Still waking up, she was slow to push herself up from the closet floor and crawl out. She continued to crawl, her dress falling over her ass as she headed for the bed.
My eyes traveled over her form quickly, feeling the soft throb of my cock against my thigh. She had no idea that I was wearing a mask. No idea that I was wearing a hood. Red was the only one that had seen my face in years. I doubt that rose and the two claimed ones had any idea what I looked like underneath this mask, each having only seen a portion of it over the years.
But Scarlett? If she would justlook upduring our sessions at the church, she would know what most never in their lives ever did. Outside of the church now, that was.
She bent down, arching her back, sticking her ass fully in the air as she reached deep under the bed, her lacey underwear peeking out from under the hem of that dress.
My cock throbbed again, and I worked my jaw.“Patience, rabid deer, fucking her now will only ruin the progress.”Besides, she couldn’t handle it. Her mental state, my thirst for blood, she would die before I even finished.
But she did looksogood like that. I would have put her in a black thong, something to compliment her ass. I would have trapped her wrists under that bed, forcing her head to remain where it was, pressed sideways into the edge of the bed. I would have forced her legs apart, spreading her out for me, the perfect way to see her wet pussy. I knew it would be wet. A life like this? The things she had already reacted to?
My girl got off on the same things I did. Not at my level, but on some level, she did. Blood and pain.
Could I get her to make a noise if I slapped her ass? Would she whimper? Would she moan? Would she wiggle her ass back, begging me for more?
My cock throbbed again.
Could I get her to cry and use her body to beg me for more if I whipped her? If I showed her that the pain she had felt for so long could be used in better ways. Nothing in the world was like the feeling of regaining control over your own suffering. Could I teach her the same things I was taught?
What would that spine of hers look like stretched and curved over my makeshift altar?
So many ideas blooming in my head…
A few seconds later, she leaned back and straightened, placing a paper on the bed.
I leaned over the bed, taking in the picture she had painted, illuminated only by the yellow light from the other room.
It was all black and red. A painting of her living room and bedroom. People with elongated faces and sharp fingers were breaking into her house while she lay sleeping in her bed. She had painted their cocks red, blood dripping from them. And in her bedroom, she was sleeping, her mouth painted red, blood dripping from her lips, her hair, her chest.
It was a beautiful painting. Incredibly detailed, from the ribbons tied around the corset she wore, to the open zippers on the male’s pants.
She picked up another and placed it on the bed. This one just of her bedroom. One of the men was dragging her from her bed, her hands at her sides, her feet pushing back the blanket.
One man stood in the doorway, watching.
Three more crowded around her room, watching her and the man, their hands around their cocks.
I angled my head, hearing her words come through without her having to speak a single syllable.
She was simply trying to protect herself from the monsters of the kingdom she was caged in. “How long have you been painting?” I asked, taking a step back.
She sat back on her heels and held out ten fingers and then five.
“They’ve allowed you to paint but Thomas tore up the one of Wonderland?” Why would he choose that one to destroy?
She tapped her finger on the bed just before she pulled her hands back to her lap.
“Yes to what?” I asked her.
She gestured to the living room.
I glanced back that way before stepping back. “Go.” She was curious and incredibly smart. Far more intelligent than most have given her credit for her entire life, which told me that even she probably didn’t realize how smart she was. To nurture the bloodlust, I must first nurture her mind.
I suppose I had it wrong before. Power was important. When creating a weapon, a person must first teach that weapon of the power she held. It was only when she realized how powerful she could be that one must begin the next lesson: control. If she truly was like me, she would know where the lines were without me having to walk her through every step.
I looked forward to seeing if I was right or wrong about her as the days went on.
Scarlett stood, signing ‘thank you’ to me on her way through the house.
