“Hey. He’s not here. Said he’d be gone for a few days.”
I do my best to hide my embarrassment at being caught outside his door wearing this stupid dress, my hair tamed in a long braid, and a marginal amount of makeup applied. I can feel the muscles of my face slacken and fall and my mouth twitches in a desperate attempt at a convincing smile, and it is obvious Liz isn’t buying my act.
She watches me with curiosity and concern while I struggle to find my voice. “Oh. No big deal. I thought I was expected this evening, but I must have been mistaken.”
I was expected tonight. He said as much when he spoke to me the night before. I know, though I don’t want to fully admit it, his absence is somehow related to the show he no doubt witnessed the night before.
I turn toward my room, wanting to slink away quickly. Liz makes no move to follow me, and I thank God for small favors. I strip out of the dress, leaving it crumpled on the floor. I’m confused, not solely by his absence, but as much that I care he’s absent. I should be thanking my lucky stars I’ll be given another few days away from him and his ever “impressive” cock. But I’m not, and I don’t like admitting I wanted this tonight. Pain and all, I wanted him. I didn’t expect that, and the vulnerable position it puts me in with him is a terrifying liability.
The next I see of Mr. Pennington is when I’m summoned two nights later to his room. I hadn’t even realized he’d returned to his apartment until the phone rang and he demanded that I be in his apartment in an hour. I set about readying myself for him, again shaving and showering and doing my best to control my hair in a loose braid. When I zip up my favorite gray dress, I look myself over in the mirror. I’m sure black ballet flats wouldn’t be Liz’s first choice, but they’re mine. As I approach his door, my heart is fluttering about in my chest.
When he answers, he allows me entrance but doesn’t speak. In fact, he refuses to even look at me, and my spirits fall as I follow him to his bed. He strips without saying so much as one word to me, and when he finally makes eye contact with me, it only lasts the briefest of moments while he orders me to remove my underwear. He wants me clothed, and I’m not sure why, but this hurts my feelings.
Once my underwear is removed, he demands I get on my hands and knees in the middle of the bed, and as I do, I realize my body is not the least bit ready for this. My heart is as cold as his treatment of me, and I’m frightened. The warmth I wish I felt between my legs is absent, and as he reaches to my entry, he notices the same. He stands briefly, retrieving the tube of lubricant and a condom before returning to the bed. Again I hear the tearing of the condom wrapper and the cap pop off of the lubricant, and I soon feel the cool touch of his finger as he applies a generous amount to my opening. He makes no move to enter me with his fingers, or caress me either, and whatever warm and arousing feelings he might have incited the other day have now been destroyed by his distance. He is once again the dark-eyed terrifying man I met on my first day here.
He gives me one last order when he tells me to put my chest to the bed, and before I’ve even had a chance to comply, he pounds into me swiftly and I fall clumsily to my face. I struggle to brace myself against the force of his thrusts. The pain is again severe, but it fades far quicker than the first night, and within a few short minutes of incessant penetration and withdrawal, it has faded to a deep ache inside my womb.
When my body adjusts to him, I start to think I can handle this, but then he leans over me and unleashes his pent-up rage in my ear. “You like saying my name when you come? Huh?” He’s grunting and forcing his way deep within me, and the tone of his voice is cold and harsh. “If you want to say my name when you come, then you just won’t come anymore!” More pounding thrusts. “I’m not your boyfriend, not your lover, not even your fucking friend! Don’t ever forget that.” His words are dripping with hatred, and I’m pathetically heartbroken. As he pounds his last strokes into my body, he curses an angry “fuck!” as he pulls from my body, snapping the condom off his penis and releasing himself all over the bunched-up fabric of my favorite gray dress.
He wastes no time at all moving away from me, and before I can even right myself and move off the bed, I hear the shower in his bathroom start. He’s finished with me. I’d thought losing my virginity to him was hard. Well, this was just cruel. He executed his rage at me perfectly. He hates me once again.
Chapter 8
Over the next two weeks, he continues to use my body every night, never speaking to me and never looking at me. I’m never wet and never ready for his body. The routine has become so perfunctory, he no longer calls. I simply arrive wearing one of the many dresses I have, not even bothering to wear underwear anymore. He pushes up the skirt, bends me over either the dining room table or his bed, rolls a condom over his cock, and, using lubricant every time, he enters me harshly. It is fast, furious, and cold. He doesn’t bother dismissing me at all, and I stand the second he is finished pulling the condom off his penis and ejaculating on the back of my dress. I leave without a word, thankful only to be away from his cold, harsh hatred. Following his order of not coming is easy. I have no interest in touching myself once I return to my room, and I usually strip out of my soiled dress in my walk-in closet before tossing on some ugly old T-shirt he would no doubt hate. I’ve developed a deep resentment of him, and it is this anger that keeps me moving forward.
At breakfast one morning, the others start a casual conversation about Mr. Pennington. They all confirm he hasn’t visited a one of them since my arrival, and as they look to me for explanation of his sudden lack of interest in them, I shrug. As instantly as the conversation starts, he enters. As usual, I bristle with anger and hurt when I see him now, but I swallow it down hard. The women look to me as he approaches the table on his way to the kitchen, appraising our interaction, or lack thereof, more accurately.
Claudia says, “Hi, Mr. Pennington.” He approaches the table and acknowledges her curtly.
I’m sitting right next to Claudia, but as his eyes meet hers briefly, they fail to pass to mine, and he continues on to the kitchen. The other women shrug in unison at his apparent lack of interest in me, or at least that he shows no more interest in me than anyone else.
We’re just finishing coffee, and as the group stands to leave, Mr. Pennington speaks. “Shelby, stay.”
Her eyebrows shoot up as an excited and knowing smile passes her lips. The others regard her with their own raised eyebrows, and as many eyes dart to me, it goes without saying the group has decided the spell is finally broken. My heart pricks with jealousy as I gnash my teeth together, trying to hide these unwelcome feelings, but as I turn to walk from the room, he speaks again. “Ashton.” I freeze, as does everyone in the room. The other women stare at me rooted to my spot. My back is to him, and I’m terrified to turn, but he is refusing to say anything further until I face him. Liz nudges my arm, and at her insistence, I turn slowly around. His eyes are burning with fury at my refusal to face him, and with a clenched jaw, he hisses, “Stay.”