Please consider this something of an apology, though a shoddy one at best; I can't stand myself thinking I offended someone I truly admire. I hope this, at least, makes you smile. :]
When he broke her – truly, utterly, deftly dismantled her – she loved him most. When she was less than a person, and more than herself, she was mad with him. She was sure there could never be more complete a world than when her eyes were swollen shut and her soul was seeping out of her, little by little. He drank of her being, and she wanted to live there inside him forever. Possession was her heaven, and her terrible God rose the sun with his laughter and raked darkness over her sky with his backhand.
In the night, she was his completely, soulfully, dreadfully, blissfully; her ambitions were nothing and he was paradise.
She had been young and bright and new when she first sat upon a not-so-bridal bed, and he first looked at her in that cold and penetrating way. She knew, now, that this was disinterest. Her eagerness had bored him, her willingness a yawn on his should-be grin. His blasé manner drove her wild. She ached to give herself completely – she hadn't any idea what it meant at the time. She had never been less his.
But he, she knew, could fix that.
"Take care of yourself," he had told her. Fraught with disappointment at first, she had thought it a game. Her whining drove him towards the door, but her first, damp moan gave him pause. His icy gaze on her brought shivers to her skin. He watched, without reservation, and for the first time in her otherwise modest life, she felt raw and on display, and with her hips pushed up and his name in her throat, she was taken with lustful glee. She had thought, for one wild moment, she had won. She had made the mistake of thinking she could – of thinking she wanted to.
Only had her cries reached their greatest exclamation, and he was upon her. For one, wild second she was sure he had come to claim her. Her misconception was only slight. At first it had been his fists – not something she was unaccustomed to, but never out of such apparent fury. But his desire for her punishment extended beyond what a hand alone could accomplish, and he hissed at her with such venom in his voice that the slashes on her skin were surely, surely from his tone. It was not until he drew his hand up for another strike, razor unfolded and bloodstained, that she realized this pain was far more – perhaps, later though she would realize, far less – real.
Her voice was meaningless in his rage.
"Mine," he spat at her, and only then, when the searing sensation had crept from her cuts into her brain, did she dare to blindly throw her hands in front of her thighs. This was an error of carelessness; he did not punish her further for it, but her wrists came back bloody when he used one merciless hand to pin her own down, out of the way. "Do you hear me? Mine. This is mine."
It wasn't until after she had stopped pleading, stopped pathetically screaming, moaning, "yes, yes," -- falsehood in her claim to comprehension -- that she realized he had never yelled. His voice was calculated, controlled, though his body did not match this attitude. His slashes seemed to strike with unrestrained abandon, and by the time he had ceased, she was already beaten, lying flat and sobbing, nursing hands against her chest with legs still lewdly spread but not daring to move, to even flinch again.
He had sat back, half astride her, sick and beautiful schoolboy grin back on his face, razor still lifted with the light of pride in his handiwork filling his eyes. "Now, now," he cooed obscenely to her; so out of place seemed the reaction that she did not at first recognize the desire in his tone, "what's this? What's got my little Harley so down?"
She could not, dared not, answer. Everything was wrong, and her sense of belonging had, for the first time since she'd donned a mask for him – short though that time was – begun to spiral out of control, completely away from her. He had never cut her, never struck her so. She had failed, she knew it. And yet…and yet she was still his Harley…
"Come, now. Daddy told you to do something."
She gazed at him through tears, still breathless and utterly confused. He hadn't told her to do anything at all, she was sure of it.
"I said," he began again, flicking the blade impatiently with a new edge to his voice, "to take care of yourself. You can't just stop in the middle!"
Floating, bewildered anew, she stared, and it took another threatening waggle of his razor for her battered hand to obey. No sooner had she delved shakily, nervously within herself than the edge of that blade was on her thigh again, but he hissed disapproval when she hesitated. He traced a fresh line of red on her flesh, and now he was cooing, hovering over her, one hand planted over her shoulder and long limbs curled under her hips. It surprised her how provocative she found him through the haze of fear and pain.
"That's right," he crooned gaily at her, finding a rhythm of his own; a new, slow slice to each stroke of her own finger, "this is mine."
It was then, with his voice barely a heavy, allure of a whisper that understanding began to settle in. He was not claiming her – that, she realized, was an absolute given. He was claiming a right she had mistakenly thought to possess, and now, with a cool blade against hot skin, her pleasure was irrevocably and totally his; his plaything, his whim. His smile, his laughter, his creation, his hot breath on her neck, his hand joining hers, his knife – for the first time tantalizing – on her thigh.
And her world, by his hand, was perfection.