I used to be Negan's wife.
The man had an entire harem inside of his large factory, where he could fuck any of his wives, any time he wanted. It was a reality I had lived for a long time, one I had agreed to because my father had become very sick and needed medication. Most of us agreed to be with him for special treatment, but after my father died, it wasn't about favors any longer. I had fallen hard for him. Perhaps it was the sex, or maybe I was losing my mind, but Negan became my only priority, day after day.
Thing was, I wasn't his main priority.
I had to share him with the other women. Some nights, after he would finish with me, he'd ask me to send another one of the girls to his room—as if I hadn't been good enough for him.
And it hurt.
It hurt when he asked the young, eighteen-year-old newcomer to be his new pet. It hurt to hear her bragging about how she spent the night with him—how he would pepper her in kisses right in front of us—how he called her his favorite.
And then he stopped calling for me all together.
So I left him.
There were no rules saying I had to stay. There was nothing stopping me from walking away. I thought he would fight me on it—I wanted him to. I wanted him to beg me not to leave him, or to at least show some sort of sign that he didn't want me to go. Instead, he set me up with my own room, my own job, and new clothes because as he said I, "wouldn't be needing that sexy dress anymore."
I became a normal member of the community again, but things didn't feel normal. I felt alone, and Negan would ignore me any time he was near. The man I had been so intimate with, that I had shared the most private sides of myself, acted like I was a nobody.
I befriended very few people at the Sanctuary, but over time I grew close with Simon, Negan's right-hand man. My relationship with Simon was purely platonic; he would drink with me and bullshit. He'd tell me about his day, and what it was like taking care of all of Negan's dirty work. I know it was wrong of me to do, but I think I enjoyed hearing him talk about Negan. It was the closest I could get to being back in his life.
I also turned to alcohol to try and make myself feel numb. The Sanctuary had a well stocked bar, and every night I became so shit-faced, I was lucky if I even made it back to my room. There were many mornings where I would wake up slumped up against the counter, with a bottle in my lap.
Tonight had been no exception. I was in the bar, downing shots, when Simon came in. He put his hand on my back and rubbed it for a long time, and I wanted so badly to just feel something. Before I knew what was happening, he led me to his bedroom, and we fucked for the first time. Simon was sweet, but the sex was sloppy, and I faked an orgasm to shorten the duration. He fell asleep after kissing me softly. I laid awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I still felt so alone.
I crept out of his bed and went back to the bar. I pulled up one of the stools and poured myself a shot. It was late, and I figured everyone would be in bed. I didn't hear someone come into the room and pull up a stool right next to me. When I looked up from the shot glass, I saw a familiar leather jacket. My heart dropped, and I looked away quickly, not wanting to give him any attention.
We sat together in silence for a long time, neither of us saying anything. I knew he was staring at me, probably assessing the mess I had turned into. I shivered at his gravely voice when he finally addressed me.
"How are things?" Negan asked.
"I'm fine," I lied. I didn't sound very convincing. I had just fucked his friend, and I felt like he could see right through me.
He let out a dry chuckle and reached over to grab the bottle of rum that was in front of me. His arm brushed up against mine, and I shivered at the contact. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. I watched as he poured us each a shot, and I stared at the dark liquid filling up each tiny glass. He picked up his, but didn't drink it right away. Silence grew between us once again, and I wanted to get up and leave. I had thought that if he talked to me, I would feel good again, but this was somehow worse.
I started to get off the stool, when Negan's voice made me freeze in my tracks.
"You've been spending a lot of time with Simon lately." I finally turned to look at him. He was gazing into my eyes with a serious expression. "Did you see him today?"
It was a simple question, but a loaded one. He spoke so nonchalantly, but his expression was cold and emotionless. I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say to him. He leaned over so his head was close to mine, and he breathed against my ear.
"Did you fuck him good?"
I knew my cheeks were turning red, and I looked away. Did he know? He couldn't possibly know. I felt so embarrassed as he mentioned what I had literally just finished doing. He chuckled darkly, and downed the shot of rum. He set the shot glass on top of the bar, and got up from the stool. My stomach churned as he started to walk away, and my mouth formed words that I hadn't fully thought out.
"Maybe I did," I replied. I could hear the venom in my voice as I fired back at him. I was too drunk to have seen it coming, but in one fast moment, Negan was right up by me. He grabbed my chin in his hand roughly—the way he used to grab me when we were alone together, and he would smash his mouth onto mine. I missed the taste of him on my tongue.
He leaned close, as if he was going to kiss me, just like before. Instead, his hazel eyes bore into mine and seemed to be trying to read me.
He didn't know.
He didn't know if I had really been with Simon, and was trying to determine if I had. We were both trying to figure the other out. I could see it in his eyes—not knowing if I had been with Simon or not was bothering him.
"I hope it's worth it," he whispered low.
I gulped as he gazed into my eyes for a few more moments, and then he let me go. I hung my head as he walked out of the room.
I knew he wouldn't hear me, but I whispered back, "It's not."
I watched the door, hoping he would come back, but he didn't. I couldn't get my mind off him, and my foolish attempt at making him jealous hadn't worked. He didn't need me. He had all his other wives. He was probably on his way to go fuck one right then. I stood up from the stool, but then grabbed the bottle of rum and slid down against the bar with my back against the counter. I felt terrible, and I did it to myself.
It was like I was losing my mind. I was addicted to him, and this was the withdrawal. I had tried to quit him—tried to replace him, and no one was allowing me to reach that same, sweet high he granted. I tried to cheat the system—to cheat his rules, and in the end, I cheated myself. No matter what I did, I knew I would be miserable as long as I was without him.
I stood up from the floor, feeling dizzy as the alcohol swam in my veins. I felt warm and determined as I stumbled down the hall and to a room I had spent plenty of time in. I knocked on the door loudly, as my head pulsed. I knew I was drunk, but I still felt like I was somehow in control of things—that I could fix it and make it better again.
Negan answered the door wearing nothing but his boxers. I bit my lip as I drank him in, and gaped at him. He let out a sigh and looked me over. He didn't look surprised to see me. He probably had expected this, but I didn't care how pathetic I looked.
He stepped out of my way and I walked into his room a few steps, and then spun around to face him. He was sleepy, and leaned a hand onto his couch. He looked annoyed, and I felt a pang of regret coming to him, but knew I need to at least try and talk to him.
"I'm sorry," I blurted out. The words flooded out, "I left because I was so sick of being ignored. I felt like you didn't really give a shit about me, and I thought maybe… just maybe if I left, you would fight for me. But you didn't…"
I should have stopped there, but I couldn't. This confession was spilling out of me, and there was no stopping it.
"I didn't intend to fall in love with you. I didn't think I could fall in love with someone like you, but I did. And I miss you, Negan. I want to come back. I want to belong to you again."
I bit my lip and looked at him, silently begging him to say something. He just stood there and continued to stare, seemingly unfazed by my words. My stomach turned, and I realized I had just laid all my cards on the table. His face was unreadable.
"Say something!" I raised my voice and balled my hands into fists as I gave him a look of desperation. It was the middle of the night, and I shouldn't have been shouting, but the mixture of alcohol and my frustration led to my outburst.
And it was my eruption that had him closing the distance between us. He walked right up to me, but didn't touch me. Instead he leaned close, his eyes never leaving mine, and he took a breath before speaking.
"You want to apologize for leaving me?"
I nodded slowly, feeling my heartbeat increase at the idea of being his once more.
"Get on your knees and show me just how sorry you really are."
There was something in his command—his dominance, that dripped off each word he had said. It ignited the fire inside me that I was craving so badly. Knowing he still wanted me, had me chasing the glorious high. I knew it would be a fleeting moment, but a blissful one.
I sank down onto my knees before him, and he stared down at me; his eyes were like daggers. It wasn't like before, when I was his wife—he had always been laid back in the bedroom. He would crack jokes and smile. But this time, as I reached the ground and looked up at him, there was a serious look on his face as he stared down at me. It gave me butterflies; I felt like I was being interviewed for a position, and I would do anything to get the job.
I reached up and touched the front of his legs, placing my palms on his sturdy thighs. He was warm, and I wanted to embrace his heat. My fingers slid up to the hem of his boxers, and I pulled them down until they hit the floor. He was half hard, and as I grasped him into my hand, my eyes went upwards towards his. He was still looking at me sternly. Perhaps he thought I was pathetic—his drunken ex had stumbled into his room in the middle of the night, looking for redemption. Maybe he pitied me. It didn't matter. He was my favorite brand of heroin, and it was time to shoot up.
I stroked him slowly, without looking away from him. My small hand fondled him, and I felt him become harder against my palm. Once he was fully erect, I opened my mouth, and leaned forward, sticking out my tongue and licking his thick member.
I expected him to hiss out—to shudder—to groan like he used to. Instead, he was stiff and unmoving. His unfaltering gaze locked onto mine as I took him into my mouth. My darkened lips wrapped around every inch, and I felt a line of saliva roll down my mouth as I moved him further inside. I was going slow, but I knew what he liked. I hollowed my cheeks and began a steady pace, sliding him in and out of my mouth.
I had been here more times than I could count—on my knees, accepting him. But this was different. This was me, begging for his forgiveness. As I spelled out my apology with my tongue against the tender skin of his shaft, I couldn't look away from that stone cold gaze that peered down at me.
Why was he looking at me like that?
My head bobbed up and down a few times, and then I felt his hand come up to the back of my head. He grasped my hair in between his fingers, and I smiled around him as he finally touched me. The happy moment was fleeting—before I knew it, he was forcing me further onto his dick, and I gasped out around it, trying to catch my breath as he entered into my throat.
I began to choke, but he didn't let go, and continued to force himself forward within my mouth. I felt tears build up from the burning pain as my lungs desperately tried to find air. He held himself inside, staring down at me as I sputtered around his shaft. When he finally let me go, I pulled my head back so my mouth left his member, and I took a deep breath.
"What's wrong, babe?" his voice was cold, and had a definite edge to it, "Too much for you?"
His words should have been lighthearted; they should have been accompanied by a smirk or a chuckle, but they weren't. He still seemed so disgusted—so fed up with me. And it was starting to piss me off. I squinted up at him, trying to read him. I didn't know what he was playing at, but I wasn't about to give in.
I slid my mouth back onto him and took his cock even further in than before, relaxing my throat as he returned to grabbing the back of my head. I began to bob my head again, but he gripped me tightly and started to force my head at his own pace—a pace that was rough and fast. He fucked my mouth relentlessly, and I slowly started to realize what this was…
This wasn't an apology.
This was a punishment.
His cock popped out of my mouth, and I stared down at the floor, suddenly feeling dirty and used. I wasn't his wife anymore. I felt like his whore.
His grip on my hair tightened, and he tugged me upwards, causing a jolt of pain to course through me from the top of my head. I rose to my feet, unsure what was going to happen next. I felt a slight pang of panic as he grabbed my pants and pulled them down to my ankles. As I stepped out of them, he pulled my panties down too, and I shivered as the cold air licked at my exposed skin.
Suddenly, I was shoved back up against his bedroom door. I felt the wind get knocked out of me, and he pressed his body hard against mine. He wasted no time in lining himself up at my entrance, as I leaned against the wooden frame. As soon as he entered me, I cried out, wrapping my arms around his neck as he pressed in with a hard, deep thrust.
Just as he had with my mouth, he pounded in and out of me with a harsh pace. I felt my nails dig into his bare skin, which only seemed to egg him on. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain. Wasn't this what I had been craving? I could already feel that aching pain within me starting to build deeper and hotter, and I knew he would bring me over the edge.
So why did this feel so fucking wrong?
He didn't make a sound—didn't kiss me—didn't encourage me like he had used to. He just continued to thrust in and out, like he had something to prove. Maybe we both did.
I wrapped my leg around his hip, and as my body propped up against him more, he slid even further inside my aching core. I started to pant and felt like I was going to lose my balance, just as I felt my orgasm grow. I wanted him to say something—to whisper sweet nothings like he always did, but the only sounds that filled the room was my little moans and the sound of our flesh slapping together.
I had wanted this. I had come here for this. As I reached that desired edge, I squeezed his shoulders tightly as my cunt clenched around him, and he didn't let up. My eyes watered as I found my high, and I trembled around him. My leg shakily reached the floor, and he pulled out and released himself onto my leg. I leaned against the door, closed my eyes, and tried to catch my breath. It had been weeks since I had felt so good, but as the effects of my orgasm started to fade, I began to feel sick. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the rough fuck session, but I felt like I needed to lay down.
When I opened my eyes again, Negan was coming out of his bathroom with a towel. He threw it at me, and I caught it into my hands, and wiped his release from my leg. He had already pulled his boxers back on and was watching me closely as I cleaned myself up.
"You need to leave."
His voice took me by surprise as he finally spoke, and I looked up at him from where I was still leaning against his door. I hadn't expected him to ask me to spend the night, but I had come here with an agenda.
"Am I a wife again?" the question sounded funny. I felt like I was at the end of an audition, not asking to be someone's spouse. He stared at me a long time—that same serious expression still on his face, and it made my heart drop. I knew his answer before he said it.
"I'm not taking you back," he said simply.
I don't know what I had expected. I had thought that maybe if I came to him and proved myself, he would forgive me. I had thought there was something between us.
I thought maybe—just maybe—I was something he needed, the way I needed him.
But he didn't need me.
I looked away and off to the side, trying to figure out what to say to him. I felt so hurt, but I should have expected this from him. Negan wasn't with his wives because he loved them, he used us for his own pleasure.
The same way I had come here, intending to use him for mine.
He waited for me to speak, or perhaps to leave. When I didn't move he let out a sigh.
"You need to go sleep off that shit," he reminded me, in a softer voice. I could hear pity in his words, and I finally looked up at him. I was angry, and I wanted to hurt him back the way he was hurting me.
"I fucked Simon."
I waited for the words to hit him, and wanted him to become enraged. I wanted him to yell—to freak out at me over my betrayal.
Instead, he just nodded.
"I know. I saw you go into his room."
My mouth opened, but I didn't know what to say. He had known the whole time. It was why he had been looking at me like I had disappointed him—because I had. He let me come to him and make an absolute ass of myself.
I felt used, humiliated, and stupid. I became choked up as I leaned over and grabbed my panties and pants and pulled them on in a hurry. I desperately needed to get out of his room. Negan continued to watch me, but he didn't seem amused about knowing what I had done. He seemed sad, and for the first time that night I realized that hardened look on his face wasn't disgust.
He was hurt.
I was hurting too, worse than I had been before I came to him. I swallowed the building tears and took a deep breath.
"He's better than you ever were." The lie slipped out easy, but I could hear the doubt in my harsh statement. I wanted him to show any sign of emotion, other than the stoic look he was currently giving me. I wanted any kind of a reaction.
He shrugged.
"Good for you, sweetheart."
His indifference hurt the most, like a knife twisting inside an already gaping wound. I turned from him and went to the door, just as I felt some tears start to roll down my face. I would have given anything for him to call me back, but I exited because we both had nothing else to say.
Good for me?
Nothing about this felt good, or right. I stopped being Negan's wife because I felt awful about being a side piece. I fucked Simon because I wanted Negan to get jealous—to get angry—to feel anything about me. Instead, he had played me like a fiddle. I knew he was bad for me and I should hate him, but I hated myself more than anything. I felt like an addict. Even after all that, I still fucking needed him.
Instead of returning to my room, I went back into the bar where I had left the bottle of rum on the floor, and I picked it up and clutched it in my hands. Seeing him act like he didn't care about me made me feel empty, and I didn't want to feel that way anymore. I took a long swing straight from the bottle, and coughed around the taste.
I had no one else to blame but myself, and I didn't want anyone's pity.
I just wanted him.
