Chapter 2 #3
The licking sound stopped, only to be replaced by another sound. Low, rhythmic moans filled my ears, singing a somber melody–a perfect duet with my pounding heart. I hated the song.
My neck craned, allowing me to see him fisting himself.
Long fingers wrapped around the weapon between his legs. I heard the lick again, and I felt fear wash over me.
My body reverberated with nerves, causing my naked form to vibrate against the window. I wasn’t scared of the exposure; I was used to it. I was used to living in nothing but my abuse-damaged skin.
His foot kicked my legs apart, ready for him to demand an entrance into my body. He wasn’t welcome. . . but he was never going to be the kind of person who would wait for an invitation that would never come.
He positioned himself, shifting himself between the flesh of my buttocks, while I continued to try and force myself into a space inside myself where this wasn’t happening.
I didn’t beg. I wanted to turn mute as he pushed inside me, ripping through me and causing a pain I’d never experienced. . . it was the trigger, firing me into the space I needed to go.
I couldn’t help it, I screamed, I thought loud enough to shatter glass, but unfortunately, I was wrong, and then I shut down. My safe space opened its doors and my mind escaped, leaving my body behind in this hotel room with the man who was violating it.
I closed my eyes and my reverie welcomed me. I pictured someone else, someone who looked like Hell but acted completely different. Someone who wasn’t adrift from humanity; someone still attached to their morals. Someone who took away the pains I felt, rather than inflicted more.
In my head, he held me softly.
Here and now, my lips pressed to the glass, kissing the imaginary skin of a person who didn’t exist in the real world. A person who I’d feel empty without the second Hell pulled his cock from inside me. A person who would drift away when I was able to ignore my trauma.
My kiss begged him—my dream man—for help, pleaded for him to make me feel better.
And he did. . . just like always.
Imaginary hands kissed my body with the most arousing of touches, making me fall harder and deeper in love with a person who didn’t exist at this moment.
I was lost.
Lost to this world. Lost to a broken mentality, as the chimera continued feeding me his love.
I grew wet, without even thinking of how this would spur on the tragedy my body was suffering in the real world.
Pain shot through me as Hell filled me, his cock thrusting inside my ass, showing no mercy. And I snapped out of my trance.
My heart pounded at the glass, thumping as hard as my fists.
My heavy breaths created a smog that my vision struggled to see through.
I tried to focus on the distorted image ahead.
Fountains. Water danced high in the air.
Music I couldn’t hear—thanks to next door’s poor choice of overpowering pop music—echoed through the splashes.
I closed my eyes again, not wanting to see anything but blackness, that I prayed would claim me forever. An eternal sleep, the only way for my nightmare to end.
But a permanent slumber didn’t claim me.
I couldn’t play sleeping beauty, not when I was no longer beautiful.
And the nightmare didn’t end. It worsened.
“Woodrow, please. . .” I begged, breaking the vow I’d just made to myself. A vow that said stop pleading with him to stop because I knew he wouldn’t. “It hurts.” My lower lip trembled, smearing the fog from the glass.
He ignored me, deeming me unworthy of even a reply.
I had to try again, “Please. . .” I winced through the pain, suddenly feeling it all.
A hand of strong fingers wrapped around my throat, his other hand wrapped around his own, adjusting the discomfort he was causing himself while forcing more upon me.
“You’ve had your warning. Don’t make me do this again. Don’t make it worse for yourself. Shut the fuck up. And stop fucking calling me that!”
I felt torn. Split, in more ways than one; my skin, where he was thrusting inside my only virginal space, finally claiming the final part of me. And my heart, half of it wished to cease beating; the other half, fighting to survive.
His hand moved from his throat to my vagina—the place he was familiar with violating.
He pinched my clit, forcing me to hide away from the orgasm he was trying to call from my body.
I couldn’t allow that to happen. He didn’t deserve that leverage over me.
And I didn’t deserve any more pain, and the betrayal of my body caused aches I struggled to heal from.
His breathing rasped in my ear; his actions caused the restriction in his throat to amplify, granting him his own pains.
Pains, I prayed were strong enough to fucking kill him because he didn’t deserve to live.
He deserved a painful death, filled with suffering, but I could understand why the reaper hadn’t come for him yet. . . if God only took the best.
God didn’t want him. . . no one would want him. Not even the devil.
“You’re hurting us both.” The words fell out, hitting the glass before my head was slammed into their shadow.
His hand moved back to his throat, adjusting once more, just like he always would when his words were heavy or his body was too lethargic to transport them to his mouth. “Last warning,” he breathed the words into my ear. “I’ve already been more lenient than I care to be.”
I sealed my mouth, trapping even my pained whimpers inside. I jerked with malaise, spasming silently in pain as my internal skin ripped.
The friction caused by the dryness inside me as his cock stretched me, burned me to my soul with the force of vengeful flames, searing this painful memory to me forever, ensuring one way or another, I’d burn in hell for all eternity.
I felt him twitch; I found the smallest relief in knowing the climax of this horrible nightmare was nearing.
I choked on a sob, unaware that the tightening of my entire body would pull the release from his shaft. I felt the warmth of his cum coat me internally. But he didn’t stop; he continued fucking me, pushing it deeper inside me with each thrust.
I was barely conscious and desperate to pass out. I needed a reprieve. A few seconds of peace.
“Do you understand now, who fucking owns you?” His heavy accented tone was still quiet, but his question lingered in the stillness of the space, repeating like the bland lyrics I could no longer hear.
The pop music had been killed in the next room, those listening had gone out to celebrate something other than its death. The floor was silent. There was no one around to hear me scream. So, I didn’t even try. Fear had stolen the only thing Hell hadn’t—my voice.
He didn’t want to steal that.
He enjoyed hearing and ignoring my pleas far too much to take what voiced them.
I concealed myself, wrapping my arms around my body, and giving myself the hug I needed. I looked back, peeping my dark eyes through my strands of chocolate-colored hair, and I mouthed the words, “You do.”
“And what is my fucking name?”
“Hell. Your name is Hell, and I belong to you.”
He slowed to a stop, placing a kiss on my nose.
“I do. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” He spoke to me like a gentle lover, a caring smile on his face—a mirage disguising his real emotions. The gentle tone wasn’t for me; it was for him. It was a way to subside his own agony.
He finally reeled back. Pulling out of me and leaving me vacant, giving my pain room to grow.
I felt a trickle creep down my legs in a slow-moving stream.
A salty, metallic stench entered my nose as I breathed in heavy gulps of air.
A river of filth. Cum and blood. I didn’t need to look to know I was bleeding.
I didn’t need to ask if I was allowed medical attention.
I already had the answers to those questions, and they weren’t the ones I’d have hoped for.
His wiggling finger instructed me to follow him. His eyes warned me not to disobey, promising he’d remind me, if need be, who I belonged to.
I didn’t object. My wobbling feet trailed his shadow, traversing to the grand bathroom.
I stepped from carpet to tiles, from warm to cold, and I felt the shift within myself.
I felt my mind shut back down.
My mind couldn’t cope with all the abuse put on my body. I struggled to deal with not only my trauma but the idea of being his property.
I was owned. . . by the man who could rival the devil.
Hell
The water was hot, the bubbles high, hiding her body like a blanket. A safety blanket, keeping her safe from me. That wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. Nothing would keep me from her again, not the life she desperately craved, or even my death.
Her body was frozen, ice beneath my touch.
“We have to get you clean. You have to look your best.” I couldn’t deny the fact I missed her cleaner look. I liked dirtiness, I guess. But uncleanliness was never the kind of dirtiness that got me off.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t bow down and agree to my commands, nor did she object them. She sat silently, her body in the water, her mind somewhere else. “What are you thinking about?” I falsified a gentle approach, speaking to her like she was a damn child that needed mollycoddling.
The approach made my skin crawl. It felt alien. . . wrong, like I was betraying who I was. Dishonesty was surely a sin. My father had told me so. . . though he’d also told me so many lies I’d forgotten every truth I’d ever heard.
The ring of dirt lingering on the tub above the warm water, told me it had been a while since her last bath. Scents of strawberry and lemon danced in the water, eliminating the aroma of her suffering—good, because I hated that fucking smell.
“What are you thinking about, hmm?” I asked again, sitting at the bath ledge, trying to penetrate her thoughts. I wanted to push them from her brain and invade the space they occupied.
I wanted him out of her head.
But he was still there, still filling her warped mind with made-up memories.
And I was locked out.
But what she suffered—maladaptive daydreaming—didn’t make her unhearing, she was just ignorant.
I could play ignorant, too.
I directed my efforts to something else. I shifted my position, pulling her leg from the water. Lifting a shaver from the ledge and applying a cucumber-scented shave foam to her legs. I lathered her skin in generous amounts before ridding her of the body hair that hadn’t been shaved in years.
I was careful not to slice through her skin; bruises didn’t bother me, and neither did inflicting them, but I didn’t want any open wounds ruining the dress I’d picked out for her.
Sure, the dress wasn’t traditional. Injuries wouldn’t be shown staining the dark material because it wasn’t white and virginal.
. . neither was she, and I wanted it symbolic.
When I was done with her legs, I moved to her arms, then underarms. I liked her shaved to the skin. . . bare and naked.
My perfect little doll.
I placed the shaver on the bath ledge at my side, close enough, so that she wouldn’t dare try to steal it to try and end one of our miserable lives with it.
I adjusted myself to face her; bathing her would have been so much fucking easier if I could have just turned my head, but that wasn’t something I could do. I had to reposition my whole body every damn time I wanted to move a part of hers.
My throat had a constant noose wrapped around it tightly, ready to choke me to death.
I took hold of a sponge, covering it in soap before I rubbed it over her body, washing away the concerns she was feeling, or at least fucking trying to.
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
She blinked once, hearing me. I took that as a no. When I was younger, when talking became difficult due to the swelling in my throat, my family would encourage me to use my eyes to talk. Blink once for no, twice for yes. Jolie knew this. She’d remember. She was just being difficult.
I hated her for being so fucking difficult.
“Remember what I said, Jolie.”
Her nostrils flared, trying to take in the air she needed to survive me, but all she was gifted, was the toxic fumes my rage gave off.
“Fine. Have it your fucking way.” I launched to my feet and gripped her with harsh fingers.
She almost slipped beneath the wave I’d caused.
I kissed her face, the side with scars yet to be inflicted, not the one already ruined by my hand and her sins. . . a silent warning. Another warning that she didn’t fucking deserve.
I picked up speed, rubbing the hard side of the sponge against her body.
Deep water swished, cascading the sides of the tub, falling to the tiles and drenching my slacks.
I scrubbed like I was trying to remove stains, and in a way, I was.
I was trying to eradicate the stains of hate for me I’d previously tarnished her in.
. . starting between her trembling legs, where the most impure stains lay.
Bruising her with my touch, she shifted, trying to move away. Her small hands clutched the ledge, searching for the support she wouldn’t find.
She broke out in another sob, choking on her breath and the soapy water that had made it into her mouth.
“You’re scum,” she cried.
My finger trailed the dirt ring around the tub, and I started to wonder, did trafficked women even shower?
Did they do so as quickly as possible to rush out and conceal themselves from watchful eyes?
Who the fuck knew! But one thing I did know was, the germs loitering on her every cell, were more company than the other broken souls she resided with.
There was no other excuse as to why she claimed comfort from people who weren’t around.
“This is scum!” I shouted into her face, my finger close to her pretty mouth. “This!” I pushed the digit beyond her lips, and I didn’t stop driving it in and out of her mouth until she choked again.
She gazed up at me like she was hoping to see a different person—a better person. But she still saw me.
“What? Expecting somebody else? I hate to disappoint, but he isn’t coming to see you any time soon.”
She didn’t say a word as she tried to shift away.
Her internal injuries slowed her movements.
I should feel bad about them, about raping her and taking the last piece of her virginity.
But I didn’t. I didn’t feel bad about taking her cunt, either, all those years ago.
I was incapable of such feelings. And her mouth and wet cunt always felt too good to feel anything but pleasure, maybe in time, her ass would feel the same way, but right now, it was just a punishment. . . and we both suffered it.