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| Dollface |
“Not so pretty now, are you?”
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I should have stopped at that last glass. I've done it before; been too heavy-handed with the wine bottle and found myself sipping on a ruby liquid that I didn't really want. Still, what's not to like about that buzz, that loose-limbed relaxation that complements a bitch of a week at work oh-so perfectly?
I walk home; I'm in no fit state to drive. It's the time of year when there's a definite bite in the air, a crispness that makes me wish I'd brought my coat. I amble slightly, frowning as I punch the message into my phone, fingers skipping over the keypad. Typical drunken texts, all suggestion and faux-coyness.
I shiver. Not long now; not long until I can feel the tingle on my skin of going into the warm from the cold, can smile all suggestively and hope you notice the particular choice of underwear, can writhe and pout and use every skill I've got. I quicken my step, heels tip-tapping down the pavement, the echo of my eagerness bouncing off the houses around me.
I fumble with my key. Cold fingers.
I push the door open, close it softly behind me. I stand still a moment, letting the warmth seep into my body. I listen carefully; I can hear the faint hum of music coming from the living room. I quietly set my keys down, creep down the hallway, and gingerly curl my fingers around the door handle.
The room looks cosy, comfortable. The lamp glows gently, the bruised purple sky outside a delicious contrast. The music is low, unobtrusive.
And there you are, sitting in the armchair, reading. I want you to look up, a smile to spread across your face.
It doesn't.
I close the door behind me and set down my bag. I feel a grin tugging at the corner of my lips. Your phone is at your side; there's no doubt you've read my messages.
I stand in front of you, waiting. Nothing. Normally I'd feel that prickle of unease, that shudder brewing between my shoulderblades. But the wine has dulled that sense, dusted it with boozehorn and casual, dirty flirtation.
I inch forward, place one of your thighs between mine – and I can assure you that that brushing up against your groin was NOT accidental – and lean down. I press my lips to your ear and murmur “hello”.
I don't know how much time passes until you acknowledge me, but it's excruciating. The slightest, slightest tilt of your head. Wine makes me bold and I move in to press my lips against yours, flickering my tongue against your mouth. You don't reciprocate.
Your fingers digging into my jaw wrenches a squeal out of me. Finally, you lift your eyes. I really wish you hadn't.
“Where have you been?”
I frown, confused, senses dulled. “I…I've been out with people from work, I told you”. I'm sure I did.
You tilt my head this way and that, and push me backwards. I stumble, struggling to regain my balance. Fucking heels, fucking wine.
“You didn't tell me. I didn't know where you were. I didn't know what time you were due back”.
Your voice is flat; you don't sound angry as such. My mouth opens and closes once, twice, before I answer you.
“Well I didn't mean to worry you, you know that. It's not that late anyway, an-“
“Why are you dressed like that?”
I look down at myself, hold my arms out at my side. I can't see anything wrong with my outfit, it's what I wear to the office. Nothing too fancy.
“I always wear this. It's…it's nothing special”.
You stand up. Slowly, deliberately, you walk over to me. Your hands cup and slip over my body, rustling over the fabric of my clothes. You nuzzle into my neck, deceptively tender. “You stink of that perfume,” you mutter, “and cheap wine”. Your hands snake under my skirt and grope at my arse. “I have a fucking handful of flesh, and hardly any material”, you observe, “why would you wear that kind of underwear to work?”
I pause – too long for your liking – and you squeeze hard. “It's for you”, I stammer, “I knew I was going to be home late and a bit drunk and you know what I'm like when I'm dru-“
I didn't even notice that you'd let go of me until I felt the crack of your palm against my face. It wasn't one of your accurate ones; a clean open-handed slap that caught the side of my cheek. No, it was nastier than that, catching my ear. Making my head ring and pressing the catch of my earring into the delicate skin behind it. A gasp is forced out of my throat and my hand flies up to my face to protect it. You grab my wrist and bend it behind my back, pressing yourself against me.
“Oh, I fucking do”, you spit, “and you're a fucking whore. How do you think it makes me feel to know that you're out there, all dressed up, stinking to high heaven and getting drunk with the men you work with? Hmmm?” You drag my wrist higher up my back and I feel like my shoulder is going to pop out of the socket. I shriek.
I know it's not really about your feelings. You're far too secure for that. You just like making me squirm, making me blush and cry and believe what you're saying.
“Upstairs. Now”.
You manhandle me out of the room, keeping my arm behind me. You push me up the stairs, and I prepare myself for the rough fuck that will follow. The kind that has me sobbing, but still curled up and grateful to you afterwards. The kind that has me applying my makeup carefully in the morning, the kind that I can feel inside for weeks.
You push me into the bathroom, and I'm confused. The light is bright and hurts my eyes, and I'm suddenly very aware of the comparatively small space and hard surfaces around us.
Your fingers press into the flesh of my shoulders and push me roughly to my knees. The tiled floor is cold and unforgiving underneath them. I'm level with your belt buckle and I can feel the heat coming off you. This is my chance.
You unbuckle yourself, wrap my hair around your knuckles and fuck my throat. I choke and splutter as I get used to you, that heart-stopping panic when I can't breathe, but I quickly adjust and position my lips and tongue. “Come on”, you mutter, “I thought you were supposed to be good at this”.
You're angry; I can feel it. You're pulling my hair so hard that I think you're going to rip it out, that tickle before the sting. Sometimes, as a treat, you let me control things. You let me get on my knees and offer you the cushion of my lips and a slow, languid tongue. You let me show off. But not tonight.
No. Skill is irrelevant tonight, and I can feel the panic rising in my belly. I can take you, you know I can, but you're pushing further. Pushing hard, so that my nose is pressed against you and I can't breathe at all. My body bucks and writhes, and I need to breathe, I need to breathe now. Please.
You yank me off your cock and I gulp in an ugly ragged mouthful of air. Your knuckles meet my lips and run them against my teeth. A careless punch, just like your slap, just swing-and-thud. I taste the blood along the pulpy, wet flesh.
You fuck my throat again. You push yourself all the way in; one hand like iron on the back of my head and the other holding my nose. I squeeze my eyes shut and blindly slap my hands at your clothed thighs.
You don't care. You push further, further than you've ever gone, and I feel those clenches in my stomach. I'm going to be fucking sick. I feel that lurch, taste the bile rising up my throat, and crack my palm against you.
You sneer, wrench me by the hair and bend my body over the bath as the rim bites into my stomach. I cough, vomiting up bile and wine and the thick spit that you've coaxed from the back of my throat. It's all tinted dark red.
Fuck. Oh, fuck. This has never happened before, and here I am on my knees in the bathroom, face smeared with spit and sick. I suck in deep lungfuls of air, eyes watering. I can feel your eyes burning into the back of my head. Don't look at me.
I hear you zip yourself up.
You push up my skirt and rip my underwear from me. I barely have time to protest before your other hand presses my face down into the bath, into…it. I grunt and groan and shiver and feel the liquid cooling against my cheek. You push two fingers into me and move my head from side to side, making sure not a spot is left untouched.
“I'm going to make you come,” you spit, “I'm going to make you come with your face covered in your own vomit from sucking cock”. I tried to utter a weak, feeble “no” but my lips are crushed against the enamel, slick with bile. Your fingers work in and out of me, thumb rubbing insistently at my clit, and my body betrays you to me. As ever. You, you and your expert hand.
When I do come, it's strangled and pathetic. A trembling, choked spasm. You pull out of me and grip me by the shoulders, turning me to face you. You wipe your fingers across my lips and push me into the bath. The sudden, warm impact of your spit on my cheekbone.
“Not so pretty now, are you?”
| 21 Sep 10, 10:02 PM poutanaki UK(M), 10 yrs |
Delightful. Your so pretty when your on your knees. Disinfected, eager to please. |
| 22 Sep 10, 12:07 AM Drew_Heller UK(LS), 4 yrs  |
Yum. Sounds like a cracking evenings entertainment to me...  |
| 22 Sep 10, 12:24 AM Dark_Cherry UK(B), 2 yrs     |
Damn girl but you're good at this. Me likey  Sometimes the stillness of the night is the best music of all... |
| 22 Sep 10, 1:08 AM katemarmite 2 yrs  |
Good grief, you made vomit sound hot. I am in awe. Fab writing as ever. Thanks for sharing. For an honest, fun and filthy account of one woman's foray into BDSM buy Subtext: A Modern Day Tale of Female Submission from Amazon or go to http://www.katemarley.com |
| 22 Sep 10, 9:44 AM CherryPip 2 yrs £ |
My favourite one <3 Ahhhhh!! |
| 22 Sep 10, 9:46 AM Crystal_Eyes UK, 5 yrs  |
Only you could take something I'm genuinely terrified of, and write about it so beautifully that it makes me get off on it. Damn you. xxx ------------------------------------------ |
| 22 Sep 10, 8:35 PM Dollface UK, 6 yrs |
Thank you, all xxx "When you're going through hell, keep going." |
