11. “You twisted, pretentious Picasso wannabe!”
11
“You twisted, pretentious Picasso wannabe!”
Chapter Playlist:
“Bruises and Bitemarks” – Good With Grenades
“Take Me to Church” - Hozier
EVERLEIGH
When I wake up, my skin is crusty, and something hard and cold, steel-like constricts my stomach and…sweeping below. And pressure in my ass.
Breaths turning ragged, heart pounding in my chest at my suspicions, I slowly lift the sheets off my body?—
—and scream!
He didn’t! Oh, he did. That overbearingmotherfuckingbastardofanasshole!
Acheron put a goddamn chastity belt on me!
Disbelief, utter shock jolt through me.
My hand flies to the source, my fingers brushing the intricate metalwork. Anger storms through me. No, fury.
A vintage envelope stamped with a red wax seal of a mask sits on the nightstand, mocking me with its pristine edges. I snatch it up, ripping over the envelope, my eyes scanning the elegant handwriting I loathe and crave.
“I hold the key, Little Quill. I will return tonight to relieve you. Be a good girl. It’s antique, circa 17th century, gold and silver-plated, and cost a small fortune. So I know you won’t try to cut it off, lest you risk damaging it. Consider this part of your training. I hope you appreciate the marks.”
The pressure in my ass? It’s from a motherfucking butt plug!
Rage boiling over, I rip the note and fling out of bed in nothing but that belt and shake my fist because he likely has hidden cameras somewhere. “You arrogant, overbearing, chastity-belt-wielding psychopath!” I scream at the walls, knowing—no, feeling—that he’s watching.
My chest heaves as I grab my cotton robe and pace like a caged animal. I’ll shower soon, but I need to vent first.
My gaze lands on the pillows, their fluffiness suddenly offensive, and I grab one, ripping it apart with a primal, feminine snarl. Feathers explode into the air like mocking snowflakes.
“You twisted, pretentious Picasso wannabe!” I shout, stomping over to the closet mirror. My reflection stares back, wild-eyed, hair tangled from sleep and his cum crusting my chest.
Oh, I hatehatehate him . Before I can think better of it, my fist flies forward, shattering the glass into a spiderweb of cracks. Pain flares in my hand, but it’s nothing compared to the fire roaring in my chest.
I clutch my throbbing knuckles, glaring at the broken shards. “Do you think this is funny?” I screech, spinning in place as if he might materialize from the shadows. “You fucking sadist with the personality of a palette with shit for paint. You think you can just lock me up like some trophy?!”
The room is a disaster now—feathers everywhere, the mirror ruined, and my blood smeared on the fractured glass. My breaths come fast and shallow, my fury only barely masking the mortifying heat creeping up my neck.
I know he’s watching, reveling. And it makes me want to tear the entire room apart.
Instead, I march into the bathroom, turn the water to scalding, and start to wash myself, knowing I’ll never be able to scrub myself clean. I vaguely remember the feeling of his teeth last night, but I get the full scope of those “marks”. I swear he managed to bite me so the marks resemble roses.
At least I know now how women used to shit and pee in these things, but the anus hole is not big enough for me to get that damn butt plug out. I slam my hands against the wall a few times, my blood thundering in my ears.
Well, Cherry, what do you have to fucking say about this?!
She doesn’t respond.
Cherry? CHERRY!
What?! she yells, poking her head from behind the corner of a door ajar in my mind. I was building a shrine in Acheron’s honor. Wanna join?
I rake my nails through my scalp, scream through clenched teeth, and spit out, You’re the goddamn parasite of a possessed pixie!
I’ll take that as a no. But remember, you’re the one who made me. She buzzes her wings. All so you could cope with the existential dread of human mortality, the deepest triggers in your darkness, and your moments of utter boredom by activating the dopamine reward system through the pursuit of primal reproductive urges.
Oh, her tone is so annoyingly smug and way too much like me. Fitting since she’s a hallucinatory figment.
It’s basic evolutionary psychosis, really. I’m the adaptive mechanism keeping you from spiraling into chaos and pandemonium when you’re in danger of being swallowed into the depths of your deepest fear and lust of dark eroticism.
I blink.
Cherry throws her head back and laughs. Fifty Shades would be on his knees worshiping the ground Acheron walks on.
And the marks? I accuse, gesturing to my body.
She waves a hand. Those are just love bites, sweetie. Sure you don’t want to help me with the shrine?
To my utter amazement, I follow her into the mental room and avoid the feeling of the butt plug and belt. While I shower, we argue over obsidian, gold, or twisted ironwork for the altar. We set up a giant canvas with a key dangling over it, symbolizing his control. Paintbrushes, palette knives, lengths of rope, and painted skulls and bones complete the shrine.
There now! Cherry chirps and tosses her bright pink hair back onto her shoulder before kissing my cheek. Wasn’t that fun?