Tears of Tess

by Pepper Winters

  Q murmured in French, dialects swallowed by the silent night-shrouded room. I panted, but it sounded hushed, like a dream.

  His finger was the ultimate ownership. Palpitating my core, he sucked in a breath as I thrust, needing more

  I couldn’t help it. I moaned.

  He pressed his cock against my hip, smearing glistening pre-cum on me. His erection was hot, hard, and tempting beyond belief. His breathing matched mine in roughness. “You can’t lie. Not now. Not when your body blares the truth.” He moved his fingers, stroking inner parts of me, throbbing with the need to release.

  He was right, I couldn’t lie and I cried harder.

  I wanted to scream: fuck me, I’m yours. Instead, I said, “Get your fingers out of me.”

  “Shush, ma belle. You want this.” His voice rippled with sensuality. I wondered how much he acted, too. Had he tamed himself on my account? How much darker would he go?

  Q stroked harder, withdrawing more moisture between my legs. My breasts ached to be touched, mouth empty, needing kisses, but my heart blazed so full, I thought I might disintegrate into fiery fragments.

  Q stopped suddenly, withdrawing. “I’m the only one who can give you what you truly desire.” Fingers dug into my cheek, spreading my scent. “But I refuse to take it.” He stepped between my legs, positioning his cock where I wanted him most. He rubbed with the tip, earning a pant and a cry.

  I rocked, imploring him to take me. I trembled with need so extreme, it set my teeth on edge.

  “Give it to me, or you’ll become nothing.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I’m giving you everything you ask for. There’s nothing left to give.”

  Pulling back, he stared, unfettered, eyes blazing with overpowering lust. He stepped away, dragging a hand over his short pelt of hair.

  My hips moved toward him on their own accord, searching, wanting. Mortified, I pressed against the post, hoping he hadn’t seen.

  But he did; his lips quirked. “Always lying.”

  I said nothing.

  Q paced. “I’ll fuck you anyway you want, if you give me what I want.”

  Delicious anticipation filled, but I frowned. “What do you want?”

  “I want to own all of you, esclave. Including your name.”

  My heart raced. Truth rang in his words. He would deny both of us because he wanted to know my name. I didn’t have to fake the answer: “You’ll be dead before that happens.” I was furious with him.

  He chuckled—it sounded positively light-hearted compared to the tension charging around us. “No one will be dead, but I might die of pleasure by having you.”

  I ignored the thrill, staying in character. “Bastard.”

  His mood shifted to commanding, dominating. “You have no idea.” He laughed but it held pain.

  My breath hitched. I tried my rusty French. “Je ne suis pas à toi.” I am not yours.

  Grinding his teeth, he reached up, undoing the knicker restraints. Pulling my body roughly away from the bedpost, he threw me on the mattress. “I dare you to say that again, esclave.” Folding himself over me like a living cape, pressing down, almost suffocating me in the covers. My stomach twisted and a small mewl escaped. The overbearing action of lying on me, both thrilled and terrified.

  Lips kissed a trail along the back of my neck, all the while fingers tickled the inside of my thigh, moving higher, higher.

  Each millimetre he travelled set my blood to boil. I didn’t understand how one touch made me shiver with need. Was it Q’s domination? The knowledge I couldn’t stop him? It couldn’t be. The rape cured me of that ridiculous fantasy.

  Somewhere in my mind, I knew Q meant me no harm. He wanted me and I was his; there was nothing wrong with him taking me—anyway he chose.

  “Spread your legs,” he demanded.

  I instantly complied. Fingers found my entrance, stroking. Q’s breath hitched as he forced two fingers inside, stretching, bruising, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. An orgasm teased, on the brink of release. So close, so fast. I wanted it desperately.

  Q seemed to sense my urgency and slid off. Kneeling behind, hands curled around my ankles possessively, spreading my stance even more.

  I cried out as his tongue licked up my leg, moving with delicious wet pressure, heading to the one place I ached.

  When his tongue found me, sucking my clit with the finesse of an experienced lover, my hips bucked over his mouth. I’d never been so needy, so possessed with yearning. I never wanted to think again. This was true freedom—right here, with my master kneeling between my legs.

  A long finger entered, thrusting deep as his tongue lapped, conjuring star bright spasms, shooting in my belly. I rode his finger, searching for friction.

  I needed him in me. I needed him to claim.

  He stood, grabbing my neck, arching me to kiss him. His chin glistened from my wetness, filling me with my taste.

  He bit my lip, positioning himself behind me. “I own all of you, esclave.”

  I wasn’t prepared for the sharp, sudden, shocking invasion of his massive cock. I cried out as he stretched me wide, giving no time to adjust. My stomach knotted into a complex cosmos, gathering power to release.

  I groaned as he thrust hard, taking me from behind, spread over the bed. I trembled in ecstasy I’d never felt before.

  Q bit my shoulder, fingers digging deep into my hips, jerking me back, thrust after thrust. Each withdrawal and penetration, built and built until I was sopping wet, moaning, whimpering, more vocal than I’d ever been in my life.

  “Putain de merde,” he growled, fucking me so hard, my knees bashed against the soft comforter.

  His voice was everything I needed to release the glowing galaxy in my core. I screamed, literally screamed, as I came harder than I’d ever come before.

  The mind games Q played, the connection I felt after a lifetime of being adrift, all exploded, turning my body into a bundle of hyper-sensitive nerves.

  Q’s sexual domination enlightened me. My good girl barrier was permanently removed, and I revelled in Q’s flesh slapping against mine, finding his own pleasure.

  The heavy hotness of his balls slapped against my clit as he fucked harder. My hands grabbed the sheets, bunching them with every skin slap.

  Q fisted my hair, arching my back, at the same time, he spanked my ass. “Fuck, I want to make you bleed.” He hit me again, again. Each handprint hot, laced with pleasure-pain and erotic torture.

  The agony added another threshold to battered nerve endings. “Oh, God,” I moaned, shuddering with fiercely building pressure, racing up my legs, into my centre.

  Not again. Surely. I never had multiple orgasms.

  Q cursed, slapping me so hard, tears rained even as I panted. It hurts. It feels too good. Stop. Hit harder. Don’t. More.

  I shattered into a gazillion pieces, milking Q’s cock for a second time.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, bucking with feral strength, shaking me to the soul. He slapped my ass so hard, I bit my lip, drawing blood. Stinging pain pulsed while Q exploded inside. I felt every ridge, every spurt, relishing in owning some part of him. He gave himself to me.

  His come was mine. Just like I was his.

  My ass stung but my body was as limp as a ragdoll.

  Q pulled out, breathing hard. I rolled painfully onto my back, watching him stalk to the bathroom. He returned, wrapping a towel around his hips.

  I sat up, flinching from his abuse, both external and internal. My body languished in sated bliss.

  His demeanour was closed off, angry. He didn’t even look me in the eye.

  Had I been that terrible? I wasn’t experienced, but Brax always seemed to enjoy sex with me. Rejection stabbed like daggers; I waited for a sign that Q was satisfied, but he never looked at me.

  His seed trickled down my thigh, spreading a damp stain on the sheets. Tears pricked. I must’ve done something terribly wrong. I had to fix it. If I didn’t please Q, he’d throw me back to men like Brute and
Driver. He’d withdraw his protection. His comfort.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Sliding off the bed, I crawled to Q. He never asked me to be anything other than human, but maybe he secretly wanted me to be lowly.

  I clutched his towel, looking into tortured pale green eyes. He didn’t look like a man who had explosive sex. He looked like he wanted to commit suicide, or scrub his cock with abrasive soap. A man with ten-tonne regret.

  My throat lodged with need and failure. “I’m sorry. I can do better. I promise. Please, give me another chance.”

  Old Tess sat up in horror. I begged a man who didn’t even want me—a man who kept me like an unwanted pair of socks—to fuck me again.

  I begged like he could end my life.

  Because he could. I no longer trusted the world. I trusted Q. With everything I had. I couldn’t cope if he despised me for something I did wrong.

  Q stepped back, his muscles making it seem as if sparrows moved and fluttered. “Esclave, stop this. Go get clean. Go to bed.”

  His orders slapped me in the face. He wanted me to clean so no part of him remained? How could he ask that? We were linked. If I showered, the link would be gone. I would be nothing again.

  Oh, God, I was fucked up. So ruined. So broken.

  Q looked down, jaw working under his five o’clock shadow. “I won’t touch you again until you tell me your name.”

  Then he left. Just like every time.

  *Swan*

  My new life began.

  For two weeks, I only saw Q when he returned home from work, and even then, it was only brief.

  With a smouldering, unreadable expression, Q would regard me before disappearing to areas of the house I wasn’t allowed to go.

  Moments after, music erupted through speakers. Songs with laments or curses, lyrics full of rage and threats, rattled the windows.

  Q had eclectic taste in music. Heavy metal screamed from the speakers one night and the verse slapped me with debilitating need.

  It’s awoken and refuses to go back into the dark

  every moment, of every second, of every heartbeat, I fight the urge to hurt

  my resolve is weakening, my guilt lessening, my needs overpowering

  I am not responsible for what happens to you, you provoked me, awoke me, excited me

  my tongue aches for your blood, my heart beats for pain

  fear is my calling card and I mean to earn your terror.

  Q played the song twice, as if pounding the message into me: whatever he’d done was tame compared to what he wanted, and the longer I didn’t tell him my name, the more he needed to hurt me.

  Withholding my name was my only weapon against Q. It drove him mad, and I loved it. I loved the power of dragging emotion from him.

  I lay in bed at night, panting, so ready for my door to burst open and a wrathful Q to claim me. But stubbornness was my friend, and I wouldn’t spill my last secret. Either I was crazy to provoke my master, or I’d gone mad with captivity. Either way didn’t matter, as I felt alive when I listened to the loud songs. Obsessed with how my body tingled and tensed, consumed with fluttering wings of anticipation—completely bewitched by Q.

  So we played our game, waiting to see who’d break first. Nights passed with relentless need, days inched by with excruciating impatience.

  For fourteen days, Q stayed true to his promise and never came.

  Winter thawed, and spring splattered the countryside with tulips and daffodils.

  I accepted I would never know where I lived. Suzette wouldn’t tell when I asked, and I doubted Q ever would.

  No one would ever find Tess Snow again. She no longer existed. I am Ami Esclave.

  By day, I worked on my French with Suzette, by night I waited for Q. I was wet all the time, and when he didn’t appear, dreams consumed me. Nightmares of Q throwing me away because he couldn’t stand me any longer. Reoccurring dreams of Driver and Brute, raping me, about to kill, but instead of Q saving me, Leather Jacket stole me back to Mexico. Where he hurt, broke, and ultimately sold me to another. Brax played centre in my dreams, but he never rescued me. He would either sleep through my torture, or simply look on in despair.

  My heart twinged. My subconscious blamed Brax for everything that happened, but at the same time, it was my fault for not insisting we leave the café. I couldn’t expect Brax to fight and kill—it wasn’t in his nature. I missed his gentleness, but at the time, it annoyed me. I always wore the pants in the relationship, but remained whiny, needy, and meek because he didn’t give me power.

  Q hit me, fucked me, and turned me into a possession, yet somehow unlocked power inside me I didn’t even know was there.

  Q took everything from me, but he didn’t so much as steal it, as I gave it willingly. By allowing him to rule, he gave me something tangible. He allowed me to be me. To be real.

  I was no longer naïve and timid. I grew from girl to woman. A woman who wanted a place beside the complex, problem-riddled man. A woman who wouldn’t stop until she knew the truth.

  “Ami, can you make the cheese soufflé for dinner?” Suzette asked, bumping my hip with hers as she passed. We were in the kitchen, enveloped with scents of fresh bread and baking.

  The sliding doors were open to a crisp breeze, welcoming sounds of birds and spring. France had converted me. I missed the bright Australian sun, but I loved France’s cool, understated chic.

  Did Q miss something, or want for anything? He had everything—billions of acres, guards, staff, a house filled with stuff he never looked at, but I never saw him happy.

  I smiled, nodding. “I can do that. Have nothing else to do.”

  Suzette giggled. “You could always go and dress in something provocative to surprise Q when he gets home. I’ve been waiting to hear you again, little blasphemer. Why hasn’t he been to see you?”

  Suzette had become overly interested in my love life; every day we had the same conversation. Just because I swore a few times when Q fucked me meant she had a new nickname for me: little blasphemer. I hated that she heard us.

  Mrs. Sucre swatted her with a dishtowel. “Suzette, stop being so nosy.” To me, she added, “She hasn’t stopped grinning since you let the master into your bed.”

  I swivelled to stare. Mrs. Sucre’s large girth guarded the pot of lobster she stirred.

  I blew hair from my eyes. “Let him into my bed? Like I had a choice.” Turning to Suzette, I said, “Q is the one not coming to me, Suzette. He won’t until I tell him my name.”

  She snorted. “Q is still your master and you are still his slave. Tell him what he wants to know. You shouldn’t keep secrets.”

  I blushed, looking at the soft dough I kneaded. “He may be able to boss me around, but I don’t have to share every little detail. Besides, I am no longer that person. I’m Ami.” I shot her a smile, dropping my voice. “You don’t know anything about his sparrow tattoo, do you?”

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to trace him like a map, kiss every feather, understand every reason.

  Suzette bit her lip. “Um—”

  Mrs. Sucre spun around, wiping hands on her apron. “Suzette, don’t you dare. It’s not your secret to tell.”

  I glared, wishing I could torture them for answers. Not being with Q for so long made me rather desperate.

  Suzette shrugged and disappeared into the huge walk in pantry.

  I huffed and went back to kneading.

  * * * * *

  That night, after dinner, Q returned home late and turned on French music. The lyrics quavered around the mansion, echoing in my blood. The sorrowful tune left tangled threads everywhere, guiding me through the house.

  I didn’t know what time it was, but the staff had retired. I was too edgy to sleep. My body restless, needing something only Q could give.

  A flash of vivid green eyes startled me as I floated down a corridor I’d never been in before. Franco scowled, but didn’t move to obstruct. Ever since the horrid night where
Q turned murderer, Franco gave me more freedom. His eyes followed wherever I went, but he didn’t stop me. Maybe Q told him to let me wander, or maybe he sensed I wouldn’t run again. I was thankful my cage had expanded.

  I continued past Franco, moving deeper into the west wing. I often saw Q disappear down here—it was time to find out why.

  Opening double doors at the end of the corridor, I followed a long, Persian carpeted room, staring at massive canvases of photography. Not of wildlife or humans, but cityscapes and high-rise buildings. The harshness of concrete and metal seemed out of place, until I saw dates under each photo, a timeline of purchase and location.

  These weren’t photos of pleasure, but documentation of ownership. Holy hell, does Q own all of these?

  I spun in place. Countless snaps of impressive architecture, sprawling hotels, apartment complexes… so many types of property dotted the walls. He owned a small country if it were true.

  Needing to know more, I kept going. Everything about the house spoke old money and charm, yet I couldn’t see Q in the artefacts, statues, or even the exotic plants flowering around the rooms.

  Q remained closed off. I hoped by exploring, I’d find answers, but I only found confusion.

  The French song chased with every step, soulful moans and hopeful sonnets. I hummed along to the chorus.

  Tu ne vois pas mon sort, quand tout ce que je veux faire est de me battre,

  Tu me peint dans une lumière que je ne pourrai jamais être,

  Je suis enchaîné avec l'obscurité, consommé par la rage et le feu,

  Je suis proche de la rupture, l'envie est tremblant, le viol,

  Je suis le diable, et il n'y à pas d'espoir.

  Can’t you see my plight, when all I want to do is fight,

  you paint me in a light I can never be,

  I come shackled with shadow, consumed with rage and fire,