Hear Me

More. She wanted to do more for him. To please him in whatever way she could. She slid her hand down past where they were joined, hot and slippery, and farther. The soft skin of his sac was wet with their juices, and she stroked him there. Cupped and rolled his balls in her palm. His low moan was all the gratitude she could want. The way he slowed his thrusts to allow her better access was her order to continue. But when he softened his hold on her nipples, she faltered. Mercy always came with a price.

With heavy palms on her back, he tipped her forward. Her shoulders hugged the bed, leaving her ass completely exposed to his thrusts. He reached inside her, and now there was pain. Small twinges each time he struck deeply that left her breathless.

Every thrust came with a sound now, a grunt as the air left him in a rush. A groan that made her tighten around him as much as his pinches earlier had done. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, holding her steady even though she would never try to end this. But it was beyond her now, to fight or to please him, to do anything at all except take it. It had never been up to her; it would always come to this. Trapped under his weight, impaled with his cock, dripping in his sweat. Isn’t this what she wanted? So why was the sheet beneath her face wet? Why was the blackness blurry with her tears?

Take me. Use me. Want me. Oh God, somebody want me. I don’t want to be worthless anymore.

“Fuck,” he shouted, and the sound was like a gunshot in the night. It startled her, even as the thick pulse of his cock soothed her, familiar and warm. She clenched her eyes shut as his fingers dug rivers into her skin, as he groaned out his passion for some other woman into her body.

He collapsed beside her. She lay unmoving in that ignominious position, her ass in the air, her cunt dripping with his leavings, but there was no one to see her. No one to care. From tiredness or hopelessness her body slid down, straightened on the sheet, and she fell asleep in the puddle of salty fluids.

* * *

She hung from vines, tacked to the mossy wall by their thorns. The man with dark hair and dark eyes held no weapons, but his eyes held a knowledge of pain given and pleasure received.

“What do you want, girl?” he asked.

“Please let me down,” she answered, and that’s when she knew it was a dream.

He stroked her breast, pinched her nipple. Twisted. Oh, he liked that. “Try again.”

“I want to be free,” she said, meaning it this time.

Still, he shook his head.

This time he stuck two fingers inside her—three. It burned and stretched and throbbed in confused arousal. “You’re already wet,” he said, holding up his fingers to show her. “What do you really want?”

She looked into his eyes and tasted his fear. He thought he needed vines to keep her. “If you let me go, I’ll stay with you.”

And so he let her down, each thorn leaving clean, bare skin as it was removed. Gladness beat in her breast. He’d trusted her, and now they could be together without chains. But then he was holding his belt, folded over.

“Come and kneel in front of me,” he said, his voice soft and beguiling. “This is what you wanted.”

She did it, embraced the pebbles and twigs that carpeted the ground. The be

lt seared into her back, and she gasped. Again; she arched and choked out a cry. Eventually she wailed, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She looked back. “Oh God. Please!”

His eyes were bright with bloodshed. What do you want?

This.

* * *

She woke to rustling behind her. The room wasn’t overly bright now but enough to see by. The sense of accomplishment that usually met each day was marred by her dream. She tried to recapture the feeling, but it slipped away like her memories. Blinking away the sense of loss, she rolled over to face her Master.

He stared at her, a sea in storm. “You,” he breathed.

She swallowed hard, lowering her eyes. He deserved her submission, but she would not feel guilty for what he had done to her. No matter how his tone sounded like an accusation. No matter the pain she saw marring his eyes.

From the corner of her vision, she saw his jaw clench. “Get the hell out of my bed.”

Chapter Three

She tentatively approached the kitchen, reluctant to make her presence known after his anger this morning. He had barely spoken to her since then, just directing her to the bathroom to wash up and handing over a thin yellow dress for her to wear. She didn’t know where he’d gotten it.

In the kitchen, he was flipping eggs in a sizzling frying pan. He turned and stopped at the sight of her. After a beat, he gestured to the table. “Sit.”