By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories) by Christine Blackthorn
Authors: Christine Blackthorn
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time.
“Why?” Why had he allowed her to have that hope? To be free for another three months when the outcome had been so clear?
“There had not been any need before tonight.”
No need to bring her in before the only night each year in which a bond could be effected. She was defeated.
She had started to move towards the wine, even before he continued to speak:
“The longer you obey me, absolutely, the longer they will be safe.”
No contest.
The glass was large and her hands not too steady when she brought it over to him. He took it wordlessly and placed it on the table, the light of the fire behind it playing through the liquid, turning it into a goblet of mystery. Her eyes were caught by it, caught and held, as she stood naked in front of his chair and felt his eyes playing over her too thin, too scarred body.
When she finally looked at him she was surprised not to see his gaze fixed on the marks other men, other vampires, had left on her - or even on her breasts, which were the only part of her body where the constant hunger seemed to leave little sign. No, his eyes were on her face, and met hers with an expression she could not identify. She could not blame him; a man like him, she supposed, rarely found himself faced with the necessity to bed such an unappealing woman. She expected him to speak, or drink from the wine she had brought him. Instead he reached for her hands and pulled her closer, close enough for her feet to touch his and then, nudging her legs apart, pulled her even closer. When her legs touched the velvet upholstery of the chair, he transferred his hands to her knees.
“Kneel.”
Her mind was not fast enough to translate the order into action, so he applied light pressure to her legs and guided them up on the chair. She found herself straddling him on the chair, his hands around her waist, settling her to sit on his lap. She noticed that his large hands easily spanned her thin waist so that his thumbs met over her belly. Not sure where to rest her own hands she let them come to lay on the armrests of the chair.
The black wristbands stood out in stark contrast on her pale skin. He let go of her waist and lifted her right hand for closer inspection, then he found the simple closure that held the band and pulled it off. However much she tried to control her reaction, her whole body still jerked. He had revealed her ultimate humiliation. These were not the scars left by countless teeth tearing into her, like those found on her neck. Her throat she could hide from the world with a playful scarf and, most importantly, those were marks of her resistance, her fight. The marks shielded by her wristbands were the scarred gouges the chains had left on them as she fought, as she ripped her skin and flesh to the bone in a desperate attempt to escape. They were marks of shame, of a fight lost against herself. He said no words, not as he removed the other band, nor as he settled her hands back on the armrests and his own around her waist.
Only then did he speak: “Pick up the wine and take a sip.”
“I don’t drink.” She had been surprised by his words, surprised enough to once again be startled into speaking without thinking.
His eyes remained expressionless, as was his voice when he spoke again: “It was not a request.”
One night of absolute obedience for the safety of the girls.
She reached for the glass and took a small sip. As she tried to put it back down, his hands tightened on her waist and her attention was brought back to him mid-movement.
“I am thirsty, too.”
She offered him the glass, but he shook his head and remarked: “My hands are full.”
To illustrate this fact he began to paint little half circles over her belly with his thumbs. She tried to offer the glass to his lips but he shook his head again.
“Not like this.” Now there was a hint of amusement in his eyes and a twitch to his lips. Instead, she tried to
“Why?” Why had he allowed her to have that hope? To be free for another three months when the outcome had been so clear?
“There had not been any need before tonight.”
No need to bring her in before the only night each year in which a bond could be effected. She was defeated.
She had started to move towards the wine, even before he continued to speak:
“The longer you obey me, absolutely, the longer they will be safe.”
No contest.
The glass was large and her hands not too steady when she brought it over to him. He took it wordlessly and placed it on the table, the light of the fire behind it playing through the liquid, turning it into a goblet of mystery. Her eyes were caught by it, caught and held, as she stood naked in front of his chair and felt his eyes playing over her too thin, too scarred body.
When she finally looked at him she was surprised not to see his gaze fixed on the marks other men, other vampires, had left on her - or even on her breasts, which were the only part of her body where the constant hunger seemed to leave little sign. No, his eyes were on her face, and met hers with an expression she could not identify. She could not blame him; a man like him, she supposed, rarely found himself faced with the necessity to bed such an unappealing woman. She expected him to speak, or drink from the wine she had brought him. Instead he reached for her hands and pulled her closer, close enough for her feet to touch his and then, nudging her legs apart, pulled her even closer. When her legs touched the velvet upholstery of the chair, he transferred his hands to her knees.
“Kneel.”
Her mind was not fast enough to translate the order into action, so he applied light pressure to her legs and guided them up on the chair. She found herself straddling him on the chair, his hands around her waist, settling her to sit on his lap. She noticed that his large hands easily spanned her thin waist so that his thumbs met over her belly. Not sure where to rest her own hands she let them come to lay on the armrests of the chair.
The black wristbands stood out in stark contrast on her pale skin. He let go of her waist and lifted her right hand for closer inspection, then he found the simple closure that held the band and pulled it off. However much she tried to control her reaction, her whole body still jerked. He had revealed her ultimate humiliation. These were not the scars left by countless teeth tearing into her, like those found on her neck. Her throat she could hide from the world with a playful scarf and, most importantly, those were marks of her resistance, her fight. The marks shielded by her wristbands were the scarred gouges the chains had left on them as she fought, as she ripped her skin and flesh to the bone in a desperate attempt to escape. They were marks of shame, of a fight lost against herself. He said no words, not as he removed the other band, nor as he settled her hands back on the armrests and his own around her waist.
Only then did he speak: “Pick up the wine and take a sip.”
“I don’t drink.” She had been surprised by his words, surprised enough to once again be startled into speaking without thinking.
His eyes remained expressionless, as was his voice when he spoke again: “It was not a request.”
One night of absolute obedience for the safety of the girls.
She reached for the glass and took a small sip. As she tried to put it back down, his hands tightened on her waist and her attention was brought back to him mid-movement.
“I am thirsty, too.”
She offered him the glass, but he shook his head and remarked: “My hands are full.”
To illustrate this fact he began to paint little half circles over her belly with his thumbs. She tried to offer the glass to his lips but he shook his head again.
“Not like this.” Now there was a hint of amusement in his eyes and a twitch to his lips. Instead, she tried to
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