Each thrust caused a muffled, gurgling whimper.
“You’re going to come, dear girl. Let it build. Your pussy likes me. Ignore the blood, the cuts.”
I moaned, unsure where that noise came from.
Another thrust and I slid, shrieking quietly, arms at my side, with a small piece embedding in my cheek. Another, and I warmed below. Tinkles above my head as the uninvolved glass pieces tapped on each other.
“I could’ve...” he began.
A thrust and I gasped at the intrusion, the swell of cock in cunt, the mesmer hold on my mind messing with my perceptions. My clit liked being squashed to the timber and pulsed, rising.
Sex was a compulsive rhythm.
“Red? Is that your name? Come soon or I might find a big piece and fuck you with it.”
What parent named a child Red?
He tongue-fucked my mouth, he invaded between my legs. Lust injected, intensified, heating me like whiskey in my veins, as he reamed me, as the glass wormed further in. I moaned and my legs shook and tensed, shook and tensed.
“Your cunt’s sucking me in, Red.”
No. I groaned, blinking away the sweat, the tears, desperate to be me, and not his toy, even if I had to feel the fragments eating at me.
A violation was to be fucked on broken glass, worse was to be made to like it.
“No,” I whispered then “no” again, cracking my throat with denials.
“Yes. You can’t say no to me.” Another fuck and slide on cloth. Rocked forward, rocked back as he sucked out. “How I wish,” he murmured into my mouth, at my face. “I wish,” was said again to my neck.
Hot breath. So many wishes. I closed my eyes. Cock pushing into me. Pain? There was none. Sobbing, I pushed back, tightened, arched my butt, squeezing down. I raggedly moaned then mindlessly slammed into an orgasm like the obedient toy that I was.
And still he fucked me, shoved me across the cloth.
“...wish I could keep you.”
He jammed into me, deep, stayed there.
His own climax was a chaotic tide of pleasure merging with the shreds of pain, with every throbbing wound in my stomach and breast.
He had to turn me over to mop up the blood. I flopped there, on my back, arms out, legs apart, knees bent at the edge of the table. Dull within a foggy world of sloth, I watched him kneel above me on the table, flourishing some instrument. He’d gone away, come back. Bloody of hand, he held me, made me be still, as he plucked out glass and punched staples into my cuts.
If I screamed, it was distant. I could barely register my heart, let alone my screams. The ceiling faded in, faded out.
“Good little Frankenstein Girl.” He grinned, lowering the stapler. “Look at that. I fucked you and I still want to sell you. What a rush.”
I half expected him to giggle.
Not that he would.
I recalled the flicker of expression when he’d switched from less bad to this, before he’d fucked me on glass... He’d almost been nice. None of him was good. Over the years the goodness had leaked away and left mediocre evil and whatever this was. This thing he was now was barely human.
He led me to the bedroom and had me stand, wobbly though I was, while he dabbed iodine on the stapled cuts. Put me to bed, collared and naked. Then he left.
I was Red, wasn’t I?
The blood that was smeared and mixed with the yellow iodine on my belly seemed to underline that idea. One cut on my breast, one next to my navel. One on my thigh. A few tiny punctures. The longest stretched to an inch. I wouldn’t die from this. He still meant to get money for me.
I wasn’t Red. Deal with it.
He’d taken away my name. That was worse than cutting me. When I held my hands before my face, they trembled.
Despite the well of my tears and the waning shock, something incongruous about the room drew me to survey it.
In the gloom, in the far and shadowed corner, sat a huge suitcase.
CHAPTER 11
The slam of the car door entombed me in air-conditioned silence.
I sat, strapped-in by the safety belt, with an air bag in the door to save me if we hit another car, thinking about what I’d done to Red.
The red under my nails from when I’d stapled her wounds remained. Visible whenever I turned my fingers over. I’d soaped up my hands but left my red-red nails. Loved the reminder of her whimpers, of her squirms, as pain overcame my commands.
The wetness of the cuts had contrasted obscenely with the neat seams after I’d stapled them – snicksnack. My Frankenstein girl.
Maim her past wanting her? I grinned. Seemed that was almost impossible to do.
And in the very back of my mind I was rocking and saying sorry, sorry, over and fucking over. I shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t like hurting her, shouldn’t have a hard-on at the memory.
My mouth twitched up.
My distant ineffectual conscience. Maybe if the last day hadn’t been so traumatic my ritual would’ve been better? The day after that woman had left me on the eve of our marriage. What a fucked-up time to remember and use as my gold standard of life-before-mesmer.
What a farce.
If she’d been a susceptible female, we might’ve had a very bloody wedding.
Sorry, not-sorry.
I let my back hit the seat behind me. Best I lose Red before she made me lose myself.
Sell her and forget her.
CHAPTER 12
The suitcase was red.
If I did nothing, I was going to be a sex toy for a criminal. It couldn’t be good, might
