starting to forget their features, but the taste had brought it back.
For a while, I sat there, tears flowing freely, letting out quiet sobs that I hoped Tate wouldn't hear. All of the hopelessness and despair of my situation came crashing down on me, brightened and sharpened by the memory of the only people in my life who'd ever really tried to protect me. Who'd ever really loved me.
They would have given up their lives to save mine, but Birdy never came them the chance.
Instead, he just took.
Take, take, take. That was all men like him did. Men like him and Tate.
When I was finally exhausted from the rush of emotions, I turned back to the plate of food. It didn't look terribly appetizing, but then again, nothing did. I was used to going days without eating, and I didn't feel hungry yet. All the same, I knew I should eat.
There was another rap at my door.
I didn't bother answering, but he walked in a few moments later.
With my back to the doorway, curled up on my side, he couldn't see my red eyes or the tear streaks on my face.
"I came for your dishes," he said, softly. "Aren't you going to eat?"
I swallowed. "Not hungry," I said, hoping that my voice just sounded sleep-roughened instead of sad.
"Eat," he said. "Just a little, if that's all you can manage. You have to re-train your stomach to take regular meals."
So, he wasn't planning on starving me. That was mildly interesting.
"Why?" I asked.
"You don't ask questions," he growled, stepping closer. "Eat."
I sat up, glaring at him. He flinched slightly when he
saw my face - or maybe I just imagined it.
I took a grape and shoved it into my mouth, just to shut him up. The sweetness burst on my tongue, and I soon forgot why I was irritated. Where the hell did he even get grapes, these days?
He was sitting down in the chair, a few feet from my bed. What the hell did he want? If he was going to spend another hour teasing me within an inch of sanity, I might actually snap and try to kill him. I had a feeling that wouldn't end well for me.
"How long has it been, since you had enough to eat?" he asked. His voice was dispassionate and detached, in a way that sent chills through me.
"I don't know," I said. "What, you mean, regularly?"
"Yes."
I shook my head. "No idea. I don't exactly mark it on a calendar."
Finally, his eyes lifted to my face. They pierced through my artifice so easily, the tough-girl act I was trying to put on for him, and I could feel the tears coming again. I swiped them away, roughly, staring down at the bed.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, quietly.
I let out a snort of laughter. "Pick a reason."
Tate worried at his lower lip with his teeth, and for a moment I thought he was actually going to apologize for his behavior. "There's no reason to cry when you're here," he said, at last. "You'll have plenty to eat. You can go where you wish. You can even try to run away, although I don't recommend it. You sold yourself into this life, and you did so with the understanding that you'd lose something in return. The fact that I'd be more than happy to send you out there into the wild - that's not relevant. Stoker will find you, and they will take back what belongs to them. You were only with them for a day. You have no idea how skilled they are at breaking people."
My throat felt thick and dry. I reached for the wine.
"I'm not your property," I said, finally, emboldened by the warm burn in my stomach. So quickly, my mask had fallen away. I couldn't do it. I couldn't keep playing the perfect submissive. "I don't care what you say. I don't care what Stoker says."