Dirt on His Hands Pt. 02

"Yes, sir." She clasped her hands around her legs once again and felt the dirt begin to cover them.

"Breathe," Tom reminded her, piling another shovelful of dirt on top of her. It was all around her now, covering her knees, her torso, her back. She felt its gentle pressure on her skin, smooth and cool. Tom continued shoveling. He patted the earth down with the back of the shovel so that it was packed tightly around Charlotte, encasing her. The dirt hugged her on all sides, pressing in. She began to lose track of the difference between herself and the soil; the border where her body ended and the dirt began seemed blurrier and blurrier. It was if she herself were the ground, the moving, living, fertile soil. She breathed in and out as Tom had instructed, closed her eyes, and let herself melt into the ground all around her.

As these emotions reverberated through Charlotte's body, Tom observed her with a keen eye. He felt as if he could look on this sight all day--and, indeed, he thought with a grin, he could if he wanted to. He watched her breathe. At first, her breathing had been irregular, in nervous skips and jumps, but as she settled into the helplessness of her position, as she began to embrace it, her breaths slowed and deepened. Tom took a fistful of loose dirt and let it fall over her head. It tumbled down her hair and her face, and she drew in a sharp breath of surprise. He laughed, bent down, and planted a kiss on her dirty forehead.

He went to one of the flower patches and picked a large red poppy. He placed the poppy on the top of her head and twisted strands of her hair around the stem so that it would stay. Next he found two small yellow yarrow flowers and wove them into her hair on either side of the poppy. Then he plucked four leaves off of the vine and arranged them in her hair between the flowers. He smiled to himself, and she smiled up at him, amused by the game. She was his garden. He picked several more flowers from around the flower garden and wove them into her hair until she looked quite arcadian, like a ruin of a classical statue overgrown with summer wildflowers. As a final touch, he picked one of the apples from the apple tree and placed it in her mouth. "Keep that there," he told her. It was not apple season yet, and Tom knew that the apple would be underripe and bitter. Sure enough, Charlotte grimaced involuntarily as she bit into it and its sourness filled her mouth.

"My own little garden," Tom murmured. He traced a finger over the flowers in her hair. He got up and fetched the watering can, filled it, and returned to Charlotte. He tilted the watering can over her head, and the water sprinkled down onto the flowers. Charlotte blinked as the dirty water trickled down her face over her eyes. "You make a very pretty garden ornament," he commented. She murmured a muffled thanks.

Tom went into the house and returned with a ripe plum. "Are you still hungry?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, this plum is just for you. But only if you can eat that apple."

Charlotte groaned. Tom laughed. He held the apple in front of her face, and after a moment's hesitation, she bit into it. Her lips puckered immediately as she chewed it, and she just managed to force it down. As a reward, Tom offered her a bite of the plum. She bit into it gratefully. Its sweetness ameliorated the bitter taste that lingered in her mouth--almost, but not quite. The second bite of the apple was worse than the first, but Charlotte chewed determinedly, swallowed, and opened her mouth for the plum. Tom, however, was still holding out the apple.

"Three bites," he told her. "Then I'll let you have another bite of the plum."

Charlotte whimpered. She flexed her tongue and spat, trying to get rid of the taste in her mouth. Then she opened her mouth obediently and bit off another chunk of the bitter apple. She quelled the revulsion of her tongue and swallowed. One more bite to go, she thought. She took a third bite, chewed, swallowed, and looked up at Tom. Tom smiled and offered her another bite of the plum.

Tom continued the game until the apple had been eaten all the way down to the core. The plum was a sweet reward to the apple's bitterness, but even so, the bitterness lingered in Charlotte's mouth, making her grimace.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Yes, please! Please, sir." She eyed the watering can.

Tom followed the direction of her gaze. "Not from there," he said. He began unbuttoning the fly of his trousers. "From here." He produced his member and held it out for her to see. Her eyes widened. He was at full staff, hard and sturdy. It made her insides stir to see him in all the glory of his manhood, looking up at him from her place on the ground. "Spit on my hand," he instructed, holding it out in front of her. She obeyed. "More." She spat again. He began to stroke his staff. "Open your mouth," he demanded. She did so. "Stick out your tongue." She followed the instruction. "I want you to drink what I have to give you. All of it. No spitting it out. Can you do that for me?"

"Uh-huh," Charlotte assented, her tongue still out. She looked up at Tom and waited for the drink to come.

Tom was working himself up for ejaculation. He looked down at Charlotte. So pretty. So helpless. So thoroughly his own. He experienced the power of his position like a physical sensation, rushing through his body, tingling from his core. Yes! He thought to himself. Anything I want today. He stroked harder and faster. The orgasm gathered inside him, ready for release. Yes! Yes! With a great tremor and a gasp, he came. He directed his ejaculation into Charlotte's ready mouth, then clamped his hand over her mouth. "Swallow it," he ordered. "Swallow it now."

Charlotte gulped. The semen was bitter and warm in her mouth. She grimaced as its strange taste filled her mouth. She took a deep breath through her nose, fought back her gag reflex, and swallowed.

Tom removed his hand. "Stick out your tongue again. I want to see that you've swallowed it all."

Obediently, Charlotte opened her mouth. All traces of the semen had vanished down her throat.

"Good. Very good." Tom leaned all the way down to the ground and planted a deep kiss on Charlotte's lips. "Thank you," he whispered.

Tom began to remove the dirt that covered Charlotte's body. When he had shoveled enough of it to the side that her hands were free, he offered her his hand and pulled her up out of the hole. She was covered in dirt, every inch of her, and she stood up unsteadily, clutching his hand for support. "Let's get you cleaned off, like I promised." He led her to the water pump and doused her with several buckets of water before leading her into the house and upstairs to her new bathtub. She stepped into the bathtub. He turned on the hot and cold water taps and let the warm water fill the tub around her.

Sitting in the tub, scrubbing the dirt off of her body, Charlotte felt as if she were stepping back into herself after a long time away. Ah yes, she thought, this is how my skin used to feel, so smooth and pale and clean. This is how it used to smell, like lavender bars of soap. Slowly, the past and the future, which had been so absent from her thoughts all day, crept back into her consciousness. She was having tea with Mrs. Prentiss down the road tomorrow. She would need to bring her one of the visiting cards she had just ordered from the stationery shop in London. She was planning to call on her mother and brother in Cambridge next week; she must remember to arrange a carriage. Oh, and the ladies from the garden club were coming over for dinner at the house in two weeks, and she wanted to make sure that everything in the garden was back in order before then. "I want red and yellow bouquets for the house when the garden club ladies come over," she told Tom offhand. "And we'll need to cover up that hole before they get here."

Tom took in her words. They settled like lead in his stomach, like a dull, blunt pain. So the illusion was over. Just like that, it was all gone--his power, her compliance. That brief, intoxicating feeling of ownership, that settled calm of having--his garden, his bathtub, his food, his leisure--gone. In their place was the stark, unforgiving reality that the real power was always hers, no matter what he did or made her do. There was something irreparably wrong between Charlotte and Tom, something that no amount of roleplaying could reverse. Remembering it was like waking up from a dream.

"Well?" Charlotte looked up at Tom expectantly.

Tom wanted to scream. He wanted to smash all of her nice things. He wanted to beat her until she begged him to stop. But he did not do any of those things. He pursed his lips. He lowered his head.

"Yes, ma'am."

*End*