Hear Me (3 page)

“I’ve missed you.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been the one covered in a cloth and poured with water. A warm-cold touch on her nipple told her he’d licked her. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

 This wasn’t for her. Not his arousal, not his tenderness. It was for some woman in his memories.

Of course it had been too much to hope that she deserved it. He didn’t even know her. She had done nothing to prove her service, to please him. But a part of her shriveled and fell away, and only then did she realize how much she wished for this. Only when it extinguished did she recognize the hope she had harbored all this time.

What did it matter if she was a good slave? What sort of goal was that?

She did the unthinkable: she pushed him away. It was nothing more than a nudge, her weak arms against a broad, unmovable chest. He caught her wrists and held them above her head, set her defiance aside as if it were nothing.
She
was nothing.

She lay still, unblinking at the night. Tiny specs floated across her vision—insignificant, like her. Her hands were pinned above her, her legs spread by his hips, but she wouldn’t fight this.

He returned to her nipples, licking, suckling. It was instinctive, those actions, not a sign of affection. But the kisses—oh, they were different. His lips brushed the underside of her breast. He kissed the side and the sloping top, and then his lips met her chest in the middle, where her heart would be. He roamed higher, to her neck, and she felt her pulse beat against his lips. She swallowed. This would never be for her. Even the best slave didn’t deserve such treatment.

Please
. Her lips formed the words. No sound broke the silence, because she was a part of the night. A silent specter to complete his dream, a shadow of the woman he wanted.

She felt him nudge her entrance, the head of his cock broad and insistent. Instinctively she clenched, fearing the pain. He thrust inside—hard. She gasped.

“Oh Jesus. So
fucking
tight.” He sounded drugged, still trapped in the dream that made this all okay. She knew all about that dream, the one with white lies and endless reasonings. Or with none at all: just live.

He pulled out and slammed back in, his cock reaching deep, and his thighs opening her wide. Her mouth was open, in shock, in pain. Although, it wasn’t really pain. She was wet, at least, and he hadn’t even needed lube. He was just big, and she had always been small.

Then his hips dipped, and he thrust upward, hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back in her head. She thrust her hips to meet him, like a slut, she was a slut, who cared when it felt like this? That awkward pain of betrayal faded beneath the onslaught of physical sensation. Her cunt ached,
she
ached, and then he moved harder, faster. She was pinned to the bed, and it seemed like he would never stop, and she didn’t want him to.

But then he did. He pulled out, leaving her inner muscles clenching at nothing. With a smooth motion, he flipped her onto her stomach. She immediately tilted her hips up and back to meet him; he slipped inside. His body fit to hers, chest to her back and muscled thighs coarse against her own.

Making love.

The thought blinded her, streaking through her haze of sex and fear like a shooting star. That’s what he was doing: making love to her. Even if it wasn’t really her, it was beautiful. Even if he couldn’t even see her in the dark, she
felt
beautiful.

“But why?” he whispered. “Why did you do it?”

A sharp slap to her ass shocked her. She grasped the sheet and waited for another, but it didn’t come. His hand snaked around her body to cup her breasts, to pinch her nipples. And then twist. This time she felt her inner muscles spasm around his cock, and he groaned in her ear. That’s what he was doing. Increasing his pleasure with her pain. Playing her body like an instrument, tuning it to sing for him.

She was still full of gladness for his earlier tenderness, and now a shroud of submission descended upon her. He pinched her other nipple, and she contracted again. She lifted her upper body ever so slightly to allow him better access. His breath caught, and then he sat up, pulling her up as well.

She sat up in the middle of a strange bed, in the dark, impaled on the cock of this Master she didn’t know. He pulled and twisted her nipples, forcing her body to writhe in his cruel embrace. Her slavery had never been sweeter.

More. She wanted to do more for him. To please him in whatever way she could. She slid her hand down past where they were joined, hot and slippery, and farther. The soft skin of his sac was wet with their juices, and she stroked him there. Cupped and rolled his balls in her palm. His low moan was all the gratitude she could want. The way he slowed his thrusts to allow her better access was her order to continue. But when he softened his hold on her nipples, she faltered. Mercy always came with a price.

With heavy palms on her back, he tipped her forward. Her shoulders hugged the bed, leaving her ass completely exposed to his thrusts. He reached inside her, and now there was pain. Small twinges each time he struck deeply that left her breathless.

Every thrust came with a sound now, a grunt as the air left him in a rush. A groan that made her tighten around him as much as his pinches earlier had done. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, holding her steady even though she would never try to end this. But it was beyond her now, to fight or to please him, to do anything at all except take it. It had never been up to her; it would always come to this. Trapped under his weight, impaled with his cock, dripping in his sweat. Isn’t this what she wanted? So why was the sheet beneath her face wet? Why was the blackness blurry with her tears?

Take me. Use me. Want me. Oh God, somebody want me. I don’t want to be worthless anymore.

“Fuck,” he shouted, and the sound was like a gunshot in the night. It startled her, even as the thick pulse of his cock soothed her, familiar and warm. She clenched her eyes shut as his fingers dug rivers into her skin, as he groaned out his passion for some other woman into her body.

He collapsed beside her. She lay unmoving in that ignominious position, her ass in the air, her cunt dripping with his leavings, but there was no one to see her. No one to care. From tiredness or hopelessness her body slid down, straightened on the sheet, and she fell asleep in the puddle of salty fluids.

* * *

She hung from vines, tacked to the mossy wall by their thorns. The man with dark hair and dark eyes held no weapons, but his eyes held a knowledge of pain given and pleasure received.

“What do you want, girl?” he asked.

“Please let me down,” she answered, and that’s when she knew it was a dream.

He stroked her breast, pinched her nipple. Twisted. Oh, he liked that. “Try again.”

“I want to be free,” she said, meaning it this time.

Still, he shook his head.

This time he stuck two fingers inside her—three. It burned and stretched and throbbed in confused arousal. “You’re already wet,” he said, holding up his fingers to show her. “What do you really want?”

She looked into his eyes and tasted his fear. He thought he needed vines to keep her. “If you let me go, I’ll stay with you.”

And so he let her down, each thorn leaving clean, bare skin as it was removed. Gladness beat in her breast. He’d trusted her, and now they could be together without chains. But then he was holding his belt, folded over.

“Come and kneel in front of me,” he said, his voice soft and beguiling. “This is what you wanted.”

She did it, embraced the pebbles and twigs that carpeted the ground. The belt seared into her back, and she gasped. Again; she arched and choked out a cry. Eventually she wailed, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She looked back. “Oh God. Please!”

His eyes were bright with bloodshed.
What do you want?

This.

* * *

She woke to rustling behind her. The room wasn’t overly bright now but enough to see by. The sense of accomplishment that usually met each day was marred by her dream. She tried to recapture the feeling, but it slipped away like her memories. Blinking away the sense of loss, she rolled over to face her Master.

He stared at her, a sea in storm. “You,” he breathed.

She swallowed hard, lowering her eyes. He deserved her submission, but she would not feel guilty for what he had done to her. No matter how his tone sounded like an accusation. No matter the pain she saw marring his eyes.

From the corner of her vision, she saw his jaw clench. “Get the hell out of my bed.”

Chapter Three

She tentatively approached the kitchen, reluctant to make her presence known after his anger this morning. He had barely spoken to her since then, just directing her to the bathroom to wash up and handing over a thin yellow dress for her to wear. She didn’t know where he’d gotten it.

In the kitchen, he was flipping eggs in a sizzling frying pan. He turned and stopped at the sight of her. After a beat, he gestured to the table. “Sit.”

The plain chair was strangely comfortable, as if it conformed to her body even though that was impossible. And soft—the wood felt like velvet. This house and its furnishing were sparse, primitive even. But also cozy. Everything in its place.

Except for her.

He set a plate down in front of her with a large helping of scrambled eggs and bacon. She stared at the food. Her mouth watered, but her stomach turned. This rich food was a sharp contrast to the bland meal she was used to. She couldn’t eat it, but neither could she rebuff such generosity.

Turning a chair around so that its back faced the table, he straddled it and dug into his own plate. For a moment, she was able to observe him without his returned regard. Black hair that looked softer by morning night. More tousled than unkempt. His features were definitely coarse—a bit too large for his face—but they suited his presence. Too much, exactly right.

Suddenly he looked up; her mouth went dry. His eyes were exactly as she remembered them: black, bottomless, and terrifying. It was just as well she couldn’t see him last night. Those eyes would have seen too much.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Gingerly, she picked up the fork. How long had it been since she held one?

He cocked his head, watching her as if she were a curious experiment. She tightened her fingers and stabbed a piece of egg. The tines made a loud ringing sound against the plate, and she winced.

She put the whole thing in her mouth and set the fork back down. The egg was thick and creamy and so foreign. It coated her tongue, and she forced a breath through her nose. God, she had swallowed so much worse than this—why not this? But she couldn’t.
Get it out.

And then a hand was over her mouth, not tightly just a touch. A stroke down her back, calming her. “Take it easy,” he said. “Swallow it. There you go.”

When she had gulped it down, he returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.

She blinked the tears from her eyes and stared down at the food in dismay. It was three times what she normally was fed. Did he expect her to eat the whole thing? She would throw it up. And then what would he do to her?

A scrape of the chair against the wood floor drew her attention to him. He put the chair beside hers and sank. Her eyes widened; his were dark and forbidding. It was too much, all of it: the food, his presence.

“Half,” he said.

She blinked.

“We may not get through all of it today, but you’ll eat half of what’s on the plate. We’ll work up to the rest another day. Deal?”

This was a negotiation? Of course, she couldn’t actually say anything back so admittedly her bargaining position was poor, but she wasn’t used to being asked for her opinion. She wasn’t used to giving it. She frowned.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said, spearing another piece of egg.

At the touch of the food to her lips, her mouth opened. It was trained into her, and she swallowed.

“Good girl.”

She ate two more bites before fidgeting. Already she felt full, so full. Normally her discomfort wouldn’t matter, but something was different now. Strange and exciting. She wasn’t saying no exactly, but she didn’t want this.

The egg touched her lips, and she parted, only slightly. He raised his eyebrow.

Quickly she ate, strangely deflated. Her streak of rebellion was very small, but it didn’t go unnoticed. He paused, examining her. Her heart raced in anticipation. Would he punish her now—or later? She almost wanted it. At least then she would know what to expect from him. At least then this confusing charade of normalcy would come to an end.

His large hands closed around her arms, and she winced. But no pain came. Instead she was enfolded in warmth—surrounded. She sat on his lap, held by him, fed by him, and she ate. If she paused or floundered, he would rub her back in slow circles. His touch was calm but sure.
I’ll make you feel better
, it said,
but you’ll still do what I say
.

But strangely, she found it easier to eat like this. Maybe because she could feel the steady beat of his heart and knew he wasn’t angry at her. Maybe because his warmth and strength were used to shield her, not hurt her.

More than that, he seemed to recognize when she needed a moment, and he gave it to her. He was reading her cues, she realized. It was amazing; it was beautiful. Terrifying. He could hurt her so much worse than the others. He seemed to know what she was thinking even without her words. He knew what she was feeling. And hadn’t she stopped talking to protect herself from such a thing?

No, that wasn’t right. She didn’t stop talking, she
couldn’t
speak. She had never spoken. It was just easier that way. Best not to think about it.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked with a tap to her nose.

Her gaze snapped to him and then away, as if he
could
see.