I Know What Love Is (5 page)

The temptation to punch him right in the balls swelled up in me.

Instead, I ran my soapy hands over his chest. I could have been a nurse giving an old man a sponge bath, it felt so clinical, but he was watching me. I could feel his heavy gaze on my face.

“
Lower,” he said. I bit down hard on my lip and winced at the pain. I'd forgotten how sore my face was. I lowered my hands to his cock, as hesitant as if someone had asked me to touch a hot stove. He dropped his head back under the water, his chin jutting up to the ceiling. Quickly, I ran my hands down the soft length, then pulled away so fast I almost slipped and fell on my ass. “More.” His voice was gravelly, like cut glass.

“
No,” I heard myself saying, like an idiot. He sighed lazily, rolling his head to look at me, as if he couldn't believe I was still attempting to deny my status. I was nothing, a sex doll to be used when he wanted me. He was going to teach me my place.

“
Kneel,” he said. Immediately, I reached for him again, but his heavy hands dropped onto my shoulders, forcing me down. The time for a clinical sponge bath had passed. Drops of water hit me in the face as he pushed me to my knees. He slid his hands into my heavy, wet hair and guided my face toward his cock. My knees ached against the hard cast iron as I wavered on what I should do. I could bite his dick off, I reasoned, but he would definitely kill me then. I could grab his balls and twist, but I didn't want to know the consequences of that offense, either.

I licked my lips and he jutted his hips toward me. Leaning forward, I allowed my tongue to brush the skin of his cock. The muscles in his abdomen tightened, like he was in pain. I hoped, prayed, that his cock hurt as much as my body did, but I sincerely doubted it. I ran my tongue down his length, water pooling on my tongue as it ran in rivulets down his body. I had a fear of drowning, otherwise, it might not have been so bad.

The sad thing was, it wasn't the worst blow job I'd ever given. At least he was clean.

Since his penis was in my face, I studied it. It wasn't ugly or disgusting, actually. I noticed how the skin of his shaft was soft and silky and the crown was bulbous and a mottled pink. I memorized the maze of intricate blue veins beneath his skin. His dark pubic hair was coarse, but not completely unruly, like he'd trimmed just for me. If anybody ever asked me to identify his dick out of a lineup, I wanted to make sure I could.

After a moment's hesitation, I sucked the head between my lips, swirling my tongue around it, catching drops of water in my mouth. His cock was slowly stiffening, but was still spongy soft on my tongue. I ran my tongue up the underside, tracing the thick ridge there all the way to the tip, then sucked the whole length into my mouth again. It felt like I was doing some kind of science experiment without using my hands. It felt bizarrely asexual, despite having a man's cock in my mouth.

Unfortunately, this particular cock was connected to a real evil motherfucker, and while under his control, it was a tool of destruction. I got my wits back around me and abruptly released him, closing my mouth.

I realized I was making the assumption that if he wasn't hard, he wasn't dangerous. I flitted my eyes upward and caught his gaze. He was staring down at me, his hands still in my hair. But he wasn't pushing. He wasn't pulling. He wasn't being rough. He was just watching. I leaned forward licked him again, a small cat-like lick, right on the slit in the center of his crown. It tasted salty there, like his come.

I sat back on my haunches, waiting to see if he was going to be satisfied with the job I'd done. He was already well on his way to training me. He smoothed his hands around to my cheeks, slipping his thumbs between my lips. I couldn't resist
—I bit down on his right thumb, hard, between my molars. He sucked in a sharp breath, but didn't remove his hands. His fingers caressed my cheeks as he ran his thumbs over my tongue. Water was splashing on my face and stinging my eyes, so, despite the danger, I closed them. My mouth was being explored by the crazy man who'd kidnapped me, but that was far from the worst thing that had happened to me that night, so I went with it. He was being gentle, so I didn't fight.

His calloused fingers were light but rough against the sides of my cheeks and the roof of my mouth. I shivered at the bizarre sensation. Why the hell was he touching the roof of my mouth? I opened my eyes when he removed his thumbs and slipped two fingers inside. He plunged them in slowly, and my tongue rose to meet them. His dick was still soft as he thrust his fingers in and out of my mouth. Without being told, I began to suck on them.

Now, I can't tell you why. Maybe I was trying to fuck with him. Maybe he was trying to fuck with me. I don't know. All I know is, I sucked on the man's fingers for a good five minutes as he plunged them harder and harder into my mouth. As I ran my tongue over their calloused tips, my nipples hardened. My hands circled his wrist as I licked and tasted him.

We had a moment. A bizarre moment, but a moment nonetheless.

Before I knew it, he pulled away. He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, leaving me on my knees and embarrassed. If there was any more doubt as to who was in charge, he'd just given me a heads up. I was way down on the fucking totem pole. I pushed myself to standing, the muscles in my legs protesting. I wrapped one of his black towels around me, shivering despite the heat.

I was about to spend the night with my rapist. I wondered what he was going to do to me in an actual bed. I wondered how much more trauma would I be able to take? How much more pain? With a shudder, I realized I didn't have my birth control pills. I didn't even have a damn toothbrush or a comb. My hair was dripping down my legs, the water pooling on the tile floor beneath my feet. I bent at the waist, opening the cabinet below the sink.

And, as if the night couldn't get any worse, the man didn't own a hair dryer.

*****

After I prepped the bedroom for us, as quickly as I could, I made my way back to the bathroom. She hadn't tried to run; she stayed in the bathroom like a good girl. From the darkness of the hallway, I watched her drying off with my towel, her eyes on the ground, her long legs glittering with droplets of water. The memory of her hot mouth softly licking and sucking my sensitive cock did something to me. It twisted an invisible cord buried in my chest. It was strange, but the shift was already starting.

I wanted that night to be the beginning of something real good. She could be my girl forever, I reckoned
—on her knees, on her back, on her stomach with her face in the dirt. However I wanted her, I could have her. She would fight me, but eventually, she would relent. I would
make
her relent. I could make her do anything.

Hot liquid warmth reared up in me. I basked in the glow of my strength. Of my prowess. Of my power. I'd never, ever felt so powerful in my whole life.

It was an addictive feeling.

I was so focused on what I could take from her, and the power that I could wield, that I didn't realize that she wasn't weak at all.

It never occurred to me that she could take something from me. Something that would force me to my knees and rip my guts out at the same time.

That night, I was blissfully unaware of the agony that was headed my way.

*****

I knew he was standing in the hallway, just out of my field of vision. I took as long as possible, drying off without actually unwrapping the towel from around myself. My hair was impossible, so I gave up on it. It was going to dry into mangled, matted curls, but that was the least of my problems.

It was hard, but I avoided my own eyes in the mirror. I didn't want to see what he'd done to me. My face ached and felt heavy in places, the bruises swelling under the skin. I desperately wanted to look between my legs, however, as if I would be able to see what exactly had been damaged and if it was repairable. But there was no way in hell I was going to do that with him watching me.

At least I wasn't bleeding anywhere. I took that as a good sign.

I jumped when he appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. I wondered if I was ever going to get used to the sight of his naked body. The perfection of him was fucking with my mind. Rapists were supposed to be disgusting, with bad teeth, beer guts, small dicks, and hairy backs. At least, that's how my innocent brain had pictured them. Men whose interior ugliness showed on their exterior flesh.

Again, I used to be so naïve.

The worst monsters are the ones that don't look like monsters, because they fool you into complacency with their beauty. While you're busy mooning over their six-pack or their dazzling baby blues, they sneak up behind you, hit you over the head with a club, and drag you back to their cave. It's been that way since the dawn of man. Since the age of the neanderthal. I know that, now.

Cornered like a bunny in a trap, I made myself look him dead in the face. I was scared, but I didn't cower. I'd already been raped, beaten, used up. I wouldn't allow myself to be broken. He blinked down at me, his arms above his head, gripping the doorframe. He was so big, I almost sobbed out loud. He had all the power in our dynamic and I was so weak. Hopelessness flooded my chest, even as I told myself I would never let him break me.

When he stepped closer to me, I instinctively took one step back. Making an impatient sound, he grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and whirled me around so that my back was to him. He yanked the towel from my body, and even though I tried to hold on to it, it fell with a light thump at my feet.

I felt him running his hands through my hair, not-so-softly pulling the tangles out. I stood stiffly, my hands covering my breasts as he groomed me. The ends of my hair stopped just above my ass, and he didn't miss the opportunity to drop his palms to the soft skin. He hadn't yet abused me there, but I knew it was coming. How the hell I would prepare myself for that particular violation, I didn't know.

“Your hair is perfect,” he said, like I cared what he thought. He massaged my ass cheeks in earnest then, his nose pressed against the back of my head. When he slid his hands around my hips to my lower belly, I clenched my thighs tight. He chuckled against my scalp, splaying his palms over my womb. “You're perfect, Daisy.” I could feel his cock stirring against my ass, and I immediately took back every mildly good thing I had thought about his dick.

It was a nine inch devil, plain and simple.

His hands were roaming again, his fingernails dragging up my forearms. I held my breath, knowing what was coming. The man was insatiable. In a quick movement, he hooked his forearm around my neck and clenched his bicep, like he was going to choke me out. Then he dragged me out of the bathroom, down the long hallway, my heels scraping against the shag carpet, and into a dark bedroom. He threw me on top of a soft bed and crushed me beneath his heavy, damp body.

As he pinned my arms down under his knees and thrust his cock into my mouth, it dawned on me that I didn't know the crazy motherfucker's name.

After everything we'd been through, he hadn't even bothered to introduce himself.

Chapter Five

I
slept like the dead that night, surprisingly. When he wrapped his hateful self around me, I felt like there was no way I would be able to sleep. My jaw ached after he face-fucked me, my damp hair was twisted around my neck, and I was tied so tight, it was impossible to get comfortable. Despite all odds, his deep breathing lulled me to sleep and I fell into a dark pit of unconsciousness.

I used to look back and wish I had never woken up. I used to wish that he'd accidentally pulled the belt too tight around my neck and I'd slowly choked to death before morning. Then it never would have happened.

What happened that day changed everything. Even now, I don't understand why it happened. I know no one else will probably understand. It's my deepest secret, believe me.

Maybe it was self-preservation. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome. I'm not sure. I've never talked to my non-existent therapist about it.

Either way, there was no excuse for my behavior.

When I opened my eyes on that sunny Saturday morning, my body sagged and tears welled up. It hadn't been a bad dream. I truly was bound to a bed with a naked stranger next to me. My body ached all over, inside and out. My hands were numb and electric jolts of pain were shooting from my shoulders to my wrists. He'd bound my arms behind me with a leather belt, and looped another belt around my neck, effectively binding me to the headboard. The skin of my neck felt chafed and raw, and my muscles felt stiff and rusty.

I sniffled, forcing the tears back. He stirred beside me and I froze. With a deep, raspy breath, he sat up, his broad back to me. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, not looking at me. He stood and stretched his arms over his head, muscles rippling all over the place. He walked around the edge of the bed, dropping his hand to caress my thigh. I held my breath as he leaned over me, my eyes feeling like they were going to bug out of my head, but all he did was undo the belt and free my neck.

Swiping the sleep out of his eyes, he guided me down the hallway to the bathroom. His cat, a white and black spotted calico, watched us impassively from the living room, licking a paw. He pushed me into the bathroom, forced me down onto the toilet. I stared up at him as I peed, not bothering to be embarrassed. He hadn't unbound my hands though, which lead to an awkward moment when it came time to wipe. He assisted me, which was disgusting, but he didn't seem to mind. I wondered how many women's asses had he wiped in his lifetime to be so blasé about it?