Chapter 12
Oliver
"Sometimes, the monsters we fear are only reflections of our own pain."
Where did she go? I gave her a head start, allowing her more time to be creative.
I walk through the courtyard behind the estate when I am, damn near blinded by the sun reflecting off something.
Walking over to the cellar doors, I find the lock cut and thrown haphazardly to the ground beside it.
Inspecting it, I can tell this wasn’t my doves doing.
I open the cellar doors and proceed deeper into the obsidian shadows that retreat from the slim orange glow of the setting sun—into a darkness that callously inherits the dwelling as it evades the light peeking from behind the trees.
Sadly, the hunt will have to wait, for this take's precedence above all.
I close the doors behind me, knowing the shadows will mold to my advantage.
“Whoever is here will regret it.” I stalk about in the pitch blackness of the cellar, making sure to offer little to no noise.
All is quiet, then a sharp pain erupts in my gut, then another in my left shoulder blade.
The stabbing and slashing were habitual, as searing pain forms on countless parts of my body.
I throw my arms up—an attempt to block myself from my invisible attacker.
Splintering pain charges its way to my elbow, and my clothes begin to stick to me. A warm and thick substance coats my skin as the scent of Iron fills my nose... blood. I keel over coughing, as the syrupy liquid saturates my body. “Oliver!” I hear her scream.
The clicking of her heel's echoes on the cobblestone floor. “No... run!” I manage to get out, but she is already at my side. I don't want her to see me like this, but it is too late.
Her hands touch my shoulder, and I wince in pain.
“I’m so sorry. Stay there. I'm going to find a light.” The warm hue from the bulb flickers on in no time, doing little to frighten away the darkness that clung to the musky walls.
She gasps the moment her eyes find me kneeling, fist on the ground.
I switch my gaze from my bloody forearm to look at her.
“Are you going to help, or just stand there like a deer in the headlights?” I manage to strangle the pain, forcing the words from my throat.
“I-” She is shaking like a leaf. I need to distract her.
My body quivers and sways as I get to my feet.
Deep red lines have formed, indicating the cuts and their location.
I start to slide my suspenders off my shoulder, making her believe that I’m trying to clean things up.
Once I have relieved them from my slacks, I lunge at her, pinning her against a Wine rack, and using them to capture her wrists and ‘suspend her’ to one of the empty wine bottle compartments. I chuckle at the pun in my head.
so ‘suspense-full’.
I reach behind her as she shrieks, “What are you doing? You’re hurt, why-” She pulls and tugs, as I chuckle at her—amused by her efforts. I allow her to finish her question, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can.” The tension my smile has on my face dampens the intimidation in my voice, “It's no use. I used to be in the Navy,” I pull the strap taut, “Tied a lot of. Knots. In my day.” I pull a bottle of 1812 Bordeaux from behind her waist—she winces from unknown intentions.
“Now, since you made that so easy, we can just hang for a bit.” I look her up and down. “Well, you can.” Ha! So punny.
“Wait, are you not hurt? Was that all just a ruse to catch me?” I don't answer her.
I begin tearing the decorative foil off the bottle, popping the cork with my knife, then I start lathering my wounds in the alcoholic beverage.
The opaque liquid joins the blood and turns the dry parts of my gray shirt burgundy.
There she goes, biting that lower lip again as she follows the crimson droplets down my body.
I use my thumb to pry her lip from between her teeth—a smear of blood from my hand tracks after, staining her skin a cherry red.
I stand paralyzed as her tongue extends, tasting the little crimson line.
I set the bottle down on a nearby barrel, as my eyes shift between her and the knife in my hand.
Facing her again, I put the honed edge to my palm, then clasp my hand around the blade—the tapered end and handle leaving indents in my skin.
As I slowly slide the steel across my flesh, I study the emotions that flash and contort her face: worry, fear, and lust. Once the full length of the metal has left my skin, I slam it into a piece of the wine rack above her head—the steel bending slightly from the pressure.
Cambering toward her, I elevate my right-hand, now coated in red, and level it with her eyes—they widen with desire.
Tightening my grip on the knife handle, as I thrust the other hand at her engulfing her mouth beneath it.
I observe as blood from the cut drips scarlet down her chin, while promptly, I feel her tongue rolling, and lapping at the blood coursing from my palm.
I release my grip on the blades handle to coil my fingers around the neck of the bottle sitting stagnant on the barrel. Slipping my head into the shadows, I take a long swig leaving next to nothing in the bottle. “Mehm,” I clear my throat, “Bitter... like my soul.”
Then, coming back into the light, I trace her jawline with the closure of the bottle, watching as the remaining edge of the foil produces paper-thin raspberry stripes in its wake.
With my hand still over her mouth, I bring the glass to my lips—gnashing my teeth over the malleable metal, I tear away the embellishments that give the brand its uniqueness—without it it's just an opaque glass container with a paper label.
Once free from the close-fitting hold the fine metal had to the glass, I allow it to fall in a downward spiral.
By the gods, I am obsessed by the look on her face—the one of
curiosity when she can’t make out my expressions.
Especially in times she feels it should be easier.
Praise the All Father, for the shadows in which I reside.
With my hand still clasped firmly around the bottle, I drop the arm holding it, allowing it to fall out of the sight of us both—she flinches, as the cold glass touches her skin.
I hold her gaze as I roll the crystalware from the top of her knee, up her thigh, and to the hem of that gorgeous green dress.
Smiling wide enough for it to reach my eyes, I give her a simple grunt—the only hint to my mischievous thoughts, she’s going to get. Without wasting another second, I drag the bottle over her thigh, stopping briefly to tease her—swirling the opening against her clit.
Rolling the cold bottle back down the other side, I stop where her thighs touch, prying her legs apart as I force the bottle upward.
Ready or not, little bird—you're going to come.
“I have questions, and I hope you have the right answers.” She gawks at me, confusion and longing doing the Lindy in her eyes—flailing and gyrating like a joyful couple on the Ed Sullivan show. “I am going to remove my hand, then you will answer.”
She manages a nod as I take my hand away. “Did you make this easy on purpose?” My hand is fully detached now, and my dick jumps at the sight of her mouth glistening with the brilliant carmine red that pooled from the laceration on my palm.
“Answer me first!” She shouts, “Are you hurt? Is this part of the-”
I cut her off, nearly smacking my hand back on her face, enough force to make a pop.
“Wrong answer,” I say as I rotate the bottle between her thighs, the friction causing her to spread them further apart.
I stop just as the opening kisses her vagina, then I begin rocking it from clitoris to opening, allowing her body to provide the lubricant.
“Now, my dove, this time you'll just nod.” Mixed emotions flicker in her eyes, as I proceed, “Did you make it easy on purpose?” Her eyes widen with expectancy as she takes a moment to think about her answer, before shaking her head.
I roll my neck, in an attempt, to loosen the tension that builds up with her lack of following the rules.
“Wrong answer, little bird.” She squirms a little as I slowly apply pressure, and the neck of the bottle starts to disappear. My hands are getting warmer the closer they get to her. I move my hand to the shoulders of the container as her body shows me all that she can handle.
Now coated in her discharge, I move my hand to the butt of the bottle to get a better grip, and I begin basking in the moans that escape from under my palm as I fuck her with this container.
“Oh. My. Dove.” I breathe, accenting each word at the apex of my thrusts.
I am nearly hyperventilating, impressed by her consumption.
“Did you. Make. It easy. On. Purpose?” The words barely leave my mouth.
She nods in response this time, and a low rumble breaks free from my throat.
“That’s. My good girl. Now. Do you like me fucking you.
With this bottle?” Her eyes are slits, narrowly open as her body trembles, while my wrist slowly oscillates the object bombarding her entrance.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she answers with another sultry nod.
I switch to my dominant hand, freeing her mouth as my other arm wraps around her waist. I pump the bottle a few more times—my need to ‘collect’ stronger than a bee’s demand for pollen.
“I want you to come, dove,” I whisper before I remove the bottle, lowering my gaze to find it glistening with her essence.
Strategically, I push my shemagh aside, I bring it to my mouth—licking it clean, before my free hand tangles in her hair, clutching firmly at her nape as I yank her head back forcing her gaze to meet mine.
After giving her a devilish stare I return it, pumping the neck of the bottle in and out of her.
Faster. Harder. Her whimpers and moans echo off the cellar walls.