I snort at the memory of her wrapping her hand into my hair last night as I sneer at her face. She’s inside me now, weeding her way in deeper and forging every reaction I don’t want to give. She’s as good at it as my magician, virile in her ability to cajole and caress. It’s annoying me. Pissing me off. Making me needy for her. I hope to fuck she’s writing all this down on paper, immersing herself in it. It’s clever. Intricate and sophisticated. She’s so damn manipulative. She counters every move, somehow looping herself around me no matter how hard I push her. And now she takes it all, too, enjoys it as I try something that usually scares even the bravest of subs.
Thumbing through her phone again, I send some holding emails in reply to whatever seems important to calm their scream for more from her. I’ve been doing it for days now, my replies getting shorter and less obliging each time. Editors, publishing contracts, more editors and then some tripe about marketing and finance. She’s on fucking holiday. That’s the response most of them have gotten for the last few days, as if written from herself, politely requesting more time. Anything relevant will be done via email, as it always is
I sigh and drop through her messages again, finding nothing of relevance other than more tetchy demands from someone she’s labelled as Fuckwit the 3rd. The sight makes me chuckle as I toy with the idea of responding, then snarl at the tone of the texts. Fuckwit needs a beating of his own by the looks of these demands on her time and energy. I scroll back through the texts, more anger levying with each one read. Every fucking day there’s something new, hotly pursued by asking to take her out for dinner soon. It’s all too fucking personal. Too close. And it makes me fucking jealous now I’m thinking about it. Furious. Although, she’s quite clearly avoiding actually making a date with the cunt. I’ll see what he sends tomorrow before I reply, perhaps go see the fucker if he proves annoying enough.
I tuck the phone back in my pocket, more interested with the woman softly groaning in her sleep. I’m not sure if it’s the strapping she took last night, or the thought of this crap in her phone. It makes me scowl at her idiocy. Allowing this to take over her life has been a waste of her energy, and fucking detestable to her talents. It’s caused a never-ending decrease in her ability to write well. I know now because I’ve had the words in my hands. Ordered and bought so I can read the way she’s failed herself, and help her find the route to back to herself again. The first one and her most recent, the last of which is sappy, hopeless, romantic garbage. Repetitive and unexciting. Such a waste of spirit. She’s right when she says there’s too much noise. This endless diatribe, relevant or not, would make most people lose their minds let alone their ability to write well. No wonder she’s groaning next to me now. I would be, too, if I had to deal with this amount of garbage daily. I’ve barely looked at her social media. I couldn’t give a fuck. And the amount of accounts she has for different platforms is stupefying. No wonder she’s lost. I doubt she even remembers who she was before all of this.
Time to wake her up and remind her.
I wander into the bathroom and stop the flow of hot water, switching it to cold and going down the hall to the lounge to put some more coffee on. The old typewriter on the table greets me as I flick the switches, the ink inside reminding me what she originally came for. It seems so irrelevant now, regardless of my attempt to realign her mind. Nothing here is happening for the purpose of a story anymore really, not on my part. Try as I might to continue this charade, I’m not even certain I want her to leave this house, let alone remind herself she has a life outside of me. I’ve never wanted someone so much in my life. Whether it’s her or the surface she provides, I can’t quite quantify, no matter how much I’ve scrutinised my own thoughts on the matter. Perhaps these dates will evolve my thoughts on that, giving me a sense of realism over my world of sin. Dates. Not that I’m sure what constitutes a date. I’m delivering what should be seen as one, an element of romance to fulfil her need, before the filth she’s going to deliver for me. Fucking romance. The thought is as disconcerting as my thoughts about her. I can feel her burrowing her way in with every breath and moan she makes, asking me for more than I can give, and now she fucking kneels on the floor again out of choice rather than fighting me. Why does she do that? I don’t want that from her. I want that fire in her eyes, the spit and venom. I want the vitriol that flows so freely she shows me a glory in her temper tantrums, wounds me with them. It’s as fascinating to me as the touch of her fingers the first time we met. But the kneeling, the way her body gives in, offering me everything to play with yet again, makes me feel shame and remorse for the visions that keep coming. It makes me want to hold her, be close. It’s invariably why I choose to take her and hurt her all the more, testing all her limits simply because she still, even in that position on the floor, challenges me. Bitch. The fact that pain continually turns into something unexpected, drawing me deeper into her, isn’t something I’ve come to terms with yet. Nor is the fact that I want to tell her I love her in the midst of our rampant fucking. It’s yet another thing I can’t quantify or measure. It still feels enlightening. It’s beyond my usual realms of fucking and torture. Quieting.
A sound makes me turn to the doorway. She’s there, looking at me and hovering at the top of the steps leading down to me, her body draped in my fucking shirt.
“I should get some writing done,” she says, her head nodding at the typewriter as she crosses her arms and leans on the frame.
“You should take a bath. You look a fucking state.” Not that she does—it’s just my insidious little way of making her feel alone. I don’t know why I’m fucking doing it. I just am. I’m riled by her again, pissed. She grounds me, making me question things I don’t want to question. She only has to stand there looking at me with that arched brow of hers and I can feel all that responsibility again, haunting veins I don’t care for. Looking at her is becoming like looking at my sea, all the time trying to work out whether I want it to drown me or float me in its maniacal crest.
“I thought you liked me all stained and messy?” she questions, her feet stepping down my fucking steps as she walks into my space and starts undoing my shirt. “You’re the one who put all this on me, aren’t you?” If she says Daddy, I’ll beat her ass so hard she won’t sit for a week. She’s got that look about her. The holier than thou one that I hate to admit to adoring. “Don’t you want to look at your handiwork, Blaine?” The buttons keep popping, the slight bruise beneath her breast starting to emerge as she begins stripping the material from her shoulders. “It doesn’t hurt if that’s what’s bothering you.” It fucking should be. It irritates me. As does the sight of her hands as they calmly move lower, the shake in them barely present anymore. “It feels warming, like I can still feel you on me even when you’re not there. I should write that, don’t you think? It’s good. A good representation of submission. The readers will understand that.” Screw the readers. Screw anything but the madam who’s still slowly covering the ground to get to me. I clench my fists, attempting to remember that this is her date time as I turn away and pick up my coffee. I offered that, said I would do it for her. Nothing is going to persuade me otherwise at the moment. She could sit her ass on that chair and spread her legs and I’d still make her get in the bath. “What’s the matter?”
“You need to have a bath. We’re going out.”
“Hmm?” I turn back, watching the way she lifts the typewriter and smiles to herself about something as she fingers the keys. The sight makes me sigh as I watch them flit across the pads, each day passing evaporating the toxins within her system. It makes me wonder how long I can keep her here in that guise, thinking she needs me for those reasons. “I don’t need to go out.” Fuck that. I do, as does she if she wants to continue walking. “Where can I set this up that’s a little less in your way? I need to write.”
“No, you don’t. You need to have a bath and put some clothes on,” I reply, as I walk over and look at her, examining the marks on the base of her bottom lip wit
hout touching it, enjoying the way the bite mark still lingers there. “You can choose a room when we get back.” Preferably one that’s far outside of these walls so she can stop interfering with every fucking thought I have. “Or you could use the summer cottage out back.” Why the hell did I say that? The mental image troubles me immediately as she looks at me, the thought of her being outside my private space more confusing than comforting. “I might clear it out if you beg well enough.” Her brow rises again, a slight challenge in the smirk that appears.
“Beg?”
“You’re good at it.”
“Only when I need to be, Blaine. It gets me what I want.”
That it does, and exactly what I want, too.
Her smile broadens, illuminating the fucking room as she picks up a lock of her hair and twiddles it around in her fingers. “I’m not doing it out of love. You know that, right?” she says. I take the lock of hair from her, tugging her over to me with it and suppressing the need to make her tell me she is. She doesn’t squeal or groan; she’s becoming accustomed to my handling, hardening up. Regardless, though, she’s doing all of this for love, and I’m allowing it because of love, irrational as it might be. I stare at her, a snarl forming as I consider this date I’ve arranged and begin letting my cock talk me out of it.
“Where is it? This summer cottage?” she asks, her mouth continuing to smirk as I tug the hair again, wrapping it into my hold and chastising myself for every fucking thought I’m having. Fuck going out. We should stay here all day, all month. Just stay inside these rooms so I can play with her, relax with her. Walk around naked and enjoy the smell of her cunt overpowering my desolation. “Is that supposed to hurt?” The words filter into my mind, making me smile as I sense her comfort in the pain I’m causing. It’s not much; she’s right, only enough to remind her who’s holding her, but not many others would find the tension acceptable, no normal human anyway.
“Go have a bath,” I eventually reply, letting go of her and turning to walk out. “Wash the stains away for the day. We’re doing something you asked for. Take it before I rethink.”
I don’t stay around for an answer, rather walk in the opposite direction and out of the front door to get to my sea, searching for its calm to regale rational thought into this senselessness. Love. It’s biting in more efficiently now. Her words, the sweet sound of her challenges, the way she moves making me question everything I’ve ever understood. It’s all absurd, twisting my insides around and making me think of things I don’t deserve, irrespective of whether I’m taking them or not. It happened last night, too, part of me wanting to rip the skin from her limbs and the other needing to stop myself from doing it and hold her instead.
“Blaine? Why don’t you have one with me?” her voice says. I close my eyes and keep facing the sea rather than turning to acknowledge her suggestion. If only she knew the confusion she causes as she crawls through my skin, her breath as close to a direction as I’ve ever found. There’s nothing I want more than her fingers stroking me, her lips travelling over my throat as I bury what’s left of my fight for decency and let her have all of me.
“I’m dressed, Alana, and waiting. Get a fucking move on.” The words come out as I shove my hands in my pockets, hoping to alleviate their incessant grab towards her. It’s as galling as the love I feel for her, as troublesome. It once again makes me question what happens to sadists in love. Where they go when the lines blur and emotion takes over. It’s interfering in my process, guiding me along roads I haven’t travelled before, weakening my methods of control. And that’s something neither of us needs to happen.
~
“I still don’t understand how she knew my size,” she says, as she climbs out of the car and looks around her. I do. It’s the same ability I have to gauge weight and muscle resistance. Tabitha’s in tune with her surroundings and what she is, purposely focused on the only thing she desires. “I mean, the whole ensemble fits perfectly, the shoes, too. How does someone know what size shoe someone else is?” It’s called a foot fetish. Tabitha has one, much to Delaney’s enjoyment. “I’m not sure I like her, though. Something seems weird about her, or perhaps it’s just her aura, being a submissive.” Tabitha is far from a simple submissive. She’s a rare commodity, not dissimilar to Alana. She hovers on a border for people such as me, neither needing guidance in her potential demise nor caring for the eventuality of it. She just breathes each day, perversely excited by any option that might present itself to play under. She might be with Delaney, but she’s far from owned by him—a situation that suits them both.
“You’re just not ready to understand her yet. She’s closer to you than you think she is.”
“I doubt that, but I’ll take your word for it for now.” She wraps her arms around herself, stepping out onto the tarmac, her coat shielding her from the wind as it whips about. “Where are we anyway? And why am I dressed like this in the middle of the day?” My eyes skim her legs again, appreciating the slit that runs the length of her thigh, opening the form fitting black material with each step she takes. Tabitha made a good choice—patent red heels that arch the foot stunningly. The dress is as tight as it should be, one shouldered and flaunting every curve Alana’s got. It’s the sort of outfit that should make the entertainment drool for her and ensure her movement’s not hindered by restrictive ratcheting for now.
“Dates, Alana. Your reward.”
“You’ve brought me to an abandoned wasteland for a date?” I smirk at her and check my watch, unable to stop walking over to her as I watch the sky and wait. “What are you looking up there for?”
“Look, you’ll see soon enough.” She huffs a little, giving me enough reason to put her ass back in the car and forget all of this.
“This is nice, though. This thing we’re doing. It’s different.” I look at her as she slips an arm through mine, and stares upwards. “Proves you’re not that arsehole you keep claiming to be.”
“You don’t know where I’m taking you yet,” I reply, for some reason unlinking her arm and stepping behind her, my hand wrapping around her waist. “I could be kidnapping you again, fucking with your mind. It could just be a ruse to get more of what I want.” She laughs, her fingers finding their way into mine as we both look upwards.
“You don’t do ruses, Blaine. Not for me, anyway. I know that about us. If you’d wanted that, I’d still be in the house, gagged and bound—again.” She turns, her body brushing against everything that fits perfectly. “This is you accommodating me,” she says, her lips moving towards mine. “Listening to me. You’re showing me a snippet of that person you refuse to let me see, aren’t you? The one who called me your little dove.” The thought, or the way she softly lands her lips on mine, makes me smile into her, amused by her analogy. But this is the easy bit for her, the show my magician produces with little care once he’s engaged in the performance. She’s doesn’t understand how much of the real me she’s already seen. She’s seen my temper, my frustration, something few have ever produced nor will ever see. She’s made me move forward into her with just those two emotions, breaking through barriers that shouldn’t be broken. Little dove or not, she’s far from understanding me yet. “This is one who loves, isn’t it?”
I growl back at her, pissed that she won’t let it go and ready to show her why I can’t love anything, not as she does.
“It’s only three little words, Blaine. You’ve said them before.” She brushes her lips on mine again and wraps her arms tighter around my neck, deepening the kiss into territories best left for hedonism. My cock instantly remembers the thud of her skin as I struck it, and the sound of her squeal as she took another clamp, but my mind seems to disperse into the unknown with her, just as it did last night. It allows her access to places I haven’t been before, letting her tongue guide me elsewhere as I increase my grip on her hipbone. It’s bemusing, confounding. I feel the tension inside me increase, a sense of anxiety attached to its escalation as she keeps the kiss loose and soft, not allo
wing me the pressure I crave. The whole fucking thing makes me want to sink to the floor with her and fuck, not for pain’s sake, but for sensation. To just feel her again, feel her around me. For once, I want slow fucking. I want to ease in, taking my fucking time and letting her mouth guide the moment onwards, not caring for the come I’ll eventually spill. The whole fucking episode clouds me and makes me sigh into her, my hands slipping lower and grabbing at her arse, barely restraining themselves from going further. And then she just slows us more, gently leading me into more misguided delusions of making love like normal people do, of fucking for the pure enjoyment of being inside someone. Loving them. Until, eventually, all that’s left is a millimetre of space between our lips, her panted breath as consuming to me as the moon descending each night over my sea.
“Why won’t you let me in enough to say them again?” she whispers, soft fingers stroking the back of my neck and her mouth a barely parted void of expectancy. “I’ll give you everything if you let me in.” She’ll fucking give me everything regardless, yet her voice makes me consider the connotation of the words more absentmindedly, letting sentiment linger in my heart rather than the simple mechanics of owning something to play with. It’s enough to make me gaze at her lips as her hands stroke purposefully across the back of my neck, calming me or fucking lulling me into dreams and horizons I shouldn’t be privy to.
The End (Stained Duet Book 2) Page 9