R. C. Smith Short Stories and Vignettes

Do not read my works if you are offended by descriptions of sexuality and violence.
(Do not read them just for those descriptions, either.)


Audio read by Meri Paite (4:08)

Yes, yes, yes, oh yes.

What else could I say but yes, feeling his body pressing against mine, from behind, feeling his arms around me, his hands gripping me, his breath, his lips and his teeth hot on my neck, his voice so close to my ears.


His hand cupped my breast and squeezed it, forcefully, painfully, his fingers digging into my flesh, his nails scratching my skin.

Harder, I moaned.

His grip loosened. A reminder that it was not for me to command him.

Are you mine? he asked.

Yes, I whispered.

Speak louder, he said, his hand gone. Are you mine?

Yes, oh yes.

I was on fire. I was melting. His hand returned to my breast, covered my ruby-hard nipple. My own hand, on its own, moved between my legs.

He took hold of it, and moved it away, gently, but firmly. He took one of my fingers, and bent it back.

No, he said, no. You are mine, not your own. Do you understand?

The pressure that bent my finger back increased.

Yes, I said. Yes. I understand.

You won't forget again? he asked.

No, I said, never, I swear.

Good, he said. His breath on my neck was almost as hot as the fire within me.

The finger bent, until it broke with a piercing welcome pain.

I'm yours, I said. Thank you for letting me be yours. His arms held me tight.

Will you do what I ask of you? he whispered in my ear.

The heat in me was unbearable, the fire spread through my whole body, and through my mind. There were tears in my eyes.

Yes, I said, I will.

Whatever it is?

His hand moved closer to where mine had been. Closer, not yet touching the core of my heat.

Yes. Yes.

If I ask for your life?

A first tentative touch, then his finger withdrew. It took all my effort not to move, not to cry out.

Yes, I said. Yes, my life, if you want it.

And if I want less?

His finger circled my clit. My body screamed for me to do the forbidden, to thrust myself against his hand.

Yes, I said, whatever you want.

If I want your blood?

Yes, my blood. Yes. Please, please, please was all I could think.

His finger lightly touched my thigh now. Please, please, please, please.

If I want your eyes?

His finger moved along my swollen labia.

Please. Yes. Please. Yes. Yes.

All right then, he said. Give them to me.

A small pen-knife was in my hand. His finger paused. I screamed. I was his.

And that was it. He hadn't made any promises, had he?

I have never seen him again.

I will never see anything again.

But he has left me his knife, I still have it. It still cuts.


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