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his sister laughs and plays with you like a perfect porcelian doll. she calls you xiao jiu like you haven't lived through things she would break at.
he looks at you and when his sister leaves he curls an arm around you and leads you away. he calls you his perfect whore. he's always called you that. he'll never stop it. the words curl around his tongue comfortingly, soft and sweet and everything that you do not want. he takes your clothes and strips you down and-
and then he pushes into you and pretends that nothing's wrong. he calls you his perfect whore.
one day, you swear to himself as you don't cry, as the salt rubs into your whip wounds and burns into your skin, one day-
one day, you'll watch him burn.
and then, you'll be the one laughing.
but now, right now, your hands are tied.
the cot rocks as he fucks you, a hand wrapped around your throat. you've given up on saying no and on begging him to let you go.
he says he hopes his perfect pretty girl - and you bite back the urge to bury your teeth in his throat - will behave, will be good, will finally get pregnant with his child, because you know he just wants you here with him forever. he wants you here to be used, a bed-slave and a concubine and nothing worth something. he wants you to be kept as he rips you apart from the inside out. he wants you to never leave.
and every day you wake up and there's always a chance that he's still buried to the hilt within you. there's always a chance that he will never leave your bed.
and when you finally - finally - escape, all that is left of him is the bruises that fade, eventually, and the red and white between your legs. you wash yourself frantically, until all of your skin turns red and chafes, and it's always-
a little more, a little more, a little more.
and then, wu yanzi happens upon you as you bathe, and it happens all over again.
(you will never escape.)