Five Times A Day.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He asked looking away from the highway and at me instead.

"Like what?" I asked in my refrain, lifting my head from my arm and looking away a little.

It's a bit alarming how often we have this exchange. It would appear we never know why we look at each other like that.

"Like...that," he said pointing at me, "Like a doe in headlights."

"You mean deer in headlights?"

"No," he said turning to pinch my swollen cheek, "I mean doe..in headlights."

Ow.

......

"Good morning," I whispered into his cock.

Feeling things harden in your mouth has the same satisfying quality of popping bubble wrap. The sounds he makes half asleep are as satisfying as watching wax melt.

"Good morning," he smiled down at me through closed eyes, "I couldn't have been asleep an hour."

Actually, it was 43 minutes.

But it wasn't really morning.

"I'm sorry?" I wasn't sorry.

"You could be very sorry..." He said, "Turn around and show me why you're up already."

"Oh."

"Oh you thought we'd kiss, cuddle and snuggle?" He asked pushing me down onto my elbows, "I'd get on top of you and take you so sweetly?"

Sometimes I hate it when he sounds gleeful.

"Oh."

"Darling... I wouldn't want you to think you're safe from me today," he chuckled.

His fingers pulled at the waistband of my beige cotton panties and he tossed them beside my face. I was the one who stuffed them into my mouth. Because, partners-in-crime. Even when I'm the victim.

"Good girl," he said sounding genuinely pleased, "You always know when you'll have reason to scream."

Ow.

.....

"This is a beautiful," I told him, "I didn't think I would like an arid deciduous forest but I do."

It really was beautiful.

"I could have told you that you'd like it," he said pulling my hand and holding it firmly.

"It just looks like it's...suffering. Like it's suffering to survive."

Sometimes he smirks and I can hear it.

An old lady walked past us then carrying a bunch of twigs and branches on her back. I could see the thorns on all those branches scratching her back through her clothes. I simultaneously yearned and retched.

"That's greusome," I said, "Those branches are..cruel."

"I am too, you know," he said twisting my fingers around and there I shivered under the sweltering sun.

"You're cold," he said pushing his thorns into my wrist.

"So are you."

Ow.

.....

"You have such beautiful feet," I told him with lust so obvious I could feel it in my eyes.

"Funnily enough you're not the first girl to tell me that," he said smugly.

I tell him constantly that I am amazed by all these facets of him. It's like he's everyone and no one, and no one knows. I'm always mentally comparing him to the version of him that still calls my mother ma'am; the one that won't eat until all the women and children are fed. And smugness is so hard to relate to that character. Yet even that seems natural.

"I want your feet in my mouth," I love speaking helplessly, "But the way you're sitting my mouth will be on your feet."

He laughed.

It was friendly.

"Get on the floor," that wasn't friendly.

Nor was the way he shoved his foot inside my mouth and down my throat. It's okay though. I don't want to be his friend. I do much better as lover; as a secret vessel of shame that carries all his violence inside my heart and loves him back with it. I do much better as lover. Much better writhing on the floor and fucking his shoe.

And some animal reached from inside me for the other shoe and pulled it close, with much trepidation, by the blue shoelace, grasping it as it lay close enough to my face.

"Beat me, please?" I asked him holding up his shoe.

Sometimes he smiles with pity.

Sometimes I long for months to see that just once. Why i being pitied attractive? I don't know.

"Don't stop fucking that shoe," he said holding the other against my cheek, "That shoe is your lover now. A more suited one, perhaps."

I couldn't stop if I wanted to.

And each time the sole of his shoe landed against my face, I just fucked harder. It felt right. The dirt from the forests and the forts, on my face.

Splat.

Splat.

Splatter.

Like the rain.

Ow.

.....

"My sweet girl," he whispered into my mouth as he kissed me.

I like when he talks into my mouth. That's new for me. I don't do that. I didn't used to do that. Now it feels, tender. I never thought I would learn to appreciate tender but he taught me a trick. Tenderness hurts more than whips when you're making love to a bruised swollen bag of bones you've already reduced to a piece of meat. Something about being grateful for being touched gently breaks me down more easily than all this mindless violence.

It's a really neat trick. If I didn't love it so much I'd be mad I didn't think of it first.

"Does my sweet little girl hurt everywhere?" He asked sweetly. So fucking sweet and tender.

But I know, the sweetness is his real sickness. I like to be nice to people too, but I don't have to beat them every day of a week and reduce them into little wretched objects to invoke my sugary tenderness. I'm just saying, I know where my demons sleep, I just wonder sometimes if everyone knows.

"Yes daddy, it hurts," I admitted because I like the validation of feeling his dick harden against me at my admittance.

"Then daddy will be so sweet to his little girl," he said with relish. So much relish.

Because when I'm hurt and broken and incapacitated; when I'm nothing and no one, I really need him. I always want his love but something happens to him when I need it.

He's so powerful when he takes care of me.

And as he nibbled at my ear and kissed me gently all around my neck. And held my hand and squeezed it just a little bit when he kissed me so softly on my dry, cold mouth.

Yet something stirred and I struggled against shackles that didn't even exist. It's always strange when I resist him when he's being so loving and thrash around when he isn't holding me down at all.

"Oh you poor thing," he said with actual despair as I turned away from the kisses I love very much, "You don't like it when I'm nice to you, do you?"

I do.

I really do.

"I love your tenderness but it always makes me want to hurt some more."

"You poor little whore," he reiterated with genuine sadness as he pulled me up by my hair, "So incapable of appreciating nice things."

Then he tied me to the door

And hurt me some more.

Ow.

.....