And So I Held Her

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Author's note:

I would have preferred to submit this to the BDSM category, because while it is not an erotic story, it is an element of D/s, just not a sexual one.

The feelings and memories on which the story is based are real, while the scene itself is not.

I'd love to know what you think of this piece.

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The setting sun outlines her stunning figure. God she drives me crazy. The way she moves, the way she talks, everything. She's so beautiful standing there – wait, is she shaking? She's crying. All my thoughts of exactly how I want to devour her are gone, no longer relevant. She needs me now. I approach her. She's borderline hysterical.

She was thinking about him. That's what she usually calls him. She can't stand his name. Sometimes she'll refer to him as her ex, but usually he's just 'him'.

I make sure she hears me approaching. She looks at me briefly, her eyes blurred with tears, and nods. She turns away.

I come closer, slowly, and wrap my arms around her. I have her arms in an 'X' pattern and I hold them there. I hold her close to me as she cries. She can't move, and she continues to bawl in my arms.

She probably saw a photo, a post, some sort of trigger. Or she could have just been thinking about high school; about him; about all the different ways he touched her; about all the pain he's caused her; about all the pain that is still here, years later. About the pain she fears may never go away.

She's shaking in my arms and I'm all that's holding her steady. Here, held so tight, she is able to let go. She is able to not be as strong as she always is. She is able to cry without having to worry. Without having to think. Just to feel.

It's times like this she feels broken. It's times like this that she feels like her body is dirty. Tarnished. Ruined. It's times like these that all she can see on her body are his handprints, forever burned into her flesh.

It pains me to see her like this. None of it's true, but I can't make her see that. I can't make her heal faster. I can only help; remind her of her worth; remind her I care for her; remind her that it will be ok; and, sometimes, hold her while she does the exact opposite. Hold her while she beats herself up. Hold her while she tells herself she is broken. Hold her while she reverts back to that 14-year-old girl on the bus who froze while her boyfriend molested her.

So here we are. She is shaking and bawling uncontrollably and I am holding her as tight as I can so she can feel safe as she does. It's killing me, but she needs this.

I hate him. I hate what he did to her. He probably doesn't even know.

As she calms down I loosen my grip. She turns around and squeezes me close. I let out a deep breath as the tears slowly trickle onto my shirt.

This hell is coming to an end.

I will never let her know how taxing this is for me, even though she does. She's not stupid. But me not expressing it shows her that it doesn't matter how hard it is for me, I will hold her, and do so willingly.

Thankfully, she has accepted that. She allows me to carry this burden with her.

As the tears slow I lean down and pick up her knees. I carry her as I would a child to the bed, for she is a child now. I lie down in front of her and pull her towards me loosely.

I close my eyes for a moment.

"A little more. Just a little more." I think to myself.

She pulls away and I put on a strong, kind face. She looks at me with tired eyes. She may cry silently for a while longer, but the worst is over.

"Thank you, Sir." She says quietly.

"I love you, strong little one." I answer solemnly.

"I love you too." She answers as she drifts off to sleep.

I pet her hair as she sleeps, finally letting out a tear myself.

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To the person who wrote encouragement on my last story, a sincere thank you. You kept me writing.

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