The Gloves Are Off
Every night was the same. Ivan always liked to "spice things up," as he put it, finding new hoops to make me jump through, new toys to force on me. But in my mind, it was all the same. Ivan knew exactly how to make something so potentially beautiful into a traumatic experience... But of all the painful things, the worst was the leather gloves. Something about them suggested that no matter how much of me he wanted to see, this was nothing to him but a game. I was nothing special, just a lab rat and a plaything. And maybe that was it. After all, I was a servant in his house.
They were always so cold, as if he had carried snow around in his hands before he would take me. Perhaps it was so, when he hit me, there was that extra sting. But I always thought it was just because he liked hearing the surprised gasp when he'd sneak up behind me, disrupt my own body warmth by taking me underneath my shirt, between my thighs, touching me anywhere he could to steal that heat and leave me cold.
I hated the gloves.
Always, Ivan appeared slightly distant to me, almost as though he lived in a world just slightly beyond this one. A world he and no one else could see, that fascinated him deeply. In short, he was almost like a child, one that was, unfortunately for me, much bigger and stronger, and much more capable of getting his way. And his version of a temper tantrum was always the same thing. He'd drag me into the bedroom, find some new instrument he was sure he hadn't used yet, and find a way to make it work. And he'd never stop until he heard me screaming. Somehow, it was all that made him happy again whenever something went wrong. And yet, he still refused to touch me, instead choosing to watch me cry over the icy leather that felt like synthetic skin, like a robot, something unfeeling and incapable of true emotion, of love.
Was that what I wanted? Perhaps I was going mad. Thinking back, I probably was. But if that's true, then I still am. Because whenever I think of him now, I can't help but think of one day, one little day that is forever branded on my brain.
...
Ivan opened the door, entering at a slow and trudging pace. Everything about the way he walked suggested something was wrong. Only, he wasn't angry. At iceberg pace he walked past me, and I could have sworn I saw him trembling.
As he passed, Ivan pulled the gloves off of his hands, nonchalantly tossing them at me. Immediately I reeled back as they touched me, and they fell to the floor, though I picked them up again wordlessly, before my captor could use it as an excuse to hurt me. I couldn't have been more shocked if he'd chopped off his own hand right in front of me and asked me to hold it.
Ivan shrugged off his coat, wet with what was probably melted snow, and let it fall in a heap onto a nearby chair. I still kept my mouth shut. He continued to walk into the kitchen without seeing a word. As he reached the liquor cabinet, my only thought was that this would probably cure whatever was plaguing him, and bring him back to his angry state. This was going to be a long night...
But it didn't happen. He downed probably half of the vodka bottle in his hand a he sat hunched on the floor, nothing new. But instead of getting up and throwing me over his shoulder like a cuddled-to-death stuffed animal, he still just sat there, the tremors from earlier only growing worse. I thought I saw tears. Afraid to draw any closer, I stood there awaiting orders until finally they came.
"Toris—come closer..."
That certainly wasn't right. The sickly sweet in his voice was replaced with this crackling and trembling, only serving to further my suspicions he'd been crying. I followed the orders I was given without the usual hesitation, sensing no threat for now, and drew closer to Ivan until I sat next to him.
Without warning, he put an arm around my shoulders, squeezing tight.
"Don't you... u-understand...?" A pause, and he searched my confused eyes with his own bloodshot ones, using his other hand to hold my face. I felt the callouses of his fingers brush my cheeks, a new sensation.
I gave him a confused look, opening my mouth in question, but he cut me off.
"You are... warmth... and light... and everything I am not. I need you. I—" He choked abruptly, instead choosing to finish and punctuate his sentence with a forceful kiss. He pulled my mouth to his unexpectedly, and I could feel his lukewarm hands simultaneously cradling my neck and gripping it hungrily. Ivan's tongue pushed against mine without warning as his other hand moved itself to lay palm-flat on the small of my back.
He wanted me. Not just to watch the writhing agony from close-by, like a spectator at a gruesome execution. Ivan wanted me. He pulled away just long enough to hold my gaze, and for the first time he looked like he was here, and was really looking right at me rather than through me. His violet eyes somehow pierced my soul, and I could feel them begging, let me in, please, let me in.
So I did.
...
I could feel his hands.
At first, they were everywhere, trailing closely behind his lips. Shoulders, neck, arms, chest, cheeks, eyelids, forehead, ears, lips. Each place, a kiss or two, and then just a gentle touch of skin.
And then they found their place, cradling my naked hips. I looked up and found the tender eyes staring down at what may have been his first love. All of myself I gave to him, and he gladly took it. No need for anything surreal or sadistic; this time, it was only us.
...
One, two, three...
The sweat-beads, the little moans, the names in heavy whispers.
Four, five, six...
The passion of a lover, the care of a friend, the touch of sparks.
Seven, eight, nine...
The beating hearts, the spasming breaths, the roaring climax.
...
Time stood still as Ivan held himself up over me, shaking, weak, and satisfied. No, not just satisfied. For once, he seemed to be radiating happiness. Spent, he rolled over next to me, pulling me close until my head rested on his chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat lulled me to sleep.
The next morning, he went out as usual, and when he came back, the gleam of his nether-world had returned. He seized me from behind; icy synthetics wound their way up my shirt, touching my face, my neck, anything that was warm, and stealing the heat. He smirked with an unreal mirth when I pleaded and the tears began to roll. He giggled with delight when I cried out loud in pain, old wounds torn open again. And after it was over, he left me there again, exhausted, crushed, and alone.
I once heard it said that when English royal women would be married away without choice, in the old days of royalty, they had a saying. When she would be forced to consummate her marriage with her husband, she was told to "close her eyes and think of England," and then she wouldn't feel the pain, or the shame, of giving herself to a man she hardly knew.
I close my eyes, and imagine the gloves are off.
Okay, I admit it, I'm absolutely the ultimate worst when it comes to keeping up with a story I wrote. BUT, as an apology (and because I woke up in the middle of the night with an idea I really liked) I give you this! And it's a oneshot, so nobody has to worry about updates. Which I may get to eventually. If I can find the files. Somewhere.
I'm sorry you guys who read my other fic and wanted more. But I hope you like this! :)