I pull her dress off and then my clothes, letting the ravaged cloth fall to the floor.
I lead her by the hand to the bathroom, pulling the cord on the pressure shower so the fresh water I loaded in it today falls down on us. It's still warm and feels so soothing compared to shock of the frigid brook water. My hands rove along her body, washing away the blood and filth, running my hands through her hair, stringy with mud.
I lather my hands with soap and clean her pussy. She hisses when I clean her ass and my cock twitches at the recent memory of squeezing into that tight space. It's hard again. So hard. I press against her to show her how fucking hard she makes me. How much I want her all the time. How she makes me do things that aren't like me. Like this—trying to fix her after breaking her. So I can keep the best parts of her, but kill the parts that are holding her back from our full potential.
And now I'm back in that space, where everything feels clear and my body is relaxed and I'm not the freak who stammers over every syllable. And yet, I still choose not to utter a word because I don't trust what I might say. Instead, I slide my hand back over her pussy, slipping a finger along the tender flesh.
I'm at a loss. I can't understand the game I am playing. I have spent my time here trying to earn his trust and I took the bait and ran. Of course it was a test. What other choice did I have? I had to try.
I knew things were bad when he barged into the room, wielding a knife, looking like he had been through some type of war. The black pupils swallowing the clarity of his eyes. It was too much to take all in. I thought maybe he was going to kill me and was giving me one last chance to save my own life. I don't know what I thought to be honest. He came in so fast, like a tornado.
I tried, I really did. But it was dark and my feet hurt, and I kept bumping into things. So instead of freedom, I ended up on the ground, my mouth covered as he sodomized me. The pain was horrific. He said one day I'd learn to like it. Nothing that excruciating could ever feel good.
Now he's here, showering me, as tenderly as if he were cleaning an injured bird. You may judge me for accepting it, but I don't live in the world of options you do. I need to reinforce his gentleness. I need comfort. And it's so fucked up that the only person who can give it to me is the person who hurt me. At first, it's hard not to recoil from his touch, and the throbbing, burning pain in my ass reminds me of the assault that just took place. But his hands, they wash it all away, they pacify. His calm breaths and total silence are now a contrast from the gristly voice that made sudden and drastic demands. It's like I'm here with someone else.
Could it be that a part of him feels sorry for what he did?
It's so dark in this cabin, I can only make out a faint silhouette of his body, but I see something I never have before, an outline of his hair. Roguish. Wild. Just like him. He's unmasked. Though I can't see his face, I still feel like he's exposing a part of himself to me.
He caresses me between my thighs. I can feel him harden. I shouldn't want this. I should be repulsed. And I am. But I am also eager to be in his graces, and the opportunity to encourage this kindness brings a hint of hope amidst complete defeat.
I want him to contrast the brutality with this tenderness. To know that things are right again now that I've taken my punishment. To make this plight bearable. I want to connect. To speak to the soul I know must live deep within him. To erase the memories of the agony I felt as he bore into a part of me no one else had ever even touched. To feel safe with him, if only for a short while.
With any other man, I would wonder if the grisly display of my womanhood repulsed him, but not this man. He is raw—all flesh and blood, bones and sinew. A pure predator—as if he was pulled away from society and its norms. As if he had evolved only enough to look like us, but inside, he doesn't understand what it is to be human.
I reach up and land the tips of my fingers on his face, but he grabs my wrist and puts my hand down at my side before I can even really feel him.
I don't say the words. It would hurt too much to know I consented to him. The silence convinces me that the old me still lives buried deep inside.
But I need to feel good somehow.
I grab his shaft, without his prompt or his demand, running a slick hand along the length. I guide my hands up the mounds of his abs and then across his shoulders. One side smooth, the other rippled with uneven, marred skin.
Again, he takes my wrists and pushes my hands away.
We stand under the water, face to face, not touching for a moment. He takes a step closer, and his need presses against me.