3 - false gods

                                    

                                          

After an extended period of trying to will myself to sleep, I repositioned. My joints were aching. Not from literally falling out of the sky, but from scrunching my tired and worn body on the too small surface. I stood and moved onto the recliner. Once settled, I forced myself to sleep until the morning rays peeked through the large bay window facing me. Stifling a groan, I got up, figuring the minuscule sleep I got was all I was going to get. 
	Moving quietly, I picked through the cupboards and manned the stovetop until I had a stack of pancakes, mostly golden brown. There had been a learning curve. I was working on the eggs when I heard the tell-tale creak from the steps.
	"Good morning," I said, turning to greet my breakfast buddy.
	An exaggerated yawn was accompanied by aggressive stretching by the man clad in only his boxer briefs.
	I swiveled back to face the burner as I felt my heart jump. At least he had cleaned himself up from his dinner. 
A chin jutted forward, looking over my shoulder, causing me to jump. "Smells delicious," he said in my ear, amusement on his lips.
"Thanks," I said in a daze. I was choosing to believe he was referring to the food. "It's almost ready."
Reaching fingertips caressed my dull blond hair back from my neck. I stiffened, slapping at the invasive touch. "Hands!" I squawked. 
Atticus chuckled, moving to prep the coffee instead. There were other warm beverages available, after all.
Once breakfast was consumed, I moved to clear the dishes.
"You're a good little pet," Atticus spoke from his seat on the barstool. He cradled a black coffee that he had, of course, spiked.
"I'm not your pet," I replied in a melodic voice.
"Didn't say you were mine," he continued.
I pondered that. Really, he was referring to the stereotypical acts of a common housewife. Insinuating that I fit the role well, or perpetuated it.
How did that come to be? I wasn't in the habit of any of these tasks. Why was this life so easy to slip into? 
Lost in thought, the explorative touch of longing crossed my ribs as I felt a sturdy torso mold against my back. "I could make you mine. I take very good care of my pets," he spoke, face nuzzling into my hair.
I closed my eyes, trying to summon patience. This was going to be harder than I originally thought. When I gauged the risks, I had factored in the potential relentlessness of his sexual desires but not this body's willingness to react.
Carefully, I took hold of Atticus' wrists to halt his exploration. He didn't fight me, instead, a hum reverberated through his chest. Realizing this was the first time I had touched him, he was probably just enjoying the contact. There was no way to know how long it had been since he had been deprived.
Hands busy, I attempted to push him backward with my shoulders to gain some breathing room. However, this seemed to give him some sort of signal to switch modes of hunger.
Ripping free of my grip, he pulled my head to the side and held me across my collarbone before sinking his teeth in my neck. I held in a scream, concentrating on the view out the window ahead of me. The kitchen window faced the treeline, like all the windows, but out this one was a single white birch. I tried to focus in on the pattern of the paper bark but Atticus moaned into my flesh causing a shiver to run down my spine. He leaned, pressing me into the counter, and pressing more and more of himself into me. He ground his arousal into me and I bit my tongue to keep from calling out, shame welling within me. Did he know what he was doing?