You can always tell what kind of day it is by the gift he leaves at the foot of your bed.
When he’s in a good mood, it’s silk. Pale things. Soft and humiliating. Fragile lace, glass heels, that kind of thing. Ribbons, sometimes. He likes it when you wear them around your throat like you’re some pampered mutt. He buys the kind that can’t be untied without his fingers.
Once it was a necklace made from the teeth of someone who tried to talk to you. A good day, he said. A warning and a present in one.
But when he’s in a bad mood?
The whole house smells different. The air turns thick. Too quiet.
There’ll be something darker at the foot of your bed. Leather. Metal. A collar with a lock. A spreader bar. Rope. The box is always open, like he wants you to see it before he arrives. As if your terror is part of the foreplay.
You never get to choose whether you wear it. He does.
✦✧✦✧
Today it’s a red box.
Good color. Dangerous color.
Inside is a gag.
And a blindfold.
You stare at it. It stares back. You don’t touch it. If you touch it, it counts as consent.
He shows up twenty-seven minutes later.
He doesn’t knock. Never does.
You’re still on the bed, in the corner, knees tucked to your chest like that does anything. He’s wearing black again. Not the carefree, obnoxious white. Black means this is one of his worse moods. The kind that rots under the surface like a fruit with a lovely peel.
He hums when he sees you.
“Did you like your present?” he says.
You don’t answer.
He crouches, tilts your chin up like he’s inspecting a doll he might break. His fingers are cold today. Or maybe yours are just too hot with dread.
“You didn’t put it on.”
You swallow.
He smiles. That slow, bright, poisonous grin.
“That’s okay. I like it better this way.”
He opens the gag and the blindfold with reverent fingers, like he’s preparing a ritual. In a way, he is.
His hands are in your hair before you register movement. You flinch. He tugs harder.
“Don’t squirm,” he murmurs, tone like silk soaked in blood. “You’re prettier when you obey.”
You bite your tongue.
It doesn’t help.
The blindfold goes on first. Then the gag. The sound of the buckle sliding through the loops is obscene. You can’t see anymore, and it’s worse. It makes his voice louder. Closer.
He climbs over you like he owns your body. Because he does.
“Y’know,” he murmurs against your ear, hot breath fanning your skin, “you make it so easy to hurt you.”
The mattress shifts. The creak of the bedframe is drowned out by your heartbeat.
He starts slow. He always starts slow, when he’s in this kind of mood. It’s part of the fun for him. The pretense of tenderness. The way he touches you with fingertips like he’s savoring the thought of tearing you apart later.
His hands move down your sides. Possessive. Confident. Lazy. Like he has all night—and he does. You can’t run. You can’t scream.
He doesn’t go for your clothes yet. Not immediately. He likes to speak first.
“Wanna know why I’m mad?”
Silence.
The gag muffles your breath.
He leans in closer. His voice a whisper.
“Because someone looked at you. And you looked back.”
You freeze. He laughs.
“Cute, right? Thought you were slick? Sweet little thing, thinking I wouldn’t notice?”
He tears your top in one motion. You jerk. The sound of fabric ripping rings in your skull. Then his hand is on your throat, not choking, just holding. Heavy. Grounding.
“You belong to me,” he says.
Like it’s law.
He mouths at your neck, bites just shy of breaking skin. It hurts. It’s supposed to. His nails dig crescents into your hips. He unbuckles his belt one-handed. You hear the click. The slide. You feel the intent.
Then he laughs softly against your throat.
“You’re shaking. You poor thing. You must love this.”
You thrash weakly. He hums.
“Don’t be like that. I’m being gentle tonight.”
He’s not.
The sheets are cold against your back as he forces your legs apart. He doesn’t prep. Doesn’t tease. Just makes a sound of annoyance and spits, slicking himself with disdain.
Then he pushes in.
Too fast. Too deep.
Your whole body arches.
He groans like he’s been waiting all day for this.
“Ahh, there she is. Always so tight after I haven’t ruined you for a while. Fuck. Look at you.”
You can’t look. You’re blindfolded. But he can.
He fucks you like he wants to erase whoever you used to be. Like he wants to replace every atom in you with something that belongs to him. The pace is bruising. Punishing. Perfectly timed with each degrading word that falls from his lips like honey-laced venom.
“Stupid thing. Thought I wouldn’t notice how you dressed today? You wore that shirt for attention, didn’t you? You like being watched?”
His hand is back on your throat.
“Do you like it more when I watch?”
You moan against the gag. Involuntary. He huffs a laugh.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Your wrists are pinned above your head before you realize he’s moved. You feel the heat of his body over you, around you, inside you. He’s everywhere.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “You don’t need to think anymore. You don’t need to be anything anymore. I’ll take care of that.”
Another thrust. Another whimper.
“You’re mine.”
You try to twist away. You fail.
He growls.
“You like this. You like being ruined. You like it when I’m mean to you. You wear my bruises like jewelry. So don’t pretend you’re not dripping every time I talk down to you.”
He pulls out just enough to slam back in harder.
“Isn’t that right, doll?”
The gag is wet with spit. Your thighs are trembling. You’re sweating. Crying. Both?
He sighs, like he’s bored now. Like your resistance was only fun until it started feeling like effort.
So he slows. Changes tactics.
One hand slides under your thigh, hoisting it over his shoulder. The new angle makes you scream. Muffled. Useless.
“That’s better,” he whispers, voice husky.
“You were made for me. You breathe for me. Everything you are belongs to me. You don’t even remember what silence feels like unless I give it to you.”
He presses his palm to your stomach. Feels himself inside you. You twitch.
He laughs again.
“Full, huh? Poor baby. Can’t handle me but still begs for more.”
You don’t beg. Not out loud.
But your body does.
And he knows it.
He drags it out. Hours maybe. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you finish. He ruins you over and over again. Your mouth. Your thighs. Your mind. He talks you through it like you’re nothing more than a fucked-out thing that exists to please him.
When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Cruel. Your hips try to follow. You can’t help it.
He sees.
Smirks.
“See? You like me better when I’m angry.”
He kisses your cheek like he didn’t just ravage you within an inch of your sanity.
Then he stands.
He doesn’t untie you.
He doesn’t take off the gag.
He leaves you there, blind and sore, stuffed full of him, trembling in the sheets.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he says, voice distant now, “I’ll bring you something prettier.”
The door clicks shut.
You lie in silence.
You pray he’s in a good mood tomorrow.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 