Page 39 of Alamort

“Why are you so gutted?” Another emotionless question. This time, regardless, if he wants a genuine answer. I’m desperate enough to give him one.

“I-I can’t get h-his hands off of me.” My voice breaks, the pain unfiltered. It’s more than that, it always is more, but right now this torments me.

“Show me.”

I have reservations about what I’m considering doing. What else do I have to lose? I’m at the point of physically peeling my skin off if I scrub any harder.

I’m tired of being the victim in my own story.

Perhaps what happens in the dark will never come to light.

Still unable to make out where he is entirely except for a darker figure in the darkness. I let my hands lightly trace up his body, trying not to touch him but wanting to find his hands without patting around. The Shadow’s body is smooth in the no hair sense. A distinctly rough sensation spreads through my fingertips as I trace the outlines of his disfigured skin. Some scars are barely raised. Some feel like someone has taken chunks of skin deep enough to leave nerve damage. Different shapes, sizes, and textures cover his body.

How bad are they in the light? My fingers brush against the hard muscles of his broad shoulders, my nails scrape down the rough texture of his arms, and finally softly grasp his calloused hands.

“Above my elbows, when he grabbed me and forced me into the bathroom,” I whisper. When his fingers close around my forearm, I gasp. My pulse quickens, and he holds my arm aloft. My skin tingles when a warm tongue traces where Oscar’s fingers pressed into my arms, igniting a sense of longing I haven’t felt from my Shadow. A sharp intake of breath is audible over the splattering of the water hitting the tiles. He nips at the skin, leaving a new mark in its place. It’s nowhere near the amount of pain I crave.

My heart physically aches. The Shadow is rewriting the meaning of my abuse with new marks.

Then my hands move to my ribcage. His hands follow. Kneeling down, the musky smell of leather and the smokey tang of burning firewood infiltrates the smell of coconut. He is silent, like the shadow I’ve made him out to be. My hips remain anchored by his powerful grasp. The warmth of his tongue and sharp teeth trail down either side before halting. Waiting for direction. My breathing becomes faster, more rapid. My nipples pebble despite the hot water beating down on us. This is turning me on.

If I tell him where else, it could progress. Would he tell me ‘No’?

“He stuck his hands down my skirt.” I gulp, knowing he’ll be going lower, overwhelmed by the sensation of his tongue tracing along my hipbone and anticipating his teeth sinking into my flesh. He bites to the point of pain. I moan. The warmth radiating from the bite cocoons my entire body. Pressure builds up, sending tingles from head to toe. Everything feels sensitive, like electrical pulses going through my body.

“Okay?” he taunts, a smile in his voice as he stands. Taking the heat I borrowed with him, leaving me shivering. Reality washes in. Stumbling backwards, I sink down until I reach the tiled floor of the shower. I don’t know what he came here for, but he’ll leave. Everyone does. My chest tightens. Dread floods out the euphoria, causing my hands to shake. I want him to leave so I can do what I need to do to pull myself together. My razor.

He could fix this. Looking into the darkness where I think he is, “I don’t want to be here anymore.” Hoping that it’s communicating what I really mean.

I don’t want to be alive anymore. I’m tired of hurting and being hurt. Death has to be sweeter than what’s in the future for me.

The soft padding of bare feet grows louder as they draw near, halting in front of me. Dipping down, his breath dances over myslick skin and his hand softly moves a stray piece of hair away from my face, turning my head upward.

“Death would never be so kind to you, my Little Monster.” Bitter tears slide down my cheeks. “I’m a result of Death’s influence and he has selfish motivations for wanting to claim you as well.” Sitting with the realization that I will be stuck in misery for the rest of my pathetic life. With my luck, I’d attempt to kill myself and survive. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he commands.

“Why?”

“I made you a promise last night. I intend to keep it. Let’s call this your first test of obedience. If you move your hands, I’ll bind them and leave you here naked for someone to find you.” Aware he isn’t one to crack a joke. I place my hands behind my back, holding my wrists and leaning against the wall to pin them in place. The angle sends a zing of pain up my arms.

“My blade is a lot thicker than your little razor.” I stiffen. How the hell could he know about my dirty little habit?

“You can bite me if the pain is too much. But do not move your hands.” Nodding to the dark, I stay still. This is what I need. It will take the pain away, at least for a little while.

With a sharp jolt, the cold metal blade connects with my thigh, sending a tremor of excitement down my spine. It’s away from where I usually cut myself, giving him a blank canvas. The initial sting is what I’m used to. Until the blade pushes a little deeper.

“Fuck!” I growl. This is different from doing it to myself. I want to move away from it rather than to it like usual. It still brings the release I crave. His hand moves quickly downward before lifting again. Starting at the same point, making two diagonal cuts. I focus on the sting from the first incision he made as he positions for another horizontal line like the first.

This time, I’m expecting the bite of the knife gliding through my skin effortlessly. Bringing my lips to his skin, I bite down. Hard. Just like he did to me during our first altercation. My intention is to mark him and make him bleed. This way he can’t forget me, even if he wanted to. Like the rest of his scars, this one will be permanently etched into his skin. He lets out a low, sexy groan. Pain. Pain turns him on. As the pressure intensifies, my thighs squeeze together, causing a wave of sensation to ripple through my core. I need more.

The blade moves away from my thigh. His wet hair brushes against the side of my face when he leans in, tasting the raw wound on my skin. I release a hiss at the soreness from the contact. This is 15 shades of fucked up because this is more erotic than I could’ve ever dreamt of.

“Good girl. Don’t touch yourself. I’ll know.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

“For?”

---