Page 2 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
As much as it can be good when you’re trapped with a monster.
I think about you when he beats me.
Not the playful swats you would give me when we were in bed, and I pretended to be naughty. I remember the first time you spanked me. Not on my butt cheeks but in the front, you know. And yes, my face is burning as I write this. I know you can imagine how red I am. Earning your nickname for me once again. I’m still your rosy girl.
When you smacked me there, I thought it would hurt. And it kind of did. But it felt good too. Really amazingly good. I couldn’t believe it. I never thought hitting me in such an intimate place would feel so wonderful. I wanted more. I moaned, and you growled. I could tell you were pleased. I liked that. Pleasing you. I like making you happy. Because you make me happy.
Maybe that’s weird. Maybe that’s degrading to have my goal in life be to make you happy after everything I accomplished on my own before we met. Maybe that’s too submissive, and I should want more than to just be your good girl. But it’s true. We both know it’s true. No need to lie for a truth we can’t do anything about but accept.
But he’sNOTHINGlike you. He’s so cruel. So damn mean. When he hits me, it hurts. Not the good hurt either. But painful. More pain than I ever thought possible. Worse than I believed I could tolerate and not pass out. Over and over. On my butt and thighs and back. With belts and sticks and paddles. He said it’s supposed to feel good. That it will make my pussy wet for him. But he lies. That’s a lie. A total and complete lie. It feels terrible. He’s terrible. My pussy’s never wet for him. Never! Not now! Not ever!!!
My mom would really punish me if she knew I wrote that word! God, what would she think?!? I know she must be so scared. Probably even more than I am.
You’d be proud of me though. I finally figured out that the more I cry, the harder and longer he hits me. I’ve also finally figured how to cry without any noise. That seems to help some. But nothing seems to help with these bruises. I haven’t been able to sit down for three days. My feet ache from standing so much. I’m exhausted, but if I lay down, he’ll fuck me more than he already does. Even though he knows I’m in pain. Very well aware that he hurts me when he touches me. He doesn’t care. I actually think he likes it. He likes seeing me suffer. He actuallyenjoysseeing me suffer. I always wonder why. A sadist, I think it’s called. He’s definitely that. He definitely is the most ecstatic when I’m the most broken.
I think about you when he makes me bleed.
You would be so angry to see me like this. I remember how furious you were when I slipped on the icy driveway and slammed the back of my head on the travertine. You berated the terrified groundskeeper for being careless. I thought you were going to kill him you were that livid. You spared him because of me. Although I wished you didn’t even want to kill him at all because it’s wrong and over the top and crazy. But I know how your world works. No one, including your own staff, can ever see you as weak. Which is why I realize this isn’t your fault. He only took me to prove your weakness.
But, I understood the risk, the danger of loving you, when I accepted you into my life and my heart. Not like I really had any choice. I love you and couldn’t give you up if I tried. I know you feel the same way. You hate loving me too because of the jeopardy of us being together puts me in. Puts both of us in. But you can’t change your feelings any more than I can.
I know how much you worry about me. You carried me everywhere when I was too dizzy to walk and changed the bandage yourself instead of allowing the nurse to attend to me. And of course you said you enjoyed taking care of me. You said you didn’t care if I thought you were bossy or stubborn or chauvinistic, that’s what a man does for the woman he loves.
I can’t lie. I loved you taking care of me. I love taking care of you too.
Now I’m injured again. With my wrists wrapped in tight white bandages. I was stupid. It was stupid. I admit it. I should have known better than to try and hide anything from him. Even if there aren’t cameras in the room where he sleeps and he forces me to lay beside him, (I REFUSE to call it “our” bedroom!) he catches everything. Almost like a sixth sense or something. His cruel guards tattle on me too. They’re as vindictive as he is.
Writing in this improvised diary is dangerous. Stuffing the notebook under the mattress when I heard his voice from the hallway wasn’t my smartest move either. But I didn’t want him to know what I write to you. It’s pathetic I know but I just want to feel like I’m talking to you. I miss you. I have no one else. People are everywhere here, but I’m still all alone.
I’m not sure how long it will take for the cuts to heal from the chains. The scars from last time he strung me up ripped open again from me straining against the metal cuffs. It’s dumb to fight him. I should just give into what he wants. But sometimes I just can’t take it. I can’t take him anymore. So I fight like an idiot, and I always lose like a fool.
At least he let me keep my journal. After he flipped through the pages and laughed at what I wrote. But I don’t care if he thinks I’m dumb. Or, that keeping a journal’s dumb. I’m glad I still have it. I just wish I didn’t have to do what he demanded to earn it back. It’s been a really bad day. A really, really bad week actually.
I think about you when he hurts me.
I knew something was up. Something really, really bad was going to happen. He was too happy, too excited. Giddy with anticipation for some torture he was eager to dole out to me.
I tried to pretend I was unafraid like you would have wanted me to. I stood tall with my chin up, emulating you when you address your men. Spoke to him as if I was the one issuing the orders. With all the force and conviction I could muster. I swear to goodness I really did.
Of course I failed. I was too scared. My body shaking and my voice squeaky. Giving away my fear in a heartbeat. He only laughed and dragged me downstairs to a room I’d never been to before. It looked like a dungeon. Some kind of torture chamber. I knew then that’s why he was so eager. He loves tormenting me. I screamed and fought but I can’t ever win against him. No matter how hard I try. I can NEVER win against him!
The stainless steel was freezing. At first, I didn’t know why he strapped me to the table completely naked. I could have at least kept on my shirt and panties. But of course he never thinks about what I want. What I need. Just stripped me down to nothing in front of everyone.
Even the poor artist was frightened. The gun pointed at his head kept him in line too. His hand trembled as much as my body. Which only made it worse when he was trying to draw on my frigid skin. Ordered to make damn sure the design was exactly what that monster wanted or he would kill the terrified guy.
I guess the drawing finally pleased him. The needle didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. But tied down in one position for four hours kills your neck with your head twisted to the side. My cheek hurt smashed against the cold, hard metal, and my arms and legs fell asleep which made me twitch and jerk uncontrollably. It was excruciating and I begged him to let me up. But they kept going until he was satisfied. When all I wanted was some relief.
What’s that saying—be careful what you wish for? That was exactly me in that moment. After too damn long, he pulled out the key to the cuffs and released me. Well, my ankles anyway and I was so grateful.
I shouldn’t have been.
Not when he looked at me like a conquest. Not when the bulge in his pants grew bigger as he stroked me. Not when he loosened the straps enough to lift me to my knees so he could fuck me from behind and look at my hideous new tramp stamp while he did it. With his men and the artist watching. I should have been ashamed. I should have been embarrassed. But as terrible as it is, I’m too tired to be humiliated by anything anymore.
I’ve become so weak, I couldn’t even fight him while he fucked me. Despite how painful it is when he forces himself inside me. How powerless I feel that I can’t stop him from violating me in front of them. Or how worthless I truly am to him when he smeared his release all over my tender back. I did cry though when he shot the tattooist in the face for warning him he could cause an infection by doing that. He doesn’t care. About me or my health or the man he killed. Taking the life an innocent person for trying to help me! Stealing him away from his family and friends. The people who care about him. The people wholove him! Just like he did with me and you.
He didn’t seem to feel an ounce of remorse when he told one of the guards to take care of the body while he admired his mark on me. Permanently linking me to him and not you.
I was angry. And, so incredibly idiotic for arguing with him. But I wanted him to know that I hate him. That I despise him for what he did to that man and to me. That I will never, ever belong to him. I’m only yours. Even if you’re not here. Even if I never see you again. I’m always yours!
