Playtime

They'd taken a meandering course across the mountains, and now they camped in a shack on a hill. It had a garden, and a well, and it was the nicest place they'd stayed so far.



The men pitched tents outside. He claimed the shack.



"Clean it, slave." He'd said, throwing her clothing at her. "Use these rags to dust. It had better be clean enough to satisfy me..." He hadn't needed to finish the sentence for her to know that it would be unpleasant.



She had tried. Really, she had. She didn't like beatings, and knew that rebellion would hurt. Still, she could have perhaps tried a bit harder... could have used her clothes instead of tearing apart the mattress to clean with. Could have used moderation instead of pouring the water over everything until the whole room was soaked.



Alright, so maybe she hadn't tried that hard...



Still, she was satisfied as she surveyed the damage. Yes, it would hurt, but she'd be damned if she was going to do what he wanted just because he wanted it. It wasn't going to be that easy to break her.



Fear coiled in her stomach. It was a familiar feeling that had been teasing her since she'd first woken. Fear kept her alert, kept her strong, reminded her constantly that her life was in their hands. Sometimes, she was sure that it would be better to die than let them play their games with her.



But she wasn't ready to die yet, and he wouldn't kill her as long as he had a use for her. She heard a hand on the latch and froze. He wouldn't be happy. She knew that.



Her little rebellion would cost her. But it had helped her regain some part of herself. Some semblance of control. She felt more like herself than she had in days.



He paused on the threshhold, surveyed the room, then clucked his tongue at her. "Oh Veronica," he sighed, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have done that."



Then he was on her, his hand around her arm, clenching with bruising strength. Dragging her helplessly behind him as he stormed out of the shack.



"Hold her," he ordered the man who'd commented on her tits. The man caught her, his hands grazing the anatomy he'd so admired, his leer making her skin crawl. He grasped her upper arms, lifting just enough that she had to balance on her toes, leaving her unstable and unable to get traction to fight.



The Courier's face was dark with fury, his gaze utterly terrifying. Suddenly, she couldn't understand where she'd gotten the idiotic impulse to rebel. Couldn't remember why she'd thought it would be a good idea.



"The slave must be punished."