5. Selene #2
Three days pass in a haze of stolen moments and near misses.
Silas works sixteen hour days at the construction site, coming home after Mom and Richard have retired, slipping into my room or pulling me into his, training me with fingers and tongue and plugs until I'm stretched and swollen and desperate.
We don't speak about what happened in the kitchen.
We don't speak about the halfway claiming, the stripes on my stomach, the way he held me after.
We just continue, the loop spinning faster, the danger growing with every touch.
On the fourth morning, I find myself in the laundry room, folding towels that smell of lavender detergent and dryer heat.
The room is small, utilitarian, shelves of cleaning supplies and spare linens and the industrial washer and dryer that Silas installed himself.
The door has a lock. I've checked it three times.
I'm folding a bath sheet, my mind elsewhere, my body still humming from last night's session—the largest plug, the one that made me scream into his pillow, the one he left inside me while he stroked himself to completion against my thigh.
I didn't sleep. I don't sleep anymore. I just wait for the next time he'll touch me.
The door opens behind me. I don't turn around. I know his footsteps, his weight, his presence in a room before I see him. He closes the door. The lock clicks.
"Bend over," he says.
I do. I place my hands on the folding table, palms flat against the wood, my back arching without conscious decision.
I'm wearing a sundress, yellow this time, the color of the one I arrived in, and nothing beneath it.
He hasn't allowed panties in four days. He lifts the hem, exposes my ass, runs his palm over the marks he left yesterday, the bruises that bloom like ink on my pale skin.
"You're ready," he says. Not a question. A statement. A command.
He positions himself behind me, his cock thick and heavy against my thigh, and pushes inside.
The stretch is immediate, burning, glorious.
He's deeper than the kitchen, deeper than any plug, filling me with a pressure that makes my vision spark white at the edges.
I cry out, the sound muffled by the towels stacked beside my face, and he grips my hips, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave impressions that will last for days.
"Quiet," he commands, his voice low, controlled, the German cadence thick with his focus. "Or I'll gag you with your own panties."
I bite the towel, tasting cotton and lavender, and push back against him.
He slides deeper, inch by inch, my body stretching around him, burning, accepting, until I feel his hips pressed against my ass, until I know he's fully inside me, all ten inches buried in my small body, claiming me from the inside out.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his hand sliding up my spine, gripping my hair, pulling my head back. "So perfect. So tight. Taking all of me."
He moves. Slow at first, deliberate, each thrust dragging his length through my swollen walls, the ridge of his crown catching on every sensitive place.
I sob into the towel, my body overwhelmed, my legs shaking, my hands clawing at the folding table.
He speeds up, his hips snapping against my ass, the sound of skin on skin filling the small room, mixing with the hum of the dryer and my muffled cries.
The door handle turns.
I freeze. Silas doesn't. He slows his thrusts, keeps himself buried deep inside me, his hand clamping over my mouth, pressing my face into the towels.
"Silas? You in there?" Richard's voice through the door. "The contractor for the Southampton build is on the phone. Needs to confirm the foundation specs before they pour."
Silas doesn't stop. He moves inside me, slow and deep, his cock pulsing, his hand clamped over my mouth. "Working, Dad," he calls out, his voice steady. "I'll call him back in ten."
"Fine. I'll tell him." Richard's footsteps fade, and I feel Silas's grip tighten, his thrusts deepening now that we're alone again.
Silas waits until the footsteps are gone.
Then he pulls out, turns me around, lifts me onto the washer.
The machine is still warm from the last load, vibrating slightly beneath my bare ass.
He spreads my legs, positions himself at my entrance, and enters me again, face to face this time, his eyes locked on mine.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice breaking, his control splintering. "Look at what you do to me."
I look. I watch his eyes roll back as he sinks into me, watch his jaw slacken, watch the sweat track down his temple, his throat, his chest. I watch him lose himself inside me, watch the moment his discipline cracks and the animal beneath emerges.
He fucks me hard, fast, the washer rocking beneath us, my head bumping against the shelf of detergent with every thrust.
I come apart screaming into his shoulder, my nails drawing blood, my body convulsing around him, milking him, claiming him as surely as he's claiming me.
He follows, pouring into me, hot and thick and endless, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us shaking, both of us gasping, both of us ruined and rebuilt in the same breath.
After, he holds me on the washer until I stop shaking.
He cleans me with a towel from the pile I was folding, his hands gentle despite everything.
He kisses my bruises, my tears, my swollen lips, whispering that I'm his, that no one will ever take me from him, that we're almost safe, almost free, almost able to stop hiding.
I don't believe him. I don't care. I just want more.
Maya arrives on Saturday morning without warning.
I open the front door expecting the UPS driver, expecting a package for Mom, expecting anything except my best friend from NYU standing on the porch with a duffel bag and a grin that fades the moment she sees my face.
"Holy shit, Sel," she says, her dark eyes scanning me, cataloging, noticing everything I haven't had time to hide. "You look like you've been fucked within an inch of your life and then run over by a truck. What happened?"
"Nothing," I stammer, stepping aside to let her in. "I'm just tired. The heat. The move. My mother?—"
"Your mother didn't do that to your neck." She reaches out, touches the bruise Silas sucked into my throat three nights ago, the one I've been covering with scarves and concealer and careful positioning. "That's a hickey the size of a golf ball. Who's the guy?"
Before I can answer, Silas descends the stairs.