Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

  At least that will be some kind of warning before he fucks me.

  I’m so distracted by that small comfort that it takes a second for me to realize how I’m positioned. Ass up, his erection pressed into my stomach, and I know what he’s going to do. I kick my feet, twist my hips, not even caring if it sends me tumbling into the coffee table, but his massive hand lands on my hip and yanks me into his body. Securing me.

  “Be still, Jasmine. We’re going to face this together, as husband and wife, and you’re going to push the Devil away so we can enjoy this evening that God has given us.” His voice is that same infuriating monotone as I scream, only stopping when I gag on the soap as saliva pools in my mouth and drips suds down my throat. When I kick again, he just swings one of his legs over mine and pins me down.

  Useless.

  With his elbow against my spine, and my legs trapped, all I can do is whine when he lifts the back of my dress and runs his hand over my ass. It’s not even sexual, and despite the hard-on I can feel. It’s almost like he means it to be soothing as he shushes me.

  “It’s okay, Jasmine. God has shown me what you need tonight to stay strong against the Devil.” He tugs down my underwear with a few quick jerks, and I feel them trapped between my thighs, wedged under his leg. My ass is bared to him as he lays his large, warm hand on me. “Think about your actions tonight compared to your obedience earlier today. How did you feel after you let the Devil tempt you into sin against your husband, and how did you feel before that when I was showing you my gratitude?”

  You’re not my husband! I want to scream it, but before I get the chance to even garble the words through the soap, his palm lands in a fiery spank across my ass. This isn’t like the random swats I’d earned as a kid. This is bone-jarring, and it hurts before he even lands another. Two and three burn, and my back arches as much as it can before his elbow digs in and forces me back down.

  “Don’t fight this, Jasmine. It will help you.” Another brutal series of spanks sets my ass on fire, and I go limp over his lap, soap-tainted drool soaking the handkerchief that pinches the corners of my mouth.

  The pain spreads as he continues, and I lose count of how many times his palm has crashed down as the blistering heat spreads.

  “I know you didn’t want to hurt me. That was the Devil in you. The outside world tainting you, tempting you into violent acts to disrupt the sanctity of our home.”

  I shake my head, arguing even though it’s pointless. The tears are making my nose run, stopping it up, and I have to hiss air in past the soap, which drags more of the taste down my throat. I retch, stomach heaving as he lands another harsh set of swats, jolting my entire body on his lap with each one. Somehow, it’s worse than the belt. Being this close to him, feeling his body against me as he hurts me over and over and over.

  “It’s okay to cry, Jasmine. That’s God helping you be penitent, helping you push the Devil out.” He spanks me hard again before running his hand over my hot skin. “I will not let the Devil come between us because I love you.”

  I don’t respond at all, so focused on trying to keep from throwing up that I just lie there and cry pathetically. He’s not done. His hand circles across my ass a few times before he’s back to it. Pain turns into a pulse across my backside, the skin throbbing as he layers swat after swat over skin already raw and aching.

  “You did so well today, Jasmine. That’s why you’re not in the barn right now, that’s why I’m giving you a loving punishment even though you injured me.” He spanks the sensitive spot at the base of my ass, targeting it with a few brutally hard crashes of his hand, and I wail into the gag. He doesn’t sound angry, but every strike tells me how angry he really is, and even though I hate to admit it… I know I’m lucky he’s only using his hand. If this were leather, I’d probably be bleeding by now.

  What’s worse is that he’s right. He didn’t touch me all day. I did my chores, I scrubbed my blood from the floor of the barn, and all he ever did was hug me when I was caught with the yearbook. Of all of the nightmare days I’ve spent in this hell… this was the best one. He was even going to make me dinner, let me rest while he worked, and I ruined it by stabbing him with a potato peeler because he gave me a fucking massage.

  And now? Now I don’t know what he’s going to do. I don’t know if this milder punishment is just an appetizer, or if this is honestly all he plans to do to me for fucking stabbing him.

  If it is, I don’t know what to think.

  He once whipped me with the belt for not cleaning the dishes well enough. Told me his momma would be disappointed. And after that whipping I hadn’t even been able to walk… but jabbing a potato peeler into his goddamn arm means a spanking?

  Crazy doesn’t begin to wrap around the insanity of Daniel. But if the voice in his head that he calls God is telling him not to brutalize me again, not to stick me on a wooden rod and see if he can break me, then why should I complain?

  Why did you complain when he was nice to you?

  I hiccup as I start sobbing, not even gagging anymore as my tongue goes blind to the taste of soap. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be Jasmine. I don’t want to give in, to accept his affection as easily as I accept this, the vibrant shock of pain on already aching skin with each vicious spank. His heavy hand landing again and again until even that starts to fade and I go numb, my cries slowly fading until the room is silent except for the steady sound of his hand colliding with my flesh.

  And then that stops too.

  I’m sniffling, completely still on his lap as he begins to stroke my thighs below where the skin burns and aches.

  “Meek and gentle, that is what God asks of you, Jasmine. Remember Isaiah sixty-six: ‘But to this one I will look, who is humble and contrite of spirit.’ When the Devil seeks to tempt you into sin, into disobedience or violence or disrespect… you must fight him. You must control yourself so that you may always walk in the light of the Lord. With me.” He squeezes gently behind my knee. “Do you understand?”

  I hate myself even more for it, but I nod.

  “That’s good, Jasmine.” A sharp tug frees the rope from my ankles, and I’m certain he’s learned that from handling the cows outside. I’m just livestock to him. Breeding stock. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, with an arm under me, he removes his leg from mine and lifts me upright, holding onto me until my shaking legs are somewhat steady. He pushes the coffee table back further with his foot, and then nods toward the floor. I kneel because I can’t do anything else, and my quaking thighs aren’t dependable right now anyway. “You are so beautiful when you are penitent.”

  I just stare up at his flat brown eyes, still somewhat surprised he can be this zealous. This insane. This is his parents doing. The way he talks about his father and mother, the books in the house, the way he was raised… it’s all led to this. He made his own choices, but he’s a product of his environment as well, and I know that he spent a lot of time in the barn himself. He’s said it before, casually, like it’s no big deal to have been tied to a whipping post as a child. His back has shiny scars from the things his father did to him.

  It’s why he thinks this is normal. It’s why he thinks it’s okay.

  It’s why he’ll never let me go.

  “Are you sorry for hurting me?” he asks, and I nod, hating myself a little more that I feel sorry at all — it’s just not for the reason he hopes.

  I’m sorry because it was stupid, because there was nothing I could have done to get away from him, and I’m even more sorry that I didn’t jab it into his throat when I had the chance, because I’m certain it’s the last time I’ll get my hands on anything sharp anytime soon.

  He coos at me, making a soft noise in his chest as he smooths his massive hand across my cheek to brush away the tears. “And do you swear not to take the Lord’s name in vain anymore? Either God or our savior?”

  I nod because I want the goddamn soap out of my mouth, but I do make a mental note to try and curb the la
nguage. At least out loud. That’s easy enough to avoid a punishment.

  “I’m just helping you to be a good wife, to walk the right path. You’ll see.” Reaching behind my head he unties the handkerchief and eases the soap out of my mouth. I work my jaw, flinching as my teeth come together and I can feel the soap embedded in them, tasting the bitter waxy flavor again. He reaches down to wipe the corner of my mouth, and I only flinch a little, but he doesn’t seem to notice anyway. “You did well today, Jasmine. I am not forgetting that just because the Devil led you astray.”

  I should probably say thank you, or… something, but nothing comes to my lips as I watch his eyes trail lower. With a gentle touch to my arm, he helps me stand and I try not to jerk away as he straightens out my twisted underwear and slides them up, under my dress and over my blistered skin until they’re in place again. His touch brings back the nausea in an instant, but I force it down.

  “Come.”

  I stare at him in silence as he stands and guides me forward, back to the kitchen. I know better than to ask him to free my arms, even though my shoulders ache and my hands are tingling a little — he won’t do it. But when he walks me to the corner beside the small kitchen table and turns me to face it, I can feel my anger flickering underneath the numbness brought on by his punishment.

  “You’ll stay here to think about your actions and contemplate how you can keep yourself closer to God so that the Devil cannot reach you so easily.” He’s close to me, his shirt touching my hands as his palms slide down to rest on my hips. “If you behave, I’ll feed you dinner.”

  I turn to look at him, almost in shock, but he just stares at me until I face the corner again. Dull, off-white paint that shows cracks in the depth of the corner where the two walls meet. As soon as I’m obediently in position again, I hear him leave the room, his boots making the floor creak as he goes into the downstairs bathroom.

  It’s miserable staring at the wall, listening to him clean up the wound I gave him before he finally starts dinner. The scents immediately rouse my hunger, but I refuse to turn and look at him. I’m not going to give him another excuse to hurt me, not going to tempt him to drag me out to the barn and give me what I’d expected the moment I realized I’d stabbed him.

  In the scheme of things, I’m damn lucky, and I hate that it’s true.

  He wants me to think about God and the Devil and being penitent, but all I’m thinking about is how I’m going to survive this — if I even want to survive this. Eventually my birth control pills will run out, even though I’m only taking one every three days, and that’s already risky. I’ve read the little paper insert a hundred times, and I know that even skipping one pill statistically increases the likelihood of pregnancy, but I need them to last. I only have one pack left, and one pill left in this pack. That’s… what? Two more months of shaky safety?

  Do I even want to survive this hell that long?

  The idea of it weighs me down, leaves my chest aching and cold as I stare at the blank wall and torture myself with thoughts of getting pregnant, carrying his child. My stomach turns at the idea, but I don’t even know if I’ll survive to next week, much less two months.

  Worry about one thing at a time, Sloane.

  The bang of the oven door and the smell of smoke makes me turn my head, but I correct myself instantly as I realize it was just him taking the steaks out of the oven. The smell makes my mouth water, which is a misery all on its own because it refreshes the taste of soap.

  A few minutes later, I can hear dishes laid on the table behind me, the clatter of silverware, and running water in the sink. But, I stay where I’m supposed to be. Staring at the wall, pointedly not thinking about what his God wants of me.

  “Jasmine, you may take your seat.”

  I turn to find him holding out my chair, and I approach it, hesitating beside it before I realize he doesn’t have any plans to unbind my hands. Shit. Biting my lip to avoid saying something stupid, I gingerly sit down, feeling my eyes sting as my burning ass makes contact with the chair. He nudges my chair in, and I try to find a comfortable position to sit with my arms still tied by his belt. Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes on the plate of food in front of me. “May I have some water? Please?”

  He immediately lifts it to my lips, and only a little spills past my mouth as I pull in a large sip and swish my mouth, feeling the soap bubble into suds. I start to stand to spit it out in the sink, but he catches my arm and nudges me back into the seat. “Swallow it, Jasmine. No avoiding your punishment by washing it away.”

  For one delightful moment I imagine spitting the water in his face, but then I think about what would come after… and I swallow. It turns my stomach, and suddenly the meal doesn’t look good anymore.

  “Bow your head so we can pray.” Clasping his massive hands, he sets them on the edge of the table and begins to speak. “Lord, bless this day and the food we are about to eat. Bless our home, and know that we are grateful for Your guidance in all things and praise You for the lessons You have given us this day to keep the Devil at bay. May we be fruitful and honor Your name in all ways. Amen.”

  His eyes lift to mine, and I can tell he knows I didn’t bow my head, but I whisper “Amen” to keep him from doing something.

  He cuts himself a bite of steak first, putting it in his mouth to chew while he reaches over to cut me a small piece. I hate being dependent on him, it’s terrible, but I can’t do anything except open my mouth for him to feed me.

  It tastes like soap-glazed steak. Disgusting.

  Long before I’m full, I lie and tell him I can’t eat anymore. Mostly because I can’t stomach another soapy bite of steak or potatoes or the slimy okra, but also because the way he feeds me is so gentle that if my hands were free, I’d probably have stabbed him with a fork by now.

  His violence terrifies me, but his gentleness gets under my skin in a way that makes me want to hurt him. It’s because it’s a lie. Everything is a lie. His fictional justifications for doing this shit to me, the name he uses for me, the girl he thinks I am… all a lie.

  The only thing that’s real is the hard-on deforming his slacks and the blood staining his white shirt. That’s it.

  I watch him finish dinner, biting my tongue to avoid any further punishment, and eventually he stands to clean the kitchen. I’d half-expected him to undo my hands to clean, but he probably doesn’t trust me around silverware yet.

  Smart.

  * * *

  Clean and showered with my teeth finally brushed to get rid of the soap — even though I still feel like I can taste it — he lets me get into bed.

  But this time he doesn’t pull the sheets up to cover our nakedness.

  Instead he looks at me, trails his fingers over my breasts, squeezes one lightly, and then glides his calloused palm down my stomach. I clench my eyes closed, but he stops short of pushing his hand between my thighs.

  “I know that you are a good woman, Jasmine. You always have been,” he says quietly, and I open my eyes to see he’s looking at me. He strokes my cheek and then slips his hand to the back of my neck to pull me toward him… and down.

  God no. Not tonight.

  “Show me you are penitent.”

  It’s his fancy way of demanding a blow-job, and all I want to do is refuse. I even stiffen, my muscles tightening, fighting as he continues to pull me forward with his impossible strength.

  This is my fault.

  I showed him this early on, when I hurt so bad between my thighs because he was fucking me four or five times a day. I felt raw and I went to my knees out of desperation, hoping to stop him from using me again — but it had been a mistake. He’d come quickly, but by that night he’d been ready to be inside me again.

  And now he wants this and my pussy… and probably my ass too. Just a set of holes for him to play with, and if I refuse now he’ll just hurt me and make me do it anyway.

  I twitch out from under his hand and shift down the bed, staying at his side even though he spr
eads his legs a little so I could move between them — but this is easier. Not better, but at least with the edge of the bed under my leg I can trick myself into thinking I can stop this at any point.

  Another stupid lie.

  He’s big, like he is everywhere, and all I can really do is work the first few inches of his thick cock between my lips, my hand wrapped around the rest, but that’s more than enough for him. He grunts, lifts his hips, touches my hair to urge me down, and I move because it means he’ll finish sooner. Still, I’m not doing a great job. This is bare minimum effort for having a dick in my mouth, but I don’t think he knows the difference.

  Maybe Jasmine never tried to get out of fucking with a blowjob.

  Maybe Jasmine was smarter than I am.

  I can tell he’s getting close, but he stops me and drags me up the bed like a caveman. A sudden yank and I’m under him, my legs spread, and he thrusts in hard. It hurts. It hasn’t even been a full day since he forced that fucking wooden dowel inside me, but I know he doesn’t care.

  As he fills me again and again I feel the stinging ache each time his body slaps against mine, driving deep, summoning those traitorous little buzzes of biological reaction. Not pleasure. Nothing about this is good, but when I make a noise, he slows down, rocks his hips between my thighs, and I hate him for it.

  I hate him for massaging me earlier, I hate him for giving me a relatively gentle punishment, and I hate him for this. For fucking me like anything other than the monster he is. For making me enjoy it for even a second.

  No matter what he does, I have to remember I hate him.

  I have to remember that I still need to escape.

  Nine

  Him

  It’s mornings like these that God reveals the glory of his divine perfection