 |
| Dollface |
Stupid fucking drunken bitch.
Why, why did I have to drink that wine so quickly? I know it's nerves and trying desperately to scrape some courage and composure together, but it's backfired terribly. My head feels too heavy for my neck to support it and I find myself slightly slumped in my seat, hiding behind my hair.
I don't want to look at you. I'm ashamed of my demeanour, that cool, flirtatious mood that has descended into mumbled shyness and drunken stupor.
I suddenly feel very conscious of what I'm wearing. In isolation, the clothes say nothing – nice enough, but no particular image. But together, on my body, with all its lips hips and tits, it seems all too suggestive. More suggestive than I'm comfortable with. Those heels that thrust my backside out, the seam that leads in only one direction up my thigh.
But I've got myself into this situation, haven't I? I picked that outfit, picked that perfume, was a little heavy-handed with the lipstick.
I look at the red smear on the wine glass. Fuck. I am a class act.
The atmosphere between us has changed completely. My nerves have melted from iciness to shameful arousal, you know this, and you're not afraid to exploit it. Your stare is calm, measured, cool. Everything that I'm not.
I feel like that very stare has peeled me apart, layer by layer, starting with the clothes and getting right down to the white shiny bone. Picked apart by a vulture.
What the fuck am I doing here? You're near enough a stranger, and here I am. Hundreds of miles away from home in a strange city, and we both know what's going to happen. I've pouted and teased and flirted, and this can only end one way. How can I play coy when you've got me saying things I never thought I'd say, heard me choking out my own orgasm?
You move closer, and my gut clenches. We're in a public place, I remind myself, assured that you wouldn't hurt me. We both know what I think about violence in public, that it's wrong, and rude, and inappropriate.
Still, that doesn't stop you angling me so no-one can see, and catching me square on the jaw with the heel of your hand. The thud rattles through my teeth and I feel the purely physical reaction of tears pricking at my eyes. A flash of anger, indignation, quickly quenched by that dizzying fear.
Your fingers are digging into my upper arm as you pull me from my seat. I stumble in my heels and try and make myself look presentable. With wine-hazed eyes and hair dishevelled where I've nervously run my fingers through it, this is harder than I had imagined. I'm so mindful of the people around us; I don't want them to see what a drunken whore I really can be, or the cold fear in the pit of my stomach that is throbbing from the inside out.
The night air is refreshing, dusted with mist and the evening's drizzle. The streetlights provide warm orange pools of safety splattered on the pavement. And between them, velvety, vulnerable pockets of darkness.
Oh God, why aren't there more people around? Why can't they be around to make sure I'm safe and unharmed and make us look like any other couple on a Friday night? Your pace quickens, pulling me along like an errant child, and I don't care if people know that I'm scared anymore. I want them to know so they can save me from you.
Another slap, and this one gets the waterworks going. I'm so fucking pathetic when I'm drunk. I feel hard done by and wronged and WHY is this happening to me? I feel the anger bristle through you but I can't stop the tears. The cobbles challenge my balance and I find myself leaning into you for support. Your posture is unrelenting. My head throbs in time with the pulse that skips beneath the skin of my throat. I'm a mess.
I can see the bright lights of the hotel foyer and I'm so glad to see the familiar, smiling receptionist that I could kiss her. Not that she'll be able to help me, of course, particularly as you're escorting me to the lift with a certain amount of force.
The hotel room door closes quietly behind me and I feel my handbag fall from my damp hands to the floor. You remove your coat, businesslike, draping it over the back of the chair. The look of vague amusement on your face has disappeared.
You turn the lamp on and sit in the chair. I stand there, wondering if my legs will continue to support me. I feel like my bones have dissolved.
“Strip”.
I gaze at you, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. What? But then, what had I expected? You were here on a promise, and you couldn't exactly fuck me fully-clothed. I had prepared for this, chosen my underwear for such an occasion. So why the sudden, stupid, juvenile shyness?
I push my skirt down over my hips, lift the sheer blouse over my head. I stand there in lingerie and heels, struggling gracelessly with the buckles of my shoes. Fuck. Why didn't I pick an easier option?
I step shyly forward, away from the light, trying to dress myself in darkness. You don't move, a slight quirk of your eyebrow telling me all that I need to know.
I reach behind and unhook my bra, dropping it at my feet, my other arm covering my breasts. Before I have chance to take off my knickers, you're behind me and hand is on the back of my neck.
The mirror is cool and hard against my hot, sticky cheek. Your hand moves up to the back of my head and pushes temple, cheekbone, chin against it. Your foot kicks my legs apart. I feel the drunken sobs come back again.
“Take a good look at yourself”.
You press harder again, and I feel like either the mirror or my face has to give. My mind fills with thoughts of crumbled teeth and shattered shards of bone and blood and pulp.
You pull me back by my hair and shove me onto the bed, and I sprawl across it. Your hand reaches underneath my hips and pulls me onto all fours. My knickers bite into my flesh as you wrench them down.
Then…oh, and then. That grown-up, ominous clink of a buckle being undone. That swooshing sound of a belt being pulled through loops. “I can feel the difference between a new belt and an old one,” I'd smart-mouthed, “a new one has a certain…bite”. All very easy for me to say over the phone from hundreds of miles away.
A snap, then the excruciatingly hot lash across the top of my thighs. A strangled scream comes from my throat. No warning, no warm-up, nothing. Just your hours of frustration and anger travelling down your arm and that skin-on-skin slap of leather.
My thighs, my arse, my back. Not one part left untouched by that strip of revulsion. I cry and shriek and try and catch my breath between the guttural sobs that are coursing through me. I splutter and moan and smear my makeup on the white sheets, an inkblot test of my suffering and your enjoyment.
You stop suddenly, and I try to breathe and stop my snivelling. Your fist ropes in my hair and pulls my head back suddenly as your free hand snakes around the front of my face. The cold, metal buckle mashes against my lips, clunking against my teeth.
“Feel that?”
You wrench it away and before I can even feel that rush of fear it's curling around my hips. I scream. I'm sure it's taken a chunk out of me.
Blow after blow, an unstoppable wave of pain. I feel like you've dug your nails in and ripped off my top layer of skin. No breath to cry out, but somehow I manage it, like the lashes are thrashing them out of me.
You hate me at that moment in time, I can feel it. You hate my whorish behaviour, my provocative flirtation, my knowing exchanges and all the little tricks, the gazing over the wine glass, the fluttering eyelashes. Like every other girl on a Friday night, except they have the decency to fuck the man they take home. No teasing, no messing around, straight up whores. Not like me, all mouth and then pulling the shy card. Fucking pricktease.
You hate my sobbing, my crying, my feeble attempts to get away. I can't help it, in the same way I can't help the fact that I'll be begging you to fuck me after this, to push my poor raw skin against the sheets and wrap that belt around my neck until I see stars and my face matches my lips.
The last lash smacks the buckle against my ribcage. It steals my breath.
I'm finally silenced.
| 8 May 10, 5:29 PM Filth_Wizard UK(RM), 8 yrs  |
I've read this three times. A fourth? Oh, go on then. To deny it implies that it's wrong. |
| 8 May 10, 6:03 PM Relaxed_and_Chaotic UK(SE), 3 yrs |
Just finished my second read..... "There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master." D. H. Lawrence |
| 8 May 10, 6:33 PM poutanaki UK(M), 10 yrs |
Wow. Your so pretty when your on your knees. Disinfected, eager to please |
| 8 May 10, 7:32 PM sparklydolly UK(HU), 2 yrs |
I will definately be coming back to read this again...  sparkly x Im a broken doll, You're the puppeteer, Take control for me, And wipe away my fear - Paloma Faith |
| 8 May 10, 9:24 PM Dollface UK, 6 yrs  |
There I was thinking it was a popular blog, nope, it just has re-readability... Thanks, all! x "When you're going through hell, keep going." |
| 9 May 10, 12:12 AM Painpet UK(CB), 3 yrs |
Wow. Great story, loved it |
| 9 May 10, 7:56 PM Goldilocks UK(SE), 5 yrs |
You have a way with words. I don't. So I can't really write a reply that expresses how much I love what you wrote. It is so descriptive that each sentence feels like a mouthful of belgian chocolates melting on my tongue. I love your choice of words. I love the style and paragraphs and the punchy style to it. I love how it reads in my head. I adore the imagery. I love the content and the plot and the girl and the man and everything else. Truly one of the best things I have read on here in a long time. You rock, girl xx |
| 9 May 10, 8:24 PM PrinceCaspian UK(SE), 6 yrs |
I think I'm a bit far from things at the moment, I found certain bits of that hard to read. No idea whether that's a good thing or bad thing lol. Either way very good story. x Theodore Bikel: "All too often arrogance accompanies strength, and we must never assume that justice is on the side of the strong. The use of power must always be accompanied by moral choice." |
| 9 May 10, 8:50 PM Miss_Swoons UK(M), 4 yrs |
Woof! 'Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative' |
| 10 May 10, 12:52 AM Vinelands UK(WF), 3 yrs |
You can write as well as you can take it. ~As well as you can make it..! Articulate, beautiful. Thank you. |
