He enters carrying a tray with a branch of lit candles and a jar of the viscous, violet-scented liquid. He’s quiet, but there’s a sense of barely restrained excitement about him. He feeds her quickly, and leaves her arms and neck strapped to the cot, the feeding tube taped in place. He watches her for a few moments, his eyes searching her features.
He lies down next to her, partly crushing her under his weight. His face is next to hers, his mouth directly against her ear. He grips her jaw, turns her to face him. She averts her eyes. Her breath quickens with fear, but her face remains impassive.
His face is clear, calm. He’s watching her attentively, noting her breathing and pulse, the tension in her jaw and throat, the rank scent of flop sweat. “I know that none of this is ideal,” he says. “And yet I think most women would have developed a bit of Stockholm Syndrome by now.”
He unbuttons his breeches, pulls his cock out, strokes it. He plunges his fingers between her thighs. “This will hurt. You’re just a little thing.” She’s strong but very slight, perhaps 85 pounds to his 185. Clearly this excites him.
He kneels up between her legs, positions his cock, and starts to push into her. She struggles, tries to buck him off. He stills her with his weight, grips her chin again. He notes each little grunt of anger and disgust. “You can’t stop me,” he says in an offhand, commonplace tone. When he’s all the way inside, he crushes her with his full weight, lies still.
She feels tearing pain, shocking cramps in her womb and belly and legs. She grits her teeth, sobs once.
He says, “I could make it easier for you, but I don’t think I will.” It must be painful for him, too — at least uncomfortable.
He starts to move inside her, and the pain is very bad, frightening. She’s crying, struggling to silence herself and control her expression. She pulls into herself, works to blot out all sensation beyond her racing heartbeat. The pain resolves into a swelling rhythm, like a storm surge moving towards landfall.
He slaps her face lightly again and again. “Come back, my dear. Come back to me,” he whispers. She sees his dark eyes: Black pupils large, irises a color she doesn’t know — muddy, cold. The smell of woodsmoke and bitter herbs, a milky-sweet scent of almonds or hazelnuts.
A sharp, sudden sigh of pleasure. “That’s it,” he murmurs, and pushes in more deeply. She feels his balls crammed against her. Their pubic bones clash. He sobs, “Oh, fuck,” buries his face in her hair. After one last twisting, shuddering thrust, he falls still.
He kisses her hair, her unresponsive cheek. “I do admire you,” he says quietly, almost to himself. Then, in a conversational tone, “I liked that. I didn’t think I would.”
That sweet tenor, that pure and graceful profile. His eyelashes against her cheek. She lies there, waiting for him to go. Eventually, he does.
She curls up on her side, strains to rub her hand against her mouth. His ejaculate trickles down her thigh. She can smell it, that curious mix of bleach and ocean. She can’t wipe herself.
There’s a blank inside her that grows, a soft black hole she can step into, and so she does. She folds herself into the smallest possible size, retreats to a tiny corner of her being, leaving the rest echoing, unoccupied. Somewhere in there, she prays to a dark and unseen figure. She lapses into silence and utter stillness. She waits.
She’s alone. It’s cold and dull. He comes when he likes. To her horror, she sometimes misses him because she’s hungry and thirsty and her limbs are cramped. When she can, she pulls into a dark and quiet inner world, a place that smells of soil and iris roots.
She sees only him. He tends to all her needs, even brings her clean rags for her menses. He feels no shame about either of their bodies. She’s grateful for his pragmatism.
Her courses stop. He notes this, and is careful to tie her up before he goes, and never to leave tools within her reach. He does not want the child — thinks of it as a waste product — but relishes the evidence of absolute control.