What could be worse than that?
I look at him, leaning back against the counter like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and want to see him in the darkness, among all his demons.
When he was talking to Corrine at Hana Hana there were hints of a whole other person lurking deep inside of him. A dark, dangerous person, who fucked in public, and had people begging to be tortured by him.
I know how magnetic he can be, perhaps more than anyone, but I'm starting to suspect he dilutes it for my sake. He's certainly never kissed me in public the way Corrine kissed her sub. He doesn't treat me like he owns me. Just watching the two of them made me aroused.
That decides it for me. “Let's try the rape fantasy.”
“You're not ready for that.”
“You put it on the list of things you were interested in. I agreed to try it. So what's the problem? Let's try it.”
Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose: something he only does when he's stressed out, and, lately, seems to happen mostly around me. “You just said that you were still sore,” he points out. “A rape enactment won't help.”
“Oh…right.” He has a point there, although I'm 99.9% sure that isn't his reason for saying “no.”
But Tristan pounces, scenting weakness. “Rape fantasies also require a lot of planning.”
“How so?”
“First off, clothes. You have to wear something that's easy to take or rip off. Something you wouldn't mind having ruined.” He ticks off the items on his fingers, looking at me. “Second, safeword. You tend to forget you have one at times, and I need to remind you. I won't do that in this scene. If you say no, I won't stop. If you say stop, I won't stop. Even if you fight me off, I won't stop. I'll probably take it as encouragement.”
My mouth goes dry. “That sounds…” hot “intense.”
What is wrong with me? Why did I think 'hot'? Tristan's basically telling me how he would go about raping me. That isn't sexy, it's terrifying.
But…I kind of like the idea of being taken by force. Just thinking about it is making me wet, and now I feel like I'm a terrible person. Does having a rape fantasy mean that I'm subconsciously okay with other women getting raped? Does it mean that I want to be raped?
Note to self: Google search “does having rape fantasy mean you have psychological problems?”
“Third,” Tristan is saying, in that same hard voice, “I'll need to borrow your spare apartment key.”
“Why would you need my spare?”
He takes one step closer to me. Just one. But it's enough to make me quite aware of the size difference between us. “So I can come into your apartment without asking, and then take you by surprise.” I stare at him, wide-eyed and inexplicably turned-on. Tristan looks back at me expressionlessly. “Still want to do it?”
“Yes.” Oh God, yes.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. For a moment, Tristan looks as though he is planning on telling me, “no.”
Then he sighs and shakes his head.
“I'll come by tomorrow for the key.”
We have sex several more times that week. Tristan tells me it's because he wants me ready, so I don't get hurt during the scene. “You're still so damn tight,” he explained on the first of these occasions. I was tied to his bed and that time, we used the clamps. He put the chain in my mouth instead, and commanded me to tug with every thrust, leaving my nipples deliciously sore.
At the end of the week, he invites me over for lunch. “I'm going to cook for you,” he informs me, which turns out to mean limp noodles in tomato sauce. They remind me of flaccid penises, and when I tell him why I'm laughing, he pushes his plate aside and tells me to strip. “I'll teach you to be thankful for what's on your plate,” he says, in that low voice that means we're about to play. The moment I'm naked, he pushes me against the fridge and takes me from behind.
Sex was starting to feel pretty good, or at least not painful, but this—this hurts almost as much as him fingering me that first time did (although not as much as having my hymen broken).
“Sharper angle, pony girl.” His hands clench into fists on either side of me, making the veins pop out. “Deeper penetration. I'm buried so deeply inside of you right now, I'm practically under your skin.”
I shudder. Even though it hurts, the combination of his body heat, the chill of the metal fridge, and his velvety words is overwhelming. Enough to push me over the edge from pain to arousal.
Sex, I am quickly learning, is an excuse to say all the outlandish things that would sound truly psychotic under any other circumstances.
Tristan curves his arm around my hips and starts massaging my clit as he thrusts into me from behind. His nose is buried in my hair, and every time he exhales, his breath tickles the back of my neck. He whispers, “Sometimes, I think I can smell you on my clothes, on my sheets. It gets me hard every time, thinking about all the ways I can fuck your cunt and get you wet for me.”
Tristan starts squeezing, quick little bursts of pain that sync up with his pumping hips. I rest my burning forehead against the cold fridge, and my breath fogs up the metal. I can see my face, glazed with lust. Oh.
“I can smell how hot you are for me right now.” His teeth graze the back of my ear. “It's even better fresh.”
He releases my clit with that last thrust, and it's too soon, and I don't reach orgasm. I sink against the wall, breathing hard, buzzing with frustration. My ears are ringing a little, and I'm far too hot, especially between my legs. Tristan's sweat-slicked chest slides against my back as he pulls away far enough to turn me around.
Tristan pushes his hair out of his face with both hands, and a few drops of sweat sprinkle to the floor. “Well,” he says heavily, “if you can manage doggie-style, you should be fine. That's as deep as I can go.”
I can still feel him. It's like he branded the inside of me. I squeeze my thighs together, putting pressure on my aching clit. “Okay,” I say breathlessly.
“This is your last chance to reconsider. You'll have your safeword, but that's it.”
Another discreet clench. “I'll do it.”
I wait until he's in the shower before finishing myself off, and when I do, I'm imagining him on top of me, pinning down my wrists with those big hands. I'm so turned on that it only takes a few frenzied passes of my trembling fingers to make myself come.
The next day, a package from UPS arrives. Rushed, I notice, given the stamp on the box. I open it up with a knife from the kitchen. Inside the box is a very short plaid skirt, a white underbust corset, and a little red blazer with some made-up school crest. Beneath all this, in separate bags, are white knee-high socks, black Mary Janes, a necktie that matches the skirt, and a plaid, crotchless G-string. There's no question who it's from.
Or why.
One orange, one pink.
In case there was any ambiguity, I receive a text message that says only, TONIGHT.
My insides twist around like crumpled metal. Tonight. He's coming tonight. But when? That could span anywhere from 6 P.M. to midnight.
I pull on the costume. Everything fits…although the skirt is so short it doesn't fully cover my butt, and while the ruffled corset pushes my breasts up very perkily, it also leaves them completely bare. I loop the necktie around my throat—it comes pre-tied, all you have to do is loop it over your head and cinch it—and slide my arms into the blazer. It's very tight, and nips in at the waist. I clomp to the hall mirror in my Mary Janes and wince.
Lolita, much?
I decide not to linger on the implications of him wanting to enact a rape fantasy with a schoolgirl.
At 6 P.M., I drag Garfield's box from the hall to the bathroom, careful not to spill any of the cat sand. My cat hovers, watching me from behind the laundry hamper. What the fuck are you doing? He is clearly thinking.
I'm asking myself the same question.
I open up a can of tuna—and the moment he hears the pop of the lid, Garfield is at my side like magic I pour the canned tuna into his supper dish and take
it into the bathroom. “Come on, Garf. Follow your dinner.” I set it down on the bathroom floor. “In here.”
His tail swishes once before curling straight up. A new place to eat! He is absolutely delighted—
Until the door clicks shut.
While my cat yowls and scratches at the door, I wash my hands at the kitchenette's sink and prepare my own dinner. Instant ramen, cooked on the stove instead of in the microwave. I chop up some green onions and carrots and add half a cup of frozen shrimp to the boiling water to make it more healthy. It's still got two days' worth of a full serving of salt, but I don't care.
I finish the meal with a glass of wine, and then wash the dishes and leave them to dry in the dish rack. Every creak of the house settling in the night sounds like a canon in my ears. At one point, I think I hear the door crack open, but when I go into the hall to investigate, the lock remains mockingly in place.
I glance at the clock. It's 9:30 P.M. Maybe something came up. Tristan didn't sound very enthusiastic about the rape fantasy. Although why would he message me to tell me it's on and send me a sexy costume to wear for when we play and then blow me off? It doesn't make sense. “Stupid Tristan,” I mutter. I don't understand.
At least Garfield is finally silent. He sounded really unhappy, like I was torturing him by locking him in there. I hope he's found something to amuse himself with, even if that means he's chewed up all my toilet paper. Maybe he'll even forgive me when I let him out.
I collapse on my bed. My current choice of underwear means I'll have to wash the sheets tomorrow and the polyester blazer is irritating my nipples, making them itch like crazy, but I need to rest my eyes. Just for a moment. Then I'll change back into my pajamas and let Garfield out of the bathroom, and try to figure out what to say to Tristan that doesn't consist of “What the fuck?”
But the moment my eyes slip closed, something creaks. Very loudly. My heart picks up. But it's been doing this all evening, my poor heart, jumping at every little thing, just like a scared rabbit.
It's only the house settling, I think.
—Until a gloved hand clamps over my mouth, filling my lungs with the sour tang of leather, muffling my subsequent scream. I don't recognize my voice. Muted by the thick leather glove, it sounds so high and thin.
A man wearing a balaclava is leaning over me. Only his eyes and mouth are revealed. He's straddling me, squeezing my arms to my sides, leaving me completely immobile. His lips part in a savage sneer as he glimpses my reaction. “Well, well.”
I flinch. His voice is a horrible parody of Tristan's.
In that low, raspy voice, he says, “What have we here?” He shoves my blazer aside and grabs one of my breasts, rubbing one leather-covered thumb over the nipple. “For me? It's not even my birthday.”
He pinches me. I jolt beneath him, and a little trickle of moisture drips between my legs. I can feel his hard cock spearing into my belly, how it jerks whenever I flinch. I whimper, and he casually, almost boredly, slaps me in the face. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to shock, and my jaw drops behind his hand.
“Listen up, you little slut,” he says, in that rough, gravelly tone. “I'm going to take whatever I want from you and you're going to give it to me, because if you don't, I'll fucking kill you.”
And to my very real terror, he pulls out a knife.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan, my Tristan, is standing over me with a knife, and he looks just scary enough that I wonder if he'll use it.
He takes his hand from my mouth to draw one of his fingers down my cheek. The tips come back wet. “Why are you crying? I haven't even cut you, yet.”
Yet.
Oh my God.
“You…you wouldn't really,” I say hoarsely.
His lips part in a smile. “You want to find out?”
I begin to struggle in earnest. But I freeze when the point of the knife comes to rest on one of my nipples. He traces the aureola with the blade, and the cold metal makes the skin dimple and pucker. He does the same thing to my other breast, and I don't dare move.
“So you like it rough.” He strokes my left nipple, then gives it a sharp twist with a flick of his fingers, drawing a cry from my lips that is only partially due to pain. My breathing quickens and he says, “Kinky slut.”
Adrenaline floods my body. Impulsively, I head-bonk him, and, not expecting this, he curses and drops the knife. He reaches for it, shifting his weight, and by wriggling back and forth, I manage to free my hands.
I tackle him, groping for the mask, if only to reassure myself that it really is Tristan under there. He pushes me back. I lift my feet to push him, and he catches me by the heels and yanks, tugging my socks off as well as pushing me back. “Your cunt looks wet.”
The crotchless panties. When I lifted my legs, I must have given him a full view. I slap him—he deserves it, for being such an asshole—and he snatches that wrist. “Bitch.”
He transfers my restrained hand to one of his and ties the sock around my other wrist. Then Tristan yanks me to my feet—but he releases my sockless hand. I try to shove him away. He grabs me again, and draws both hands behind my back, knotting them tightly together. Then he closes his hand around my throat and shakes me.
“I'm going to fuck you so hard, you're going to bleed come.”
My gut clenches like a vise. I want him to fuck me. This is the man who had been hiding in the shadows. The man who can make cruelty into an erotic game.
He's edging me forward, with pushes and rough shoves. When I make a halfhearted attempt to skirt past him, he throws out an arm to bar my bath. Pretty soon, my butt hits the kitchen counter. He has herded me halfway across the room.
Sweat beads on my skin, soaking into the cheap polyester fabric. Tristan leans down and I tense as he lets his tongue trail from my neck to my cheek. One of his hands is in my hair, and he uses it to jerk my head to the side. “You taste like fear.”
He lets his other hand slip under my too-short skirt, into my folds. I choke and squirm as those leather-clad fingers find my clit and start rubbing, very roughly. He's hurting me, but little sparks of pleasure flare up along with the pain because he knows exactly how to play me, and pretty soon I'm arching into him.
His teeth close over the place where my pulse pounds most heavily in my throat, and he sucks the skin between his lips, making a tight, painful seal.
“You smell,” he says, slowly lifting his head back to my upturned ear, “like a bitch in heat.” And he releases my head and shoves me back against the counter, sending my mail scattering across the floor as he moves his fingers even faster.
“No.” It comes out as a low moan. What I really mean is yes. And I can tell by the gleam in his eyes that he knows that, can tell by how much rougher he gets.
“Shut your mouth, or I'll put my cock in it.”
I'm so close, but he's hurting me, bruising me. “Please,” I pant. “Please, I have to come. It hurts.”
“Get used to it, bitch. I'm about to hurt you a whole lot more.” He pulls out the knife, and my eyes go wide. “Hurry up and come. I don't have all fucking day.”
My breathing hitches as he lays the knife against my skin. The coldness of the blade seems to suck all the warmth out of my body. “Tristan, what—” He squeezes his fingers, and keeps them like that. “Ahh.”
“Don't call me that.” His voice is a threat in my ear.
I nod weakly. Tristan keeps his eyes on mine for a moment, and lets the blade trace a path down my clammy skin. He's still got my clit pinched between his fingers, and I feel like I'm about to explode. And then the knife slips, nicking the base of my nipple, and when I scream, he releases my clit.
For a moment, my vision goes black. Something hits my knees. It's the floor. He let me fall. Liquid is weeping out from between my legs, and I can't breathe, and my right breast stings as a bead of sweat rolls down my chest and seeps into the cut. And then I remember.
“You cut me.”
He yanks me up by the
hair, so I'm on my knees. “Want me to do it again?”
“You said you didn't cut people. You said—”
But I can't remember what else Tristan said. He unzips his fly, and his erect cock slides out. “I'm saying open your mouth.”
It's already open. I cannot believe what is going on. Tristan takes that as acquiescence, and slides his cock into my mouth, in swift, hard strokes that leave the back of my throat feeling bruised. My nose is all snotty from crying, and I can barely breathe, and this is just too much. But his hand is on my head, digging into my skull.
He comes in my mouth, and thick clots of it coat my tongue and the back of my throat. I gag wetly, and he slaps my breast. “Swallow it,” he says. “Whores swallow.”
I try to spit his own junk back at him, but my aim is not so good, so it kind of just dribbles on the floor. Tristan makes a noise of impatience and shoves my face down. I try to get back up, but his boot is on the back of my neck, keeping me down. “Lick it up from the floor.”
Is he fucking kidding me? “No! I won't do that!”
“Lick it up,” he repeats, “or I'll rub your face in it.”
I lower my head to the floor and lick. A shudder of revulsion ripples through me. I can't remember when I last cleaned it. I can see bits of Garfield's hair, and dust bunnies the size of marbles under the fridge. “Please—”
“All of it,” he says, resting an elbow on the counter. His other hand is down his pants, stroking slowly.
Is he getting turned on by this?
So I lick up his come from the floor, sobbing because it is so disgusting. When I'm finished, Tristan takes his boot from my neck and pulls me up by my necktie, choking me a little. “How did it taste?”
“Like I hate you.”
He laughs, not nicely, and tugs my blazer down my arms. “Tits don't get that hard when you hate someone.”
To my complete and utter mortification, my nipples are flushed and fully erect, announcing my arousal like little exclamation points.
He laughs when I look away, ashamed, and uses his pelvis to pin me against the counter, bumping me up so his erection is pressed right against my core. “And when you were bent over, down there on the floor, I could see how pink you were, how you were leaking all over the floor as you licked up my come.”
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