Carpe Victim

Carpe Victim-8

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My muscles ache, throb and burn, from fighting myself and him, fighting so hard and losing, fighting so hard I swear I hear muscle, tendon and sinew tear. 

His smile deepens. You probably do—not that it does you any good.

Lets me expend the last of my strength trying to move him; then, invisible fingers close around my wrists again. The Hag blitzkriegs over me with a vengeance, Her icy pressure forcing me down, forcing me back even as I struggle. When I'm flat under him again, it coerces a new image—and an urgency—into my mind, a need to name, to describe, the urgency, the image. The vision, the activity it depicts, appalls me though it doesn't surprise me. The words--and their choking need to express them--battle against my panicked need to smother them in my throat. I can't let them escape and humiliate me. The Hag's glacier presses me inexorably into the mattress. Compels the words out of me.

"Mount me," and I gasp. My voice—but I didn't ask.

"But I did," whispered into my mouth, and I know—with wretched clarity—this is him, his alien, icy presence exercising his will, his command from my mind to my mouth, something I fought so desperately against: his order, those words, that image, now out of my mouth and in the open between us.

All as he watches, his body still but for one finger tracing the curve of my lips, only his mind at work, his half-smile still mocking me, "This was always going to be a war of wills—and you the spoils."

Was? Past tense?

"Does this look like winning to you?" His mouth twists, turns deeply malicious. "If it does, you and I are way more suited than I dared dream. Admire your fortitude, I truly do. You held out longer than I imagined. Never really had a chance, though. You were mine the moment I touched you. A condition of my existence, I suppose you'd call it." He sees my grimace and adds, "Well, it is a fitting description, whether we're talking your impotence or my survival. I get an initial sense or image of my intended...target. I looked at you and caught," closes his eyes, re-savoring the images. "Sea spray, rocks and crags, wild places. The specifics of your past didn't come 'til..."

"You'd touched me." I remember the murmur of his skin's corn silk dust in my hand. Recall as well, how the scent of my past intensified—clarified—at his touch. How it suffocates me now. Closes over me like the bog waters we consigned our sacrifices to as I lie here, his captive in his insignificant, neglected rooms.

Am I a god to you now? Flatterer.

"No."

I will be, he's quick to correct. And, Silly Pet, these aren't my rooms, I don't live here. Only use 'em for special occasions like breaking in extra special Play Pretties.

Breaking me in...oh, gods.

Or breaking you down--to begin again. As for these rooms, also use 'em for special requests from my regular janes and johns. You remember them? Sets the mood quite a treat, don'cha think?

Sets the mood...the image by the fence...

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