Master Over You

by Cerys du Lys

  I pinch her nipple tight between my fingers, clamping onto it near my knuckles while I mash her breast in my hand. Her nipples are stiff. I want to fucking wrench up her shirt and stuff one in my mouth. That means giving up her lip, though. Which do I want more? Nipple or lip? Usually I'd go for nipple, but, fuck, I love her lip. I love the fucking way she's staring at me, hesitant to move, but still fighting against me in her own way. Fight me, you goddamn fucking gorgeous bitch. God, she makes me so fucking hard.

  I don't know what my battles are anymore. I lose one of them, while winning another. I'm on my back now. Her lip's still between my teeth and my hand's on her breast, but she's squishing against me, making this difficult.

  I give up her lip and her breast as a casualty of our sex wars, and go for something else instead. I squeeze both hands on her round tight fucking delicious ass, almost smacking it, then I shove one hand past the waistband of her pajama pants. Her bare ass feels so fucking perfect in my palm. I knead her there, then reach lower, grasping for the sweet spot between her legs.

  She buries her head into my neck and whispers into my ear. "Noah, stop," she says.

  "I don't want to fucking stop," I tell her.

  "Please," she says. "Please stop for a second."

  Yeah, alright, fuck. I stop. "What's wrong, love?" I ask.

  What a shitty fucking question. I know what the fuck is wrong. This entire situation. Every fucking thing we're doing.

  "We cannot make love," she says. "Do you understand?"

  "Yeah," I say. "I got it. That's fine, love. I wasn't going to make love to you, anyways. I was going to fuck you hard."

  She laughs. Fuck. I'm dead. I'm dying. What the fuck is going on?

  She's laughing and squeezing me and nuzzling against my neck, pressing her beautiful lips against my throat in soft kisses. It makes my heart stop.

  You watch movies or whatever fucking shit you watch, or you read books, listen to music, what the fuck ever. There's that dumb shit about magical moments, right? Oh, it was such a fucking magical moment. I knew from the first time I met you that I loved you, blah blah blah, fuck off, romantic bullshit.

  You can believe in that shit if you want, but it's not true. I'm sorry to be the one to fucking tell you that, but it's not. Life goes on. Oh well.

  That shit's not magical because it's so fucking fake. It's not real. It's some imitation brand bullshit that people like to tell each other. You go on your first date and you're fucking nervous, not intoxicatingly aroused. Yeah, it might be a fun date. Maybe you've got a connection going. What the fuck did you talk about? You like baseball? Oh yeah? Me, too! Fucking amazing, that's astounding! Whoa holy shit!

  What I'm saying here is you can have a nice time with someone and it might turn out well in the end, but it's not fucking magical. Love is bullshit. I've said my piece on love before now, and I'm sticking to it. Maybe that shit's nice, though. Maybe you do like each other. How the fuck should I know?

  The magic doesn't exist in that exact moment, it's created by all the fucking moments after that. You just went on a date and talked about baseball? Who the fuck cares? Then you go to a game with that person, though. It's fun. You stay home together and cuddle up on the couch and watch the World Series another time or some shit. You go to a fucking museum with baseball stuff.

  That's where your magic comes from. It's not that one, initial, first fucking moment, it's all of the moments together. That one moment became special and magical because your entire fucking existence with this person has been nothing but amazing. In your head, at least. Who the fuck knows what the other person thinks. Maybe they think you're a good lay and you've got a nice cock. Wouldn't surprise me.

  Anyways, my point there is that this is that, and it confuses the fuck out of me. It's not Angeline's laugh that makes me want to fucking drink from her nectar. Fuck, I don't even know what the hell that means, myself. It's not her laugh or her deceptively tender kisses or the way her nose teases against my neck. The magic in her laugh has nothing to do with any of this or her laugh. It's a byproduct of a bunch of fucking shit.

  It's the fact that after fucking kidnapping me, biting me, slamming my head against a wall, knocking the air from my lungs, chaining me up—sometimes for days, ripping out six of my nails, licking my bloody finger like it was a goddamn cherry popsicle, and all the other fucking bullshit...

  Now she's here in my fucking arms, laughing. I don't even know how this happened. I guess I said something funny. She's being a playful fucking gorgeous moonlit nymph and I don't know what the fuck to do about it.

  I want to fucking fall in love with her, but I think love is a bunch of bullshit, too. I want to fucking kill her for all the crap she put me through, but I also want to shove my throbbing cock into her cunt and make fucking love to her.

  Yeah, fuck you. That's a compromise on my part. "Make fucking love" has got to be slightly better than "fuck you hard," right? I think it's halfway between fucking hard and making love. Don't quote me on that. I'm making this shit up as I go.

  She's nuzzling against me still, but we're not kissing and my hands aren't in her pants anymore. We're not going to fuck. That's all I know right now. I don't know anything else except that we're not going to fuck. I think I'm fine with it. I shouldn't be fucking fine with that, but I think I am. Fuck me, this is bad.

  "Do you love me?" she asks.

  "No," I say, immediately.

  She giggles. Fuck. First she's laughing, now she's fucking giggling? Where's that knife? I don't want to stab her anymore, I need to stab myself.

  "I want you to," she says.

  Notice here, and I think this is real fucking important, that she doesn't say she loves me. Because it's bullshit, that's why. I get that. I'm fine with that. That makes sense to me. I can fucking understand it.

  "I love how you laugh," I say, because I'm a fucking asshole and an idiot. "It's cute, love. You sound happy."

  "I do not know when the last time I laughed was, Noah," she says, but she smiles and kisses me when she says it. "I like it. Say something else that is funny to me."

  The fuck? How the fuck should I know what makes Angeline laugh? I don't know how the fuck I did it in the first place. I've got an idea, though. Fuck, this is a good one!

  "Lay down first, love," I say.

  She looks sad when she leans back, reluctantly laying on the bed. Expectant, though. "I want to hold—" she starts to say.

  I don't let her finish. I pounce on her and my fingers dig into the soft, sensitive flesh at her sides. She squirms and fucking laughs so hard. She kicks her feet and slaps at my hands and laughs and wriggles, but I keep her pinned to the bed. I tickle her and hold her down so she can't escape. My heart fucking melts and I die when I see her laughing, smiling, happy tears washing down the sides of her squinting, moonlit eyes.

  I tickle her until she's only squirming by instinct now, no longer fighting and thrashing against me. Then I sink my body atop hers and kiss her softly. She kisses me back and hugs me and then I roll to the side and we're staring into each other's eyes.

  I don't know where the fuck I went wrong. I don't know how the fuck this happened.

  "Are you tired, Noah?" she asks.

  "Yeah," I say.

  "Do you wish to sleep again?"

  "I don't know."

  "I will be here when you wake up," she says. "We will talk."

  "Is that a threat or a promise?" I ask.

  She kisses me. "A promise."

  Yeah, I need that knife right about now. I really fucking need it. I'm on the wrong side of the bed and we're tangled up in blankets, though. I don't want to get up.

  "Do not hurt me, Noah," she says.

  I don't know how the fuck she can ask me to do that after all the shit she's done. I don't know how the fuck she can act like everything's going to be perfect and wonderful tomorrow. Here's a clue in case you don't understand: It's not, it won't be.

  (Day Eighteen)

  *** Noah

>   I wake up from a bad fucking dream. In my mind, there's still fire and blood everywhere. The high walls are burning, fire spreading while smoke closes in on me. No. It's closing in on us. I look over at her and she's playing in the blood from the dead bodies. Blood covers her bare feet and her dress. I gave her that fucking dress. It wasn't anything special, just something I got from one of my neighbors. How the fuck old was I then?

  I don't even remember how this happened. That's not true. Of course I remember. I don't know exactly when it happened, but I remember every fucking second of that day.

  I started it. I meant to end it. It was an end, but I don't know if it was a good one. I see her playing in the pool of blood from one of the dead bodies. I killed that man, but he fucking deserved it. He was fucking terrible. He was a fucking monster.

  She smiles at me, giddy, and giggles. The sound reminds me of something else I've heard, but I don't know what. It didn't remind me of anything back then; it was new and fresh and terrifying. She presses her palm into the blood like it's red paint, then she wipes it down the front of her dress. The dress was kind of grey, but it was supposed to be white. She loves white. I don't remember why the fuck she loves white. I remember some of the reason, but it always sounded odd to me.

  She presses her hand in the blood again. She moves the corpse's dead, lifeless head to the side, staring at him. He's not scary anymore. She's not afraid of him. Good.

  I always thought this and I still think it: I hope he fucking rots and goes to hell.

  Her hands dip into the blood again. We need to fucking leave. The fire is spreading and we need to get out of here before someone comes. This wasn't supposed to be like this. Yeah, no, it really was supposed to fucking be like this. I planned this shit. I didn't think she'd do this, though. I thought she'd be happy. It was supposed to make her happy.

  She presses her palms against her cheeks and smiles a bloody fucking grin. Blood creeps down her face from just below her eyes, to her cheeks, to the corner of her lips. She smiles at me, wide, some huge fucking sadistic grin. She's so pretty. Fuck. She's not pretty now, because she's covered in the blood of a guy I killed, crouching there and fucking playing in it, but...

  I can't stop looking at her. She's smiling so wide and the blood slips down her cheeks. A thin stream escapes the rest and falls down the side of her nose to the middle of her lips. One drop falls onto her lower lip. She instinctively licks her lips to clean it away. Another drop follows. More. She's fucking devouring it. She puts a finger in her mouth and licks it clean, then another one, and another, and I don't know what the fuck to do anymore.

  We need to go. I run towards her and grab her bloody hand and pull her to her feet. We flee like fucking criminals. You know why? Because we're fucking criminals. The walls around us burn and I hear a ceiling beam high above start to crack. I run with her. We run.

  I'm fucking awake right now, but I still see this shit. Fuck. I'm laying in bed in the middle of the morning, fucking paralyzed, staring at the wall in front of me. I swear it's burning. It's on fire. I'm going to die. Where the fuck is she? Somehow I glance to my side and I see her. Fuck, what is she doing?

  "Hello, Noah," Angeline says.

  I can't fucking move. I can't say anything. She's sitting on a chair near a tiny circle table with a jam-smothered piece of toast on a plate in front of her. She lifts the toast to her lips and takes a bite. Red fucking raspberry jam or some shit covers her lips and she licks them clean. It's so fucking red. It's her. I can't unsee her. That's not her. There's no fire, no body, no blood. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

  I want to grab her hand and run away from here. Somehow I wake the fuck up even though I was already awake. I'm awake again, extra fucking awake now.

  I'm covered in sweat and my body shakes with nightmarish chills. Fuck, I can't do this.

  You're safe now. That's what I fucking told her that day. She was safe. She is. She left. I brought her somewhere and left her there. She didn't want to fucking leave me, but I made her. I had to go. I didn't do enough. I needed to do more. They weren't the only ones. I don't know if she knew that, but I couldn't tell her. I couldn't fucking tell her. I couldn't bear to do it. Not then, not now, not ever. I didn't know until later and by then it was too late.

  Angeline comes over to me, bringing the plate of toast with her. I don't know what the fuck she's doing, but she looks worried. Fuck. If I'm worrying Angeline, then there's seriously something fucking wrong with me.

  "You are safe now," she says. "Did you have a bad dream?"

  When I open my mouth, I think I'm going to talk. I don't, though. I don't know why the fuck I opened my mouth. Angeline picks up the piece of toast and offers me a bite. I take it. Fuck, I'm hungry. The only thing I've had in the past few days was that bottle of orange juice she gave me right before she was...

  Fuck. I chew the toast, but I'm not into it. Tastes like toast and fucking red jam. What the fuck more do you want from me? I'm not a poet. It's red, it's jam, figure that shit out on your own. I've got more important things to do.

  I grab my crotch and bury my hands in my pants. Yeah. Fuck. Yes. Good. I've got balls. I am not without them. I still have my testicles. Great. This is going to be a really good fucking day, you know that? Let's all fucking celebrate.

  Angeline takes another bite of her toast, then feeds me again. I bite without thinking. I get jam on my lip, but who the fuck cares? Angeline does. Shit.

  She leans down and licks my lip clean, then she fucking kisses me.

  Did I tell you how really fucking hungry I am? Yeah, guess what? I don't want toast anymore. I've still got balls and I want to fucking use them.

  I don't know how the fuck I manage it, but the plate of toast goes on the bedside table in a somewhat respectable and polite manner. That's it. That's all the patience I've got. I grab Angeline and pull her into bed with me. Get the fuck out of here, blankets. It's morning. I don't need any of your shit.

  Angeline's in bed. We're in bed. Together. Fuck yeah. She's wearing these cute fucking blue pajamas. Regular blue pajama pants, and some adorable as fuck pale blue top that clings to her breasts. It's loose, though, not tight. I don't know how the fuck it clings to her breasts like that. I'm not a woman's fashion designer. It just fucking clings, and I love it.

  I start to fucking go punch drunk mad with insane lusting love fuckability. Yeah, I made that word up. Fuck you. I want to empty the contents of my beautiful fucking balls inside of this gorgeous woman's cunt. I'm real fucking romantic like that.

  I start to try to do that and then I realize I'm wearing pink. What the fuck? It's a pink shirt, like Angeline's, and it's clinging to me, too. Are men's shirts supposed to cling? Fuck if I know. I check quick, and I'm wearing pink fucking pajama pants, too. Angeline is looking at me like I'm crazy.

  Fuck you, love. Yeah, I'm crazy. You're crazy. We're all fucking mad here. Let's have a goddamn tea party and celebrate the fact that it's not our birthday. I'll even wear a goofy fucking hat. What time is it? Who the fuck cares!

  "What's with the pink shit?" I ask. Have to get that out of the way before I fuck this beautiful bitch senseless. Sorry, I phrased that wrong. Going to make fucking love to this beautiful bitch, senselessly. Good? Yeah. Fuck off.

  "You do not like it?" she asks. She tilts her gorgeous fucking head to the side, questioning me.

  "It's pink, love," I say. "It's fucking pink."

  "I like pink," she says.

  What the fuck happened to her eyes? Fuck. I love her eyes. I lean down close and touch my nose to hers and just stare into her pretty fucking eyes. Fuck. Let's just do this all day. Do people do that? Is that a thing or what? Someone fucking tell me, quick.

  She's no longer soulless and empty and I don't know when the fuck that happened, but I kind of like it. I like it now, at least. I liked the soulless shit before. Seemed real fucking dangerous and raw. Made her look like a badass.

  Fuck, this bitch is dangerous. I need to remember that.r />
  I have a damn itch on the end of my nose and I try to wiggle my nose against hers to scratch it, but that doesn't work. How the fuck should I know that wouldn't work? I've never done this before. I go to scratch it, but I use the wrong hand. I've got no fucking nails. Fuck.

  She took them. Yeah, I don't know how I feel about that, either. Who the fuck am I? I don't know. Who the fuck knows? My fingers hurt. I've still got some splint thing on my other hand, but it's small. That hurts, too. My finger is fucking broken. This gorgeous bitch laying under me broke it. She's fucking dangerous. She's fucking psychotic and crazy and insane and dangerous. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

  God, I want to fuck her so bad.

  She reaches up with a dainty, pretty hand, and scratches my nose with one of her petite fucking gorgeous fingers. Aw yeah. I move into her hand like a fucking cat. She scratches more. The itch is gone. Keep going, love. I don't care. Let's just keep doing this.

  We don't keep doing this. She kisses me. I kiss her. We roll, I roll, she rolls. We're laying on our sides now, face to face. How the fuck do you have sex like this? No fucking clue, don't ask me. I mean, yeah, if she was facing away from me, and we were spooning, I can see how that'd work, but we're not. We're facing each other. This is not how that works.

  She puts a hand on my lips and shushes me, but I'm not even fucking talking. Fuck her.

  "No," she says.

  One fucking word. No, what? Fuck you, Ange.

  "I want to fuck—" Damnit, I screwed that up. I try to fix it halfway. "—ing make love to you, Ange."

  I'm real fucking smooth. Don't forget it.

  "No," she says.

  Fuck.

  Why the fuck am I listening to her? You know why? Because. That's why. That's it. Fuck off. I don't know why, either. Probably because she knows thirty-seven different ways to kill me with her bare hands, she's ripped out six of my fingernails, and she likes the taste of my blood. Also, I love her goddamn eyes. Fuck.