Heather’s jaw ached from hanging slack, her wrists deadened by the rough twist of rope above. The cold of the warehouse climbed her bare arms and chest in damp, greasy fingers—she could smell the chainsaw’s gasoline even before it shrieked to life, a catgut scream that vibrated in her teeth. She tried to count her breaths but they came quick, desperate, and her lungs snagged on every inhale.
He was just a shape, at first. A slab of shadow, the white of his mask a dirty oval in the dark, the apron and nothing else—until the chainsaw’s electric teeth lit up the space and she saw him, saw it, hard and bobbing, grotesque and upright beneath his belly. She choked on a whimper, the sound lost in the chain’s roar. He walked with that lumbering, deliberate gait, boots scraping the concrete, the machine idling at his hip.
He stopped right in front of her, so close the saw’s heat curled her hair. The blade tip hovered inches from her breastbone. She felt the tiny splatter of oil on her nipple, the tremor in her stomach as he traced a line down the slope of her breast with the flat of the chain. Her knees wanted to buckle but the ropes held her up, every muscle in her body burning with the effort of not pissing herself.
Then, as sudden as it started, the saw died. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant. Her chest hitched. He set the saw down, the clang echoing, then reached up—his hands huge and pink and scarred—and cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. There was a smell of soap, fresh and incongruent, as he pressed himself closer, the mask’s stitched lips almost brushing her own.
His cock bumped her chin. She tried to twist away, but his grip was iron. He shoved the head between her lips, prying them open. Heather gagged, the taste of sweat and soap coating her tongue, and she heard herself making desperate, animal sounds, but he kept pushing, deeper, until her nose mashed against his belly and she could only breathe through her nose, shallow and panicked.
He thrust, slow at first, each movement deliberate. Her throat convulsed around him, tears hot on her cheeks. She thought she’d throw up, and she almost hoped she would, just to make it stop, but it didn’t. He used her head like a handle, pulling her onto him until her jaw creaked, then holding her there, his other hand stroking her hair in a mockery of tenderness.
She tasted blood—her own, from the inside of her cheek, or his, she didn’t know. He grunted behind the mask, faster now, the slap of flesh wet and obscene in the empty room. Her vision blurred at the edges. She could feel her own saliva and snot running down her chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat. She tried to breathe, tried to remember what it was to be anything except a hole for him to fill.
He tensed and yanked free, the suddenness making her jaw snap shut, leaving her tongue thick and numb in her mouth. A hand—ridged with callus, warm and slick—fisted his cock, and he worked it with a violence that made her stomach knot. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for whatever was coming, but something made her open them again.
He wanted her to see. That was clear now, the way he angled himself so she’d have no choice but to look. The first rope of cum hit her cheek, hot and sharp as spit. The next caught her across the lashes, then her chin, then her breasts, painting her in stuttering, sticky lines. She’d never been so humiliated, but something in her—the part that had survived every other nightmare—knew it would be worse if she fought. She made herself stick out her tongue, just a little, like she’d seen in those videos her ex watched, and the taste was bitter, metallic. She tried not to gag.
He made a sound, deep and soft, almost a purr. The hand in her hair loosened, palm stroking her scalp as if to say good girl. Heather let the ropes hold her up, her body hollowed out. The cum clung to her skin, cooling fast, and she wondered if that was the point. Marking her, like a dog. Like family.
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He stepped back, breathing hard, and fumbled with something behind her. The chainsaw. She flinched, expecting the whine, the heat, but instead he freed one of her wrists. The rope burned as it slid off, and she nearly collapsed, but he caught her under the arms, guiding her down to the greasy floor.
She slumped to her knees. He crouched beside her, his breathing heavy and uncertain. She could see the trembling in his hands as he wiped her again, slower this time, almost tender. She thought of saying thank you, but her throat wouldn’t work. Instead she leaned into his hand, let him clean her, let herself pretend for a moment that he was just a man and she was just a girl, and this was just what happened to people like them.
He touched her face, thumb smearing the cum into her cheek, and she shivered. For a moment she felt something close to pity. He was just a man, under the leather and scars. Just a man who didn’t know how to want anything without hurting it.
She wondered if she could teach him. If she could survive it long enough.
He pulled her to her feet, surprisingly gentle, and guided her toward a battered metal door at the edge of the warehouse. He was taking her home - to their home.
* * *
The next morning, she woke with a taste of copper and diesel on her tongue and a strange, floaty lightness in her chest. The house was quiet, thick with the residue of old secrets and new ones still settling into the walls. She found her way to the bathroom—her legs weak, her knees stiff from sleeping in a ball on the mattress beside the boiler—and splashed water on her face until her skin prickled. There was a smear of dried something along her hairline that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard she scrubbed.
She sang to herself, low and tuneless, as she rifled through the cardboard boxes in the dusty hallway closet. Most of the clothes were too big, too stiff with starch or stained with things she didn’t want to name. But near the bottom she found a black-and-white striped shirt she had cropped herself. She shrugged it on over her chest, then shimmied into the only clean underwear she could find: a pair of black panties. She flexed in the cracked mirror, watching the way her ribs showed when she lifted her arms, the way the shirt hung loose.
A thought came to her, quick and hot as a spark. Maybe he’d like this. Maybe she could make him smile.
She padded down the hall, feet silent on the warped boards, and stopped at the basement door. The knob was sticky, but she twisted it anyway and called down, voice trembling at first, then steadier when she remembered she was supposed to be family here.
“Hey,” she said. “Come up. I got something for you.”
She waited, heart thudding, until she heard the slow, heavy tread of his boots on the stairs. When he came into the living room, the morning sun cut through the grime on the windows, painting stripes across the floor and her bare legs. She stood in the middle of it, arms behind her back, toes pointed in. She felt like a kid again, waiting for her father to tell her if her dress was pretty, if she was pretty. She hated that, but it was true.
He stopped in the doorway, mask cocked to one side, eyes blinking slow and confused. She smiled—just a little, just enough. Then she turned, giving him a full view of her ass in the tight panties, the shirt barely covering the curve of her hips. She walked away from him, then back again, exaggerating every step. She could hear his breathing, even from across the room, getting faster and heavier.
She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the sweat and the faint, sweet rot that clung to his skin. She lifted the hem of her shirt, inch by inch, until her nipples showed, pink and puckered in the cold. She held it there, grinning, daring him to look. He did, and she saw the way his chest rose and fell, the way his hands shook at his sides.
She let the shirt drop and laughed, sharp and bright. He made a noise in his throat, something like a bark, and he fumbled his cock out, huge and purpled at the tip, fingers clumsy with hunger. She watched him stroke it, the motion frantic and unpracticed, and for a second she wondered if this was the first time he’d ever done it in front of someone. She smiled, slow and crooked, and stuck her hip out, rolling her eyes just enough to let him know she was in on the joke, that she was the one in control. Maybe she could train him. Maybe she could make him want her the way she wanted to be wanted—hungry, but careful.
He didn’t get the joke.
He lunged, so fast she didn’t even have time to gasp, and shoved her onto the couch. He was on her, knees pinning her legs, his hands everywhere, fumbling under her shirt, squeezing her tits so hard it almost hurt, then tearing at her panties with a single, impatient rip. The elastic snapped and he tossed them away.
She tried to say his name, tried to remind him she was family, but he was already there, cock hard against her, pushing in with a single, brutal thrust. She screamed, sharp and high, but the sound died in the back of her throat when he started to move—fast, faster, each stroke deeper and more punishing than the last. He wasn’t gentle, not even close, but he was careful not to hurt her more than he had to. That was something, maybe.
She dug her nails into his arms, felt the slick sweat and the way his muscles bunched and flexed with every movement. He fucked her like he was trying to drive her into the floor, like he needed to fill her up with himself until there was nothing left but him inside her. She felt her body give, then open, then accept it, the pain blurring into something else—heat and pressure and the weird, electric thrill of being used.
It didn’t last long. He tensed, shuddered, then pulled out, spraying hot, sticky ropes across her belly and tits and chin. The smell was sharp and sour, and she tasted it on her lips before she could wipe it away. She stared up at him, breathless, her body buzzing with shock and aftershocks, and for a second she thought he might hit her, or worse, but instead he just stood there, cock still twitching, and looked at her like he was waiting for applause.
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She blinked, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and tried to sit up. Her legs wouldn’t work right. He went to the kitchen, came back with a box of tissues, and dabbed at her skin with a gentleness that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. He cleaned her up, piece by piece, then tossed the crumpled tissues onto the coffee table. She watched him, stunned and shivering.
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her, breathing hard, then turned and shuffled back down the hallway and into the cellar once more.
She should have known better, really. Already she was falling for the same trap—thinking she could be the one to civilize him, like some cartoon princess with a chainsaw-wielding beast for a prince. She’d read somewhere that the best way to train a dog was with positive reinforcement. But there was no Cesar Millan for men raised on blood and bone.
Heather lay there, tangled in the shredded remains of her underwear, staring at a damp patch on the ceiling.
She propped herself up, wincing at the ache in her hip. The air tasted like sweat and ozone, and something else—something sour, like old milk. She wondered if this was how it would always be: her trying to outsmart him, him outmuscling her, the two of them locked in a lopsided game of chicken. Maybe she was stubborn. Maybe she was just lonely.
She sat up and pulled down her shirt. The room was a disaster—cushions on the floor, a lamp knocked over, a trail of oil-dark footprints leading to the basement. She followed them to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the contents. Half a jar of pickles, a Tupperware of something gelatinous and gray, and, thank God, a six-pack of Lone Star.
She grabbed a can and popped the tab, half-expecting him to come barreling up the stairs at the sound. But the house stayed quiet, except for the faint hum of the freezer and a bird tapping against the window. She took a long pull, the beer cold and bitter and perfect.
Next time, she’d try a different approach. Something less… naked. Maybe he just needed a friend. Or a hobby. She could show him how to play cards, or teach him to make pancakes. Or, hell, they could just get drunk together and watch TV reruns. She was nothing if not adaptable.
She finished the beer, crushed the can, and tossed it into the sink. She looked at her reflection in the microwave door—hair wild, face bruised, mouth split in a crooked smile. She could work with this. She could work with anything, if she wanted it enough.
She opened another beer and headed for the basement door. She rapped her knuckles against it, gentle at first, then louder. “Hey,” she called. “I got Lone Star. You want one?”
A pause, then the sound of boots on concrete. She grinned, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and waited.
What could go wrong?
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