Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

  “Ready to come out?” I ask, and he kicks the door in eager confirmation. From the corner of my eye I can see Jasmine inching closer, so I continue to focus on Moses as I take his bridle off the hook and open the door to his stall. “Come on then.”

  Moses steps out, shaking his head before he waits for me to slip on the bridle. Turning, I guide him to the center post, attaching the lead to it before I glance at Jasmine. She’s halfway to us, and I don’t press. I act as if she isn’t here and go to the wall to gather the brush and hoof pick. Her love of animals will overcome her fear of the barn soon, and it will lead us one step closer to being true partners.

  I work in silence, ignoring the whinnies of Rebekah, who wants out of her stall too. As I finish working on Moses’s hooves, I know I can’t put off the farrier any longer. Both horses need to be re-shoed and that’s one of the few things I am unable to do myself. The thought of bringing anyone near Jasmine makes my heart race again, that strange tunneling of my vision returning, and I can feel the tension rising, but then Jasmine’s voice pulls me back.

  “What’s his name?” she asks softly.

  “Moses,” I remind her, running my hand over his back as I give her room to approach. “You may not remember him, but he remembers you, Jasmine.”

  She looks at me for a moment before her gaze swings back to Moses. Another step closer, and then another, and she reaches for his nose, but he shakes his head, jerking against the lead with a loud huff of air from his nostrils. Jasmine jumps back instantly, and I grab Moses’s bridle to hold him still.

  “It’s okay, Jasmine. He just needs to smell you. Hold your hand up, palm flat.” I keep one hand on Moses, and reach for her hand with the other, guiding her until she lets Moses shove his muzzle against her palm. His lips tickle her hand and a smile spreads slowly over her face as he searches for a treat. “Stay here.”

  Letting go of the bridle, I walk back to the wall and dig in the box of sugar cubes, grabbing a handful before I return to her. She’s gingerly petting him, whispering something that stops as I approach, but even though she’s tense I can tell she’s happy to be around the horses again.

  “This is what he wants,” I say as I flatten her hand again and place the sugar cube on it. Before I can even guide her hand all the way back to him, Moses moves and takes it. A burst of laughter, like sunshine, explodes out of Jasmine, and I go still as I watch a bright smile make her more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.

  “Such a good boy,” she says in a soft voice, petting Moses with her other hand while he nuzzles and licks her hand free of the sugar.

  “Here.” I hold out another sugar cube, not moving because I don’t want to stop her smile with distraction. Jasmine immediately takes it and offers it up under Moses’s nose.

  “You’re such a pretty boy, Moses. Such a good boy,” she coos, and I’m frozen, imagining her using that voice with our children. Sweet and warm and kind.

  “You are going to be a wonderful mother.” The words slip out, and Jasmine’s smile disappears as she steps back from Moses. I’m confused, and I reach for her hand to bring it back to Moses’s snout, but she tilts her body away from mine and I frown a bit. “Jasmine, what’s wrong?”

  She swallows, staring at the floor, her hands tight fists clenched at her sides as she shakes her head a little. “Nothing.”

  “Do you want to feed Moses another sugar cube?”

  “No, thank you,” she whispers, still staring at the floor, and I don’t know what happened, but I want her smile back.

  “Would you like to feed Rebekah?” I ask, knowing she always favored Rebekah on her visits to the ranch.

  “No, thank you.” Jasmine is stiff, tense, and my frustration builds as she continues to stare at the floor.

  “Look at me.” The words come out sterner than I mean them to, but her head snaps up, and I try to calm the chaotic feelings in my chest. “If you do not want to feed them treats, then it’s time to groom Moses. After that we will take care of Rebekah.”

  “Okay,” she whispers, and although I hate that her smile is gone, pushing her will only keep it away longer. I just have to give her time with the horses, and she will relax.

  Maybe I will even hear her laugh again.

  * * *

  Her

  Brushing the horses is the nicest ‘chore’ he’s ever taught me. Moses and Rebekah aren’t people, and I doubt either of them would help me escape here even if I did know how to put a saddle on, but being around them has definitely been the best part of my time in this hell.

  Watching them run around the pasture, it’s hard to believe that they belong to the same place that made Daniel. He told me that Moses is eight years old and Rebekah is fourteen. She’s a sweet old mare, with none of Moses’s boisterous energy, but they’re both good horses. Genuinely kind in the way that only animals can be.

  I didn’t even know how much I needed a little kindness until the stupid horse kissed my hand, flipping his lips over my palm. It was even better when he snagged the first sugar cube, licking me like a giant dog as he searched for more.

  Daniel watched me the whole time, explained how to brush them, what to do, and although the entire experience would have been better without him there… I can only hope he lets me do it again. It’s the only time I’ve felt like a real person here instead of a thing.

  “The horses were always your favorite part of coming out here,” he says, and I turn my head to look at him on reflex because we’ve been standing in silence for so long I almost forgot he was there. Running his forearm across his forehead, he leans forward on the fence, his eyes glued to where Moses is still looping in big circles around Rebekah as she grazes. “I used to think you wanted to see them more than you wanted to see me.”

  I’m sure that was true for the real Jasmine too.

  He looks over at me, and I make myself stay still as he curls a strand of hair over my ear, even though the breeze immediately unseats it again. I’m sure he wants me to reply, wants me to tell him that Jasmine — that I — always came here to see him. But, while my acting skills have been top notch the past few days, there’s a limit to what I can make myself say. This is definitely over that line.

  Fortunately, he never seems to care if I participate in his conversations.

  “Soon we’ll go riding again, Jasmine. Just you and me, like we used to.” Daniel grabs my arm gently and pulls me closer, tucking me in front of him so that I’m trapped between him and the fence. When he moves in close, the bulge in his jeans is unavoidable as he presses against my back, hands on my hips to keep me exactly where he wants me while he not-so-subtly grinds against me. “And sometimes we can ride together, my arms around you like this. Daddy never let us ride together, but we can now, and I know Moses can carry us both.”

  I don’t have words for that image. Trapped against him on a horse, it would be worse than this. He snakes his hand across my stomach as he wraps an arm around my middle, pulling me tighter to him while his lips trace kisses down my neck.

  “Just like this, Jasmine,” he says, his voice a little lower as he continues to rub his hard-on into my back. “You want that too, don’t you?”

  No. I grit my teeth to keep the word inside, trying to ignore the sensation of him touching me, grinding against me, and I focus on the horses. Moses and Rebekah. Freer than me, but both grazing contentedly in the wide-open grass. Standing, tails flicking back and forth, instead of running. If they wanted to, they could leave here. Run, jump the fences, and escape. Part of me wishes they would, because they’re too good for this place. Too good to live in that terrible barn.

  “Jasmine?”

  He actually wants me to fucking answer? For a brief moment I imagine what would happen if I told him ‘no,’ if I told him that I didn’t want him touching me, that I never wanted him to touch me again — but the result wouldn’t matter. He’d either ignore me or punish me, and neither would get me closer to escape. So, I play the part and say the only answer he wants,
“Yes. I do.”

  A low sound escapes his chest, and it rumbles against my back as he squeezes me tighter to him, making my ribs ache for a moment before he relaxes his grip. “We will do that. Soon. I promise, Jasmine.”

  “Thank you.” My answer is robotic, automatic, but he groans against my ear and grabs my chin, turning my head until his lips are able to capture mine. My short sound of surprise is caught against his mouth, and I can’t move back because his massive hand is still holding my face. Then his tongue is seeking mine, and I try to shut down like I have over the past few days. To give him exactly what he wants so that I can keep the tiny fire of rebellion burning inside, deep down where he can’t reach it. But when I feel his fingers at the button on my shorts, instinct takes over and I grab his wrist in a fierce grip and he breaks the kiss.

  “It’s okay, Jasmine. No one will see. There’s no one here.” He means for that to be comforting, but it’s the opposite. It’s damning, crushing, devastating.

  I just want a minute away from him. Just one more minute to watch the horses and pretend this isn’t hell on earth — but he doesn’t stop. He pulls me tighter to him, his free hand working at my shorts until they’re open and his big hand moves inside. Fumbling, he shoves my shorts further down so he can get between my legs, inside my underwear so his clumsy fingers can stroke where I’m still dry as a bone.

  “Kiss me,” he commands as he prods me below, and when I don’t immediately obey, he grabs my face to bring my lips to his. It’s torture being unable to do anything, to defend myself, to stop this. I grab onto the fence post just for something to anchor me to a space outside of him, away from the thrust of his tongue in my mouth and the mauling way his fingers—

  Oh fuck.

  My hips jerk as his juvenile efforts between my thighs actually manage to rub against my clit, and I know it’s accidental… at least at first, but then it happens again. He’s trying to work his fingers inside me, but his fucking hand is so big that he’s rubbing back and forth over just the right — horribly wrong — spot. I can’t stop the twitch of my body with each stunning twinge of pleasure. I’ve felt so little good in everything he’s done that it’s like my body has been starved for it, craving it, and now it’s so desperate that anything at all is registering like a goddamn firework through my nervous system.

  And, goddammit, I’m pretty sure I just moaned.

  “Jasmine,” he mumbles against my mouth, a low growled version of the name that I hate, but even that can’t make my body stop seeking the friction of his hand. “Do you like that?”

  It sounds so confused, so naïvely hopeful, and I hate myself… but I nod.

  “Okay.” He starts to move his hand, but it’s wrong and I whine, shifting and twisting my hips until he’s back on the right spot where I can feel good for just a moment. Just one more minute. It’s a lie, but at least it’s a good one, and in some act of his cruel God’s intervention, he starts to rub my clit. I don’t know if it’s just because his fingers are so damn big, or if he’s a miraculously quick learner, but he’s got it.

  “Circles,” I whisper, my fingernails digging into the wood of the fence as I curse myself for allowing this.

  “What, Jasmine?” He leans down, closer, and I clench my eyes tight. Shutting out Moses and Rebekah and sunlight and him.

  “Do circles. Please.” I force the words out through clenched teeth, because I don’t want to encourage this — but I do. God help me, I just want something to feel good in this nightmare, and this feels good. He changes from the awkward up and down motion to circles, just as I asked, and I choke back the quiet cry of pleasure. I try to take a step, to spread my legs for him, and almost trip over the shorts tangled around my ankles.

  “Does this feel good?” he asks, seeking confirmation like every one of my high school boyfriends, and I make myself nod again because I just need a little more. A little more and I can tell him — ask him to stop.

  “Please,” I whine, begging for more for what should be the first, and last, time ever. Not like I’m hiding any of this successfully. Pressed back against his hard chest, I know he can feel every lift of my hips, hear every stifled moan as it rolls up my throat, but I’m too far in to turn back now.

  Little tendrils of bliss are snaking their way over my bones, winding up my spine like golden strands of ivy, and he’s so goddamned strong that every swirl of his fingers feels like a pulse through every nerve ending. I’m panting, scattered, but somewhere in the haze of arching into his chest and feeling his hand sliding under my shirt, I manage to free one of my shoes so I can step out of my shorts — and I part my thighs for him. It’s self-serving, desperate, but no less wrong.

  I’m grinding against my monster’s hand, half-supported by his arm angled across my torso where his other hand is working inside my bra. I wish I could hate the way his thumb rolls over my nipple, the way his fingers dig into the flesh of my breast for a moment before he cups it gently again… but I like it. I like all of this, and I’m going to pay for it.

  “Faster, please,” I plead, panting, and he kisses my neck, licks my sweat-soaked skin, and rolls his fingers faster. Every shining strand inside me starts to tighten, my muscles stretching as I lift on tiptoe, and he lets me, supports me, holds me as I arch against him and the world starts to fray at the edges. “God, yes!”

  Ecstasy hits like a bomb going off, and I think I shout or scream or cry as the glittering shrapnel turns my veins to fire. I come so hard colors bounce behind my eyes, and for one perfect moment I only feel good. I feel incredible, even as somewhere outside the bright glow his thick fingers are slipping down and then inside. I can’t help the moan as my body shivers, and then I’m lifted off my feet.

  My eyes open to bright sunlight reflecting off shiny metal just before he bends me over it. I catch myself on my arms, my feet barely able to reach the dirt as he presses against my ass, his fingers still buried deep. A low groan rumbles in his chest as his other hand squeezes my hip before yanking my underwear down.

  “You’re so wet, Jasmine,” he says in a voice I don’t recognize. It’s hungry, edged by a growling undertone that I’ve never heard from him. Then he forces his fingers deeper and I whine because it aches, but in a way that my damned body likes.

  Then they’re gone, ripped away, and I try to stand up, but he picks me up like a toy and pushes me farther forward onto the shiny metal box. Shoved down hard, I lose my breath for a second, but then he’s behind me again. Fingers back inside, and my hips twitch on instinct at the forceful stretch.

  “That was beautiful to watch. You are so beautiful.” His words aren’t soft, they’re things with rough edges, punctuated with thrusts of his fingers until he takes them away, and his cock takes their place.

  He takes his time with the first few inches, and I hate him for it because I’m still hazy, confused, and the sounds I make aren’t meant for him. Not for this. I don’t want this to feel good, I don’t want to feel my body stretch blissfully for the first time around his impossibly thick shaft, but he makes me. One hand on my back, he holds me still even as I twist and try to push up from the warmth of the metal under me. Another inch, and my body shudders, pleasure sneaking in past all my damaged barricades... and I moan.

  “Yes, Jasmine,” he growls and slams into me so hard the fronts of my thighs bruise against the edge of the box, but I don’t even care. I cry out, in pleasure not pain, and I hate myself as he starts to fuck me, and I enjoy it. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, contradicted by the wet sounds I can hear between my thighs and the steady sighs and whines of my own hedonistic needs. I’m urging him on without words, but he doesn’t need them. He’s never needed my words to do what he wants, and for the first time my body is ready for his size, able to take him in with only the slightest twinge of pain when his hips meet my ass. But even that small pain just adds to the fire, brings back the flare of golden light in my veins until I’m drowning again.

  I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do
is feel. Each vicious thrust that stretches me to my limits, pushes them, and leaves me craving more with each withdrawal. The fire in my veins is too much, the heat all encompassing, and just when I think I can’t handle another moment of it — everything snaps. I arch off the box, and he lets me, his hands moving to my hips as I cry out and let the light swallow me whole again.

  Then the world flips and my head spins as I open my eyes to blue sky and bright sunlight. Daniel rips my other shoe off, along with my shorts and underwear, and then he’s back between my thighs, cock driving in just as hard as before, only now I’m facing him.

  No. Not this way.

  I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to look, but when I try to drape my arm over my eyes, he grabs my wrist and slams it down beside me.

  “Look at me,” he growls, demanding, harsh.

  I wince as pain shoots up my arm, but I force my eyes open, and he lets go, leaving my wrist pulsing as he shoves my shirt up, then my bra so he can lean down to capture my nipple in his mouth. The cloth bunches at my throat, held there by his hand as he moans around a mouthful of my breast. Each thrust rocks me on the box, but the pleasure is a distant thunder as reality descends again.

  This isn’t some boyfriend, or even some one-night stand… this is my monster. The man who has tortured me, brutalized me, imprisoned me — although Daniel doesn’t look like himself as he leans up to stare down at me. There’s a fierceness to his expression, something hard and intense and terrifying.

  “Again,” he commands, and I know without asking what he wants. He wants me to come again, but that’s not going to happen. Not now. Not with him above me. His hips rock steadily, but he’s not thrusting hard anymore, and I whine because I just want him to finish.