It's About Power

Chapter 5

I was more cautious after that; more careful about the actions I took. When I cleaned, I made sure to touch every nook and cranny so that he could not find fault in my errors. I struggled not to let the wind fall out of my sails when I was too tired or too cranky to continue. I'm only human, but I never let that simple fact become an excuse. I wasn't perfect, but I could be if I worked hard enough. I was devoted, but I had to show that on the outside. Bill couldn't read my thoughts. He didn't seem to see it in my eyes. He didn't notice it in the way I worshipped him, the way I kneeled by his side for hours on end while he worked on his computer or read a dusty old book from the library shelf. I spent most of my nights existing in the background. I enjoyed the way he used me as a lampshade or an ottoman, as a drink fetcher or a fountain of blood. I wasn't a person to him, and that made me feel more… more something.

When he wanted me, he called to me. I came running, every time. I was never too busy to be of use to him. I was only apart from him when I had shifts at the bar, and I started taking on more dreaded day shifts so that I could spend my nights near him. Most of my nights were spent in silence, waiting for him to need me. He had only to speak and I was up and ready, an engine running ready and hot. That simple smile, that slight incline of his head, it was all I needed. The acknowledgement of my presence replaced my need for sexual fulfillment. His pleasure was more important. His pleasure was the only important thing.

I was in a constant state of anxiety, aching to stay on his good side, to keep him happy. I dreaded that silent treatment more than I dreaded the possibility of anger. His potential disappointment hovered at my feet like the coming plague. I would die if I had to experience that again. My need to please took over my better judgment, and I began agreeing to do things I had no desire to do.

One night, after almost a week of floating in the background without acknowledgement of any kind, Bill turned to me. His brows curved up at the ends and sloped down toward the bridge of his nose. He looked positively evil, devious, and cruel. I swelled with desire, knowing I would finally get the chance to feel his arms embrace me. He stuck out his hand and lifted me to my feet. My knees cracked and groaned, and I limped as I followed him up the stairs to the bedroom. The room was as clean as I had last left it. There were neat hospital corners on the bed, and I'd dusted the curtains and swept the floor. Bill's insistent lips fell upon my neck. He licked my skin, leaving sporadic kisses. I panted as I became more excited. It had been so long since he'd touched me, so long since he'd found physical pleasure in me. I was a rag doll in his brutal hands, moving where he moved me.

He removed the negligee I'd worn for him, a black lacy gown that fell to the middle of my thighs. I was bare underneath, and he made a growl of approval. My face flushed hot. I knew my cheeks were pink, my lips dark and red, my pupils wide as lust gathered under my skin.

"Sookie," he rumbled into my breast as his mouth explored the curves of my trembling body. I loved the way he said my name, the way he curled the O's over his tongue.

"Bill," I whispered, my breath escaping from me like the air let out of a tire.

"I want to hurt you," he grunted. He dug his hand into my backside, squeezing the flesh so firmly that I let out a surprised squeak of pain. He grinned deviously and smacked his hand against the spot he'd squeezed.

"I only want to please you," I murmured nervously. I was, frankly, terrified. What did he want to do to me? Throw me over the bed and spank me on the behind? That seemed strange and worrisome. Would he get off on that? Would I? It didn't really matter if I did or not, and I wasn't so concerned with it. Fear crept up over my shoulders and sat on me.

Bill picked me up off the floor. He kissed my lips, tenderly and lovingly, as though he weren't preparing to do something painful to my body. He stroked my cheek and hair. His fingers pinched and squeezed one of my nipples. He tossed me back on the bed, on top of the cool quilt. I sank into the mattress, closed my eyes, and let out a breath of relief. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I would be okay. Hell, maybe I'd even enjoy myself. I couldn't suppress the nervousness that tensed up my limbs.

Bill's cold fingers traced the outline of my torso. His have dove underneath my hip, and deftly, he flipped me over onto my stomach. My nose and chin bumped into one of the pillows. I blinked, more surprised than hurt. He grasped my hips and yanked me backward as he stood at the end of the bed. I balanced on my knees, my chest pushed heavily against the quilt, my arms yanked down along my sides. I rested my cheek uncomfortably on the bed, but I didn't dare squirm for a more comfortable position.

"You look beautiful, Sookie," he moaned. I blushed. I could taste my own embarrassment, despite his reflections on my apparent attractiveness. I felt exposed to the world, like all of Bon Temps was watching me. It was a strange sensation, both erotic and deeply humiliating. The two feelings were polarized. A barrier existed between them, like opposing magnets. I was at a loss.

"I'm scared, Bill," I whimpered. I wanted to ask him to stop, to just hold me, to make me feel safe. I didn't. I don't know why, but I felt like I couldn't ask. I couldn't tell him what to do. I couldn't disappoint him. He wanted to hurt me and I wanted to let him. I wanted him to be happy.

"You'll like it, Sookie. Just trust me." His voice was as smooth as a frozen lake. I wanted to trust him, to believe that I would enjoy myself. I dampened down my fears. I squeezed and relaxed my fingers. I gasped in air like a dying fish on the hot pavement.

Rattan doesn't make the cracking sound one expects. It's more like a soft woosh as the air is displaced and redistributed. I wasn't expecting the feeling. I didn't even know what he intended to do until it was done. There was no warning and no warm-up. The cane came down as suddenly as a lightning bolt smacking an open field. I let out a shocked yelp, a sound that burst from my mouth and filled the tight space around my buried head. I wanted to sit up, to hold my wounded body, to nurse my stunted pride, but I didn't.

I just stayed still. And he did it again.

I had tears in my eyes after the first couple strikes. I wanted to scream out, to tell him no, to beg him for mercy. I wanted to crawl away, to jump out of the window and claw my way up to the roof if it meant I could just escape. But I stayed because I didn't want to disappoint him. There was something in the eagerness of his approach, the way he smoothed his fingers over the burning welts on my skin. He was enjoying himself, and I knew it. In my head, I pictured him bouncing up and down on one of those bouncy houses that kids enjoy. Every time the cane came down, he made a great leap into the air. He landed and bounced again, skyward, high as a kite. I longed to see the smile on his face that I knew was there.

The cane fell back down again. There's a different sensation when your skin splits. It isn't the same feeling as a welt. When you welt, you skin accepts the implement and, when it's released, your flesh springboards back up. There's a bruise, swelling, a great splash of red, but you're okay. This time, the skin didn't bounce back. It split open right down along the line of the strike. I screamed. I couldn't hold back the urge, and I scrambled up the bed for safety. It was a fight or flight moment, a gut reaction, as natural as breathing when you're knocked unconscious. I wrapped my arms around the bedpost and let the tears fall like rain.

"Please," I whimpered. I didn't recognize the sound of my own voice. My tongue shivered. My lips were dry and chapped. I could barely see through my dripping mascara. "Please stop."

It was the first time I had stood up for myself, but I didn't see it that way. I felt like I had betrayed him, that I had put my own interests first. I wasn't important. My needs and desires were his to control. I wanted it that way, didn't I? I wanted to feel like this. I couldn't lift my head to look into his eyes, to see the disgust in his features. The mattress squeaked when Bill knelt down upon it. He pulled me down from my perch and tucked me into his chest. I wept freely, leaving black streaks on his pale skin. His fingers rose up into my hair and pulled lightly through the strands. Bill never spoke. He never said a word, and yet I felt comforted, like he cared that I was unwell.

I shuddered in silence for several minutes, long after the pain receded and the blood on my backside crusted over. I was still whimpering when Bill pressed his lips hungrily against my neck. He kissed me roughly, moving up along my throat to my jaw. He traced my mouth with the pad of his thumb, and pushed his finger over my tongue. I lifted my eyes to look at him, and saw that he was alive with passion. Had it been building all this time? Or did he just enjoy my crying? His hand cupped my breast and he shoved me backward across the pillows. He was inside of me in seconds, a piston. His hips smacked against mine, and my sore bottom wobbled painfully underneath us. He came inside me, only minutes later. He didn't ask me if I was ready, and even if he had, I wasn't. For the first time, I took no pleasure from our copulation. I was only a means to an end.

"Feel better?" He asked me when he'd rolled off. He curled up against my back. His hand traced the welts on my rump.

"Yes," I replied flatly. I lied. I lied to please him. He nuzzled my hair with his stubbly chin. His flaccid penis pressed between my bruised buttocks. I fell asleep in his arms, and hoped the next day would be better.

I could come to enjoy this.