There is something in the way her pretty eyes gloss over with tears when I make a rude comment or hurt her in any other way. Her lips tremble and brows wrinkle as she tries to keep in the anger, the sorrow. Yet, the tears always manage to fall and I want nothing more than to keep hurting her just to see that happen. She doesn't understand how much more beautiful she is when she's broken, when hope seems to leave her eyes and I am the puppeteer, a grand master, of her.
"Takao..." She would sob, averting her eyes in shame.
I would smirk and watch her fall to her knees with a thump which surely was a proof of the pain the fall caused but she would never make a sound. I'd crouch beside her bowed head and tangle my fingers in her hair, gently brushing it for a few moments before pulling her head up harshly and making her face me. She would make a lovely sound, a moan full of pain, but she wouldn't make a move to free herself.
"Cry for me." I'd order, whispering in her ear, my lips brushing against the lobe. "Don't worry, there is no one here to hear you but me."
I love to break her, smash her into tinny tiny pieces until she's like putty in my hands, ready to be molded by me. Like a doll, she never resisted and enjoyed the way I played with her, my touches on her body and the care I provide after.