A Lack of Suffering

"There," she said, as a figure broke a window and vaulted into one of the houses.

Jessica and Drew communicated with their eyes. Stay down. Stay put. Jessica had learned the hard way, you didn't intervene in other people's affairs on the road, unless you were given absolutely no other option.

Voices came from somewhere up the road. Loud, calling a name over and over. How could they be so foolish, making all that noise? Day wasn't remotely as dangerous as night, but there was next to no chance anyone had survived this long without knowing you couldn't stir things up even in daylight. What the hell were they thinking?

She got her answer a few moments later when the group - four women - stumbled into view. Drew mimicked the drinking sign by tipping his thumb and pinkie.

"It's okay, Ben," called a woman with red bandana over her head. "We forgive you. Don't we, girls?"

"Yeah," yelled another. "We don't wanna hurt ya, Ben. But we do need to have a little chat. Come on out."

The foursome continued their clatter, trying to draw the hiding person out. The hairs on Jessica's arms raised. She looked at the sky. Less than two hours till dusk. Whatever they planned, this group needed to finish their business and move on.

Mercifully, the foursome never ventured close to the house she and Drew occupied. Neither did they give up their search. Sometime later - far too late - a violent racket of gunshots seemed to signal the end of their hunt. But the obviously intoxicated women hadn't paid attention to the setting sun. Seconds before it happened, they were still hollering and boasting about their kill. When the inevitable finally occurred, Jessica turned away. She'd seen it before. She never needed to see it again.

The screams were bloodcurdling, but much worse was the ensuing silence, as if everything had gone back to normal and nothing atrocious had ever taken place on the now darkening street.

Jessica wiped away hot tears. She checked her pistol, then made for the door.

"What the hell are you doing?" Drew asked.

"We have to go."

"We have to stay put."

"No," she said, steadfast, though her heart was pounding. "I won't stay here. It's not safe."

"It's not safe out there," Drew said, taking her arm.

She flung his hand away. "You've seen. You know. How can you argue with me?"

"I do know," Drew said. "And I know we won't make it two minutes out there. The house is too far. We're going to have to make this work. It'll be okay. We can..."

"No," Jessica said with utter conviction. She leveled her eyes on him, daring him to continue. "I'm going. You can come with me, or you can stay here and die, Drew. Your choice."

She put her hand on the doorknob. He put his on her wrist.

"No," he said, his voice low, cold. If she hadn't already been assured of her decision, the grim look in his eyes might have wavered her.

"Let go," she said, trying to match him glare for glare.

His grip hardened, and he began to pull her deeper into the house. Gruesome images flashed in her mind: the women's swift, brutal demise, a dozen more from other times and places, no less horrific. Not her. She'd use her gun on herself before she ever let that happen. Something snapped in her head. Jessica swallowed a scream of rage, then swung out at him with the pistol in her trembling hand. The butt connected with his temple.

Drew staggered. Blue eyes went dark. A thin line of blood dripped down his cheek. His grip tightened.

She swung again, aiming for his nose. Shatter a person's nose and you render them useless for a good thirty seconds.

She missed.

Drew did not.

His open hand caught her square on the cheek. White hot pain erupted across her jaw. She froze. Her arm went limp, all fight vanquished. She watched in silenced astonishment as the blue bled back into Drew's eyes and they went wide as saucers.

"I...I didn't...," he said, searching for words as horror spread on his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't..."

"Again."

"What?"

The world outside was a distant bad memory, unrelated to her present situation. The sudden, viscous slap still burned on her cheek, and she burned with it. "Again," she said. "Please."

Drew stared at her in silence, head slightly cocked to the side. Jessica refused to look away. She felt as if her blood had been drained from her veins and replaced with lava.

The next blow came more measured, more precise. Still, it rattled her teeth, and she felt it down to her toes. Before her head could begin to clear, Drew's strong hand again clamped down on her wrist. He dragged her into a back room. She offered no resistance.

9

Two days. It had been two fucking days since they'd waited out the night in that house. Two days since he'd struck her. Two days since she'd begged him like a common whore to do it again.

Out of necessity, they'd hunkered down in that back room in total silence. And that silence, pregnant and vengeful, had bored into her more than any before. She hadn't been able to see Drew through the pitch black, but she remembered the dark gleam in his eyes a heartbeat before he'd slapped her the second time. And she'd felt it piercing her all night.

But he hadn't said one word about it since. She was going insane. He just sat there, reading that damn book, as if nothing at all had happened. She had to do something, or she was going to explode.

"Jessica?"

"Yes."

"What's your safeword?"

"Amethyst." The answer came out instinctively, before she'd even had time to think. She stood stock still, waited.

Drew merely raised an eyebrow. "Interesting," he said, then went back to his paperback.

10

For the last two days, Jessica felt as if she were stumbling through a foggy haze. Her mind was lost in contemplation. Why had he asked that? Not particularly hard to decipher given her lapse, her total lack of subtlety. When he'd struck her, she'd felt alive again. Hell, until that exact moment, she hadn't realized just how hollow she'd felt all this time. Or maybe she had, but had understandably attributed such feelings to other causes. There were plenty of culprits.

But what did it mean that he'd asked that?

She'd made up her mind. She was bringing it up tonight. He couldn't just broach something like that, then go quiet on the subject. Worse, he hadn't come to her bed the last two nights. Something had changed. To all outward appearances, he behaved no different than usual. During the day, they scavenged. At night, they read in peaceable quiet, talked at length, had amiable meals. But the lovely flirtations had ceased. She still caught him looking at her with a hint of longing, but he'd become detached. Today, he'd left her for hours with no explanation. Just left. Had she frightened him? Sickened him? Enough. Come what may, they were settling this tonight.

Jessica set her book in her lap, steeled herself with a determination she hoped looked more convincing than it felt. She opened her mouth a couple times to speak before actual sounds came out. "Drew, we need to talk."

She saw him look up through candlelight. "No, we don't. Go upstairs." When he noticed her hesitation, he added, "Now."

Confused, she thought about questioning him. She'd thought long and hard about what she wanted to say. She needed him to understand. The stoic look on his face told her not to bother.

Jessica rose. Gooseflesh marred her skin. She cast a glance back at him as she reached the staircase, but he seemed more interested in his book than he was with her. His forceful tone lingered, and she ascended, feeling each step as if she were trudging through water. She reached her bedroom door, opened it, stepped inside.

She stared in uncomprehending disbelief. Candles filled the room, casting it in soft, flickering light. Heavy blankets covered the windows. A table stood off to the side, a line of objects laid out on it, but she couldn't make them out in the dim light. And on the wall, affixed between two windows, a cross. She gaped at it, transfixed. A rough hand at the small of her back pushed her fully into the room. Fingers found her neck, forced her forward, until her body was pressed against the makeshift cross. She barely had time to marvel at the craftsmanship before something encircled her wrists, and she was rudely fastened to the horseshoes nailed into the splintery wood.

"Drew, what...?" Before the words had escaped her lips, her shirt was ripped from her body. Again, the strong hand at her back, pressing her inward. The rough edges of the boards bit at her naked skin. She tried to fight, to wrench herself free. It was futile. He held her firm. The binds ate into her wrists, tightened, fixed her where he wished.

Jessica kicked back with her legs, met the resistance of his full weight. His hot breath rustled the hairs of her neck. His chest was naked against her back.

"What are you...?" she started.

"You are only permitted one word, Jessica," he said as his hands slid around her waist and his fingers found the button of her jeans, "and we've already discussed that. Unless it is that word coming from your mouth, do not speak again unless I address you." He jerked her jeans open. One hand grazed nails up her back, found purchase in the hair at the back of her head. The other gripped her loose jeans at the back waist. "Nod if you understand."

The moment she had, Drew wrenched her jeans down and off and delivered a hard smack to her ass. Jessica yelped, more from surprise than pain, though the sting of the harsh blow on her unprepared flesh was intense. Body pressed into hers, fingers still entangled in her hair, Drew groaned his pleasure into her ear. A current of heat coursed down her body. Her nipples hardened against the rough wood as he pried her legs apart. He tied each of her ankles to the cross. Not with silky rope. Something rough. From the corner of her eye, she viewed her binds. He'd tied her down with extension cord.

She wanted to protest. This was finally happening. She'd wanted this so badly, but this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't proper. Wasn't sensual. No warmup. No soft caresses. This was demeaning, unbecoming. This was vulgar. But she remembered his instruction, delivered in that flat, coarse tone. One that promised any disobedience would be cruelly dealt with. The next slap came sudden and hard to her backside, pain exploding outward like shattered glass, and she cursed herself. She knew she wouldn't disobey, no matter what. He could do anything he wanted to her, and she would let him. She berated herself again, but with the next vicious blow, a smile curled on her lips.

The smacks came in quicker succession. Right cheek, left cheek. Right, left, right, left. Harder. Harder. Sometimes fast with stings that rose to a pitch like a sharply sung note. Sometimes full-bodied thuds that lingered and melted into her bones. Beneath his relentless assault, her mind numbed along with her body. She slumped against the cross, only her binds holding her in place. Everything faded away. There was no fear of the nightmares outside these walls. No worry about what she'd have to do when her food supply ran out. There was only the sweet, jagged rhythm of his attack and the fire raging through every molecule of her body.

He stopped abruptly, and she wanted to shout. Never. Never stop.

His voice came like a serpent to her ear. "You've been hurting yourself, Jessica," he said, taking her bicep in his hand and digging his thumb into the bruise she'd made there. She gritted her teeth and moaned deep in her throat. "You aren't nearly as good at hiding it as you think you are." His thumb circled the yellowing mark. "But you don't have to hide anymore. Not from me."

He kissed the bruise, his whiskers tickling her. She felt more warmth from the tender gesture than from that coming off her cheeks. Many nights he'd held her close to him after lovemaking, kissed her all over her body, whispered secret words to her. Nothing compared to this. The agony of his strikes lingering on her ass. His carnal words breathed into her ear. Pleasuring her with pain, then deepening it with a tender kiss. He scored fingertips down her side, over her ribcage, to her hip. She melted, and was wholly unprepared when he resumed his assault with verve.

Jessica's skin rippled with each blow. She thrust her hips back to give him better access. Drew beat her with practiced ease, never striking the same spot more than twice, never an errant hit. She knew the stabbing jolt of a bone hit wrongly. Even the most enthusiastic of partners could tip the scales to the wrong kind of pain with a few fumbled moves. None of that from Drew. He beat her with the instinctual cunning of a lion taking down a gazelle. Fast, harsh, savage, but always in complete control of himself and of her.

Jessica lost herself in the eye of his storm. Disparate thoughts jostled about in her head, none able to take hold for longer than the time between breaths, between strikes. The wood of the cross, which she'd thought of as rough and splintery, actually felt smooth on her skin. He'd sanded it down. The heavy curtains on the windows. Soundproofing. No need to worry, no matter the noise they made. How many times had she touched herself in the long cold hours of the night, biting back cries of pleasure as to not disturb the needed silence?

Jessica let out a cry, the sound so long and wrenching it momentarily masked the rest of her many pains.

Drew growled his approval, and heat swelled between her legs.

Slowly, his pace dwindled. The sounds of his smacks floated up, tarried in her ears like held notes. She gulped deep lungfuls of air. Sweat poured into her eyes and stung. She tasted blood, realized absently she'd been biting her bottom lip.

"I'm going to untie you now," Drew said, "but I am by no means done with you. Keep your eyes closed. You will remain still. I will move you as I like. Understand?"

She couldn't remember how to form words as he untied her arms and legs. She allowed him to turn her, manipulate her body into the position of his choosing. He placed her back against the cross, gently raised her limp arm and fastened it into place with the cord. Then the other. Then one leg. Both legs. She faced him now, but didn't dare open her eyes.

"I asked you a question," Drew said.

"Yes," she breathed.

He slapped her so hard she felt it behind her eyeballs. "Yes, what?"

Amethyst, her mind thought. Her mouth formed other words though. "Yes...sir."

Drew's smile was both sinister and oh so comforting. "Good girl."

Fuck. She'd missed that. Hot tears dripped from her eyes, and she had to resist the urge to thank him for them.

She flinched as his hand touched her cheek, but all she received was a soft caress. She leaned into it like a kitten brushing up against a loving mother. He gingerly rubbed the spot he'd struck. "You are doing so well, Jessica. But I have so much more I need to give you. Can you take it?"

"I can, sir."

"Do you want to take it?"

"More than anything," she said. "Shatter me, sir."

"Brave girl," he said with the smirk that she was coming to love. She knew its meaning now. It was a promise of more of everything she so desperately needed. "Choose a number between one and five."

It took her a few moments. "Five, sir."

"Open your eyes."

They stung as she obeyed his command. Her small world was a kaleidoscope, until Drew brushed her tears away. The flickering candles focused into view. The blanketed windows and door. The table beside him. She strained to see its contents, but then he came into focus, and her attention to anything else was wrested away. He stood before her, naked to the waist, muscles taut, chest hair glistening with sweat. She drank him in. His cool, confident mannerisms. Wild hair. The easy way he stood, letting her look, letting her assess, knowing he'd be found well more than acceptable. She suddenly wanted to devour his lips, bury her face so fully into his that you couldn't tell where one began and the other ended.

"I've acquired some...toys to play with," he said, waving his hand at the table. "Have a look."

Neatly organized atop the table, a collection of implements. Her breath caught and her cheeks flushed as she looked from one to the next. A hairbrush. A rubber-headed spatula. A metal fork. Clothespins. A skinny piece of branch, stripped of bark. An electric razor. A bottle of olive oil.

"You chose five," he said, tapping each of the items in succession. "An excellent choice."

Drew picked up the fork. It wasn't the fifth in line. What did five mean? What had she chosen? She didn't care. If he wanted to stab her with the damn thing, she wouldn't stop him. Then that was the only image that would take hold in her head, and she was embarrassed at the throbbing between her legs. She just knew he could see into her head and realize what a deviant she truly was.

If he did, he showed no signs of the knowledge sickening him. He didn't run, like some had. He didn't even look at the tool dangling at his side. His eyes were locked on her. He closed the distance between them in a swift move, then his free hand shot up like a striking cobra. He seized her chin between his thumb and forefinger, squeezed, forced her face up.

"No matter what happens, do not take your eyes from mine," he said, peering into her.

The ocean blue eyes had dimmed as if the sun had retreated and the waters reflected only a dark, moonless sky. She swallowed hard within his grasp, desperate to cast a glance at the crude tool in his hand, knowing she mustn't.

Drew kept her chin firmly in his grasp as he raised his arm. Cold metal touched her skin. He grazed it lightly across her bare stomach, from one side to the other and back. On the next pass, he pressed the teeth in harder. The paths he made trailed warmth. He stopped just above her belly button and dug the tines deeper, then trailed a burning line upward to her right breast. The gentle tracings on her stomach were replaced by rough scrapes, as if he were carving ruts into her.

Jessica almost closed her eyes. She needed to center, to steady her breathing. His stare wouldn't allow it. She felt untethered, unprepared. For as long back as she could remember, she'd had a routine, a ritual for enduring the pain she so craved. An important part of that was to go deep into herself. Down and down, until the pain and the pleasure it wrought were indistinguishable. Until she was barely herself. Just a vessel, an object. Objects couldn't feel pain, couldn't experience fear or doubt.

Drew's powerful stare allowed none of this. Intimidation and a malicious glee danced in those eyes, and with them he forced her fully into the moment with him. He had ensnared her. She was his prisoner. She would feel everything he chose to give her.

"Tell me what it feels like as I do this to you."

"It...it feels like you're carving me...sir."

The fork bit into her breast, twisted. "Does it hurt badly?"

"It's...excruciating, sir." His stare was unbearable. The fork's nasty teeth bit and clawed and scraped relentlessly. Her chest and stomach felt like ants had swarmed her and bitten, bitten, bitten. "Please, stop. I can't...it hurts. I've never...please, stop. Please, sir."

His grip on her chin tightened. "Am I going to stop, Jessica? Am I finished?"

At this, she cried. "No, sir."

But he did. Eventually. It didn't feel like he had, not at first. For long grueling seconds, even though he'd stepped back and she could see the fork at his side, she still felt the angry swipes with perfect clarity. Then his mouth was on her nipple. Already painfully hard, it became engorged as his tongue made languid circles around it. He licked at the worst of the afflictions, lapping, soothing her, taking a portion of the fire he'd inflicted on her. He didn't stop until he'd traced every mark he'd given her.