Chapter 13 – Keyshawn
Chapter Thirteen
Keyshawn
H is hands slowly roam over my ass cheeks as he touches my cuts. Internally, I want to scream any time his bare skin touches the wounds. Pain sears from my ass straight through my skin like all my nerve endings are on fire. I withhold any reaction from him that he might enjoy -- or that might give away the strange internal sensations happening for me.
Rage feels how wet I am. He's brazen about it, touching the juices on my thighs and sliding them back into my entrance, making sure to probe me deeply with his finger. I hate how my body reacts to him. Consciously, I know he must be a pure psychopath, without the ability to relate to my perspective even for a second. He seriously seems incapable of understanding why I might not want to be kidnapped.
He's numb…
That feels strangely unfair because while this man might be numb, I have never felt more aware of my body. Every thought racing through my head. He touches my forearm gently and it's like he tickled me with a feather. Everything feels a thousand times more intense now that he's done striking my ass and cutting wounds into my butt cheeks.
Adrenaline surges through me with a strong, naturally opiatic effect. The pain feels strangely good alongside the burst of energy.
"Stand," he says. "I won't treat you like a captive upstairs unless you force me to. I can run faster than you and have absolutely no hesitation about the potential of harming you if you disobey me."
I shudder. He definitely means that coldly delivered warning. I want more than this cell and I'm desperate. Plus, I know what happens after his rage-filled beatings. I remember the first night together. This is the part that makes it worth it. The part where the adrenaline explodes with some other hormonal burst.
He becomes softer once he lets the monster out and I don't mind the softer side of Rage. My ass burns from the cuts as I stand up and I try to imagine that the wetness I feel against my ass cheeks is sweat and not blood. Rage stands, towering over me and nearly hitting his head on the relatively low basement ceiling. He runs his tongue over his lips.
He doesn't look at me for too long, but the brief moment of eye contact gives me some insight into his emotional state. He clearly enjoys these beatings. Leaving marks on me. I don't know what the fuck makes a man act like that, but it has to be something dark and demented.
Rage holds the jail cell door open and gives me the space and the trust to walk through it without any restraints.
"My real name is Deacon," he says. "Deacon Hollingsworth. Once everything settles between us, I want you to stay with me. Please."
He gets soft like this after hitting me as a matter of assuaging his guilt or just releasing whatever twisted up pressure valve he has inside his fucked up head. I can't let these words, spoken when he's basically high as a kite off his violence, truly get into my head.
"Hello, Deacon."
I pull my underwear and pants up. He looks at me again with fire in his eyes. I walk past him. I don't know where to turn, but he guides me with his arm just brushing past me, careful not to touch me.
"I won't get to do that for a long time now," he says. "It's more of a punishment for me than for you, really."
My ass stings far too much for me to react with anything other than a sharp pang of rage. An emotion that I don't dare to express in front of this red-haired demon. I follow his guidance and walk upstairs.
When he opens the door to the main part of his house, I feel like I can breathe for the first time since he brought me here. It helps that it smells a lot less musty up here. Deacon keeps his body close to mine as he leads me through the open concept down a short hallway to what can only be his bedroom.
All I know is this place is very different from the first place where I met him. My stomach sinks. I don't know why I assumed I actually knew where he was keeping me. It's just more proof of how deeply this man has me under his control. His bedroom smells absolutely sterile and I can tell that he's at the bare minimum a neat freak.
A control freak too. Hm. Maybe even a freak all the way around. When he pushes open his bathroom door, I almost gasp. The bathroom here has as much attention to detail as his initial playroom. It has as much square footage as his bedroom, with every luxury you can imagine. Two tubs. With jets.
Judging by the flower petals, the soft orange candles and the foam bubble bath in one of the tubs... he prepared for this. The romantic scene collides fiercely with my experience of Rage as a monster. I mean... Deacon. I have to get used to calling him Deacon in my head. His real government name, which makes him sound like an angel rather than some sexy ginger Luciferian creature.
"The soap will sting," he says. "I'll help you in, but you can't fight it. I cut you pretty deep."
His voice doesn't flinch with guilt or emotion but when he takes my hand, I can't help but feel the full blown ferocity of his protectiveness through his grasp. He leads me up the stairs to the area of the bathroom with his deep tub.
The bubble bath smells like peaches and vanilla cream. I know the soak will sting, but I am so eager to sink beneath some warm water and feel something other than a disgusting foam prison bed beneath me. I put one foot into the water. Tingling spreads all the way up my legs, nearly freezing me in place. Deacon grasps me tightly, allowing me to support my weight on his as I set the pace for sliding beneath the soapy water.
I can feel his steely grey eyes fixated on my body and then on my face, like he can't choose where to look.
I get all the way to the tops of my thighs before I slow down. I'm not ready for the sharp stinging. Deacon grips my hand protectively.
"I didn't want to go this hard on you," he says. Again, blaming me. I don't glare at him. I can't take my mind off of survival here. The only thing I can do is focus on not screaming when my ass touches that warm soapy water.
My body shakes as I fight my urges to run and push myself to endure the pain. The bliss spreading through me as I fight the urge to respond to the sting exposes some deeply masochistic side I didn't know I had. Tears pierce the corners of my eyes, but I give no other outward reaction that my ass burns like hell.
Nausea burns its way through me and I feel saliva pooling in my mouth as my body fights through the pain. But I suppress it. I loosen my grip on Deacon's hand as the painful bursts turn into more tolerable stings beneath the soapy water.
He cut me deeper than I thought. I'm painfully aware of exactly how badly he hurt me now that I'm beneath the soapy water. There must have been a lot of blood based on the light pink tinge the bath water now has. I want to immerse my head beneath the foam and disappear into a world without Deacon's sick desires, but he holds onto my hand so tightly until…
"I'll join you," he says, bringing my hand to his lips. I don't want a hand kiss to be the thing that undoes my aversion to him. It's the smallest token of softness after unleashing unbridled brutality on my ass cheeks. But I can't resist it after the physical torture he put me through and the strangely masochistic coaster of emotional responses that accompanies his spankings.
When he lets go of my hand to strip his clothes off, I feel more pained by his absence than relieved. Whatever he does to me during those spankings messes with my head. The desire to bond with him after those beatings activates some primal attachment to Deacon that I resent and he welcomes. I focus on him stripping down in front of me while I lean my back against the ceramic sides of the bathtub, breathing through any pain I feel.
I don't know why I'm bothering to allow myself this indulgence. I shouldn't enjoy anything about this man or his body. I need to love myself instead, if that's how far I've fallen.
But Deacon looks... fucking hot. I hate to admit it, but that's just the truth. He has long, muscular and thick legs built from years of athleticism. He drops his pants first, exposing those tree trunk legs and his large dick wrapped away in black cotton boxer briefs. While looking at me, he unbuttons his shirt, revealing more than just an undershirt.
I’m surprised he has this many tattoos. I didn’t get a good look at him the first time or I forgot how absolutely covered in tattoos he is. Deacon looks more like a gangster when I see all the hidden, inked up portions of his body. His arms look even thicker when he has his shirt off, with bulging muscles around his shoulders and biceps.
My throat catches. No wonder his beatings hurt like hell. He could strangle the life out of me with just one of those hands – not like I want him to keep those thoughts in mind. I stare at him more desperately now, waiting for those big hands to remove the undershirt. He does, slowly, and I am totally distracted from my stinging ass cheeks by Rage exposing his perfect chest. He has too many tattoos for me to identify all of them individually now, but his chest is basically covered. He drops his shirt to the ground and steps closer to the edge of the tub.
He takes his socks off before his boxer briefs. Even his feet have tattoos – a pair of matching bear paws. A quote in cursive that I can’t read because the flickering candles won’t allow my mind to focus on what it says. Deacon’s underwear falls next.
I suspect he only wants to get in the bathtub with me for one reason and that honestly scares the crap out of me. My ass cheeks are still brutally cut and I have no desire to satisfy a man. Deacon stares at me as he steps into the water and I keep my back pressed into the tub as far away from him as I can possibly stand. It might be a futile attempt to fight him off, but some fighting has to be better than none. His face is calm, no anger detected, although I fear that could change without warning.
As he lowers his hips into the warm water, I try to will my gaze away from his dick as it comes towards my eye level. But I utterly fail to stop myself from staring at Deacon’s cock as he lowers his hips into the water. He has narrow, masculine hips that lead to a thick, muscular ass. I remember this part of him – his strong, domineering body.
He looks like a pale, dangerous Viking, and I can imagine him inspiring fear in anyone’s heart with his gigantic physical size and the fire all over his head and face. Deacon allows his body to sink beneath the water in his deep, fancy tub. He keeps gazing at me with all his anger melted away into a romantic look that feels like he’s luring me into a trap. I refuse to move towards him.
Deacon reaches over the edge of the tub with one hand for a white washcloth before returning his attention to me.
“Come,” he says. “I’m sure you’re in pain.”
I can’t tell if this counts as empathy. Some sign that he’s more than a monster, that there’s actually a person beneath these brutal, sexual beatings. He doesn’t leave room for discussion. It’s a tub, not a ballroom. When I don’t reach for Deacon immediately, he takes my hand beneath the water and pulls me close. My body shudders and shakes. Now that I’m beneath the water and away from his torturous hands, I feel more free to feel and my body mostly trembles from pain, from the intense chill and rush of adrenaline, from the bleeding I want to stop.
Deacon takes the washcloth to my ass and for the first time, his gentleness causes me to yelp out in pain. He holds my body against his as he cleans the wound he caused. He forces my head against his broad, insanely warm chest. I can hear his heart pounding. Monster. How dare he react to this after everything…
He forces me against his body with one arm so he can clean my wounds with the other and I use the opportunity to sink my nails into his chest slowly, but with the intention of causing as much pain as possible. He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t react. But I need to do this. I need to hurt him back. My heart pounds just as fast as Deacon’s and he just lets me do this to him, focusing his attention on the task at hand – caressing me with more loving strokes each time until I can’t feel more pain and my nails release themselves from his chest muscles like retracted cat claws.
Deacon makes everything worse by dropping his arms away from me and planting a soft, wet kiss on my forehead.
“I know that feels better,” he whispers. “Now let me wash your hair, kitten. You and your sharp claws.”
He takes my hand away from his chest and kisses the top again. I hate him. I hate every confusing thing he makes me feel.