Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

“Because I said,” I answer, and it is enough.

  She approaches, looking down at the dress. I watch as her fingers close on it, wrinkling the fabric, and then she turns silently, heading into the bathroom. She starts to close the door, but I put my hand out, stopping her.

  “Go on,” I say, motioning toward the dress. Jasmine looks into the mirror, into my eyes as I stare back, and then she carefully begins to undress.

  So dutiful today. I’ve done well.

  Gazing at the slim, smooth lines of her body while she changes, my blood burns with desire as the Devil does everything he can to have me break my covenant with God. I do not give in to his temptation. I will show her, show God, that not even the Devil himself can influence me to sin.

  She dresses, and when she turns to me, her beauty stuns me. ‘You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.’ Solomon chapter four, verse seven. Jasmine is the living embodiment of scripture standing before me. As I stare, I see her injured feet are still swathed in the same bandages from yesterday. Seeing them now, God inspires me.

  “Sit, Jasmine.” I point to the toilet seat, and though she gives me a curious glance, she does as I say. When I kneel, both the story of Mary anointing Jesus at the home of Simon in Bethany, and that of Jesus anointing the feet of his disciplines as told in John 13, comes to my mind. I reach for Jasmine’s foot, and gently remove the swaddling.

  The room grows still, but for her gentle breathing. The bottom portion of the bandage is a dull ochre color, but it does not stick to her skin as I pull it away. While the marks are still there, and raw, the bleeding has stopped, and the wounds have begun to close. I run my thumb with tenderness along the length of her foot, and she draws a sharp breath, foot jittering in my hand.

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shakes her head, biting her lower lip. “No. It…”

  I watch as her eyes close when the pad of my thumb grazes lightly toward her toes, feeling her foot jerk as I do.

  “It tickles,” she says, gasping in a quick breath.

  “Oh.” I try not to smile at her reaction, though it is hard not to. She seems embarrassed by it and continues to bite her lip as I stroke the bottom of her foot. Her breathing hitches, and I know she is trying hard not to laugh. I revel in the joy of such a simple thing and continue to massage her foot while she quivers to my touch.

  I finish one foot, and then with gentle insistence do the same to the other. I do not linger, though there is a part of me that wishes to. It fills my heart with joy to find I can make her laugh, even if she tries to hide it from me. Dinner, however, is what I have set out as my goal, and that will not happen if I remain here indulging myself. So, I rebandage both of her feet, and put the supplies away before I stand.

  “Put your socks back on, and put your dirty clothes away. I will be finished in a moment.”

  She looks up at me in silence, nods, and I go out to the closet. I change from my work clothes into a white dress shirt and a pair of dark blue pants. Though these are normally for the Sabbath, there is no sin in wearing them today. In that I am certain of the Lord’s approval.

  As I finish, I check to see if Jasmine has done what I ask, and she has. She is waiting for me, obedient and meek, and so I beckon her with a smile. “Come, Jasmine.”

  She hesitates, before finally moving to step past me and out into the hallway. I follow her into the kitchen where she moves to the icebox expectantly. “What do you want me to make for supper?”

  “I will take care of it tonight,” I answer, gesturing with my hand toward the stool near the counter. “Sit.”

  She looks at me, confusion painted across her features. “You will?”

  “Yes.” I nod, pointing again to the stool. “Sit.”

  Her eyebrows pull together as she takes her seat, and I almost smile. She’s confused because I have taught her that fixing the meals is her task, but Jasmine is an obedient wife and she does not argue. As she watches, I pull things together to make our evening meal. Steak. Potatoes. Fried onions. Okra. These I can make well enough. Just as I start to chop the onion, Jasmine’s voice interrupts my focus.

  “I can peel the potatoes if you want.”

  I look over my shoulder at her, and pride swells within me. Even though she has sinned, she is a good wife, faithful and submissive, just as Peter said in 1 Peter 3, verse 1.

  “Yes, that will be helpful.” I nod, and she slips off the stool, taking the potatoes to the sink to start on them.

  I return to fixing the meal, and as she works, a memory hits me. A day when I was young, sitting on the stool shelling peas while Momma prepared dinner. We were exchanging scripture, trying to catch each other up identifying them, when Daddy walked in. I remember Daddy coming up behind Momma, taking her shoulders in his big hands and kneading them. Momma sighed, forgetting scripture, her motions slowing as she leaned back into Daddy’s chest.

  Thank you, Lord, for your divine wisdom.

  I move behind Jasmine, and she stiffens, her motions faltering as I reach for her shoulders just as Daddy had. Her body shudders when my fingers brush against the fabric of her dress, and she’s tense as I begin to massage, the peeler frozen halfway along the potato. The only sound is that of us breathing, and the rustle of fabric against flesh as I mimic the motions Daddy made. Jasmine stays silent, rigid, and I try to be gentle, because this isn’t punishment. It shouldn’t hurt, because Momma hadn’t hurt, not with this. I move my fingers in and out, kneading either side of her neck.

  Eventually, the muscles butter up, releasing as the stiffness she’d held seems to flow away. She softens, and her breath comes back out as a sigh, a sound of pleasure I cannot remember hearing from Jasmine before. What I’ve done must have been good, so I do it again. The reaction isn’t exactly the same, but neither does she tense. Her hands rest against the edge of the sink, still holding the potato and peeler, but they are forgotten. She is lost in what I’m doing. Lost in the pleasure that I, her husband, am giving her.

  God gifts His chosen in his own time and way.

  I continue to massage my wife, and I cannot stop the swelling of my manhood in response to her appreciative sighs. She leans back, and I have no need to pull her to my chest, for she comes freely.

  I don’t want to break what I have created, so I keep my thumbs moving in patient circles. My cock strains against my pants, and if I were to pull her even tighter, she would know it, but I don’t. I work at her shoulders to keep her in bliss, wanting nothing more, for the Lord has blessed me with this and I must honor it as I should.

  And then she gasps.

  Jasmine jerks in my hands, yanking herself forward, head snapping to one side. “What…” she whispers, voice hoarse, quivering. “What are you doing?” Jasmine tries to pull further forward, but my fingers hold her frozen in place.

  “I’m taking care of you, Jasmine.” With gentle pressure I try to pull her back where she was a moment ago, but she resists. “I will always take care of you.”

  “No.” She shakes her head, at first a slight twisting back and forth, and then she does it savagely. “No! You can’t do this. You can’t treat me like this!”

  The potato falls with a thump into the sink.

  “You can’t make me feel like this!”

  I grip her, fingers digging in. Why? Why is she doing this again? Why can’t she fight the darkness as she should and not give into Satan’s temptation?

  “But you enjoyed it, Jasmine. I felt it. You’ve enjoyed the pleasure I gave you. This is what a good husband does.” As each word comes out, I feel the tension in her grow until she is coiled like a trap spring.

  “You are not my husband!” Jasmine’s voice rises to a shriek, and she whirls.

  It feels as if she’s punched me hard in the arm, but it barely registers at first. Then her eyes go wide, and when she wrenches her hand away, there is a pulse of pain followed by warmth on my bicep. I look down to see the peeler jutting outwards, quivering where she stabbed me. The sting of
it makes my jaw clench.

  Whore.

  Red begins to close in at the edge of my vision, and it is only the sound of her crying that brings me back from the brink. My fingers are digging sharply into her flesh, and she starts to slip toward the floor, screaming, pleading with me to let her go. I want to hit her, punish her for what she has done, but Daddy’s in my mind again. Admonishing me, guiding me.

  Never give into your wrath, Daniel. Lucifer tempts us down that path to lead us astray. Accept the anger pain brings, draw it into you, embrace it. But do not give into it.

  Control it.

  Control it. I ease my grip but do not let go of her entirely. Holding her limp body in place, I reach across with slow deliberation, extracting the peeler. She is weak, as women are, and it did not go in far. As I pull it free, the red of my blood soaks through the white fabric.

  You will pay for that, harlot. You will clean that with your tongue.

  I hold the peeler toward her, and she shrinks back as if it’s a cattle prod.

  “The devil is in you, Jasmine.” I lean forward until my face is in hers, bringing the peeler up, blood dripping a slow patter onto the floor. “But I will drive him out of you. I swear it.”

  And I will.

  Eight

  Her

  His fingers are pinched onto my shoulder so painfully hard that I buckle under the agony as he talks about the Devil… but then I see it. The potato peeler, still dripping with his blood, and all I can think of is him using that on my skin.

  The horrible image gives me the strength to twist, and I kick away from the cabinets, breaking his hold as I scrabble backward on the floor. He drops the peeler to grab my leg, that same hard grip digging into my calf as he yanks me back toward him across the slick linoleum floor, but I kick again. Catch his chest, and then his arm, and I manage to break his hold again.

  It’s the first fucking miracle I’ve witnessed in this house, and I don’t spit at it. I flip over and run out of the kitchen, into the never-used dining room and then out into the front entry space. I reach for the front door, but I hesitate as memories of the barn slam into me — and then Daniel actually slams into me.

  The world rolls, flashes as my head hits the hardwood, and then he tries to move over me and… I lose it. I’m screaming, shouting as I twist and hit and kick and punch while he tries to pin me. I’ve never fought this hard. Not even that first time when he dragged me into the grass saying crazy shit about how happy he was that I came back. Of course, back then I didn’t know what he was capable of. I still thought I could reason with him because I didn’t know just how terrible things could be.

  And for one fucked-up moment I’d actually enjoyed his hands on me.

  Unforgivable.

  The thought brings another scream from my throat, and I manage to plant one foot in his stomach and kick hard. He doesn’t move, but I do. I slide backward, leveraged away from him, and I’m not even able to think about where I want to go or what I want to do — I just want away. Away from him, from his touch, from his fucking massaging hands that almost made me drop my guard.

  “God will give me the strength to help you, Jasmine,” he says as he catches my wrist, my latest attempt to hit him foiled by his huge hands, and then I’m sobbing as I try to land another hit and he swats it away.

  “No, no, no…” I hiccup as I try to pull in a deep breath, worn out from the fight as he holds my wrists and shifts until he’s straddling my thighs. When he drops his weight over me, there’s no fucking hope left. I don’t even know what I expected to come from this, other than to make it clear that I’m not going to play the part of his obedient little wife. I’m not going to wear a dress for him while I dutifully peel potatoes just because he decided not to brutally punish me when we were in the barn this afternoon. Just because he didn’t fuck me in his bedroom after. The barest hints of humanity in him won’t erase every other monstrous thing he’s done to me, and that is what I fought to remember. I had to remember it, have to always remember it. I can’t let a kind touch erase any of it.

  “I hate you,” I whisper, and his eyes narrow.

  “This is the Devil testing us, Jasmine, but he will not win. Not today when God has shown you what is meant to be.” He shakes me, his arms bulging as he tightens his grip on my wrists until I can feel the bones grinding together. “I will not break my covenant, but I will get the Devil out of you tonight.”

  “There is no Devil!” I shout, and only realize as my voice breaks that I’m crying. Hard. “Jesus Christ, you’re insane! YOU’RE CRAZY!”

  He lets go of one of my wrists to cover my mouth, holding onto the lower half of my face in a harsh grip as his wild gaze drills into mine. “That’s enough. You will not take Christ’s name in vain in this house, and I will teach you just how I was taught.”

  I shout against his hand, but then he flips me to my stomach, and I hear his belt rattle. If it weren’t for his iron grip on my wrist, I would run again. I don’t know where, I don’t know what I’d run to, but I’d run away. Just away. But the fear is taking over now as I go limp against the floorboards in front of the door, waiting for the belt to lay into me.

  “I am in control,” he whispers as he takes deep breaths above me. “I will not give in to temptation.”

  Crazy. Completely fucking crazy. It’s all I can think as I feel him loop the belt around my wrist, and I immediately lunge my free arm forward, but it’s a fleeting grasp of freedom, because in another second he has it pulled back with the first. I buck against the floor, barely able to move at all with his weight on my ass, and then I can’t move my arms either.

  “Normally I would take you to the barn for punishment, but you have tried so hard today, Jasmine… so hard,” he mumbles as he climbs from my back and pulls me off the floor with so little effort. I stumble upright, only to come face to face with him as he leans down close. “So, we’re going to drive out the Devil together. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t understand any of this shit!” I growl at him, jerking at his grip on my arm, and he just stares at me as his grip turns to iron once more, probably leaving bruises because he’s so damn strong and it hurts.

  “It’s okay, Jasmine. I’ll teach you.” He nods as he drags me into the living room, the room where he actually sits on the sofa, the place where I’ve seen him reading those books on the rare nights he isn’t watching me cook dinner.

  He was going to cook you dinner tonight.

  I scream and kick at the door frame, but it only makes my foot hurt as it bounces me back into him, and he doesn’t move at all. Fucking mountain of a monster. I don’t know why I keep fighting. I’m only making this worse for myself, but every time he says something in his incessantly calm voice, I remember how I’d almost fallen for it in the kitchen. How I’d almost been exactly what he wants me to be and for that… I hate myself even more than I hate him. I want him to hurt me, because that will remind me of who he really is, I want him to hurt me because I deserve it for leaning against him like some kind of lover.

  He wraps his arms around me, pressing his lips to the side of my head as he forces me forward into the living room. “But the way of the wicked leads them astray. That is Proverbs 12. I’ll teach you everything you need to know, Jasmine, because that’s what a good husband does. He does not let his wife go astray from the word of God.”

  I almost manage a retort before he pushes me onto the couch. I land in a graceless huff, face first into the cushions, because my arms are bound behind my back. Then I hear him walk away, and I roll sideways to land hard between the coffee table and the couch. Leveraging my elbow on the cushion, I pull myself to my knees, almost standing before I see him return to the room with rope in his hands.

  “Jasmine...” He sighs and grabs me, hauling me back onto the couch, face down, and I feel the rope go around my ankles in quick loops before he’s hauling the rope between the leather on my wrists. It doesn’t take ten seconds before he’s standing next to the couch again, a
nd I’m stuck. Hogtied. Literally tied in place. “I cannot allow you to defame this day with the Devil’s sin. You atoned so well this morning; you were dutiful today. We will make this right, and then I will make good on my promises.”

  “NO!” I shout, but he’s already leaving the room. Twisting, I try to get my fingers around the rope, looking over my shoulder as much as I can to figure out what the fuck he did with the rope so quickly, but I can’t even find the knot before he’s back.

  “This is for using our savior’s name in vain.” He holds up a well-used bar of soap, the one from the kitchen sink, and I immediately clench my teeth.

  Hell no.

  But, like everything else he’s wanted to do to me, my fight is for nothing. He pries open my mouth, shoves in the soap, and I instantly retch. It’s dry and it’s as if it sucks up all the moisture on my tongue as he yanks a handkerchief out of his back pocket, catching the soap when I try to spit it out. When it’s pushed back between my teeth, they scratch over the soap and I gag again when it slides even further back as he ties the handkerchief at the back of my head.

  “Now… the Devil is not gonna get his claws into you tonight,” he declares in that deadpan way, but it doesn’t sound like a joke right now. With a tug, the rope releases from where it connects to the belt on my wrists, but my ankles are still trapped, tied together. As he leans over me, I feel them tighten with another quick movement. I’m sure it’s some kind of cowboy thing, because he does it without a thought and with such confidence… but I’d bet another trip out to the barn that he’s never done it with a woman. Except maybe Jasmine.

  Poor fucking Jasmine.

  Her face flashes behind my clenched eyes as I feel the couch cushion dip in front of my face. I wonder if he ever tied her up like this on this couch, if she was choking on soap when he did it. I wonder what line she finally crossed that made him kill her, because I know she’s not walking free somewhere.

  Suddenly, he’s lifting me, and it’s always eerie how it seems to never strain him. Like I don’t weigh a thing. Even as he moves me, lays me across his lap, he doesn’t struggle, and all I can think is how grateful I am that he can’t spread my legs without undoing the rope.