Slut

Slut, Chapter 2: Stockholm Syndrome

He tells them I'm his wife and they believe it. I don't correct him because they seem happy with this lie, and I don't care that filthy Muggles would believe a lie. They ask what I do and he tells them I'm a whore. They laugh. They think he's joking. He laughs too because he knows it's the truth. I laugh because I'd see the lackwits dead. And it is so fucking funny to think of them screaming and thrashing, blood pouring from their insipid mouths.

He says it's funny. He doesn't know the half of it.

He tells me I like it, being fucked up the ass. Some men say that they enjoy it, and perhaps they do. But, it never got any better. It hurt the first time. It still hurts. Just like it hurts when he calls me a slut, or skank.

It never stops hurting; that invasion that drives deep into you, stretches you, rips you open till your soul bleeds.

He won't fuck me in the bed because I'm a whore. Whores don't want sex in the bed. They don't like it. Sluts want to be fucked hard in the ass in dingy doorways and public bathroom stalls. They like their faces shoved in grime and unwashed, sweaty pubic hair. Skanks want to scream for more in public places.

He says that I'm a whore. But he's the only one who fucks me.

He tells me that I need him. Without him I'd still be fucking Muggle strangers in the street. This isn't a lie. I'd still be stripping. People that I'd rather see crushed under my feet were breathing on me and touching me in places I never wanted touched. Where I would go even if I weren't bound by a long, silvery enchanted chain, hasn't really occurred to me.

He takes great joy in informing me that club owners and pimps have been informed that I'm a junkie whore that would rip them off. He does this as if I enjoyed that job and would go back to it. He protects me from the Ministry and keeps me warm and fed.

He says that I need him. And we both know that is true.

He tells me I'm a faggot. He's the one fucking me. When I tell him I'm not attracted to men he laughs at me. I look away and frown when he starts calling me a dyke and then a lesbo-dyke. He asks if I suck clit as well as I suck cock and I have no answer for him. Before I had to run I never did that to any of the girls I dated. I never touched them any more than I ever had to in order for me to get off.

He says that I'm a faggot. But I don't want to be fucked by anyone.

He tells me that he loves me. At night he dreams of death, and Voldemort and people who died by his side. He cries out the names of his best friends from his school days that have long before cooled in the grave. Pulling my chain to lure me into the bed with him, I hold him and kiss his fading scar. I slide my fingers through his wiry black hair and feel the odd weight of his head on my chest. He clings to me like a frightened child and I coo to him, and sing him songs that my mother used to sing.

He says that he loves me. I cry because I love him too.