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emotionally if not literally. For her he was sure it felt like a final farewell to her
independence. It wasn t, but in her addled mind it was.
He had a drink, early as it was, but he was still pricked from the words she d
spit at him. Selfish. Boring. Pathetic. Needy. Very flattering. After all he d given
her, those careless words had raked a nerve. He waited an hour, justifying it in his
mind that she needed to be with him, not just for him to use, but for her happiness,
for her safety. Hell, it was what she wanted, what she begged for. Control.
Ownership. Care. Halfway across the world he would be too far away to come
quickly if she needed him.
Finally he thought he had collected himself enough to talk to her, to get her to
see the truth of things. That she had to be with him, that she could return to her job
later. That this was necessary. That she needed him too, despite her reckless words.
He trudged up the stairs to her room. He knocked on the door, and she opened
it. Her face was drawn and pale. She d cried hard. He looked down at her, tracing
the shadows of the tears on her cheek, then cupped her face.
 We need to talk.
She shook her head, putting her hand over his.
114 Annabel Joseph
 Daniel, she whispered into his palm,  I want to put on some stockings.
Those seven words began their darkest hour. He took her arm and led her to
their room. Once there, she put on some stockings, his favorite set. A sleek black
corset and fishnet stockings complemented by brazen plum lipstick. Then she
smiled a smile he didn t recognize and gave herself over to him.
And he took her. God, he took that girl. He took her until his fucking nerves
started to fray. He took her until he started to feel sick, because she stubbornly
gave and took nothing in return. She gave him back nothing, no sighs, no shudders,
no bright eyes or small twitches, no resistance, nothing. Nothing at all, but a body
to fuck. He fucked her every way he knew how, every way that usually got a
reaction. Nothing from her but resigned acquiescence. Her mumbled answers to his
ever-more-abhorrent demands were robotic and dull.
She was making her point, and it fucking inflamed him. I m here at your feet,
Daniel, your three holes to use. He goaded and tested her, pushed her over the line
and further, black temper and fury. She took it in stony silence. Here s your
damaged slut, Daniel. Do your worst.
He did. He did his very worst to her, hating himself the entire time. It was
warfare, and it was ugly. When sex didn t break her, he turned to sadism. He cycled
through every angry toy he had, every instrument of torture, to no avail. He
couldn t believe they could be so cruel to each other, he to her body and she to his
mind. Neither of them flinching, both of them hurting, trapped in this unending
scene from hell. She was using the only power she had left, and she was using it to
hurt him. It infuriated him. It made him wild. It made him want to jump off a
building.
They hadn t used safe words, not since she d moved in, but she could have
blurted them out anytime, and he d have backed away. They hadn t used them,
because they were past that stage. They were so far past it, which was a shame,
because they could have used those words now. If she would have said, Untie me,
Daniel, whispered it, screamed it, whatever, they could have let it end. But she
Owning Wednesday 115
didn t, and he kept on and on at her, determined to find her breaking point no
matter how long it took.
It took hours and hours. Fucking hours. They went at it for hours, and she
never cracked. He never broke her, though he tried it all.
He was the one who gave up in the end.
He yanked her up off the floor, and tore away what was left of the stockings.
He crushed the corset in his fists, twisting the boning. Then he balled them all up
and threw them in the trash. He never wanted to see them on her again. He had a
serious urge to throw it all on a bonfire, every stocking and garter in the house.
 Get out! He pointed at the door.  Fucking get out!
She stormed off, not looking at him, and he slammed the door behind her. He
needed to get ahold of himself. He stood with his fists clenched for several minutes,
listening to his heart race. He knew he should leave her alone right now, but he
couldn t let it end this way. He was the dominant. It was up to him to set things
back to rights when they went sideways and all to hell.
After a few more quiet moments he felt calm enough. He yanked the door open
and strode down the hall to her room. Her door was open, and he saw the red
splotches all over her white comforter before anything else. His heart seized, but
then he saw her over by the wall, and the smell registered.
Paint. The rest of the canister was turned over on the carpet, carelessly, on
purpose. He stood and stared, but if she knew he was there, she was ignoring him.
She had a can of black paint in one hand and a brush in the other. She had painted
words in huge, broad strokes across two whole walls: YOU DON T OWN ME.
And under that, even larger, in big black letters, she was finishing the words
YOU NEVER WILL.
She threw the can down when she was done, black paint mixing with red on
the white shag rug. She turned to him, ferocious, livid. She wasn t Wednesday. She [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]