When the Dark Wins

Dropping her onto the tiled floor, he opened the standing shower and turned the water on mid-way so it could start to warm. The girl had said something, but it had been impossible to hear over the sound of the shower. “Did you want to speak, slave?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated meekly. It was astonishing how small she looked against the dark, slate tiles of the bathroom. This would be a good place to fuck her. Fresh from a bath, shaved smooth, her lithe limbs spread against the dull gray of the floor. Her cries would echo in this room, the customers would appreciate the contrast of her lighter skin to the slate, and each of his thrusts would be felt to their full extent. No give of a mattress beneath her ass.

Her ass.

Perhaps this could be where he fucked her there. Pinned to the cool floor, cheek against the tile — her sobs of pain would be guttural and perfect.

So many plans. So many ways to make her obedient and docile.

But first… reaching into the stream he turned down the temperature a little until it was lukewarm, and then he fisted her hair again and yanked her to her feet. Her legs almost gave out, weak, her feet were probably numb — but that was her consequence for biting him. This was all a lesson that would settle deep into her brain.

Obey. Avoid pain.

Such a simple concept… but it took them so long to learn.

“Get in. Do not adjust the temperature of the water or I’ll put you back in the punishment room.” He nudged her forward and she braced her hands against the glass frame of the shower, gently stepping under the stream. A hiss of air slipped through her teeth, the lukewarm water probably felt boiling on her chilled skin, but, again, it was not his concern.

Shutting the shower door he stepped back and leaned against the bathroom counter. Hands in his pockets, ignoring the hard outline of his cock, he watched as she simply stood under the water for a while.

Thawing.

Skin flushing red as her blood warmed.

It wouldn’t be the last time she earned that punishment.

The second time she’d be more afraid, less recalcitrant.

If she earned it a third time? He almost smiled. That was one of the places he’d broken so many girls. Just water and leather and chain. A little electric jolt now and then. Such simple things. Such simple pains. To be naked, and cold, and vulnerable.

Watching her running her hands over her body, her back to him, the round of her ass catching the lights from above, he knew she’d be back there soon. Knew he’d be able to sate the growing erection in his pants even sooner.

Maybe this time he’d let her fight.

8

“It’s been five days, I’m coming back,” Marcus growled into the phone, much too loudly, and Anthony flipped another page in the cookbook.

“Your presence is not necessary.” Reaching for an egg, he cracked it against the edge of the bowl and let the insides spill out onto the mixture of seasonings he’d carefully measured.

“Are you kidding? You’ve been torturing her for almost a week and she hasn’t shown even the smallest hint of submitting.”

His brother’s tone held no hint of laughter, so Marcus already knew that he was not kidding. The eggshell went into the trash and he wiped his hands off on a towel before he took the fork from the counter and began to mix the coating according to the directions. Folding, not whisking.

“Anthony!”

“Yes?” He kept his tone steady as he worked the mixture to the right consistency.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cooking. It’s almost time for dinner.” Setting the bowl down he picked up the chicken breast and dredged it through the mixture, laying it out on the pan where it instantly sizzled in the heated olive oil. Perfect. Exactly as the recipe described. He liked it when things worked as designed.

“Are you feeding her?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“Enough,” he answered, already bored with the conversation.