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墨書 Inktalez
He taught me how to say it, word by word, and I practiced for three months.
Cheng Jingyi smiled.
It was an unguarded smile, like finally seeing a pet perform as instructed.
"Why did you change your eye makeup?" He walked over, bent down to look at me, "Didn’t you used to like smoky makeup?"
I lowered my eyelashes.
I never liked wearing makeup at all, let alone smoky eyes. That was his preference; I just followed along.
But I didn’t respond, only tightened my grip on the whip.
He seemed oblivious to my tension, leisurely unbuttoning his collar and loosening his cuffs before kneeling in front of me:
"How do you want to punish me today?"
This line was something he said every time.
I closed my eyes, suppressing the irritation inside me.
Every word he spoke, every action he took, even the angle at which he knelt was the same. Precise and restrained, even admitting his faults seemed perfectly scripted.
I stood up and raised the whip.
With a crack, it landed on his shoulder.
He didn’t flinch or make a sound; instead, he looked up at me with eyes full of tenderness.
Suddenly, I felt my heart tighten.
I wasn’t punishing him; I was merely fulfilling an emotional release that he needed.
He rose from the ground and reached out to adjust my slipping earring. His fingertip brushed lightly against my earlobe, carrying a hint of seemingly accidental intimacy.
He whispered, "Mian Mian, you've lost weight."
I didn’t say anything.
When he said those words, the expression on his face was like that of someone soothing a child who had made a mistake. In that moment, I felt that his gaze hurt more than any whip could.
He noticed my eyes were red and smiled. I never imagined that a bottle of perfume could make me break down so quickly. Before dinner, he asked me to change into another outfit. The deep purple strapless dress had crisscrossed straps at the back, too tight and constricting, making it hard for me to breathe.
I sat at the vanity, applying makeup mechanically. My fingertips trembled uncontrollably, making it difficult to draw a straight line with the eyeliner. The perfume bottle sat in the corner of the countertop, its amber liquid reflecting the light and my distorted image.
He would always dip his finger into it and dab a little behind my ear. "Does it smell good?" he asked. "You smell like the fragrance from my dreams." Dreams were his specialty; he wove them intricately and trained me to obey within them.
I stared at the bottle of perfume, picked it up, and gently shook it. He approached from behind, his voice warm: "Why aren’t you spraying it?" I couldn’t help but shiver. He stood behind me, adjusting my shoulder straps, his tone like that of someone coaxing a child reluctant to skip school: "Just spray a little, okay? You know I love this scent."
He spoke of love as if in a dream. But every kiss came with an order, and each drop of perfume was his way of marking me. I gritted my teeth and asked, "Do you really like the scent, or do you like me?" I didn’t even know where I found the courage to ask that question.
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized my voice was hoarse, like nails scraping across a table.
He said nothing.
The silence stretched for a brief three seconds, yet it felt as if I had been simmering in fire for an hour.
I looked at him in the mirror; he was still smiling.
His features were gentle, as if he had forgiven my slight "emotional outburst."
I loosened my grip, and the bottle of perfume slipped from my fingers, crashing to the ground.
"Bang!"
Glass shattered everywhere.
The scent was overwhelming, like flames igniting the air.
"I don't want to spray it," I murmured. "If you love it, you can spray it yourself."
Finally, he approached me, crouching down to pick up a shard of the broken perfume bottle.
I held my breath, waiting for his reaction.
Would he scold me?
Or worse, would he hit me?
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