Tears of Tess

by Pepper Winters

  “I’m sorry!” I shouted, sucking in large, gulping breaths as something fractured. I heaved as sadness, self-pity, and lostness asphyxiated. “You hurt me, you torment me—” Sobs stopped my words; I wrapped arms around myself. “But I need you!” I couldn’t do this. I can’t!

  Q didn’t offer comfort; he didn’t give me what I needed—he stood there with his aura of power and ruthlessness, watching me dissolve. Where had the man gone who carried me upstairs? That was the man I needed. Not this bastard. This owner.

  Q crouched, trying to unlatch my arms from round my ribcage, but I fought him and huddled in the corner. Blonde hair tangled around me, offering protection from his livid gaze.

  “Je suis un salaud,” he muttered, pulling me into his lap. His suit oozed with liquid as he leaned against the wall, rocking me. I wanted to agree, he was a bastard, but the ache in his voice hurt me deep. He truly believed it, on a much deeper level.

  So many things ran through my body at being held. I wanted to snuggle, let him whisper and soothe; another part wanted to run because his compassion was false and hurt all the more. But I couldn’t do either. I was weak, and tears held me hostage.

  Q rubbed my back, long legs splayed on the shower floor. Through glassy tears, I noticed he still wore shoes. Didn’t he care about anything he owned? Were we all disposable?

  I cried harder.

  Q grabbed me tighter, murmuring, “You’re mine, esclave. Mine to care for. Mine to fix. I’ll allow you to cry while I wash you, but the moment you’re clean, you’re to stop. Do you understand?”

  I blinked through tears, shuddering so badly I couldn’t answer.

  “Everything about tonight will be forgotten, and you’ll only have to remember what I do to you. Is that clear?” He shook me. “Answer me, esclave.”

  I nodded. There was relief in being ordered to forget and I would obey. After all, Q owned my sense of hearing, I couldn’t refuse. “I understand.”

  Nodding sharply, he reached above, to a glass shelf, where an array of crystal bottles rested. Picking one, he dumped a handful of flowery scented shampoo and placed his palms on my head.

  The moment his hands massaged, I cracked again. Wracking sobs exploded from my chest and I doubled over with pain. Not from the rape, or Q’s anger, but because of his touch. No one touched me so tenderly. Never had my parents cuddled or offered comfort in their arms. I grew up never knowing how to hug or kiss or love. Brax came along, and with his sweetness, helped heal me. Even with his tender heartedness, he never just held me—never saw the real me or washed or tended.

  It had taken being kidnapped, and sold to a man who didn’t want me, to show how much my existence lacked. Q shattered my walls with his uncouth ways. How could I ever go back to a life where my senses lived in limbo? Where no one cared enough to kill for me?

  Q stopped washing my hair, gathering me tighter to him. I crushed against his wet, suited chest, inhaling his unique scent.

  He let me cry and didn’t reprimand or control. He offered comfort in silence. Lips pressed my forehead, whispering, “Je suis ici,” over and over. I’m here. I’m here.

  In his kindness, he broke me into the perfect slave. I didn’t need his anger to become devoted. I needed his softer moments—gentle love was my undoing, not demands or threats. I was pitiful with how I needed compassion, companionship.

  Tears turned from depression to release. After twenty years of struggle, I finally belonged.

  Water cascaded around us, but Q never stopped rocking, never stopped caring.

  Everything I knew about him was wrong. Who was this man who let me break in his arms? Who was this man who cared so much?

  Eventually, I cried myself dry, and Q continued washing my hair. I stayed curled in his lap as firm fingers massaged neck, shoulders, and back, working kinks from my body. His hands showed a level of bliss I never experienced. On the floor of the shower, I was his pet. His. Through and through.

  After washing my hair, he dropped his hands to soap my breasts. His touch remained platonic rather than lust-filled and demanding. Once my breasts were washed, he lathered my arms, throat, and belly.

  He lulled me into complacency, blanketing me in newfound happiness. I froze when his breath caught, hands circling my lower belly. The steam from the shower laced with tension, and I knew his thoughts morphed from caring to need.

  Pressing his forehead against my cheek, wet hair mingled with mine. “Let me make you forget. Let me give you a new memory, esclave.”

  His purr hitched my breathing, and happiness sharpened to need. My body wanted him to replace the agony of Brute. Q wouldn’t hurt me. Not like those men.

  I nodded infinitesimally.

  Q’s breathing turned harsh, lowering his hand. Agonisingly slowly, he touched my leg, avoiding the lash marks, stroking reverently. Inch by inch, he made his way up my inner thigh, until exploring fingers found my heat.

  I jolted as he circled my entrance. More tears erupted, but he kissed them away, adding pressure to his hold, keeping me still. “Écarté pour moi.” Open for me.

  His voice commanded and I obeyed, relaxing tense muscles, knees fell open slightly. Q took full advantage.

  He inserted one finger, ever so gradually, inside. He made love to me with his finger, but I flinched with pain from the abrasions by Brute.

  Q dropped his head, biting my collarbone, making me hiss between my teeth. “Only think of me and what I’m doing. There is intimacy in pain, esclave. Let me make your pain my pleasure.”

  I bucked as his finger entered forcefully, pressing against deep bruises, claiming me for himself. I frowned, focusing entirely on his arms around me, his touch inside. He was correct: there was intimacy in pain. I’d never felt so stripped bare, so enchanted by someone as I did in that moment.

  Q rocked his palm against my clit, finger feathering inside. I became wet for him, arching in his arms. This was the man who called to me. My master.

  He sucked in a raspy breath, pressing his face into my cleavage. Licking the valley of my breasts, he inserted another finger, pressing deep. My mouth opened wide, and I tried to pull away from the mind-shattering rock.

  “You beguile me when you let go, esclave. Let go.”

  And like the obedient slave, I obeyed. I mewled and cried, rocking hips to meet his finger-thrusts. I moaned as my womb tightened, warmed, loving the intrusion of his touch.

  He bit my ear, growling as I let my legs fall open in his lap, surrendering completely. He breathed hard, breath clouding around me with mint and spice.

  Without warning, he withdrew and smeared my wetness around my clit, pinching and rubbing. Sparks of need fizzed and popped, making their way down my legs.

  He groaned as I writhed in his lap. His own needs raged, making him tremble as he pressed his hard cock against my hip.

  I gasped and pressed back, loving the gift he gave: the gift of sensual power. My letting go turned him on.

  He needed me as much as I needed him. The knowledge magnified my lust a thousand fold. With boldness I never knew I had, I captured his wrist, stopping him playing with my clit.

  His eyes shot to mine, lips parted and glistening. Never looking away, I guided his fingers back inside, bowing in his arms as I pressed deep. My flesh welcomed and I rode his hand like I always wanted.

  It was Q’s turn to snap. With fingers fucking me, he pushed me off his lap and onto the cold slipperiness of tiles. My spine complained, and I found it hard to breathe with hot water cascading into my face, but none of it mattered. It didn’t matter because Q wrenched his fingers from me, fumbling to undo his belt buckle. He’d reached his breaking point.

  I reached for his fly, helping free his hard cock from sodden clothes. We panted and cursed, both consumed with the need to fuck. To connect. To join.

  Q pushed his trousers off his hips, followed by black boxer-briefs. His gorgeous cock jutted proudly, and I felt a moment of fear. I swallowed as Q glared with smouldering pale green eyes. “I’
ll give you what you need. Don’t fear me.” His voice dropped from deep, to gravel and stone.

  I nodded.

  He grabbed my hip, sliding me under him, settling between my legs in one quick, possessive move. I panted, looking up. My body was too hot, heart raced too fast, and it felt as though it was my first time. The first time a man managed to fit all my fantasies into one: connection, possession, lust, passion.

  Q crushed his mouth to mine, his taste filling me. His sweet, minty darkness decimated the metallic sourness from Driver putting his fingers in my mouth. I moaned, dragging him closer. I willingly gave Q my sense of taste.

  I drowned in his scent, touch, taste, and sound. My heart buoyed as his groan vibrated through me.

  His tongue fucked my mouth and vision spaced; I became lightheaded. Saliva mixed with shower water and we drank each other.

  Q thrust, pushing his cock inside just a little. He froze and stopped kissing me. “Are you on birth control?”

  Wow, how irresponsible could I be? I hadn’t even thought about protection. I pushed hair away, hoping Q didn’t have any diseases. I dropped my eyes. “I’m on the injection.”

  “And how many men have you been with?” he demanded, lust blazing.

  I wanted to say no one because the answer was a double-edged sword. Brax and been my one and only… until tonight.

  Q must’ve seen the answer in my face as he nodded. “You don’t have to answer. And you have nothing to worry about from me.”

  It was odd to pause and talk about protection, when we balanced on the fine edge of erratic sex, but it offered peace. It let me tear through self-restrictions, and embrace hot desires. I was truthful for the first time in my life. “I want you inside me. I need you,” I whispered.

  Q’s answer was to kiss so hard, he bruised my lips. With one hard thrust, he impaled himself inside. My wetness accepted him in a smooth, sensual glide—no pain or agony, only pleasure and ecstasy. His suit rubbed against damp skin; my back screamed from hard unforgiving tiles, but I didn’t care.

  Q grunted, filling me completely, digging his fingertips into my waist, keeping me pinned. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since you arrived,” he panted, rocking, building a burning fire.

  I couldn’t speak; I could only focus on Q and his heat inside. He fucked with arrogance and power. Every thrust reminded I belonged to him. An orgasm built deep, and I whimpered at the sharpness.

  Q rocked harder, pressing me against the floor as we slid all over the place. “That’s it. Give me something of yours. You owe me that.” Letting restraint drop, he bucked into me, cursing in French, eyes glowing with so many things, and I felt awed by what he let me see.

  My body responded: tightening, building, already forgetting the abuse from Brute.

  Q bit my ear, pressing his suited chest against mine, cock thickening inside,

  heating, scorching. The fine edge of pleasure and violence unravelled me. “Come for me, esclave.”

  His magic words bent me to his will, and my body no longer obeyed me. It obeyed its new owner.

  I screamed as an orgasm rippled from toes, up calves, into thighs, and finally detonated inside my core. I rippled around him, banding tight, milking with every wave of release. Fireworks weren’t enough, and I climbed higher, pushed on by Q’s thrusts and smell and taste and unbridled rapture.

  Fireworks jetted to comets and comets thundered to galaxies as Q pumped harder.

  He yelled, “Baiser moi.”Fuck me. He reared back, arms locking as he drove into me the hardest I’d ever taken it. Smooth balls slapped against my ass; I burned, blazed, fired from his claiming. “Take my come. Take a part of me,” he growled.

  Deep inside, I felt him spurt, dousing me in warmth, marking me, while at the same time giving up a part of himself.

  Shuddering, the last of his climax wrung him dry. He collapsed on top, uncaring about the steam-filled shower, or his ruined suit. The thrumming of his heart matched mine as we lay on the floor, unable to move.

  For the first time in my life, I felt a bond. A profound connection, an intrinsic part of me belonged to him. Not just master and slave, but man and woman.

  Was he the man to make my heart sing? This overbearing dom who wanted me to submit one moment, then wrapped me in cotton wool the next?

  I couldn’t deny he gave me a selfish gift. My body no longer trembled from what happened. He gave me a new memory full of heart-breaking brutality. I throbbed with a residual orgasm, eerily vacant thanks to my soul-wracking cry.

  Q met my eyes, and his simmering anger made me swallow. “Am I in trouble?” He looked as if he wanted to put me over his knee and spank me.

  His lips twitched and he slapped the side of my ass. “Ah, esclave you’re in serious trouble. I’ll never be able to leave you alone now.”

  *Quail*

  I expected Q to shut down and leave after our shower—too many things passed between us, and I was raw. Q avoided my eyes as he pulled out and stood, but he didn’t move to leave.

  He leaned down, pulling me off the floor, before stepping out of his soaking trousers and throwing them in the bath. The wet material slapped loudly, followed by his blazer. He left his shirt on, long enough to cover hips but not the thick, heavy cock between his legs. He maintained the hair down there just like he did his head. A subtle shadow of masculinity without any of the wildness.

  My body tingled. He screamed man and dynamism. I was a girl with a ceaseless past, no way enough for him, but determined to try.

  He took me tonight in a mixture of compassion and anger, but I wanted more. I wanted what he promised when I first arrived. The act of taking from me, even though my body would willingly give up every part to him.

  I bit my lip, remembering Q fingering me over the pool table. I’d been turned on beyond anything I could’ve imagined. Hatred for him added another dimension to an already overwhelming experience. Now, I didn’t hate him, but I still wanted to struggle.

  I needed Q to take me again and again. I needed him to rule me so Brute didn’t win by making me fear sex. I belonged to Q, yet he never stepped over the line from tormentor to rapist.

  I huddled into the towel, so confused.

  Q stalked out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints. The cold embrace of rejection made me tremble. Was that it? He took what he wanted, then left me to fend for myself. What happened to his promise of never leaving me alone?

  I couldn’t let Q cast me off. Without him, I belonged to no one. I no longer had parents or Brax. My old life was over.

  Q ruined me for a monotonous grey-toned existence, eclipsing it with techno colour.

  The bathroom closed in, dripping with blackness and horror-filled memories. Without Q, my skin itched with terror as demons and monsters crept from shadows.

  I knew I needed to deal with my issues, to find my strength. I couldn’t use Q as a bandage to forget, but I wasn’t strong enough yet.

  The sounds of opening drawers drifted into the bathroom, and Q prowled back with arms full of clothes. He placed them in the dry basin and ripped my towel off. I stood, naked, thrilled how his body tensed, eyes glued to my exposed figure.

  “Hold up your arms,” he ordered, a large white t-shirt in his hands. I complied and he slipped the t-shirt over my head. His five o’ clock shadow rasped my cheek as he bent to tug the hem.

  “Step.” He kneeled with a pair of white knickers, raising an eyebrow. I clutched his wet shoulder for balance, letting him slide the knickers up my legs. The sensual slide, his fingers kissing skin, made my eyes snap closed.

  He pinged the elastic around my hips with a small smile.

  This man who killed for me, fucked me, owned me was dressing me. It didn’t make sense.

  Q leaned forward and hooked fingers beneath my heavy tresses, pulling damp curls from beneath the t-shirt. His fingers caused lust to swirl again. I was insatiable.

  His nostrils flared. The bathroom went from steamy to sex-aware and provocative. He stood rigid and aloof; hi
s face hidden behind a mask of inexhaustible control.

  “Hello, treasure.”

  Brute’s voice slashed through my brain. My throat dried in panic as the rape replayed at hyper-speed. My soul chilled with ice, reliving what happened. A tremble racked my body and I keened.

  Q lashed out, grabbing my chin. “What are you doing? I told you to forget it. You’re only to remember me from tonight.”

  I dropped my eyes, nodding rapidly, wishing I could obey, but thoughts slithered on the edge of consciousness: Brute with his horrible breath and fingers; Driver with his lies and hair pulling.

  With Q here, he helped me forget, but every moment he withdrew, returning to a cold master, rather than tentative lover, I floundered.

  Ripping his eyes from mine, he opened a vanity drawer and pulled free a tub of arnica. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a fluffy bench behind the door. I sat, gasping as Q knelt before me. “This will help.”

  With soft fingertips, he massaged the ointment into lash marks on my upper thighs. The pressure both painful and delicious. Echoes of memories tried to jail me, but Q’s touch wouldn’t let me linger in nightmares. Not while he rested between my legs, stroking me. His scent of citrus kept me grounded, reminding he might have flaws, but he cared about his possessions. He would look after me as long as I pleased him.

  “What did you mean when you said you were frightened about how far you’d go, when I was chained in the sparrow room?” The words fell out; I clamped a horrified hand over my mouth. Oh, my God, what made me say such a thing?

  Q froze and his sudden emotional recoil left me freezing. “I’m not in the mood to answer questions, esclave.”

  Glaring, he returned to rubbing in the pungent healing balm, effectively slicing off any conversation. But a core of strength filled me and I had to know. I needed to know more about this conundrum of a man. Who was he?

  “What did those men mean tonight? Only taking what they’d taken in the past? Do you traffic women, Q? Is that why you’re so afraid to do to me what you’ve done to others?”