Tragic Beauty (Beauty & The Darkness #1)(49)
Even so…
He won’t break me.
He will never break me.
But somehow the words I whisper silently to myself don’t sound so sure anymore. My only comfort is that I know I’m not the only one fading. I’ve seen him…seen the beast from the corner of my eye. He’s fading too. He has the same darkness on his face. The same pale skin. When he’s naked, his ribs are starting to show, kind of like mine, only not as much. He’s still got the muscle though, only now it’s ripped. So ripped I can see all the striations and veins running through, especially when he’s—
The click of the lock sounds and I flinch, and my thoughts scatter. I scramble to my feet and scurry to my mark, where I get on hands and knees, my hair hanging down around me. By the way he walks in, I can tell he’s in one of his quiet moods. That’s when he’s tender. That’s also when he’s at his most cruel.
I wait, filled with all the fear and dread that’s a constant for me now, but there’s another feeling inside me too. A strange feeling. And I’ve been having it for a while—an odd sort of comfort when he’s near me, when I’m with him. Like now, I find myself seeking out his scent, breathing him in as he walks into the room.
Maybe it’s the isolation, the desperate hunger for human contact that has me looking forward to my time with him, no matter how brutal. Or maybe it’s the little mercies he’s been granting lately. A little more pleasure, a little less pain. Or the blanket and pillow I woke up with the other day. Or maybe it’s the aftercare—that time when he’s soft with me, binding me to him, like he said. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel things. Strange things. Things I don’t understand.
The beast moves past me to the bathroom, and when I peek through my hair, I see a box in his arms and know he’s restocking things like toilet paper, soap, shampoo and conditioner, razors, and toothpaste. And stuff to clean with too, and clean towels, and even some creams and medicinal things for when he tends to me, and lotion for me to keep my skin soft. He doesn’t bother with the feminine products anymore, because I’ve only had my period once since I got here, in the very beginning—not because I’m pregnant or anything, but because my body’s changed. At first I wondered how he knew I wouldn’t get pregnant, but he knew I had an implant. I don’t know how he knew that.
He’s back in the room again, walking past me to toss the empty box in the hallway. I sneak another glance and see he’s got part of his hair back in a ponytail again. He’s been doing that lately, so he can see me, work on me, because it’s gotten longer, like mine has. He’s also taken to shaving again too, though from his profile, I can see he’s got a dark stubble today.
When he turns back to the room, I’m already staring at the ground. I hear the creak of The Cage door open and close my eyes, trying not to think about what he might choose.
A moment later, he’s behind me. “Down,” he orders. I lay my shoulders on the cool cement, with my head turned to the side, but leave my hips up, knowing that’s what he wants. He’s silent for a minute, and I know he’s inspecting the cane marks from our last session. They burn when he runs his fingers over them, but I stay quiet. A minute later, he slaps my sex a couple times, to wake up my nerves, then slides three fingers inside me. I gasp when the pleasure floats through my body, savoring it. He’s an expert now, a virtuoso of my flesh, and knows just how to touch me, how to play me.
His fingers move around, inside and out, churning up my arousal, then he drags my wetness up and over my other place—his place. He’s inside me again, opening me up with his fingers. I hear him spit, feel the cool tip of what I know is an anal plug. He pushes it in slowly, his hand on my hip holding me in place. I grunt when it finally slips in, but welcome the sensation. He’s getting me ready. Ready for him. He doesn’t always grant me this. Sometimes he just takes me.
He’s in front of me now. “Knees,” he says.
When I rise up on my knees, my head is where he wants it. At his crotch. He’s still dressed, in his usual black t-shirt and black pants—not sweatpants or jeans, but a loose kind of cotton that he’s taken to wearing. His uniform he calls it. And he’s barefoot. Always barefoot, to make it easy for him in here.
I see the bulge and know what I’m supposed to do. I slide down his pants and underwear just enough to set him free, then take his hardness into my mouth, and suck. And then that feeling is there. That one that has me savoring his taste, relishing his scent.
The beast doesn’t touch me, doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t do anything but take harsh breaths and look down at me with those black eyes, watching while I slide him back and forth between my lips. I flick my tongue along the tip, cup and lick his balls, and stroke him with my hand. All the things he’s taught me. All the things that make him groan, like he does now. I shift the angle so I can get him down deep, into my throat. I don’t gag anymore, something I learned early on. I keep at him for a bit, feeling the fullness of the plug in my bottom, and feeling the ache for a release.
When he’s had enough, and he’s good and wet, he takes himself from me and says, “Elbows.”
I lean down and rest my arms on the ground, bent at the elbows, and wait. He’s behind me again, slowly turning and tugging at the plug, working it back and forth, loosening me up. I find myself yearning for his voice, for the things he’ll say sometimes, about how good I feel, or how hard I make him, or how much he loves my body. But not today. Today he’s silent, a cruelty he likes to wield sometimes.