Page 20 of Clover

Braxton enters my jail cell, strutting like the king of Norway while carrying a small leather duffle bag. Even though I know it affords me no protection, I remain on the far side of the bed. The wall of windows to my back. Based on the shadows being cast throughout the condo, I’d say it’s midafternoon. I’d stayed curled up in the bed after waking this morning and pondering my life choices. Must have fallen back asleep while staring at the ceiling. My stomach growls with hunger and twists with fear and anticipation. Whatever he has in that bag cannot be good for me.

“Hello, again, my little pussy cat. I brought you a shiny new collar. Would you like to try it on?”

As expected, from his bag, he withdrawals a wide banded leather collar. A metal ring dangling in its center. He holds it out for me to see better. It doesn’t have a buckle like a normal belt or collar. Instead, it just has a metal loop protruding from one end and a slit in the leather on the other. Strange.

“Go fuck yourself, you troglodyte!” the words spew from my mouth.

“Oh, so vulgar. That’s not very nice. And after I brought you such a thoughtful gift.” He tisks at me while he circles like a vulture. The collar still firm in his grip. Each end in one of his hands. The thick leather stretched out between. Almost as if he’s waiting for me to turn around and lift my hair for him to put it on me. Yeah, fucking right. Never gonna happen.

“I don’t want anything you have to give me.”

“You may notwantit, but you’re going to get it.” The tone in his voice suggests a new necklace isn’t the only thing I’ll be getting. The way he moves through the space, stalking me like prey, tells me this is not the first time he’s done this. This game he’s playing is as familiar to him as breathing. It’s not a question of if but when he will catch me.

When he reaches the opposite side of the bed, I take the opportunity to make my move. Heading for the couch with plans on reaching the kitchen to grab a fork or two to stab into his neck. Taking out all my rage and hate out on him. Releasing the pent-up violence I have wanted to unleash since the moment I saw him standing outside the garage of Nix’s house. I think a little of Colton’s habits are starting to rub off on me. I have yet to witness their violence firsthand, but I have seen the aftermath. Any hope of reaching the kitchen for a weapon disintegrates when Braxton gets ahold of my hair and yanks.

The abrupt change in momentum causes me to fly backward, slamming my head on the floor when he releases my hair. The wind is forced from my lungs, and I struggle to suck in oxygen. Stars dance behind my eyelids. The world goes black and fuzzy at the edges and a high-pitched ringing echoes in my ears. I’m too disoriented to do anything but lay here helpless on the floor. The silk pajamas I put on after Braxton ripped my shirt, rides up, and bunches at my waist.

I still can’t see straight or hear straight, but I can feel Braxton’s hands on me. Around my neck tightening, I’m being dragged across the floor. Then the pressure around my neck solidifies in the form of the leather collar. I can smell it. Suddenly I’m lifted and deposited on what can only be the bed. It bounces under my weight as I settle on the plush comforter.

My vision is still too scrambled to see anything. The world spinning like a kaleidoscope of color dancing around me. You know that feeling you get when you’re drunk, and you close your eyes, and everything is still spinning around you? Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel right now. Like my axis has been thrown off, and I can’t right myself.

Feeling around my neck, the edges of the collar glide under my finger until I reach the back. The metal loop has been slid through the buttonhole opening in the leather, and a small padlock holds it in place. Which is what’s keeping me from removing the thing from my neck. There’s also some sort of cable or rope latched to it that goes somewhere I can’t determine yet.

The throbbing in my skull intensifies as I struggle, so I relax, willing the pain to pass. A shift in the mattress has me trying to lift my head but unable to right the world just yet. I have to ignore whatever it is he’s doing for now. Just trying to focus on regaining my ability to see and think straight takes everything I have in me. Then he’s there by my side, lifting my arm and pushing the silky sleeve up to my bicep. I vaguely hear myself ask something along the lines of; what are you doing? But I’m not sure if I said that out loud or just in my head. Although when I hear him speak, I think I must have spoken it aloud.

“You have beautiful veins. I’m just going to give you a little something to make you feel better.” His voice is soothing and sweet. Two things I know Braxton not to be.

Did he say something about veins?The first prick of the needle is the only answer I need to the unthought question. He’s injecting me with something. I swat at him uselessly, my limbs like wet noodles. They do as much damage as a teddy bear would smacking his chest and bicep. The drugs fly through my system, burning through my veins.

My drug of choice has always been downers. Painkillers to calm and numb in pill form. This is not that. Whatever the fuck this is, it is most definitely an upper. I’ve never injected before, and the high is so much more instant than when swallowing pills. My heart pounds under my ribs like a bass drum, forcing my eyes wide just in time so I can see the sharpening of my vision as the world pin pricks into 4k high definition. Edges are sharper, colors are more vibrant. Every fiber of the silk pajamas tingles across the pores in my skin. I feel like I’m wearing a second skin made of fuzzy caterpillars.

Just the simple motion of sitting up causes the material to brush against the tops of my breasts, and even through my bra, my nipples harden to peaks at the seductive friction. A shiver runs through my body, pooling heat between my legs.

No, I’m not supposed to be turned on. I don’t want to be. Braxton caused this. I don’t want him. I need to make this stop. But…it feels so good. Why would anyone want to stop this? I want more.

“What did you give me?” The words come out on a moan. My hands have started roaming my body of their own accord. Every touch is heaven and hell. My body responds to the drugs how it’s supposed to. My brain and heart, however, try their damndest to fight it. At the moment, they’re losing, but the battle rages on inside me as I try to command my hands to stop and reach out and strangle the man grinning at me and holding more leather straps of some sort.

“It’s called Harley. Of course, it’s normally in pill form, but I figured you would try to bite off my fingers if I put them anywhere near your mouth. So instead, I cooked this up just for you. Liquid sex, I like to call it. Do you like it?”

“Fuck no, I don’t like it.” Thank goodness my brain wins out on that response because my body right now is all for liquid sex.

“Really? Looks like you might.” He taunts. Kneeling on the bed, he makes his way up to my ankles and runs a finger along my calf, and holy fucking ball sack that feels amazing.

No, no, it doesn’t. It feels disgusting and vile.

Shit, this Harley crap is fucking up my ability to react properly, mixing desire with disgust. I think a squeak of approval slips from my lips.

No, no, no, no.Fight back, you pussy!I scream at myself.

By the time the thought processes, there are two more leather cuffs buckled around my ankles. Finally, my body does as I command, and I thrash, trying to kick Braxton in the face. The Harley may be amplifying physical feelings, but my emotional feelings have not changed. Braxton Shaw is the scum of the earth, and I want to tear out his insides with my nails.

“What the fuck are those. Get them off me.”

“No. I think not, little pussy cat.” The war going on inside my body is a tremendous struggle between mind and body. I keep telling my arms and legs to fight, and they do to an extent but lack any sort of impact. It seems my attempts are more a slight bother to Braxton as he man handles me. Doing nothing to stop his advances.

Turning me to my stomach and pressing my face into the bed, his hand is on my neck, holding me in place. I try to kick him wherever I can, but I can’t see him. My blows only land about ten percent of the time. Barely accomplishing anything. With his free hand, he slivers it under my stomach and pulls up at my hips. The unwanted prickle of pleasurable sensation trails where his fingertips graze the skin under my shirt. I cannot let this drug that makes his vile touch feel so damn tantalizing take over my senses.

A flush creeps up my body from his hand, and I have to choke down the vomit that threatens to spew from my lips. I’ve never felt so much disgust, hate and pleasure all at the same time.

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