Her fingers changed direction, rushing to her face to hide the scars I’d placed there. Screams left her lips, carrying words I couldn’t make out to my ears.
I tossed the tee to the ground, calling out her vulnerabilities as she stood before me in nothing but a pair of black lace knickers, that I was almost sure she’d piss with fright, ruining the sexy garment I’d gifted her for my own viewing pleasure, with the rancid stench of urination.
I angered myself bythinking of things that hadn’t even happened.
Her chapped lips, now free of the mocha stain they’d been painted in for her to look pretty for our wedding, screamed that she’d spent years in a state of semi-dehydration.
That was another thing that fucked me off.
But I didn’t know why.
Not that I’d ever needed a reason to be fucking angry.
I lowered, retracting a little intimidation—a false sense of security for her. Lifting her chin with two fingers, I let her see me smile.
“One day you won’t hide these away from the world.” My fingers flicked the thickness of her hair behind her ear.
She didn’t dare to discard my touch, not with my face this close to hers.
I examined her features, my eyes tracing all the individual scars I put on her face; the silver inch hiding in her hairline, that one was accidental. The small faint line across her throat, that one wasn’t. Neither was the faint dent below her bottom lip, the imprint of my teeth could still vaguely be made out.
Again, thinking of all those memories, brought the anger back.
With her hair twirled tightly around my fingers, I dragged her to the shower, pulling her like a reluctant animal as she struggled in my hold.
She screamed, the noise loud enough to threaten me with the invading presence of do-gooders.
A single look had her lips sealed. The inferno of my rage burned her sound to cinders before it could seep into the air and amplify my anger.
I tossed her into the glass dome, and I watched her tumble. Her knees creaked like she was double her age as she struggled to rise from the floor. I stepped in behind her.
“Stay on the ground,” I ordered.
I was ready to drown the rage.
Jolie
I listened to him. The perfect slave obeying her master, saving myself the punishment disobeying would bring.
“Take off the underwear.”
I wasn’t scared of this order, not anymore. I lived without underwear, without clothes. Homed with nothing but abuse of every kind for the last ten years. But I was already numb by then.
Was that a gift. . . or a curse?
I slipped my thumbs into the lace of my underwear, ready to slide them down my useless legs. It was hard to believe I had every possibility of becoming a professional athlete, once upon a time, as I struggled to my knees.
“Not yours.” His hand stopped me, telling me to keep my underwear on.
I moved my hands to his shorts, tugging the thick designer waistband. I heard the sound of his already hard cock slapping against his toned stomach as the material caught him.
The boxers slid down his legs, dark hairs pivoting until the material landed on the floor, quickly soaked by the warm water raining down.
I stared up, drifting back on my heels. I wanted away from the hardness between his legs, but he closed the distance with a single step.
“Ah-ah, don’t go wandering off, little whore. You have a job to do.” His fingers moved back to my hair, guiding my head forward.
I looked up at him, eyes roving over the ink stains on his body—a mess of scribbles, all in different degrees of cursive—covered him.
