Tears of Tess

by Pepper Winters

  I swallowed hard as he came within a fraction of kissing me. But, with a crooked smile, he pulled back. “You want me to kiss you, esclave. That’s not how this works.”

  Reaching into a back pocket, he pulled free a pair of silver scissors. Fear widened my eyes. What the hell?

  “You don’t get to choose what I do to you. Because you want me to kiss you, I won’t.”

  I moaned, then flinched, wishing I could slap a hand over my traitorous mouth. God, Tess, way to sound desperate. I didn’t want to be tied up and abused. So why do you ache for it? Shit, I was sick. The rape must’ve done something, made me a danger whore. But that was a lie. The only thing that happened was Q. He controlled my body like a puppeteer—I had no will to disobey—I couldn’t disobey.

  Maybe I should try to find the centre of calm from the day I sucked Q. The safe zone might protect from more upsetting thoughts. Save my sanity, stop me from leaping willingly into a realm of bondage and kink.

  I closed my eyes, trying hard to tap into blank safety. Fear swelled. If I didn’t stop my desires now, I might slide down a slippery slope, never finding my way back to normal.

  You were never normal. I pursed my lips, feeling lost and confused. How could I want two things at the same time? Roughness, freedom… both taunted with agonising temptation.

  Q took my chin in his thumb and forefinger, hypnotising me with his gaze. “Don’t. Stay with me.”

  How did he feel me withdrawing? I shook my head, dislodging his fingers. “What gave me away?”

  Q rolled his shoulders as if reigning himself in, bringing his energy to heel. “I told you—I sense you.” Toned muscles stood out beneath the white t-shirt; I couldn’t look away from the bulge in his jeans.

  “Now, stay still and present.” His face remained stoic and cool as he advanced with the scissors, running the cold kiss of metal along my neck, dipping to my throat. His breathing quickened as the blade nicked my collar.

  With perfect care, he cut my t-shirt right down the centre. Each snip undid me, thread by thread, until I was sure he opened my chest, revealing a rabbiting heart, and all my secrets.

  Everything he did symbolised so much. Q relished in playing me with unsaid words, everything about him a mystery.

  He won’t be so cocky when I discover who he is. I’d use those secrets to play the same game—a sick circle of mind-trips and power struggles. My core clenched at the thought of going head to head with Q in a battle of wills. I didn’t think I’d win, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to win. I could allow him to rule me—like I wanted him to.

  He swallowed when he snipped the hem, splaying it wide, showing bare breasts and rapidly breathing stomach. With perfect control, he ran the pinpoint of a blade from my lower lip, down my neck, between my cleavage, to the top of my cotton shorts.

  Skin broke out in goosebumps as he pressed ever so gently. The blade puckered my skin, but didn’t pierce. The delicate balance of trusting and fearing him made my heart buck out of control.

  Q seemed lost in contemplation, twisting the scissors in a circle around my belly button. He told me not to leave, to remain rather than disappearing in my mind, but he left. His face shadowed with thoughts and recollections. Things that didn’t seem pleasurable, things that made his body tremble. I’d give anything to follow him—to see if he lived in the dark or light.

  I tested the boundaries of the restraints, no give at all. He’d tied the knickers well. I squirmed beneath the blade; his eyes snapped to mine. He blinked, casting shadows away.

  Palming the scissors, he leaned closer, wrapping fingers around my wrists as the button of his jeans bit my belly. His clothed chest teased my nipples, making them harden to a painful nub. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you.”

  Oh, God. His voice activated every part. I panted breathlessly, “Why don’t you then? Or do you enjoying torturing first?”

  He reared back, jaw working. “Do you think this is torture? I could do so much worse, esclave. He rubbed his groin against mine, pressing my ass hard against the bedpost with his cock. “I want to do so much worse.” His accent thickened, muttering, “Je tiens à te faire hurler.” I want to make you scream. He didn’t say it in a kinky, playful way; he said it with passion so nightmarish, I couldn’t see anything but whips and pain and blood.

  That did it.

  My lust switched to fear and I moaned again, but this time, it was a plea. “Please… you don’t have to make me scream. You can take me. I’m yours.”

  He laughed darkly. “You don’t get it do you, esclave? Your permission turns me off. I need to take from you to feel something. If you think I’m not like those men who raped you, you’re wrong. There’s something broken in me, and I need your pain to come.” He twisted a nipple with angry fingers. I yelped.

  Pain coursed to pleasure, warming, making me wet. If Q was hardwired, needing pain to enjoy sex, so was I. I might’ve gone through my entire life, never knowing the key to my pleasure was pain.

  Q, in his brutality, showed me something taboo… showed I liked to be dominated, and not just light role-playing. No, I needed the real thing.

  Light shone through my brain at the realization. I’m not a sweet, innocent girl who wants cotton candy and sonnets. I’m a fighter, a slut, a woman who needed to be taught her own body.

  As I stood, tied to a bed with my owner leering with sin in his eyes and promise of hurt on his lips, I changed again. The chrysalis of who I’d been cracked open, letting me fly free. I unfurled newfound wings, becoming more than Tess. I became a twisted, treasured belonging, revelling in her ownership. Who wanted Q to hurt her.

  Fire blazed in my belly; I bared my teeth, snarling. “I won’t let you fuck me.”

  Everything slammed to a halt.

  Q. Me. Time.

  The world teetered while Q tried to read me. We glared into each other’s eyes, reflecting the same fucked-upness, recognizing the same in the other. The bond between us flared tight, reaching with glowing shackles, binding us together. I relished in the binds, accepting my true identity before Q even realized what I offered.

  Slowly, Q moved, his entire body predatory, smooth, shark like. “You won’t let me fuck you, esclave?” Delight shimmered in his gaze, etched with black smouldering lust. “I’ve already fucked you. What makes you think I want to again?”

  I thrust my hips forward, bumping an overheated core against his straining erection. The moment I slipped into unwilling victim, Q raged with hardness. His cock verged on iron, hard and unyielding.

  “I don’t care if you do or don’t. You won’t because I say you’re not allo—”

  He smothered me with his body; the post dug into my back as his mouth captured mine. A tongue speared between my lips.

  I whimpered, melted, wanting so badly to kiss him back. But that wasn’t allowed in the role I played. The role I needed to play.

  His lips branded, tearing another moan from me, rather than a curse. His tongue possessed my senses, forcing me to duel, to parry, to taste and savour. Was I returning his kiss? No, I wasn’t. I was fighting to breathe, in every sense of the word.

  I bucked, breaking the kiss, breathing ragged.

  He turned the scissors on me again, hands deathly still as he snipped the waistband of my shorts. He murmured, “You want me to stop?”

  God, no. Never.

  “Yes, you bastard. I won’t let you do this. It’s sick. Wrong. Let me go.”

  His body trembled with some undescribed emotion; keeping eye contact, he cut again.

  I squirmed as the metal continued lower and lower, brushing against my core. “You don’t have permission. Stop.”

  Eyes sharpened with challenge, and he deliberately cut slower, dragging out suspense, snipping clothes away, one clip at a time.

  The moment he cut the crotch, the shorts fell away, puddling to the floor in disgrace. If Q touched me, I’d combust. My damp knickers clung to every part. Pretending to fight stimulated my lust to a forest fire.


  No wonder missionary didn’t do it for me. I needed scissors and threats to become drunk on need.

  Q slammed to his knees, wrapping strong arms around my thighs, jerking me toward him. I screamed as his mouth connected over my knickers, hot breath radiating like a bomb between my legs. He nibbled my swollen clit through the material, dragging more erratic breaths from my lungs.

  I wanted to open my legs, to hook them over Q’s shoulder and ride his mouth, but that wasn’t the character of unwilling slave. Instead, I wriggled, trying to run from his probing, mind-melting tongue.

  He rumbled in his chest; it vibrated against my legs. With one hand, he grabbed my ankle, purposely bringing attention to the GPS anklet. His silent touch spoke volumes. You’re mine. I track you. You can’t escape.

  It was a red flag to my brain, knowing I could be wild and wanton because he wanted it. I could scream and writhe, and it only excited him. Brax would run if I ever screamed in bed.

  Q tongued me, pressing with a pointed tip, licking wet cotton. I couldn’t stop my breath turning softer, feathery, needful.

  “You don’t want this?” Q murmured again, standing slowly, trailing a finger up my inner thigh, right to my mouth. With a twist of his lips, he forced his finger into my mouth.

  The primal instinct to suck consumed, but I forced myself to go against instinct and bite instead.

  He jerked, yanking his finger away.

  I smiled darkly. “Put anything in my mouth and I swear to God, I’ll bite it off.” My mouth filled with saliva, anticipation making me hungry.

  Ever since I belonged to Q, I discovered things I was never strong enough to visit before. This new, dark part wanted to taste his blood. To get real and gritty and deliciously wrong.

  Q stepped closer, jeans scraping highly sensitive flesh. A band of release sparked from the contact. I’m so close. I’m never this close. God, Tess, he’s barely touched you.

  It was the mind games—my brain made it raw, wonderful.

  His eyes glazed with need and he bit my lower lip, dragging soft flesh between his teeth: a warning he’d bite back.

  I shuddered as he let me go. I expected him to cut my knickers off, but he paused, turning the scissors on himself.

  Arching his neck, he snipped the collar, cutting down the centre of the t-shirt, just like with mine. Once in half, he shrugged it off, letting it join my ruined clothes on the floor.

  My world spun and all I could think of was sparrows.

  Q glared, daring me to judge him. And judge I did. His entire torso and right side was covered in fluttering birds. The panic in a sparrow’s eyes closed my throat as they flew frantically from brambles, barbwire, and stormy clouds. The clouds roiled on his side, swallowing up unlucky birds, suffocating them to death.

  My heart hurt looking at Q’s intricate tattoo. There lurked an evilness, a sadness, reminding me of the mural on the wall of the pedestal room. I wanted to run fingers along perfectly inked feathers. I wanted to lick his nipple where one bird had gotten free, the joy in its eyes blazed with hope.

  So much was said by the design, but I didn’t understand it. I looked into his eyes. He held contact for a moment, before looking over my head. His hands curled and he sucked in a breath, outlining perfectly cut stomach muscles.

  He vibrated with tension. My heart fluttered like little sparrow wings, and I gave my last sense to Q. My sense of sight. Standing so erect, standoffish, he filled my vision with everything I ever wanted. He owned everything but instincts and heart.

  “Tell me. Tell me the story of the birds.”

  He clenched his jaw. “It isn’t a story you need to know.”

  “But it means so much to you. I see a reoccurring theme, Q… I want to understand.”

  His face blackened. “You don’t have the right to call me Q when you’re tied to the bed. I’m your maître. Address me as such.”

  Anger at being denied made me argumentative. “I’ll fight you. You’ll have to wrap me up in brambles, same as the sparrows on your chest, if you want to fuck me, maître.”

  My taunt worked; he grabbed my chin with hard fingers. “You think you’re so fierce with your threats. My job isn’t to wrap you in shackles, esclave. My job is to unshackle you. And as much as you deny it, I’m doing a damn fine job.”

  He ran his nose against mine, murmuring, “So shut the fuck up, stop looking at me like I’m some code to be cracked, and let me do what I fucking want to you.”

  Stepping back, he attacked his jeans. Rather than undoing them, he cut them. Sawing through the waist band, slicing down the legs. Each snip revealed hard thighs kissed by little curls, firm quads, and perfect bare feet. “Let’s see how you stick to your threats when I take your body.”

  Oh, God. My insides were liquid, heated. Embarrassment at being wet painted my cheeks with red. I couldn’t control my reaction. Q was my master in every sense.

  Q stepped from the ruined jeans, closing the small distance between us. I couldn’t look away from his tattoo. I related to it and in a way, I knew what it represented, but the conclusion kept leaping from grabbing distance.

  Rolling hips into mine, wearing only boxer briefs, Q murmured, “Tell me again you don’t want this, esclave.”

  How could I lie when my body screamed the truth? My mind was lust filled, hazy, but I had a part to play. Q wanted me to fight so… I fought.

  I leaned forward, snapping my teeth, coming within a hair breadth of his nose. “Go to hell.”

  His cock jumped in his boxer-shorts, scalding me. Out of nowhere, his palm connected with my cheek, sending spasms of heat.

  I gasped, glaring with watering eyes. “You fucking hit a woman when she says no? You’re perverted.”

  He pursed his lips. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Taking him up on his offer, I whispered, “You think you’re a monster. You’re not.”

  He grabbed my hair, twisting my neck. Agony flared, and I whimpered in real fear. “Would a kind man do this?”

  When I didn’t answer, he twisted further until I screamed. “No! Only a monster does that.”

  Not pacified, he reached for the scissors, quickly snipping my knickers and his boxers. They fluttered to the floor in pieces. Q weighed the scissors in his hand, before tracing my naked stomach with the blade. “Would a kind man do this?” With a flick of his wrist, he nicked me. Blood welled in the tiny cut. I shivered, wanting to put my hand over the wound, to hide it, heal it.

  Real tears dripped. I was an idiot to think there was something redeemable in this man.

  “No, only a monster would do that.” My voice was barely audible.

  Q sneered. “Now you know the truth.” He bent and licked the blood off my stomach. His tongue lapped; my core clenched, reacting to the tenderness after inflicting pain. His saliva staunched the bleeding and he straightened, licking his lips.

  Everything tightened, my mouth parted, desperate to taste his blood. Tasting him was fair. He cut me—a debt must be paid.

  Q narrowed his eyes, our souls screamed at each other, unhindered by human words.

  I want to hurt you.

  I want to own you.

  I want to devour you.

  I want to make you mine.

  I’m already yours.

  Who thought that? Me or him? Whose eyes spoke the truth before we acknowledged it in our minds?

  Q reached up, and with a quick slice, nicked below his nipple with the sparrow flying free. A droplet of crimson welled. I watched with crippling need.

  Taste. I have to taste.

  He stood taller, placing his chest against my mouth. I greedily lapped the droplet, moaning as salty metallic fogged my entire being. Once I cleaned him, he pulled away, murmuring, “Monsters find each other in the dark.”

  I couldn’t read his tone, and I didn’t like the implication. Am I a monster? Compared to Brax most definitely, but Q… there were limits he crossed that I never could. Had we found each other in the darkness? I
may have black desires, but I loved light, too. I needed tenderness to temper pain and degradation. Was that an option?

  Q wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking, looking deep into my eyes. With another hand, he found my centre, easing a finger deep inside.

  Even though my body rippled, I never stopped being in character. Q couldn’t know how much I wanted this. I had to fight—I wanted to fight.

  I somehow tapped into a kickass actress, coaxing a tear to fall. “I don’t want this.”

  His nostrils flared. Unwrapping fingers from his cock, he captured a tear on a fingertip. He stared at it, then me, indecision searing in his gaze. The night reclaimed him, shadowing his face. He licked the salty tear. “You’ll be crying more before I’m finished with you.”

  I began a file on what turned my master on. Tears was one, struggles another. What was his ultimate undoing? I wouldn’t stop until I found out.

  Tears shed again, forcing myself into the headspace of hating him, just like when I first arrived. Before he saved me, killed for me. Q didn’t want a meek slave. He loved my unbrokenness.

  Another puzzle locked into place. Was that what Suzette meant when she said Q didn’t touch her because she was ruined? He touched me, because I fought—I was strong. He couldn’t fuck an injured… yet he wanted… what did he want? To tame me? To parry? Something in him wanted to be accused of being a rapist, of being sick and twisted, because that’s how he honestly saw himself.

  Q flicked a tongue over my cheek, catching tears. I gasped and wriggled, biting my lip as our naked bodies slid against each other. My nipples sprang to an all new hardness, budding with excitement.

  His head bowed, forehead to forehead. I breathed him in, gluing myself to the post, making sure no part reached for him. That would ruin the game. I couldn’t forget, I didn’t want this.

  “Ah, esclave. Tu m'excite au-delà de la croyance.” You excite me beyond belief. Fingers shot between my legs, plunging deep. My knees trembled as his hand rocked, hard.

  I whimpered, body reacting—swelling, melting, needing. I was ravenous for whatever Q gave. I wanted him so badly, but I wanted to fight just as much. The act of saying no did strange things to me, turning sex from mediocre to knee-wobbly and carnal. I became a hungry, libido-driven woman; only Q could scratch my erotic itch.