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He’d told me earlier that submission had nothing to do with defeatism. Nothing to do with me coasting through the hours with the acceptance of whatever was coming.
I understood it in that moment. I understood how submission meant nothing if I valued it as nothing. How my time in this place meant nothing if I was giving myself up with the resignation of a cow heading for the bolt gun at the abattoir.
It was in those seconds our eyes locked in pain and his burned deep that I registered the spark in the pit of me. The spark of life. The spark of value. The spark of me.
It wasn’t self-confidence, or any real grasp of self-worth. It wasn’t me deciding I was worthy of everything this place had to offer my bank account.
It was the belief in deeper things than that. My own strength. My own loyalty. My own love and optimism in the face of suffering.
My love for my sister.
And more.
I felt my soul. I felt the value in the honesty of my spirit.
I felt its purity and its darkness both at once. The purity in how it craved love. The darkness in how it craved this man’s vicious touch all over me.
Because I did.
Even then, I did crave his touch all over me.
I didn’t care I was still crying as I let my thighs fall open and arched my back with a breath.
“I said you had nothing to fucking trade,” he hissed. “Pleasure means nothing. People mean nothing. Cash is all that means anything in this life. All that ever means anything.”
My voice was weak when I spoke, “I’m not trying to trade. Not anymore.”
His eyes swept down my naked torso. I didn’t need to follow them to know how hard my nipples would be, straining up toward the ceiling.
“What are you fucking doing then?” he grunted. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game right now.”
I wanted to tell him I wanted him. That I knew he wanted me. That I wanted to cast aside everything about the world, and the darkness outside, and the fear and the hate and the knowledge that I was fighting waves of disaster so much taller than my sorry little self.
I wanted to tell him that I wanted the escape of him using me. Using me for him, not for the cameras. Not for clients, and cash coming in, and training me up for the performances.
“If you ever try to pawn yourself for extra favours again, you’ll fucking regret it,” he said, and I managed a nod.
Still my thighs stayed parted. Still my eyes were on his and hungry through my tears.
“Get some fucking sleep,” he told me, but his hands stayed on my wrists and his knee stayed firm between my thighs.
There was no way I’d be able to sleep. Not in that bed with him. Not with the pull of his body, calling to the flutter of deviance in my soul.
I wanted the strength in him to consume me. I wanted to feel the pain in the depths of him singing with my own. I wanted him to push me beyond thoughts. Beyond reason. Beyond anything but the sensations as he hurt me. Played with me. Used me for his own.
The gasp from my throat was pitiful as he ground his knee hard between my legs. It ached but sparked.
I was wet and I knew it. His breath paused. I felt the shiver in him. The ripple of want.
Self-confidence burst behind my eyes in a way I’d never felt it. Being wanted by a man like this in a way like this should have meant nothing, but it meant everything.
“I should punish you so fucking bad for trying to buy my favours,” he said.
“Please…” I whispered, and I didn’t even know what I was asking for. Punishment. Pain. Pity.
Him.
I was asking for him.
“I mean it,” he said. “You ever try to buy my favours again, you’ll fucking regret it.”
I nodded, gasping again as he grated hard, his bare knee hot against my wetness. “I’m not… I’m not trying to buy anything, sir… not now…”
“What the fuck are you trying to do then, little girl?” he asked, and his eyes were scorching on mine.
I arched my back for him, nipples crying for contact. “I don’t know, sir,” I told him. “I just want…”
The embarrassment burned. Ate me up alive.
“Say it,” he barked. “Say it and fucking mean it.”
I didn’t know what to say. The words didn’t want to come.
Did I tell him that I wanted to feel the core of him raging free? Devouring me as his own as my body hummed and fluttered and lost itself in the sensations?
Did I tell him I wanted to feel his pleasure? That pleasing him meant more than just the money already? That this was about more than the pay out and the sixty days and the lifeline it offered my sad little existence outside of here?
