He grunted. “Maybe we had the wrong idea all along. Maybe I don’t need your obedience. I like it when you struggle.”
Perhaps it was a spark of panic at this new sadistic side of him or perhaps it was a perverse desire to please him, but she renewed her struggles. She attempted to push up, but his grip on her neck was like iron. She reached back, hitting nothing, kicking no one. As her body writhed against his, he groaned. After she had flailed and managed to bruise her own body against the wooden floor, she sank down in defeat.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted in a whisper. “I like that. Just a little bit of spirit so I don’t feel like I’m fucking a piece of meat. But then you’ll settle down and take it, won’t you?”
A shiver ran through her, and he laughed softly. He kicked her knees out, spreading them wide. Her fingers scrabbled against the wood, finding nothing to hold on to. There’d be no pleasure here. No passion, no solace.
His cock nudged her entrance, blunt and hard, but at least the first drops of his orgasm provided much needed lubrication. In one smooth, angry motion, he slid to the hilt. She gasped.
“Talk, dammit,” he muttered behind her. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Even if you can’t say the words, you ought to be able to make noise.”
He pulled out and slammed back in. Her entire body seemed to ripple upon impact, rattling apart and then slamming back together. But still, she was silent but for her harsh breathing.
“How hard would I have to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear, “before you screamed?”
She felt her eyes widen, but then they slammed shut again as he thrust deep inside. Her body felt broken in pieces, disjointed. Her mind was lost, confused, hurt more by Master’s sudden shift in temperament than she had been for the weeks, months before.
It was one thing to be treated like an animal night and day; she could almost believe it was true. Her mindlessness became a refuge; her submission a balm. But he had treated her like so much more: a desired lover, a cherished slave.
Somehow she had ruined it.
Her fragile happiness lay on the floor of the kitchen in shards, plowed again and again by the fierce iron cock of her Master. It shouldn’t have been able to hurt her anymore; it cut her open. Her eyes stung, and throat felt raw. It was a cry for help, empty, soundless.
He groaned, a long exhalation that shook the air around her, moving it when she could not. Filling it with his satisfaction where her pain should have gone. The heat and weight of his body fell onto hers, flattening her. She was so far wrung out that there should be nothing left, as she struggled to draw breath under the pressure.
But a part of her burned, doused by the wind only to flare up on its reprieve. She no longer thought of survival alone; she wanted more. This afternoon he’d been lenient with her. Generous with her. And in doing so, he’d damned them both.
The air cooled behind her; it stilled. She was alone but found no relief.
She could leave. If she walked outside now, her chances would be better than they had been on her first escape. Better, because now she was full and warm to begin with. Maybe she could even pack supplies, find money to help her. These practical thoughts fell one after the other, a line of lanterns on a string. Somewhere inside her was a self-sufficient woman, trapped by her training. Silenced by terror.
Her head cocked to the side. She heard nothing. He must have gone back to bed.
She stood up, intending to leave. Surely she would at least make the attempt, even though a larger part of her doubted her ability to succeed. More than that she doubted her sanity, but then, didn’t every animal wish to be free? Or perhaps she was so contented as his pet despite his recent rough treatment that she wished to stay.
The desire for freedom felt familiar, like an old friend. It brought a burst of happiness, just the glimpse of it, but she wasn’t sure she really knew it after all this time. Had she ever really?
She found herself walking into the living room. Just to search for supplies, she reasoned. Here the moonlight was a bit brighter than the kitchen, and she could just make out the striped corduroy of the sofa and the low thick coffee table she now recognized as having been made by her master’s hand.
The bookcase was overstuffed, with small books jammed sideways, toppling over one another in an attempt to fit in. Each book wore its use like a badge of honor, the spine cracked and stripped from being bent open. A corollary to the scars on her back; she shivered.