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“It’s Sunday.”
Heathcliff hummed into Cathy’s hair. They were lying naked in the garret where they used to listen to Joseph’s weekly sermons. The old crank had threatened to hang them from the rafters if they failed to stay awake.
“Why did you have to remind me?” He sighed. Cathy snorted into his neck.
“I like to be reminded,” she muttered. “Do you remember all those dreadful Sundays where we used to sit for hours in the cold up here, listening to verses from the Bible?”
“I was thinking of that just now.”
“Do you remember how we ran away?”
“So many times,” he chuckled.
“No one else ever did,” Cathy muttered. “They were too good for that. I tried to make Nelly run away with me before you came. She never did. I thought she’d join us, once she saw how much fun we had out in the moors, but…”
“She was too good for us.” He couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. “And she probably saw how much of a beating we got every time we returned home,” he added, trying to make light of it. He knew the two had been close before his arrival at the Heights.
Cathy did not seem too upset at his jibe.
“Look at us now,” she laughed, lifting up a bare foot. To them, the rafters appeared to be floorboards beneath her feet.
“Mm, yes, look at you,” he leered. She hit him lightly on the chest and her foot dropped back to bed.
“And look at them,” she persisted gleefully. “Look at what those goody-two-shoes made of themselves. You are rich and Joseph is a farm boy with bad knees. I wear the latest heels from Paris and Nelly makes sure they’re clean.”
“I am sure God is very pleased with them and their humble ways,” he said dryly. This time, Cathy’s answering laugh sounded less gleeful.
“I’m afraid God Himself is too good for us now,” she sighed, trailing a finger down his body, from his chest to his belly button. Heathcliff shifted so that he could see her expression.
“Are you afraid?”
After a moment’s silence, she replied, “I hope we don’t die for a long while yet. And if we do, I hope we follow each other soon.”
“You would like me to follow you into Hell?” He asked, amused. When he didn’t feel her smile against her skin, he began to pet her hair, murmuring reassurances that he would, of course he would. Wouldn’t leave her to face Joseph and his gang all by herself, now, would he?
“Please stop,” she muttered petulantly, brushing aside his hand to rise. “I feel terribly selfish.”
She began to put on her shoes. Heathcliff liked the way the blood-red straps stood out from her pale ankles. He didn’t want her to go, but he didn’t want her to take them off, either.
“That’s because you are,” he said simply. “I think you should own up to the idea, if you haven’t already. It would liberate you in this life.”
“That, I don’t like to be reminded of.”
Cathy stomped a foot as she stood up and turned to face him. She sounded like a child.
“You are supposed to be on my side.”
“That, I am.”
She crossed her arms as she looked down at him. The air up on the garret was cold. Her trembling made her words less challenging than she would have liked.
“Edgar does not say such disagreeable things about me. I think he is more on my side than you are.”
“He does not know you as I do. If he did, he would not have the strength to confront you in your naughtiness, nor the passion to join you in your madness.”
His hand hovered over his crotch as he looked up at her. His gaze wandered from her face to her breasts to her stomach to the golden hairs between her thighs. He could see the gooseflesh rise beneath each strand like little mounds.
“You’ve forgotten your stockings.”
“You can have them,” she huffed. “They’re of better make than yours, whatever it is you wear these days.”
“Scottish wool.”
“Silk.”
Heathcliff whistled.
“Saint Catherine’s very own silk stockings. You are too generous, I couldn’t possibly.”
“Oh, yes you can!” She cried, a smile finally breaking through as she tossed him her undergarments. She expected him to make a face and toss it back at her, like they would do with snow or dirt as children. Instead, he snatched them up and breathed in deep, nose buried where it would envelop her crotch. She snatched them back from him, ears pink.
“Mongrel,” she tsked. He barked and nipped playfully at her hand. She gave in and carded her fingers through his tangled hair. Whenever they caught, she didn’t bother to unknot them hair by hair, roughly shoving through instead.
Heathcliff took it until he caught her wrist and bit down on her fingers.
“Oh, you didn’t like that?” Cathy cooed, shoving her fingers deeper into his mouth. She could feel each and every molar lining the left side of his gums. He bit harder. She gripped his jaw tighter.
“Use your words, Heathcliff. I know you speak more than dog.”
He made sure she could feel his tongue running below her fingers as she withdrew.
“Just because you like to be punished does not mean I share your whorish tastes.”
She stared at him, breath quickening in spite of herself. Her fingers still throbbed from his teeth. She found that she wasn’t cold anymore.
“I could, however, indulge you.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, Cathy, I’ve seen what you do to your back.”
“Those scars? Haven’t I told you I got them at my wedding? I was nervous, I wanted to look my best and laced myself a little too tight—”
Heathcliff rose and turned her around so he could see her back. Dry blood and bruises bloomed down her spine in spots. Her shoulders shrank under his gaze. He bent down to murmur in her ear.
“These are fresh. Can’t be even days old. Do you go around the Grange panting in your corset, enjoying the thought of being a martyr to our love?”
He asked as he kissed the nape of her neck. She shivered at the touch of his lips and gripped the wall to steady herself. Her legs felt weak in her heels. They were taller—much taller than the ones she usually wore at home.
“Do you not like it when I touch you there?” He asked, pressing a thumb into the topmost bruise. Cathy stiffened and whimpered, but never pulled away. Heathcliff, noting her docility, pressed himself against her back and rubbed his arousal against her as he rubbed his thumb harder into the bruise. “Do you not moan louder, come harder when we do it as I run my hands down your… scars?”
“What can I say?” She gasped, sliding her thighs apart a little wider. “I can’t help it that I’m better than you are.”
“Part of you truly believes it, doesn’t it?” He sneered, pushing her up against the wall. Cathy slid down along the wooden boards and gripped the wall obediently enough in position, then turned to smirk over her shoulder.
“I atone for my sins. We have ever so many devices at our disposal, you see. Poor Isabella stitches the skin of her own palms. Edgar—” She moaned as she felt Heathcliff breach her without warning, her entrance still tender from the last intrusion. He didn’t push in all the way just yet—a small mercy. “—Edgar thinks she’s making me another gown. Me! When all she can think of is a way to steal you from me.”
“I’ve had a taste of her and I must say, she isn’t half as bland as you make her out to be.”
Before she could make a retort, he rammed his hips into hers.
Before long, Cathy’s legs were starting to shake. She was wide awake to every nail that slid across the scabs that dotted her spine, tearing some and making them bleed afresh. The sting felt oddly cool, contrasting euphorically with the hot stretch and punch that gutted her insides with every thrust.
“Don’t, don’t, it hurts,” she moaned, slicking up and flexing as she did. Saying the words aloud made it so much better, as though she was being taken against her will by some filthy mutt with apes for brains.
This isn’t me, this isn’t me, this isn’t me.
Just as she had hoped, Heathcliff pinned her hands against the wall with his and bore down harder, not giving an inch.
“Scream for help and try to save yourself, why don’t you?” He breathed. “We are a long way from the Grange and your husband will never hear you.”
She pretended to struggle against his grip and loved every second of it closing in tighter around her like a vice.
Soon after, he released her to put his hands back on her hips. She knew they made it easier for him to fuck into her deeper, giving him leverage like handles. She briefly wondered what it would be like to become an inanimate object. A hole, a tube, a lump of soaking softness like sourdough that wasn’t any good for much else than to be used and stored away for another day. Simply not human. So simply. What degradation that would be.
The thought pushed her over the edge. Heathcliff moaned above her, keeping himself buried in her as she clenched around him with a viciousness he had come to know well. Once he felt her relax, he pulled her upright and lapped at the wounds on her back, soothing them with his tongue as if to reward her.
“I love the taste of you,” he said breathlessly, lips red and sticky. “Bleed for the both of us, for I’ve already given myself up to be damned.”
He nudged her apart again, as stiff as ever. He was close, she could feel it. He paused whenever he was close to make himself last. She had appreciated the effort at other times, but today there was one problem.
Actual pain was beginning to sink in, creeping up from her heels to her ankles. She felt the pointed tip of her shoes bunching her toes together as they were mercilessly stuffed against them with the weight of two people, and the straps—which she also preferred to be latched around herself quite tight—were digging into her swelling ankles. They wouldn’t be able to stand much more.
“Heathcliff, wait…”
“You’ll not be tired when your master’s knocking at your door, wench!” He said teasingly, a showy wickedness entering his voice as he started to move again. “And you do look so ravishing in those shoes… nothing but those shoes. I feel as though I should pay you for the rest of your wardrobe.”
“You—hold your tongue and—and listen to me, you little—”
She gasped with no pleasure as she felt the straps cut through skin. Heathcliff was still murmuring filth into her ear, looking down at her feet this time.
“Look how red you are. I’m willing to bet you torture your own feet as well at your leisure.”
“Heathcliff, don’t—stop—”
But he wasn’t listening. He still thought she was playing pretend.
“No, don’t—”
What a sick game I played! She thought desperately. Would he stop if I sprained an ankle or lost a toenail? She was finding it hard to even stand. When she simply let herself go and tried to fall to the ground, he caught her before her knees could even bend and pinned her to the wall with his whole body. Tired of her own ineffectual wriggling, Cathy finally threw her head back and bashed it against his face with all her strength.
The back of her head connected with his mouth with a throbbing crunch.
The crushing weight of him vanished as he stumbled back with a hiss, tripped on the bed, and went sprawling on his back. Seething, Cathy rounded on him and pinned him to the mattress with a foot to his chest. Heathcliff swallowed, his blood and Cathy’s mingling on the tip of his tongue. His chest rose and fell under the pinpoint of her heel.
“You’re upset.”
“How many times must I tell you to stop?”
“I thought you liked to be forced. Earlier—did you not like it then?”
“That was earlier. This time, I was trying to tell you how much my feet hurt and couldn’t stand to stand for another minute! And you just carried on like some brute!”
She pressed down harder, daring him to object. She very nearly put her whole weight into it.
At last, he went flaccid.
Though he disliked how untouchable she seemed so high above him—and it hurt, it truly hurt—he lay very still and allowed the punishment to go on. When his eyes finally left hers to land on her ankle, they widened in alarm. Now that he could actually see, the outermost skin had peeled and bled in a ring along the hard leather strap of the shoe.
“I… forgive me, Catherine, I did not mean to hurt you so. I’m so sorry, Cathy…”
Cathy did not lift her foot for a while. Not until he had undone the shoe himself and kissed his way around the parameter of flushed flesh. As soon as she plopped down beside him, he left the bed to get on his knees and take care of her other foot after the same fashion.
“All right, I forgive you.”
Heathcliff, still on his knees, lay his head in her lap, eyes closed in contrition. Cathy had never seen him pray. He never folded is hands together at the table for grace, and he never even deigned to lower his head before a plate. This was as close to praying as he would ever come. The good devil listened and allowed her hand to rest on his raven head.
“I was a runaway train, wasn’t I?” He asked mournfully.
“I think,” she said slowly, “it would be best for us to think of some other word than ‘don’t.’”
“Or ‘stop.’”
“Or ‘no.’”
“It must be a signal between us. Something even a mongrel like you would understand... Linton?"
Heathcliff quirked an eyebrow.
“I think I would like that a little too well. It feels as though I’m violating him as well.”
Cathy shook her head.
“How about Nelly?” She asked.
“How would I know you are not fantasizing about her at that very moment?”
“You know I don’t fancy women.”
“But she fancies you, and you fancy being fancied. No, these will never do. We must not use people’s names. They either enrage me or arouse me.”
Their eyes wandered the room until they lingered on Cathy’s shoes, now slightly battered and tossed with little care on the floor. They looked at each other.
“Heel.” Cathy suggested. Heathcliff snorted.
“Heel. Like real dogs.”
Cathy leaned down and gave his cheek a playful lick.