I stalk to the door. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I sing-song. Muffled sobs leak through the wood—wet, animal. He’s terrified. “Come on, I won’t bite. Notyet.”
I scan the room to see if I can use anything. I spot a heavy oak chair in the corner—perfect—and start ripping the bedsheet into long strips.
The handle is locked. I slam my fist against the door. “Little pig, little pig. Let. Me. In.”
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Again, and again, until the wood groans and the sobs turn to shrieks.
“I’m going to count to three…”
“One.”Bang.
“Two.”Bang.
“Three.”Boom.
Red.
I love this…
I take a step back, lining myself up with the door and I force my shoulder into it.Again and again. The door opens, and an older man, if I can even call him a man, tries to run past me, naked, and cowering.
“Oh no you don’t,” I call as I grab him by the arm. I take a few steps with him, swivel him around, and slam him down into the chair. He’s crying, his face wet and shrivelled as he tries to fight me, but I put my legs through the chair arms and sit on his lap, facing him and keeping him pinned. I use the bedding strips as restraints for his arms.
“Do you know why I’m here?” I whisper in his ear. He tries to move his head away from my lips as I wiggle my hips on him, making him shudder.
You tease.
I gasp, looking around the room. Who said that? Did I miss someone else in the room? Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, I snap out of it and concentrate on the man I'm straddling.
“P…please.”
“Oh, begging won't get you anywhere, darling.” I grin as I clamber off him; it’s time to play.
Walking around him, I place my hands on his shoulders, and he trembles at my touch.
“Remember a nice little petite girl over at De-Vil’s? Wanting to pay her extra, getting her in her bed? Remember how she feels? How you—” I punch him in the face with everything I have. “Bruised her stunning little face?” He spits out red and I walk around him again. “Remember how she pleased you? How she let you use her like a toy?” I glance around, looking for anything. There: a fire poker. Of course the rich fuck has a fireplace in his bedroom—he’ll pay for it now.
I turn back. “How her body felt in your arms?” I stab the fire poker into the middle of his humerus. It cracks with a beautiful, almost musical sound and I shudder in ecstasy, thesnapof it breaking making me wet. He howls in pain and I chuckle to myself.
I love your laugh.
I ignore the voices in my head. They aren’t real.
I grab my dagger, grateful that I always keep one on me, and I drop to my knees in front of him.
I can’t wait for you to do that for me.
I grab his good hand and lay it flat on the arm or the chair, flipping my knife and watching the glare of the candlelight shine across his face. Such an old man; so aged with a face full of snot and regret.
“Look at me,” I demand. He doesn't. I place the edge of my blade to his pinkie fingernail. “Look. At. Me.” I dig the edge under his nail.
So dominant. I love this.
