The Darker Side of Love (A Dark Erotica Boxed Set)

by Tara Crescent

  “I don’t know.” Tears threatened to well up in her eyes. That was the other thing about this mess that she had allowed herself to be dragged back into. He couldn’t content himself with her surrender, or do nothing but grab her and have his way with her in a silence only broken by moans and grunts. He had to ask questions and tell her of his intentions and demand that she make decisions, and saddle her with the same responsibility she was counting he would take away from her. “Just . . . do what you must. Please.”

  So he did. He ripped the rest of her dress apart, layer by layer, taking no care to leave her skin intact. She guessed that holding back his drive to harm was something he reserved for first times, or for the girls who were smart enough to not leave everything about their dalliances up to him. Or maybe just for the girls who screamed when he dug his nails in their soft bits, instead of keening and inhaling sharply and watching with dreamy, half-lidded eyes how the water around them turned pink.

  The latter, she thought wistfully, was far more likely.

  When he was done reducing her clothing to a wreckage of strings and all the heavier pieces he’d torn off had sunk to the bottom, he turned her around. She tried to search his face for clues about what he was about to do, but his features had gone peacefully bland, and his mouth was a straight line that betrayed none of his potentially nefarious intentions. She knew better than to try to get a reading out of his eyes, so she avoided those altogether.

  He placed a hand on the underside of her right thigh and lifted it, coming closer to her in the meantime. She guessed what he wanted from her, and since he hadn’t outright asked, she convinced herself there was no harm in giving it to him. Using the wall to support her back, she allowed the water to lift her lower body, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He smiled, thinly, and put his arms around her in turn.

  “Take a deep breath,” he said. It was all the warning he offered her.

  Before she could ask the why of it, he grabbed her tighter, almost smothering her, and threw himself to the side, jerking her along. Rose was pulled underwater. It was the last thing she’d expected from him, and the shock made her open her mouth, which was a mistake. Her soundless yell bubbled after her as he turned her, spinning her around as easily as he would a doll, and pushed her further down.

  Her back met the smooth pool bottom. Powerful forces hounded her from all sides, attempting to push her both back up and down. Down won over, though, as the killer was still on top of her, keeping her in place. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t even begin to ask herself why he was doing what he was doing, or summon the willpower to feel betrayed by his actions. Instinct had completely overridden her, cutting her most immediate preoccupations down to two: need to breathe, and need to be anywhere but where she was.

  The killer’s face was distorted by the short span of water that separated her, but she could tell with one look that at the moment, he was feeling much better than she did. Being fully in control of the situation would do that to a person.

  He kissed her, and successfully wormed his tongue inside her mouth enough to deftly pry the rest of it open. He breathed into her, sending a puff of air straight towards her lungs and brain.

  It improved her awareness for as long as it took her to realize that he wasn’t done. Her legs had gone sleepy and she couldn’t see much other than white haze below her waist, meaning that she hadn’t noticed what had been going on down there for the past seconds, but she did feel the cursedly familiar touch of the head of his shaft, pressing itself against her outer lips. Surely he wouldn’t . . . not underwater . . .

  He did.

  It wasn’t painful at all, a fact Rose found difficult to wrap her mind around. She had expected pain. She would never go as far as to say that she had wanted the pain, or been disappointed by its absence, but it was the sort of thing she thought should go hand in hand with being taken, and the easy, smoothly sliding entry was very much at odds with that.

  In everything else, the feelings were the same ones she’d experienced the night before, from the fullness to the pins-and-needles sensation on the surface of her skin, to the impression that her belly was being stretched outwards. Only the aches were absent. She would never admit it aloud, but it did take some of the edge off the whole thing.

  Her lungs appeared to be trying to compensate for his painless entry in the most outrageous way, though. She had exhausted her last air reserves, and they were screaming for more of it with all their might. Being thrust into and kissed and bitten repeatedly did more to worsen matters than to improve them. One or the other was making the insides of her head feel like they too were being drowned.

  Drowned.

  She struggled against him, scratching at his face, realizing at last that he was trying to kill her, realizing how much she couldn’t do to prevent it from happening.

  If he was real, could he kill her inside her dream?

  He pulled her hands together and slammed them down over her head, driving her pulse out of control. Blood rushed in her ears, behind her eyes, in the flesh around her teeth. The white haze in front of her kept switching from white to pink to red, and finally, black.

  It hadn’t been in her plans, insofar as she had any, to die like this. Worse, she couldn’t shake the conviction that it was her fault more than his. He was a murderer, doing the very thing he was known for doing. She was the fool who had allowed him to come close enough.

  A choked, rough sob escaped her throat, and things faded to black for the last time.

  Rose woke in her bed.

  It didn’t take her long to understand that waking was the wrong word for what she had done. She was neither dead nor underwater anymore, but it was clear that she hadn’t exited the dream either, because she had also been wrong about the bed. It wasn’t hers. Her bed in the attic was many things — clean, serviceable — but it was about as soft as two month old bread, and only marginally more comfortable. This one molded itself to her sore body as if it were actively trying to soothe it. Besides, there was the fact that she was naked.

  “Thank you,” the killer said, quietly. He lifted one of her hands and brushed his lips against it. “I understand how hard that must have been for you to do. Just know that I greatly appreciate the gift you gave me.”

  “Did I die?” Rose didn’t think she was dead. She had little to no experience with the state in question, to be sure, but she was under the impression that if she were, she would be less wet. Still, she felt compelled to make sure, and if he was allowed to babble nonsense, then so was she. “Did you kill me?”

  “Of course not. I brought you to the brink of death, and then back.” The mattress dipped down. The killer rolled his weight towards her, but did not embrace her. He continued, speaking with a touch of almost . . . vulnerable longing. “It was a beautiful thing to experience. Would that I could do the same thing in reality.”

  “I think you might be a monster,” Rose said. She meant it seriously, but didn’t have the energy to spend in saying it accusingly. She could feel the last of her strength seeping out of her pores and vanishing, like droplets of water on sun-kissed cobbles. Getting herself worked up over something so obvious didn’t seem worth it. “Is this a thing you do to every girl who catches your fancy, or am I a special case?”

  “You are somewhat special, yes.”

  “Somewhat,” she repeated. She dared to open her eyes and check where she was now, despite being certain that she knew already. Her suspicions were confirmed when she looked through the pane of glass beside the bed and saw the balcony, and the same bird from before shuffling over the railing. Not that long ago, she’d been afraid of finding herself there again. Now it didn’t seem to matter all that much. “On account of the unique tastes that you believe I have?”

  “On account of the unique tastes that I know you have,” came the gentle correction. Rose didn’t argue. Arguing would fall in the same category of getting angry with him. It’d be a waste of effort. Besides, that particular argument wasn’t one s
he was sure she could win even if she held it against herself. “How are you faring?”

  Oh. Now he was concerned about that.

  “There is water in my lungs, I think.”

  He waved a hand.

  “And now there is none.”

  And there wasn’t. Anywhere, neither in her nor on her. Even the pillowcase she’d been soaking with her hair was back to being impeccably dry. It was that simple to him, to fix things. Rose had a feeling that there was some kind of message that she should be gleaning from that, but whatever it was eluded her for the moment.

  She faced him. While she had been — did ‘unconscious’ apply, in dreams? — he had taken care to dress up again, at least from the waist down. She thanked the Lord for small mercies.

  He also appeared to be waiting for something, or in want of something — most likely something he expected her to offer him — and it seemed rather uncharacteristic that he wasn’t outright telling her what it was. Then she remembered. The spanking, of course. He’d told her they’d get to that, and he wouldn’t let go of a deal he had made, she knew that much about him.

  She wished she could fall asleep. The fact that she was asleep already did nothing to change that.

  “Do you still want to . . .” she trailed off, finding it unnecessary to finish. She knew the answer, and he knew what the question was.

  “I do. However . . .” He slipped a finger between her legs and pressed it down, until her natural moistness swallowed it with shameful greediness. The contact caused her to jump, but she didn’t say anything otherwise. What would be the point? “I can sense that you are not entirely charmed by the idea.”

  Well, no. A spanking wasn’t a thing to be charmed by under the best of circumstances, and receiving one after how close she’d come to drowning, from the person responsible for said drowning, pushed it up to undesirable.

  The killer nodded knowingly and nudged her head onto his extended arm.

  “We can do something different instead, to begin with.” He scratched his chin, becoming pensive. “Something not even you have any doubt you can take pleasure in. Is there anything you suggest?”

  “Your kisses are pleasant,” she said, thoughtlessly but without much regret. Her world had shifted so much that kissing had suddenly turned into something innocent enough that she felt she could admit to liking it. She also wondered, idly, how it was that someone as evil and callous as him could smile like a rising sun.

  He sat up and started, from below, with her toes, lifting her leg to kiss the soles of her feet, around her ankles and in the hollow space above her heel. It was, and this too she could freely admit to, a curiously calming feeling. She didn’t need to do anything. Nothing was being demanded from her by way of answers, input or actions. She could simply lean back, comfort herself with the fact that things were enjoyable for the time being, and appreciate the reprieve while it lasted.

  To her surprise, he avoided the triangle between her legs, kissing her around it a few times but wasting no time in moving to her belly button. Her breasts were his next stop. He tilted his chin at her, as if considering something, and when she didn’t react in any way, his mouth latched onto one of her nipples.

  A familiar tremor flew up her body, focusing itself on the small piece of flesh between his lips. He started sucking, and she sucked in a breath. This, too, was so simple to him, even though she wasn’t convinced it wasn’t partially her fault that it was simple. She seemed to want to respond to him no matter what. Was it because he had been her first, or was she just that brazen?

  She supposed that in the end, it didn’t matter much.

  Her other nipple was starting to itch with neglect. Noticing its tautness, he stroked it and pinched it between his thumb and index finger, creating a small, dull ache. Rose bit her lip, holding back a whimper that wanted to be a moan, and hardly dared to breathe until he had given her chest all the attention he could afford.

  To her consternation, he didn’t move to her face or neck after he was done there. Instead, he signaled at her to turn herself around. She did, in one alarmed, unsteady motion, and her nervousness grew when instead of restarting the trail of kisses down her back, he sat down next to her, against the headboard, and patted his lap. Her heart sank.

  She truly, truly had liked the kisses. At least compared with what was to come.

  Warily, she draped herself over his legs. His grunt of approval should, by no rights, make so many wings flap in her stomach that it felt like she’d eaten live birds for dinner. Yet she couldn’t deny that his approval was . . . meaningful. Meaningful not only because she felt she wasn’t approved of often enough, but because his approval seemed like something other people seldom earned, which made it all the more precious.

  “How many times will you . . .” She couldn’t finish. One of the matrons at the orphanage, the one who was usually in charge of doling out the punishments, had a penchant for counting strokes. She remembered how other children would always chant along with her, in an endless echo of petty mockery. There was a reason why Rose never counted to ten to calm herself.

  “As many as you like.”

  “One?” she tried, desperately hopeful. He grinned in reply and brought his hand down, with deliberate slowness, landing a blow on the fleshiest part of her left flank. Rose yelped and tried to jerk away, but his other arm kept her where she was.

  To her surprise, the next time he lowered his hand, it was to leave a long, deep caress across her, starting at her shoulders and ending where he had struck her. The skin there felt frail and overly sensitive, and ached despite the gentleness of his touch, but even Rose had to acknowledge that it wasn’t remotely as intense a pain as the one he’d inflicted on her the night before.

  “Another?” She shook her head, which he somehow took as a cue to pet it. “Do you remember how you reacted, yesterday, when I entered you for the first time? How you complained about the pain? Still, all it took for you to start enjoying yourself then was to experience it anew, more strongly. You will see that the same is true for this, if you are brave enough to follow through.”

  “I . . .” How was it possible that he had looked into her eyes, claimed to know her own desires better than she did, and yet couldn’t be made wise to the fact that he didn’t need to convince her to do anything? It was the ceaseless questioning, the badgering for consent that stumped her. Didn’t he know that she could never say that she wanted him? “Do as you will.”

  She could tell that her answer didn’t satisfy him, but his expression showed it more than the next blow, which was light, almost more of a swat when compared to the former. It dawned on her that he was trying to ascertain if she would object to his continued torment. When she did not, he frowned, then shrugged.

  “As I said before,” he murmured, “you are a confusing woman.”

  Rose couldn’t quite contradict him.

  More blows rained down on her. He was methodic about dishing them out, focusing on one cheek at a time and moving on to the other once the one he had been working on grew sufficiently red for his liking. At some point, he grabbed her wrists and tied them together behind her back. The reminder of the other time he’d done that and the unpleasantness that had followed wasn’t enough to kill the buzzing sensation inside her ears. She was tied up. Helpless. Nothing would stop him from smacking her backside red, as he had promised. Nothing short of a true denial that she knew she couldn’t, wouldn’t voice no matter how far he took things . . .

  Her breath hitched. She had closed her eyes midway, and her teeth were on the verge of biting through her lip with the effort of keeping herself quiet. He hadn’t ordered her to, but she was doing it nevertheless, whether out of self-preservation or an unconscious desire to please him, she couldn’t say.

  The blows began to fade into each other, sting after sting after sting. It surprised her that he wasn’t tired yet. She had lost track of how many times he had unleashed his hand on her backside — that was maybe the best part, that she did
n’t have a choir standing around her or a droning voice reminding her of the correct number — but already she felt drained, worn out. If there was anything the experience compared to, it was to the end of a day of unusually hard work, when every joint and muscle protested and the whole of her felt like it had been put through a wringer. Or what came after it, more exactly: the falling into bed, knowing it was over and that the time to unwind and give herself peace had finally arrived.

  Yes, Rose thought to herself. What was happening wasn’t all that different from that, if the wringing and the unwinding were happening simultaneously. It wasn’t pleasure — she wouldn’t call it pleasure, not in the least because then she would be admitting that the killer had been right about her — but rather an endless circle of horrible, agonizing strain and blessed relief.

  When it ended, she felt an inexplicable urge to cry.

  “It is nearly dawn, where you are,” he said, by way of explanation. She could tell he regretted that things had to end so soon. There was a vibrating tension in his hand as he placed it on her bottom for the last time, like it wanted to lift itself on its own and keep smacking down. “Would you like to continue this tomorrow?”

  Rose made a noncommittal noise. It would be the best reply he could get out of her, and she thought that maybe he was finally beginning to understand that, because he smiled, pulled her up against his chest and rested his head atop hers.

  His hand covered the apex of her thighs and fingered it lightly, nowhere near fast enough to bring her to any sort of climax, but with enough persistence to keep the humming under her skin alive long after it should have vanished. It took her a shockingly long time to understand that he was, in his own peculiar, incomprehensible way, attempting to soothe her.

  “There was another question I had,” she mumbled, happy that the sentence hadn’t come out in the wrong order. “You told me that you would not murder me now because you find me interesting. However, in the alley, when you spared me . . . you told me that I was unlucky. What did you mean by that?”