...and nowhere to go. (7)

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Posted by Dollface on Tue 31 Aug 10, 12:21 PM to the The_Porn_Blog group.

I didn't realise you were in the room until I saw your reflection in the mirror. You're behind me, smiling slightly. I quickly look over to the clock on the dressing table.

“Come on. We'll be late”.

I meet your gaze in the mirror and smile reassuringly. “I won't be long, promise”.

I rifle through my makeup bag, through the various compacts and tubes and brushes. I coat a brush in dark, smoky powder and draw it across my eyes. Thick waxy eyeliner, coats of mascara. The obligatory red lipstick.

I spray perfume on my wrists and throat; unclip my hair, and stand up. I've already got my underwear on. I know a fuck is on the cards later, and it shows. Sheer stockings buckled at the thigh to a high-waisted belt, and the bra.

Ah, yes, the bra. Black, carefully constructed to keep everything just within the limits of obscene. Cut just above the nipple to show a slope of pale flesh; sculpted to show the swell beneath my clothing. You'd made light work of one of these before, pulling it apart in your hands; exposing me. It's certainly designed for aesthetics, with its sole function to display.

I step into my heels, fasten the clasp on my necklace.

Your hands are on my arse before I get the chance to slip my dress over my head. Not a loving touch, or an appreciative caress; more an eager, lustful grab. Fingers digging into my flesh and slipping underneath my underwear, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine. I arch against you involuntarily and turn around, placing a warning palm on your chest.

“Not now. You said it yourself; we're going to be late”.

Your eyes glitter, jetblack, and apprehension trickles down my back as I realise that time-keeping is now the least of your concerns. Your hands are around my waist, pushing me back against the dressing table. The cold mirror presses against my back as bottles and compacts scatter underneath my thighs. Your hands cover my knees and push them apart, and you stand between my legs. My feet barely reach the floor.

Your hands move up my thighs, under the lace-and-cable of my suspender straps, snatching handfuls of flesh. Careless, rough clutches. They slip over my waist, skimming over my breasts, resting underneath the jewels at my throat. My pulse skips beneath your fingertips.

Your breath is hot against my ear as your lower your head. “All this effort.” The fingers of one hand wrap around the necklace and I feel it bite into the back of my neck. “Every single detail, not a hair out of place”.

Your hand rests upon my chest and slips underneath my bra, squeezing rudely. No finesse. It's not that you don't know how to touch me – you've had me whimpering and writhing and sobbing out my pleasure with the most deft of caresses – but it's almost as if I don't quite deserve a technique, or skill.

Your grip my chin and fix your gaze on me. “What do you think other people will see when they look at you tonight?”

Is this a trick question? I search your face for any kind of clue, wanting desperately to see whether you're being playful or whether this is going to be one of those times. I can't help but allow the tiniest chink of irritation show through my armour. It was you who had noted we were going to be late.

“Look, I don't know. Just let me finish getting ready, please?”

My voice is barbed with impatience, and I know that it's a mistake. Your lips curl into a smile and your grip on my chin tightens.

“You don't know? Oh, silly girl.”

You dig your fingers into my shoulder and pull me off the dressing table, turning me around so that I'm bent forward in front of you and confronted by my own reflection. I can see the anger etched onto my features, and it's ugly. Distorting and twisting.

You lean forward to grip a handful of hair, and as your hips press against my backside I can feel how aroused you are. Panic flutters in my stomach.

“Look at your face. All this warpaint.” You reach around and your fingers near my mouth, and I jerk my head away. Part indignation, part practicality.

It only spurs you on. You push a finger between my lips and withdraw slickly, smearing an angry red streak across my face.

“That's fine. I know you only want to look your best. But what about this underwear; what about these?”

You reach down a pinch a nipple crushingly hard between thumb and forefinger, and I cry out. You push against me.

“I know you want to look good, sweetheart, but don't you see?” You yank my bra down, my breasts spilling out. I lower my eyes; my reflection embarrasses me.

“You look like you could be anyone's. One kind word, one drink, and you're anyone's.”

I look up suddenly, eyes wide. It's all for you, don't you realise? “That's not true, I-“

Your other hand chokes me, cutting off my words. “Are you calling me a liar, darling?” My reflection stares at you, silent. “Even if that was not the case, and you were the well-behaved, demure sort, it certainly doesn't look that way.”

Your hand leaves my breasts and slips underneath the suspender belt, underneath the lace of my knickers. I buck away, insulted.

“Ssh now.” I feel your smile against the back of my neck as you find exactly what you want, exactly what we both knew would be there. “Protest all you want. Your cunt tells me otherwise”.

Oh God. Now you use your skill, that fucking touch that you know will have you doing pretty much anything you want. Fucking, fucking prick.

You press my face against the mirror. The glass, initially cool and soothing, soon becomes hot and sticky with my frustration. You press harder, harder still, and my cheekbone throbs. Your knee nudges my thighs apart and your fingers push my underwear aside. You unbuckle yourself and, mortified, I find myself pushing back at you.

Your laugh is cruel, mock disbelieving. “You fucking whore,” you murmur. You push your fingers inside me; two, then three, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel my muscles gripping you, silently begging for more.

You withdraw and a pitiful mewl comes from my throat. I loathe my body, how it so readily betrays me. You stuff your fingers into my mouth, and I don't give a fuck about my lipstick anymore. Your fingers are rough, unkind, uncaring. They dig into the delicate skin beneath my tongue and muffle my cry.

You push your cock into me, and there's no resistance. No bucking, no moving away, just a soaked, aching cunt. My eyes roll back in my head as you push all the way in, holding yourself there, angling my head just so.

“Open your eyes.”

I shake my head. You withdraw, oh-so-slowly, and just wait.

“Open your eyes or I leave the room now. Your choice”.

My eyes fly open. I'm presented with the sight of myself, makeup smeared, skin flushed, breasts pulled out of my bra. All that carefully-chosen lingerie, soaked. Thighs apart, arse in the air, desperately trying to back into you.

“Now”, you whisper, “ next time you tart yourself up like this, are you going to be so fucking blind as to not see what it looks like?”

You plunge into me, and you're relentless. I'm grunting and gasping and pressing my hand against the mirror to brace myself against you. My other hand claws and clutches at my cunt, rubbing feverishly at it, fingertips brushing against you as you fuck me. Your cock is soaked, drenched in me, and I don't have the capacity to feel embarrassed any more.

Your hand is on the back of my head and you push it down onto the dressing table, forehead and nose and chin pressed against the surface, cracking compacts and powders underneath it. You don't care, it just means you can fuck me deeper.

I feel my orgasm approaching, begin to clench around you. My groans are muffled against the dressing table, but you can tell I'm about to come. You're close, and you fuck me bruisingly hard. I feel you twitch and shudder and your fist nearly pulls my hair out at the roots. You bend over me and sink your teeth into my shoulder, fuelled by your orgasm. You cut through the sweat-sheened skin and tense tight muscle and I know you've drawn blood. It pushes me over.

I don't know how much time passes before you catch your breath and pull away from me. I hear you zip yourself up.

You pull me up by my wounded shoulder and I cry out as my blood smears beneath your fingers.

My defeated reflection stares back at me. Messed, bloodied, fucked, marked. I smell like fucking and expensive perfume. You shove me, hard, and straighten your clothes. Your index finger traces the mark at my shoulder.

“Better. Now hurry the fuck up. We're going to be late”.