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Three Years(24)

By:Lili St Germain


“Let me beat her to death, pop,” he says desperately. “Let me do it slowly.” He glances at me. “I could make her death last weeks.”

Dornan laughs, looking at me with a mock-shocked expression, as if to say can you believe this guy?

“She’ll die by my hand,” Dornan says to Jase, suddenly serious again. “And when I decide. How the fuck did you get in here, anyway?”

Jase raises his eyebrows. “I got a spare key from the garage,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t you know all the doors in this place have the same key?”

Dornan glares at him, eventually letting Jase’s shirt go. He pats the shirt back into place and jerks Jase toward the door.

“Go,” he says. “Wait. Give me the key first.”

Jase scowls, withdrawing a single key from his jeans pocket and tossing it at Dornan. Dornan catches it in one fist easily, turning it over to study it.

“I’ll be back to sort you out, bitch” Jase spits at me, and I stare in horror that is kind of fake but kind of real as he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

Relief and despair flood me. Relief because Jase is alive. Jase is okay. And by the look of things, Dornan doesn’t know about us.

Despair because he’s gone again, just as quickly as he arrived, and I’m still here with Dornan.

Dornan looks at the closed door for a long time before he turns back to me with a look of satisfaction on his face. He slips the key into his pocket and snaps his fingers. “Get up. Come here.”

I stand reluctantly, but don’t move toward him. He smirks and reaches into his back pocket, that goddamn Taser suddenly in his hands again. He holds it in front of him and depresses the trigger, causing a bright crack of electricity to spark between the two prongs at its end.

Dornan pockets the Taser and pulls something else out again. A syringe full of clear fluid. I swallow thickly, wondering what it is this time.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans. “If you’re a good girl, and you do as you’re told, you can have some of this.” He sneers. “It’s the good stuff, baby girl.”

“I don’t want some of that,” I reply sharply. “I’m not a fucking junkie.”

He smirks. “Neither was your momma.” Ouch. He sits at the foot of the bed, his back to me. He’s so unafraid of me, he doesn’t even have to keep me in his line of sight.

“Strip.”

When I don’t move fast enough, he pockets the needle and pulls the Taser out again.

“Faster.”

Reluctantly and with considerable effort, I locate the hem of my nightgown and tug the entire thing over my head, dropping it next to me. I’m dressed in nothing but a black pair of panties that are new as well, the lace edging matching the silk nightgown. Jesus Christ. This is sick.

He shrugs out of his leather cut and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”

I take the sleeveless cut, shrugging it over my thin frame. It dwarfs me, but by some small miracle, it covers my breasts. I tug it closed across my chest and look at him morosely.

“My turn,” he says. “On your knees. Take my shoes off.”

I roll my eyes, but kneel down in front of him, unlacing his boots. I tug on one and he lifts his foot, letting the boot slide off. Once the boot is off I take his sock off, and repeat this action with the other foot.

“Good girl,” he says. “I’m a little disappointed. I thought I’d get to kick you in the face at least once for refusing.”

He stands. “Pants.” He smiles as he clarifies, “Everything. All of it. Off.”

I stare at him sullenly, noticing his dick pressing hard against the material of his jeans. Great. If he makes me suck it, I’m going to bite the fucking thing off, even if he kills me for it. It’d be worth it. I pull at the already unbuttoned pants, avoiding his erection as I tug the material past. Once they’re around his knees I do the same thing with his boxer shorts, and I’m suddenly eye-to-eye with his raging hard dick. I lurch back, suddenly nauseous again.

My reaction earns a deep laugh from him.

“On the bed. On your back. Now. Or I’ll shove this so far down your throat, it’ll come out the other end.”

I scurry to sit on the edge of the bed, as far away as I can, and swing my legs up. I can handle the punches and the kicks, the touches and the pain, but I can’t handle the thought of being mouth-raped by him. Not today. I’m also keenly aware of the stun gun that sits on the bed beside him, and how much I want to avoid giving him reason to use it on me again. The last time he did, I felt I was going to die, and not a painless, delicious sleep-death like the hotshot of heroin. It was fucking horrible, and I’ll do almost anything to avoid being shocked again. I lay myself in the middle of the bed, propped up on stiff elbows, not letting him out of my sight. The rough leather of the cut brushes painfully against my nipples, and I stay as still as possible to stop that icky feeling it evokes in my belly.