The Bruises, Their Offspring

He removed layers of her clothing with clinical detachment. With her arms above her head, she felt like she was being patted down at the airport. He might as well have been wearing surgical gloves. She was that unimportant, even as he removed her blouse, even as he dug into her waist to get a grip on the button keeping her jeans together. He yanked them down, she had to struggle to keep from falling over. As she stood there wearing a bra and panties, his eyes still seemed distant. He didn't even bother seeing her as an object. And that's why he could make her more desirous, more wanton than her boyfriend ever could. This man treated just her as she felt – non-existent. She wanted to be a locus for mere pain and pleasure. More complex emotions and thoughts were useless to her – that way lies melancholy. She should have been a cat or a dog. Heel. Eat. Sleep. Going on two legs was very hard for her. He was the only one who recognized this. To love her as a whole person, meant denying her what she craved.

Still, this wasn't a game. He spoke to her. They had conversations. They went to coffee shops and galleries and the zoo (when she could slip away from her boyfriend). Yet they both knew what purpose these excursions served. Dogs needed to be walked now and then. Humans needed to go out into the world too.

And when she spoke to him about unnecessary things, impractical things, human things, like art and music and politics and philosophy, he engaged her. He went along with it. There was no disrespect. There was no need. She knew how inane she sounded. And this was liberating. She needn't prove herself, she needn't worry about embarrassing herself, (as she had to with her boyfriend). His opinion of her intellectual abilities was already so low, that there was nothing she could do or say to disappoint him. And she loved him for that.

But today there wouldn't be any going out, and there wouldn't be much talking. There wouldn't even be time to have her do his laundry. He had a date coming over, and he had plans. As she stood there in her underwear – and they were underwear, as lingerie was for women, while she was a female – she wondered what would come next. They had never had an opportunity such as this, her boyfriend away for two weeks. This meant, above all, one thing: it would give time for any bruises to heal.

There was a special chair he had, wooden, without armrests. He sat on it, patted his lap, indicating to her to come over. She was already breathing quick. Lowering herself onto his lap, she leaned forward, and thrust our her ass to give him batter access. Her hair reached the ground. He pulled off her underwear without ceremony. She was shaking. With palm raised, he brought his hand down, full force. Her flesh rippled down to her thigh, and with a yelp, she let out the breath of air she had been holding. There was no teasing. If he tried to make this experience erotic, it would cease to be so. He treated this the same way he treated stripping her – as a job to do. Up and down his arm went, a dozen times in quick succession, circling her ass until it was swollen red. She yelped the first few times, but now she was full on crying, her tears falling into her hair. When he finished, she was sobbing, muttering incoherently, interrupted by the occasional convulsion. He spread her legs apart, and placed an open palm in between them. With his middle finger her searched for her slit. He pushed through the dampness until he reached his knuckle. She held her breath. As he curled his finger, she groaned.

His other hand stroked her hair, the back of her head, as she calmed down. Entwining his fingers with her hair, he achieved a strong grip, and pulled her head up backwards with sudden force. She gasped, and pushed herself to her feet, as he released her head. He rose as well, a full foot taller than she. He clasped her neck with his right hand, thumb beneath her jaw, and tilted her had back until she was staring at the ceiling. He bent forward and kissed her, biting her lips, and continued until he could taste the salt of tears.

Hand still tilting her head back, he brought his lips down to her throat. He opened his mouth are gripped her trachea between his teeth. She froze. He tightened his jaw. She whimpered. Oddly, she could be comforted by the fact that he would never go further. He was a vegetarian. He let go of her throat, and traced his way to her carotid artery, right below her left ear. He cupped one of her breasts, massaging it as he bit down on her neck, feeling her pulse beneath his lips. The stimulation increased in all directions – one hand was pulling her hair, the other hand had her nipple between his nails, squeezing, and now his mouth was clamped on her ear. It was all too much, and the searing made her feel alive, vital. Her days were sleepwalking compared to this.

All at once her let go, and she was left panting. He took a step backwards. "Take it off", he said. This was the second time he spoke since she arrived. She was still wearing just a bra, so it was clear what was to be removed. She reached behind her in that unique feminine gesture, and unclasped. Her bra was like a suspension bridge for her breasts. Freed from their support, they swayed with her slightest movement. "Now get on your knees, and put your hands behind your head." This was new. She did as he asked. "Push your chest out. Further. Good. Arch your back. Good." She was modeling herself now, posing like some pinup girl from the 50s. A red blush spread from her cleavage up through her neck. "Now shake your tits from side-to-side." She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

She felt it before she saw him move. He leaned forward and swatted one of her breasts, once, twice. She screamed and cowered. Two red blotches appeared, they spread and coalesced.

"Sit up straight. Arch your back. Hands clasped behind you head. Now shake your breasts." Without delay and without thinking, she pushed her shoulders back and forth, her breasts swinging as pendulums. He right tit, reddened, ached with the movement. There was nothing erotic in her movements. She didn't like showing off her body by any means. But he wanted to bypass her desires, her thoughts, her decisions. When he expressed a preference, he didn't want her to choose to comply. He didn't want her to deliberate. He didn't want her thinking at all. He wanted her body to comply. He wanted her trained. That was love.

Leaving her like that, he left the bedroom for a drink. From the other room he yelled out, telling her not to cease swaying. He took his time. And there she was, in the next room, alone, posing on her knees, with her hands behind her head, shaking her breasts for no one. She felt at once ridiculous and proud.

When he returned, he had her stop. It was getting late. His date would be over soon. He had her cease her posing, and to her to use the bathroom, and then join him in the living room.

He introduced her to his favorite piece of furniture. It was a sofa with a wooden frame. But the seat-cushions could be removed, revealing a compartment that opened, ostensibly for storage. It looked suspiciously like a coffin.

She was staring at it naked and wide-eyed. "No..." she said. He slapped her. Her face jerked to the side. "You can go in there, or you can leave," he said. "If you go in, you'll be blindfolded and you wrists and ankles will be bound."

She barely fit. She had to contort her shoulders, and even then the lid wouldn't perfectly close. He tied it shut with rope, before putting replacing the cushions. It might hurt when they sat on the couch.

It had been two hours since she was locked in the sofa. His date, Michelle, had arrived. He cooked for her, and they enjoyed an intimate dinner of two in the small dining room. They chatted as equals, laughed together genuinely, and sipped wine. Trapped within the sofa, she had no idea who Michelle was, or what she looked like. But before long, he and Michelle were making out on that very sofa. She could hear ever kiss, every moan, every compliment he gave her (You are the prettiest I've seen in a long time) the sound of clothes being removed, her request that they move to the bedroom, his insistence that they stay on the sofa. She could feel their love-making literally inches from her face. She was sobbing from the pain, psychological and physical, biting her lip to remain quiet.

By the time Michelle left, and she was released from her prison, she was bruised and stiff. He comforted her, lovingly releasing her ankles and wrists, dabbing the make-up stained streaks of tears lining her face. She had no idea what time it was. He brushed her hair from her eyes and told her that he was very proud of her.

He helped her stretch out, and led her to the bathroom. And there, he placed half of her in the bathtub, on her hands and knees, so that her ass and legs were outside the tub, held up by its rim. And that way, with his shirt still on, and his pants around his thighs, he efficiently fucked her, either pressing her head down against the ceramic tub, or pulling up her head with her hair, like a pony. There was nothing she could do but lay there, occasionally attempting to push back against his thrusts, palms down against the ceramic tub, trying to keep balance. She felt like she was being pushed from every direction. She felt like leftovers. He orgasmed inside her, pushing against her cervix. She said "I love you."

When he was through, he instructed her to get completely in the tub. He zipped up his pants. She had been naked for most of the day now. He knelt by the tub, kissed her on the head, and turned on the faucet. As the tub filled, he rolled up his sleeves. He reached across the tub, grasped the soap, and began rubbing her down, lathering her. He worked efficiently and quickly, never saying a word. He started with her shoulders and neck. He raised her arms and soaped them down, and cleaned her armpits. He had her lift her breasts and he cleaned underneath, he pushed her back and had her lift her legs, soaping her calves and thighs and between her legs, he flipped her over and washed her back and her ass-crack. Flecks of water dotted his shirt.

He lifted the stopper and the water began to drain. He had her stand up. He reached down and turned on the shower. Cold water. She gasped in surprise, and clung to herself, heaving deep breaths. He stood up and watched her shiver, watched her nipples tighten and goose bumps appear along her arms and legs. He pulled her out of the stream of water so he wouldn't get wet, and leaned forward to gently kiss a bruise on her breast. From there he went from bruise to bruise, tracing their outlines with his tongue, kissing them adoringly. The bruises were like their children.

Shutting off the water, she stood there, and finally began crying softly. Despite the water, he took her in his arms, and she sobbed into his shoulder, her back heaving. "Shhh, shhh, that's ok..." he comforted her, stroking her soaked hair. "It's all right."

She clung to him like a life-raft, a pillar, a point of reference. "I love you." She said, in between sobs. "More than anything. Thank you."

"I know, I know..." he said. "Shhhh, everything is going to be just fine. You're ok. I won't let anything bad happen to you."