The Vardo

[saysalice]

In a clearing in the woods sits a tiny gypsy wagon.

It is fitted to be pulled by a mule or a small horse, but it is obvious that it has sat here for some time. A scrubby, straggling vegetable garden has been plotted in the yard, and a few familiar plump chickens peck about. The wagon's primary occupant can often be found collecting eggs, heating a kettle over the small campfire, or sitting on the ladder steps to watch the fireflies at night...and if she cannot be found, she may be hiding away inside.

If you brush past a curtain of multi-colored glass beads, you will find that inside, it is quite cozy - just big enough to entertain one or two friends at a time.

Laughter and music at larger gatherings around the fire often extend long into the night, and a guitar can be seen propped up near the front door, for guests to use. Your hostess does not play, but will sing along to anything, even if she doesn't know the words.

A tidy pantry is stocked with spices and the fixings for assorted nibbles, and there is a small table where you might enjoy a cup of tea. If your hostess is in the right mood, she may be persuaded to help you to read your fortune in the tea leaves, or to clear the table and lay out your tarot cards.

There is always a bottle of homemade wine on hand for sharing, and on certain festive nights, a hand-rolled cigarette (which may or may not consist entirely of tobacco) for those who might wish to partake.

Tucked into a nook at the very back of the wagon, there is a mattress piled high with colorful overstuffed pillows, inviting anyone who might be inclined to snuggle or romp.

In his own dark corner, from behind a folding screen, a pair of bright eyes peers at you silently from the depths of a hand-crafted hammock. It is the changeling prince - her littlest love. On sunny days, she will spread a patchwork quilt and loll with him on the grass, but when she finds him too irresistable not to dote on and fawn over, she will retreat with him to this quiet corner.

In the back window over the bed hangs a dreamcatcher, a web spun to trap nightmares, and to allow sweet dreams to filter through - a gift from a dear friend. According to Ojibwe legend, the nightmares caught in this web will disappear when the sun rises...but heed fair warning: if you choose to spend the night in your hostess's bed, you may well encounter a nightmare or two, before dawn.

There are books for reading and books for writing in, and fat drippy candles and wildflowers scattered all about, and the small space occasionally smells of incense, and sex. The gypsy girl is rather more shy than her vibrant home might suggest - especially around strangers - but all who take the time to introduce themselves will be made welcome here.

 

[unmitigated]

Strides through the moonlit woods, taking a shortcut home from a bar. The embers of a fire assail his sense and the tranquillity of the little clearing he finds sits badly with his feral mood. He takes a pull on bourbon wrapped in brown paper and scans the decidedly feminine environment. Cushions piled on the bench, whimsical little swing hanging from a tree; definitely girl territory.

On impulse he raps on the caravan door. The worst he'll get is an earful from some guy, maybe a scuffle. He's wired and bored, never a good combination. The girl who eventually comes to the door is something else though and he smiles slowly, trying to mask his drunkenness.

I know it's late but I need to know my fortune. He lies, chancing his arm. I can cross your palm with dollar bills or with bourbon.

No angry male voice tells him to go fuck himself. He pushes past her and folds his 6ft 5 frame into her tiny home. He sits quiet and expectant, trying to put her at her ease and offers her the bottle.

I woke you up. Least I can do is stand you a drink.

 

[saysalice]

It's unexpected, a visitor at this hour. She looks to her little one anxiously, but he has not stirred. She hurries to answer the door, expecting to see a familiar face, and is taken aback by the tall stranger standing on the front step, hard and lean and dark - and wild-looking. She blushes. It's probably a mistake.

She swallows uneasily at his request. He has a bottle in one hand, and she can tell by his breath that he's well into it. Strangers don't stop by this place - it's no ren faire attraction - she only plays at cards and tea leaves for the amusement of her friends. She opens her mouth to say so, but he brushes past her effortlessly, and seats himself at her little table. She frowns as she closes the door quietly, but softens her features upon turning to face him. She doesn't quite know how to handle this.

She blushes again at the mention of money.

I - you don't - have to - pay me. It's just something I do for fun. For friends.

But she is careful not to emphasize that last word too heavily. She can still feel the hard rubber firmness of his muscular arm where he bumped into hers. He's drunk, and he's strong, and it's late. She'll just give him what he wants, and he'll go.

Her home is like a doll's house, around his large frame. She shakes her curls out of her eyes, trying to appear cool - unperturbed. Maybe she's a witch, and can turn him into a toad. Maybe she is not the least bit afraid of him. He doesn't know. She sweeps a deck of cards from the table and stands a few steps away, shuffling them distractedly.

I can do a quick reading for you - it is very late. Unless you'd prefer a cup of tea?

Shaking her head at his offer, the bourbon, and keeping her voice low and pleasant.

Just don't wake the baby. Please.

Pressing her lips together tightly, feeling the heat still high on her cheekbones as she perches on the edge of the chair across from him, tucking her long skirt under her. She should look him in the eye. She manages it, once - a quick flash of blue.

Cards, or the tea?

The cards would be quicker. She'd have to boil water. For the first time in a very long time, she is reminded how far from everything and everyone she is.

 

[unmitigated]

He frowns at the mention of a baby but nods and shrugs non-committally, trying to put her at ease. Her caravan is tiny but she moves gracefully around the limited space, avoiding contact with him, which is probably wise. Her obvious nervousness is just bringing out his inner asshole, her wide blue eyes rousing the predator in him. He pulls on the whiskey again and stares at her little table, waiting for her to deal.

Make some tea if you want to. I'm sticking to this, it'll keep me warmer.

He finds that he wants to hear her hesitant voice again, pitched low so as not to wake her child. Scanning the room he can't see a baby, perhaps it's a ruse to discourage him? If there is a child here, it's unnaturally quiet.

So, do you read your own fortunes? Can you see your own luck?

He watches her sit before him, finally done fussing and procrastinating. Her long dress clings to all the right places on her slim frame and he admires her unabashedly as she does so. Her neck in particular is slender and graceful. He can imagine grabbing her throat and watching her big blue eyes plead with him. She won't wake the fucking baby then. He drags his gaze back to the table and keeps it there, knowing he'll give his lustful musings away if he looks at her now. If he was sober he'd be able to remain charming and lull her into a false sense of security. He didn't come here with any designs on getting laid but her beauty and fear are getting him riled.

 

[saysalice]

She shakes her head with a little smile. If I drink tea now, I'll never sleep. Wishing he would stop drinking from the bottle.

Packing the oversized cards into a neat pile in her hand, she passes the deck to him.

You need to shuffle them yourself, and then spread the whole deck out, face down on the table, and select three. Keep them face down. I want - I want you to focus on a question you'd like to have answered, while you handle the cards. A dilemma, a problem that needs a solution - maybe at work, or in a relationship...

She trails off, watching his hands as he chuffs the card into his palm, again and again: large hands, long dextrous fingers. She'd like to dig up a pencil and try to quickly capture the play of light and shadow in the tendons of his hands in motion, the lines of his wrists, his smooth forearms. She blinks. Don't be silly. She doesn't know this man.

She speaks again as he is fanning the cards out on the table in a horseshoe shape. Don't tell me the question - it's better if I don't know, so that I can't direct your interpretation.

There is a charged silence between them as he draws three cards, seemingly at random. As she sweeps the rest of the deck into a pile, he asks if she ever reads her own fortune. She smiles again.

I do, sometimes, but it's not as much fun. I've been through the cards so many times, I can't help reading them in a particular way. It's more exciting to get different perspectives. You might see something that I never would have thought of.

And anyway... As she lays the three cards with their identical blank backs out in a row in front of him, glancing up at him once more. I like surprises.

She clears her throat.

(with apologies to anyone who reads tarot cards - I don't.)

The first card on the left represents Context. It will be a general reflection of your present situation.

She turns over the first card. It is The Emperor, and it appears right-side up from her side of the table.

The Emperor represents an authority figure, an alpha male, someone who expects to give orders and be obeyed - maybe a father figure, or a boss. She stops. She is making suggestions, when she should allow him to make free associations. When the card is reversed like this, it signifies disorder - listening to your heart when you should perhaps listen to your head - a need to focus and use logic.


The middle card is the Focus, and reflects a new set of circumstances that are about to take place. This card represents the problem, or the decision you need to make.

She turns the center card. It is the Seven of Cups, and it faces her guest.

The Seven of Cups represents choice. As you can see, it is a representation of hedonistic pleasures - excess. You are about to find out where your limits are, and decide how far you're willing to go.


She peeks up at him, to see if he is taking this in. Is he taking this seriously, or is it all a big joke to him?

The card on your right represents the Outcome. It will reflect the effects of the middle card - the results of the decision you make.

She flips the last card. The Ten of Rods is upside-down for him.

She hesitates, wetting her lips. She must be careful with her choice of words - she has no idea what he has asked the cards.

The Ten of Rods represents an overwhelming set of circumstances, actions that started with a vague idea or an impulse, spiralling out of control. An inverted card, like this, strongly suggests...deception.



She shrugs. Looks up at him again, leaving the cards as they are on the table.

So, what do you think? Does that make any sense to you?

 

[seven_of_nine]

hears voices and tiptoes up to the caravan, unwilling to intrude. one deep male voice is decidedly familiar but even if it's him, she has no business here

it's easy to tread quietly on the softly packed earth and she lays her package upon the steps with easy grace, before retreating back into the woods

in her welcome gift is a seemingly loose bundle of wool, simply thrown together but capable of rendering almost any space cosy enough for a newborn

the other gift is for 'mommy' though rumour has it this child is far from its kin. she leaves a jewelled box that holds a jar of cream with arnica and witch hazel, treatment for bruises.

a handwritten note accompanies the gifts

"I cannot wish you happiness... but I wish you joy."

quietly she slips away as the muffled conversation inside the vardo turns to card reading. he would skin her if he thought she was eavesdropping.

he might well skin her anyway

 

[unmitigated]

Focus on a question...

He finds himself unable to. The only clear thought in his booze addled mind is that he has a deep desire to fuck this girl rigid.

He shuffles the cards deftly, despite the fact they're a lot bigger than ordinary playing cards. At her direction he fans them across the table and then chooses three.

A slow, malevolent smile spreads across his face as she interprets the meanings. Alpha male, hedonism, desire spiralling out of control. Looks like this poor bitch doesn't have the fates on her side.

"So what do you think?" She asks tentatively. "Does that make any sense to you?"

He grabs her throat and pulls her close, he doesn't even have to lift his ass of his chair to do this. He's loaded enough that he barely even feels her punches and kicks. He just stares her down until she's expended the O2 in her lungs and she's fading. When he unclenches his grip enough that she can breathe, he takes the opportunity to pour neat bourbon down her throat, watching her swallow it down as she fights desperately for air.

He pulls her down into his lap, sitting her down hard on the swollen cock rising up beneath his jeans. He pulls her head into his and kisses her hard, invading her whiskey soaked mouth with his tongue. He pushes her hip down with one free hand, grinding up against her clothed cunt. He breaks off the kiss, holding her head in place by the hair.

The only question I asked was whether I was going to fuck you.

He rises, wrapping her legs around his hips and steps over to her bed, tossing her down onto it. Now he sees the baby... fuck! He grips her throat again, pinning her by it to keep her quiet, his other big hand delving up under her skirt to her slit, gripping and pinching her clit and enjoying her face contorting with a scream she can't voice. Her pussy moistens quickly against his probing fingers.

Show me a gypsy and I'll show you a slut. He chuckles. We both know you want this. You're either gonna give it or I'm gonna to take it. Makes absolutely no difference to me.

He lets go of her throat and while she's hauling air into her lungs he grabs the nearest scarf, wraps it around her bedpost and binds her wrists to it tightly.

He picks up the child and nearly cums in his boxers when he sees how terrified and desperate she gets, the total power he has over her. Her begging and pleading just gets him harder, if that's even possible and he's deaf to her emotional pain. He pitches his deep voice even lower, talking quietly.

Quiet. Wake this and I'll have to shut it up.

He's not a total monster... but sadly for this bitch she doesn't know that. Referring to her child as an 'it' simply causes pain that's too delicious for words.

He heads to the door with the baby, drinking in her pitiful, agonised moans.

I'm just putting it outside the door. Best you keep your mouth shut or fucking busy so you don't wake it up.

He dumps the baby on the bench outside the vardo and strides back in again before she can do anything suicidally dumb. He keeps his distance from her and undresses, letting her see the hard muscle on his frame and finally, the massive twelve inch black cock that he frees from his boxers with a groan. He stands there and strokes it, his eyes raking over her body.

So bitch... are you giving or am I taking?

 

[saysalice]

She has seen this before. It is part of the pleasure she takes in reading the cards and the tea leaves, why she doesn't charge for it - it's this moment, when recognition lights up the querent's face, and she knows that the reading has been meaningful for them - it's so rewarding for her. The moment when all the puzzle pieces fall into place, and the picture is clear. That secret satisfaction looks different on every face.

She's never seen a smile like his.

She has time to register her unease - then his hand is around her throat, squeezing, and dragging her across the table. Her own fingers fly to dig her nails into his wrist as the deck of cards is sent flying and the tablecloth slides under her as he pulls her to him and she can't scream - she can't breathe! It's like trying to claw marble. She slaps at his arm with the heels of her palms, and then at his face, feeling the terrible pressure building behind her eyes as she tries and tries in this vacuum to make the word: stop! Arching her back, her whole body tense with the effort of pulling away from him, striking weakly across his cheek, and her head feels like it's going to explode - shadows are drawing in at the periphery of her vision and she wonders if she's dying.

His fingers relax and she draws a desperate ragged breath, only to choke and sputter on the burning liquor he's pouring into her mouth. It stings in her raw throat as she gulps it down - huge swallows, just to breathe - and tries to say: no! and he is hauling her all flailing limbs and moans with the tablecloth across to him, to seat her firmly in his lap. And she can feel it - hard like the rest of him - and her eyes widen with understanding - alpha male. Her face is not alight with the realization, but blanching with dread.

No, she wants to say, but his fist is in her hair and his mouth comes bruising down on hers, his tongue into her, tasting her mouth. He holds her tight to his lap with the other hand and lifts his hips so that she can feel the entire length of him, wedged in the cleft of her ass.

His whisky breath is in her face, confirming his terrible intent as he lifts her and rises in the same swift motion, hiking her skirt up with her thighs around him, and closes the distance of two steps to the bed. She squeals as he throws her down, and purses her lips into the proper shape for begging when she sees his gaze pass over the hammock, her little son, half-hidden behind the screen.

Her eyes widen, and then bulge in her flushed face as he grabs her by the throat again, shoving her down into the mattress as her fingers bat at him uselessly and she digs her heels in and sputters on her last shallow gasp, chin jutting toward the ceiling, trying to push away. Her lips work airlessly, pressing together again and again without the breath behind them to make:

P. Pl. Ple.

Tiny black fireworks are exploding against a red-black sky before her eyes, and incredibly - disturbingly - he has his hand up under her skirt and is fingering her clit, pinching hard. His fingers are slick with wet - she tries to toss her head. She hears his words over the roar of blood throbbing behind her skull, but she can't feel anything above this desperate animal panic.

He lets go, and she gasps a breath full of broken glass - barely registering the tight knot around her wrists, and what it means as he pulls them up to secure her to the bedpost. But he turns and reaches for the hammock in the corner and a wail tears through her, loud in the tiny space, and her struggles turn to wild thrashings - a violence not present in the fight for her life.

No - NO! Not him. Anything - anything - anything you want! Just don't hurt him - don't hurt him - please!

At his command, she swallows the rest like a mouthful of molten steel, but watching him, forgets herself and shrieks when he turns away with the child. Her face is awash with frantic tears.

NoooOOO!! Leave him alone!

His voice is firm and somehow she holds back a scream until he has stepped through the doorway.

He's back and standing her over again quickly - maybe too quickly to - She can't finish the thought. She keeps her teeth clenched for as long as she can bear it, and then wails up at him in anguish. Deception, the cards said. He is pushing his pants down, and the sight of his gargantuan black cock makes her blood run cold. It is a special kind of despair, watching him stroke himself over her, and knowing he's going to force it into her - knowing it's not going to feel good - knowing there's nothing she can do to stop him.

Giving or taking. It's a warm night, it's a warm night...

Giving, she says. Anything you want, she says again, hoarse and toneless. Limp on the bed, but every is muscle thrumming with fearful anticipation. Alone with him, with her child out of his reach, she's afraid she won't be able to keep this promise.

It makes absolutely no difference, to him. Just don't -

hurt me

- hurt him.

 

[unmitigated]

He yanks her up the bed a little, so her upper body is propped against the bedpost. Then he straddles her and brings his cock up to her mouth. There is no need to threaten to punch her teeth out, he already has the trump card lying on the bench outside. He's uncut... eye-wateringly thick. He groans as her mouth accepts him, dry from screaming but it soon warms and moistens. He finds the depth he can go to before she gags and sticks to it for a while, admiring her tear streaked face bulging around him. She looks up at him, angry and a afraid and he pulses inside her.

He slows down, deepening his lazy thrusts and easing back on his own enjoyment so that he's simmered down. He pulls out and puts her on her hands and knees with her ass in the air, facing the end of the bed. He yanks her dress up over her ass and spanks each cheek hard with a massive hand. She opens her mouth to yelp and instantly he slams into her throat, impaling her.

He grips her hair with one hand and fucks her face, while the other hand rains hard slaps down onto her backside.

Oh fuck yeah. Choke on it bitch.

He pulls out to let her breathe and retch, drinking in her red ass and ruined face. While she's coughing up spit and precum he grabs the jeans he dropped nearly and pulls his leather belt free. It's an old and much loved belt, the leather slightly dry and rough around the edges.

He piles into her throat again and whips her asscheeks, grunting wildly everytime the lash of the whip forces her even deeper onto his massive cock. She's so fucking tight and she knows better than to try fighting him. Savvy for a gypo bitch.

Gypo bitches need to breathe though... occasionally.

He pulls out once more and gives her welt covered ass a moment's respite.

 

[saysalice]

She doesn't resist him. It's the hardest thing - her face is flushed with shame as she feels his hard thighs against either side of her face and she opens her mouth reluctantly, unable to look at him - this isn't rape. Not really. Her eyes sting with tears as the thick tip of his cock pushes between her lips. She thinks of her little one outside, alone in the dark, and opens her mouth wider, mindful of her teeth.

Just give him what he wants, and he'll go.

With her compliance assured, he takes his pleasure at a leisurely pace, pushing into her face, not too deep - in no hurry. Waiting for her mouth to get wet for him. He's so terribly hard, so terribly big and long - he eases his cock into her mouth until the tip of it nudges the back of her throat, and it's not even half of his full length. Her mouth waters, and she makes herself caress the veiny underside of him with her velvet tongue. He's so hard. Maybe if she is very hospitable she can make him come like this, and he will be satisfied. He just needs to come, and he'll go, she thinks. She tries to ignore the memory of his fingers between her legs, tweaking her clit.

She makes herself look up at him. He wants to see her fear and her helplessness, it's a turn-on. She lifts her shining blue eyes and looks up into his lean animal face. He's excited, but not frantic. He's thrusting more slowly, taking the time to savor the feel of her soft wet mouth, now that the excitement of possessing it has passed. She wants him frantic, she wants him to lose control, she wants to watch that dangerous sharp gleam in his eyes dull as he spurts - into her, if he must - into her mouth. She works harder his pistoning cock slows to an unbearably languid motion - her lips cling to him and wetness seeps from the corners of her mouth, oozing down the length of him.

He pulls all the way out, and she holds her breath, averting her eyes again. He has not lost interest. She has been grasping at a thin hope in the very back of her mind that the drink might get the better of him - but it hasn't. She is tense and wary but does not resist as he positions her again, putting her on all fours, and she catch hold of the expression on her face, the dismay. He's going to fuck her now, fuck her like this. But it will finish him - surely it will finish him. She groans and lets him hear it as she feels him tugging her dress up over her bare hips and thinks of that long black cock pulsing all the way up inside her, coming up inside her - isn't it a small price to pay, to have this over with? He must be close, if he -

The first slap makes her gasp shallowly, and he drives his cock back into her mouth as his hand descends briskly again, bouncing with the impact against her firm white ass. This time he drives deeply so that her eyes fill with water and her throat hitches and spasms around him, and it takes all of her will to remember at the last minute that she must not fight him.

He holds himself deep and thrusts deeper into her aching throat, and it's still not all of him. The slaps shock her again and again, and she chokes on her squeals as he allows her sips of air, snuffles between his strokes. Panic is threatening to take over as she feels him bury his fingers into her tangle of curls to hold her where he wants her - don't fight, don't fight, she reminds herself, blinking the tears out of her wide eyes, timing her breaths to match his thrusts. But she can't help stiffening, trying to pull away from this deep invasion, squirming to avoid his stinging slaps. Her tears flow freely as she struggles to resist her instinctive urge to get away, to stop this.

His appreciative snarl sends a shiver through her. Does he see how hard she is working, does he care? Or does it excite him, that she is not fighting him, but fighting herself?

He holds his cock down her throat for a long moment, until her head begins to ache and she begins to think: my teeth I could use my teeth no I can't use my teeth - and then he pulls out suddenly and she whoops on a gasp and coughs and whines up at him. Slimy spittle strings from her lower lip as she watches him - won't let him out of her sight - sees him reach for something.

Her ass is warm and still tingling from the slaps when he takes the belt in his hand and turns back to her, and she has time to whimper: Please - without much hope behind the word, before he shoves his cock into her mouth again, stifling the sound and lashing at her bare skin. The belt is harder to take - it's a harsher sting, a longer reach, curling with the round shape of her ass to lick at the tender flesh of her thighs. And he is forcing his thick meaty cock ever deeper into her raw throat, forcing it until she is sure he's into her windpipe, holding her so that she can't pull away - and she is grateful for it, his large hand firmly cradling her skull - because she is struggling in earnest now, on pure instinct as the lack of oxygen and the solid feel of him in her throat and the sharp blows with the belt prompt a wild panic she can't subdue.

He pulls out again with a particularly vicious snap of the belt, and she shudders and wails on a breath, and rasps again: Please. The taste of his come is in her mouth, his cock is barely two-thirds wet and the swollen veins stand out against his chocolate brown shaft, threatening to burst with his excitement. Threatening to bust her up inside.

What is she begging for? Mercy? This is mercy.

 

[unmitigated]

He lifts her head by the hair, bending her neck painfully and making her look up at him.

Please what bitch?

He suddenly adopts a feminine posture and a high pitched falsetto, coughing for added authenticity as he mocks her.

Please don't hurt me! Please be nice and gentle and sweet and make love to me monotonously in the missionary position like I'm a princess!

he puts her on her knees facing the bedpost she's tied to. He kneels down behind her and presses his fat cockhead up against the her tiny cuntlips. Curling a fist in her hair again, he drops his voice to a low, feral growl.

Or maybe you really mean, please pound my worthless hole into oblivion.

 

[saysalice]

Please what? She really doesn't know. Gasping as he pulls her head back to look at him, she wishes he wouldn't ask - just do whatever he came here to do, and get it over with.

His mocking falsetto sets her teeth on edge, and she has time to scowl up at him before he re-positions her, as easily as sex doll, and she's grateful again, that she doesn't have to look at him. She has time to reflect that no, she wouldn't like it - at all - if he decided suddenly to be gentle and sweet, and make it "making love". He has her completely at his mercy and entirely submissive - if he was to start kissing her now, caressing her, taking his time - oh, she couldn't bear it! There's a part of her that needs it to be a punishment, for opening the door and putting her little one in danger, for bringing this upon herself. Punishing.

She groans as she feels the tip of his cock - just the tip - pressing into the pink cleft of her cunt, and makes fists even as he makes a fist in her hair again to hold her where he wants her and to growl in her ear. She doesn't want this, either. She's felt his cock down her throat - she can't take him, and he knows it. She grits her teeth stubbornly, angry at him for mocking her, angry at herself.

Please what?

She won't admit to that.

Makes no difference to him. She clenches her jaw, trying to stay angry as she feels cold fear seeping in at the edges. Recklessly, she mutters sullenly in answer:

Fuck you.

- then gasps, remembering, and strains to turn her head in his hand, to face him with widening eyes.

Oh god - I'm sorry - I'm sorry! I didn't mean that!

Arching her back, bowing low to push her hips up in a lewd offering, feeling her lips parting to kiss the tip of his cock - if she's angered him, let him take it out on her - Please - again, but with a raw note of desperation now.

She would never, in a million years, believe she did it on purpose.

 

[unmitigated]

He quirks an incredulous brow but almost immediately she changes tack.

Oh yeah, the baby. He had almost completely forgotten about it.

He yanks her head away from his cock disdainfully and then flips her onto her back. gets up onto the bed and kneels between her legs, spitting on her cunt. His elbows settle either side of her shoulders and his cock presses against her entrance once more.

Seems to me that while you're running your mouth there's a baby outside whose body temperature is still dropping. Makes you quite the selfish little cunt, doesn't it?

He spreads her legs wide and shoves her knees up against her shoulders. Her cunt is now fully exposed and pointed skywards. They both know she'll never take his cock but after what he's just said she's likely to maim herself trying. He sneers down at her and spits on his hand before spreading the saliva across his cockhead and guiding himself into her body. He thrusts downwards, abetted by gravity and almost immediately bottoms out. He groans and pushes deeper, relishing how much it hurts her.

Best you buckle up, cunt.

He pulls back and then slams down with savage force, drinking in her pain. He sets a slow rhythm and lets gravity sink him as deep in her as he can physically go with every thrust, positively gleeful.

 

[saysalice]

She is whining as he turns her over - an annoying sound, a pathetic sound, but she doesn't know how to stop. She knows whatever's coming won't be good, and she doesn't want to have to look up at him, into his face and those eyes as he's hurting her, to see how much he's loving it.

She cringes as he spits on her cunt, but she knows she should thank him - she isn't wet for this. She can't help squirming as she feels the tip of his cock touch her tender fleshy lips again, but she doesn't dare twist away.

His cruel reminder makes her wail up at him through bared, clenched teeth, but she won't speak again, she won't beg or make any more words, she swears silently to herself. In the dark of her mind, a tiny spark flares to life with this breath of hope - he hasn't hurt her little one after all. It's a warm night, it's summertime, and the dying fire will keep the bugs and the beasts away - for now.

Just let him do it, she thinks - knowing that she's a fool to think she is "letting" him do anything.

He folds her knees in to her chest, putting her in the fetal position, tilting her pelvis up so that he can plunge deep. The expression on his face makes her cold all over as he spits again, and she can't help watching as he spreads it on his cock. His large hand curling around the thick meaty girth can't cover half the length of it, and she moans in fear, knowing she has to take this.

His first thrust drives all thoughts out as he hits hard and deep on the first stroke and the intense pain jars through her whole body. It's only his first thrust. She can feel her flesh trying to crawl, trying to cringe away from him at the sound of his voice. He stays deep and shoves harder and she arches her back, whimpering, trying to find room for him.

At his cold warning, she can feel herself beginning to tremble. She opens her mouth to say I - but it is lost in a shriek as he rears up to slam back into her, full force, sinking into her cervix so that she can feel the ache in her womb and her hips and the base of her spine. She can hardly catch her breath as he begins to thrust slowly now, staying deep and trying to push ever deeper. Her whole body is curled up in pain as she writhes under him and every jab makes her eyelids flutter with the shock of it.

Between strokes, she manages to gasp: I can't - I can't - take you.

 

[unmitigated]

He glares down at the point where their bodies fuse, irritated but not surprised that only half his dick is wet. He starts stirring her up, circling his hips and then plunging down again, determined to leave no square millimetre of her cunt unfucked. She's wound so tight and still dry, time to open her up a little. He he licks a middle finger and then curls it under her pelvic bone to her clit. With a devious glint in his eye, he proceeds to saw his curled finger up and down over her clit, pressing hard up against the exposed bud with every up thrust. He keeps his cock still inside her during this latest assault, enjoying feeling her flex on him.

Well you're going to take me.

She isn't. She can't. But that's really no reason not to scare her shitless.

So I suggest you focus on being a little less uptight.

His movements on her clit become frenzied and he watched her judder. All the time a degree of his bodyweight rests on her, pushing his dick very slowly deeper as she forces her body to yield to him. When she's wet and bucking he stops, not wanting her to cum like that.

He drops down onto one elbow and kisses her. She won't fight him now and it's about the last thing she'll expect. The booze should be going to her head now, fogging her judgement. The kiss is a full scale charm offensive, prising her mouth open and taking possession of it. He circles his hips slowly, pressing his body against hers, trying to give her enough pleasure to elicit a positive response. When he speaks again he murmurs into her mouth between kisses.

Once you go black. You never go back. Because you won't feel a goddamn thing.

He rolls his wet finger across a nipple, cupping her tit and squeezing it.

 

[saysalice]

Her curls are clinging to her forehead with sweat as she feels him grind his hips into her, and she is panting through gritted teeth, dizzy on the swallows of whiskey and his bewildering caresses. He finds her clit as if it's just been waiting for his touch, and she experiences an unwelcome jolt of violent pleasure - and then another - timed perfectly with his vicious thrusts - and then he holds himself still inside her to feel her wet cunt quivering on his rigid black cock.

Less uptight, he says. In spite of herself, in spite of the terrible pain as he continues to force his way into her, she is gasping and gulping and leaning up into him - into him - and she knows herself, she is close, she's about to lose control -

And then he stops, and she's left with her flushed cheeks and her silent, sweaty unspoken shame between them, and the squelch of her cunt now, oozing and thrumming around him. He slips in it abruptly, sliding half an inch deeper into her soft core, impossibly deep. With this motion he sinks his body into hers and his full, warm lips are on hers now - gently at first, but coaxing her open - the way his cock is working insistently into her cunt. She can feel his hard sculpted body pressing between the soft bare flesh of her thighs, his contours like ebony polished smooth by the passing of many hands.

She'd like to touch him.

It's a startling thought, rising above the constant ache, and she is startled by the rosy pleasure she feels stirring in the pit of her stomach as he rolls his hips into her in a smooth, liquid motion. How can there be desire, how can there be pleasure in this? It's troubling, even as he is nipping at her lips and implying in soft tones that he is going to spoil her or ruin her for anyone else.

He reaches into the deep V-neck of her blouse and his long fingers strum the nipple, making it wet - she feels it tighten into a hard nub almost immediately - and then his palm covers her firm round breast and he squeezes just hard enough to hurt. She turns her face from him, her hot cheek into the crook of her arm and her eyes shut tight, offering the long pale lines of her neck - knowing well enough that his lips there will make her tremble. She doesn't want to like this, to want this. She wants to fight this - but then of course she doesn't dare.

Anything he wants, she's said. Is it his cock or his lips, is it a gasp or a sigh that parts her wet mouth and makes her turn back to him, opening her eyes and craning her neck to touch her lower lip to his earlobe? It's not quite a kiss.

Nothing's changed. He's going to hurt her. She doesn't understand how she can be craving it, but she knows that she is not to deny him.

Yes, she mouths at his ear - breathlessly, so that she can't hear herself say the word.

 

[saysalice]

The early morning light creeps slowly over the horizon, and a single ray penetrates a stand of silver birch, glinting on the tiny pane of glass. Inside, a shadow shaped like a spider's web falls across her face, and after a moment, she opens one eye to wink at the sun, sighing her contentment from between the pillows.

Her eyes snap open as an infant's gentle cooing reaches her ears, and she bolts upright on the bed - how long has she been sleeping?

She darts to the window first - her memory is fuzzy on the details of last night, but she bats the little woven trinket aside to search the yard: not on the bench - or the swing - not next to the fire pit - oh God -

His voice makes her turn without thinking, and there he is, grinning gummily at her from the hammock, as always. She stumbles in a tangle of quilts to sweep him up into her arms with a cry. He gurgles at her, as if amused, and then squeals piercingly to remind her that his breakfast is overdue. He is safe. Warm and unharmed, and not a mark on him. Her legs are suddenly weak with relief and she collapses with him on the bed, absently tugging her blouse up to offer him a rosy nipple as she gazes blinking around the interior of the wagon.

No scarf wrapped around the bedpost, no whiskey bottle on the table...she can see her tarot cards, still stacked neatly where she left them, not scattered across the floor. Her wrists ache, but they have ached for months with all the lifting of her little one. She adjusts his weight in the crook of one arm and lifts the other to examine her wrist in the patch of sunlight. No rope burn - nothing.

Just a dream. Vivid, as her dreams often are. Intense. Cauchemar. She can picture it in her mind: crashing through the dark woods on powerful legs, grunting and snorting and frothing, sleek and wild and hard with muscle, and as black as coal...

She shudders, startling her boy, who blinks up at her quizzically until she shakes her curls at him with a reassuring smile.

"Just a bad dream."

When he is sated, she sets him back in the hammock, threading a flower through the mesh to entertain him as she pulls a shawl over her shoulders and ties her hair back. Pausing at the pantry to rummage for matches, she looks back at the table to see where she left her teapot, and her eyes fall again on the pack of cards. Neat as a pin in a nice square stack...except that the top card is turned face up. She takes a step, knowing even before she is close enough to confirm it -

- the pale, grim, ghostly face of The Emperor looks back at her impassively. She sinks into a chair, feeling her heart pounding, feeling a twinge between her legs. Coincidence. Surely. She looks around the cabin again for any trace of him, anything out of place. There is nothing.

When she is sure she can rise without trembling, she takes her box of matches and cautiously opens the door. The drone of insects and cheery birdsong greet her. The yard is empty. She pauses on the ladder to crouch and look under the wagon - feeling foolish, but too rattled not to check - and spies the strange items that have been left on the step. She glances up again warily, peering into the dense woods that surround her, but can see nothing. There are no footprints in the dewy grass.

She reaches for what she thinks is a skein of vibrant hand-dyed wool, and her lips quirk on a brief smile as she takes it in her hands and sees that it is something else, a soft nest for her squawky little jaybird.

The pretty box must be for her. As she lifts it, a scrap of paper flutters and she snatches it up. The cryptic note is yet another puzzle, in a feminine hand that she doesn't recognize. She slips a fingernail under the jewelled lid of the box and stares at the small jar within. Some kind of ointment - herbal. Topical treatment...for bruises. She claps the lid down again, feeling cold all over. She doesn't truly believe in fairies.

The fire has been out for hours, but she busies herself with collecting twigs and branches to build it up again. She crumples the note and piles the kindling all around it, watching it curl and blacken as she sets a lit match to it. When it collapses in a drift of white ash she exhales at last, and murmurs to herself again, "A dream."

She is stubborn that way.

*

Every week, her sister-friend Marnie makes a trip into town for supplies, and will stop by the vardo to ask Alice if there is anything she needs. Today is no exception, and though the whinny of a horse in the yard gives her pause for just a moment, she comes smiling out into the sunshine with the baby, passing him into the older woman's eager, waiting arms.

Hefting his weight on her hip and exclaiming over his big brown eyes, Marnie finally turns her attention back to her friend, and asks the same question she's asked every Tuesday for over a year:

"Need anything in town?"

The answer is often yes, sometimes no, but today the request will be one she's never made before. Her cheeks flush slightly as she nods, and answers quietly, "Baseball bat."

Dark brows lift in surprise as she bounces the boy. "Baseball bat? Glove, too?"

"Just the bat."

"Everything okay?"

Alice nods again and meets her concerned gaze steadily. Marnie has seen that look one too many times, and knows not to ask any more.

"Cup of tea?" Alice asks in a casual tone that is still a note off. Marnie shakes her head.

"I'd better keep moving - got a few more stops to make." She tickles the princeling under the ribs to hear him giggle. "Guess I have to give you back now, little man! I'll be back to visit at the end of the week, okay?"

As she lifts him to pass him off, Alice steps back, and speaks with some difficulty. "Do me a favor, will you? Take him with you. Just this time." It's unexpected, and in the bewildered pause she continues hesitantly, her voice beginning to waver. "He - he's never been to the city."

Marnie decides to risk an argument. "Is everything okay?"

Alice nods, swallowing hard.

Marnie shakes her head, frowning. "So - what, are you expecting someone?"

"No. I could just - use a little 'me' time, okay?" she answers, blinking rapidly. "It's not for too long. You can bring him back when you come to deliver the - the bat."

Marnie sighs. It's all the answer she's going to get. "Right," she mutters. "We can teach him to hit a curve ball. Fine. I'll take good care of him..."

Alice steps up to hug her, and to cover her son with kisses. "I know you will." Her voice is a croak in his downy hair: "Be good for Miss Marnie - I'll see you real, real soon!"

She watches as the horse pulling the jingly wagon makes a wide turn in the clearing and ambles back down a path through the woods. She watches until she can't see them anymore, then hugs herself and sits on the swing, not swinging, and allows herself a brief spate of tears.

When she is ready, she disappears with a flash of leg and swirling skirts up the steps and into the vardo, closing the door firmly behind her against the heat of the day. Settling down to sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, she spreads two books out in front of her - one of them blank, the other a rather bleak tale about a girl who slowly goes violently mad. As she re-reads the story, she nibbles on a pen and stops now and then to make a note.

Her eyes often rest on the empty little hammock as she pauses to search for the right word, or to work out an idea. He is never far from her mind, but at least now she can be sure that he is safe. Nightmares have a terrible habit of recurring.

 

[Noon_Shadow]

It was time.

A promise had been made. Perhaps it had sounded like an idle threat at the time, but it was a true promise, made with conviction. He had not told her when it would be carried out though-which is why she might have thought it a threat. But the nervousness, when would it arrive...that would make her tense. And the shock of knowing the moment had finally come would make her fear taste delicious.

He pictured her body as he was going to use her. Use her roughly. She thought that living out here all alone was a means of establishing control. He would teach her a few things about control, exactly how much she had. He pictured her supple breasts marred with teeth marks. Her sweet little pussy spread wide and weeping for him. His hand tightening on her throat, leaving fingerprints there as her arms went wide for him...wide with fear and arousal. He wondered how she'd react to the sound of his voice.

He entered the clearing. There was no sign of her. The curtains of the wagon were drawn. It was very quiet-if not for the sign of a very recent fire, he would suspect that it was deserted. She must have the little one sleeping for now. Well, he would have to make sure that mommy's screams would wake the little one. The grin that twisted his face was ugly.

He sat down on the little swing, that was barely barely able to take his weight. He slowly rocked in it, feet resting on the ground. hearing it squeak, the limb overhead groaning as he gently rocked back and forth. This was his method of announcing his presence to her-he was sure she would understand the message. She'd known he would come eventually. He was sure the noise would alert her. So he waited, watching the wagon with the same ugly grin tattooed on his lips.

 

[saysalice]

She paused, pen hovering over the page. Something, some little noise heard "out of the corner of her ear" had finally registered through her fog of reverie to grate on her nerves. And now that she had stopped to pay attention, it was all she could hear as she listened carefully, trying to place the sound.

Outside. Her gaze flickered to the door, but she remained still. The sound was familiar to her, but she couldn't immediately identify it. Tree branches, bowing and creaking as the sun set and the wind picked up...perhaps. There was a rhythm to it, a cadence too regular to be natural. Like a metronome, keeping steady time. Somehow ominous. Manmade sound.

Her spine straightened and she dropped her pen, letting the book fall closed around it as she slid quietly from the bed. Was he back, then? Her eyes darted around the cabin and she wished now that she had the baseball bat. She should have gone to town with Marnie and her babe, not stayed to repeat the night before.

It might be nothing. She clattered through the contents of her pantry, sure she was alarming her unexpected visitor with the noise - but who would visit at this hour, and not announce themselves? Her shaky fingers curled around the handle of a large carving knife. He might have it off her without the slightest exertion, but she hoped to give him a scare, and give him a fight, if necessary. She would not cower in here like a mouse while he prowled around in her yard, biding his time. She would not hide in the back and turn all the lights out and pretend not to be in. This was her place - her home - and she would not be bullied and stalked as easy prey, night after night...but she did wish she had that bat.

Setting her jaw, she threw the door open without warning, brandishing the knife and shouting into the darkness, "Look - you get out of here! You're not welcome here, so just - get lost!"

Backlit by the glow of the interior, she knew he would see how her raised arm trembled - she'd never had to draw a weapon on anyone before - but she held her head high, peering into the gloom with fierce eyes.

Creak.

Her head snapped back, taking in the shadowy figure rocking gently on the swing.

"I mean it!" she cried shrilly, lifting the knife higher...but there was something off about him. The silhouette was wrong for the nightmare who'd burst through her door last night. Still large and imposing, still male, but - not the same. And this subtlety, this quiet restraint hardly seemed his style.

She took a step over the threshold, stepping aside to let the light illuminate his profile, and at once exhaled her relief, letting her knife hand fall to her side.

"Oh god - it's you!" she cried gratefully, setting the knife on the floor and tripping down the steps, glad he wouldn't see her embarrassment, in this dim light.

"I'm so sorry - I thought - I didn't know who it was, and you scared me. So you've come! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone tonight!"

The earth was chilly under her bare toes as she ran smiling across the grass - but she stopped short just before she reached him. His smile. She glanced back at the open door of her wagon and imagined she could see the glint of the blade she'd left behind.

But she was being paranoid. She pushed her lips up into a warm smile...but kept her distance. "Such a rude welcome! I've just finished my supper, but I could scrounge up something for you, if you'd like? Or will you have a glass of wine, or maybe some tea?"

After another moment's hesitation she made herself step up to him, setting her hand on his shoulder, and kissed him in greeting, as she would any visitor. His cheek was cold from the night air, and she wondered with a little shiver how long he'd been sitting here.

 

[Noon_Shadow]

The night had fallen quickly.

He remained, waiting, sending out his quiet little taunt as the first night insects began to chirp, watching the slow descent of the sun. Creak. He listens for sounds in the wagon, but none come. Night falls, as it grows dark, with a bit of a chill creeping into his skin. And still he waits patiently.

A mousetrap can be a frightening thing when it moves. There's a ton of force potential inside of those loaded springs, enough to snap the board end up it up into the air as the metal trap flies shut. It's frightening because it's perfectly calm and still, up until the moment it snaps shut. The potential for force seems is hidden, but still present, and if you get too near, you worry you'll startle yourself by setting it off.

"Look - you get out of here! You're not welcome here, so just - get lost!" Backlit by the lamp in her wagon, he can see her brandishing a knife. He does not leave. He sits and waits, watching. Potential.

She moved aside, becoming a backlit and enticing silhouette as he caught the light shining into his face from the wagon. He smiled wickedly at her, watching her as she gently set the knife down on the floor. Clearly she wasn't feeling threatened by him. Well, there were worse things in the world than himself, he supposed. She made her way over to him, shyly he noted, with hitches and pause. She once again blocked the light, perhaps hiding the glint in his eye. Her face was once again a silhouette, the curls oddly beautiful lit by the warmth behind her.

"Such a rude welcome! I've just finished my supper, but I could scrounge up something for you, if you'd like? Or will you have a glass of wine, or maybe some tea?"

Her arm rested on him. Her lips pressed close against his cheek. He held still for yet another moment, before he finally turned his head to look at her. His eyes made no secret of scanning down her figure. He saw the outlines of her breasts pressed up against the light material of her dress, the flare outward that was her hips, and hints at the shape of her legs as the skirt moved in the light breeze. His hand came down onto her wrist as he stood and looked down at her, holding her hand on him as he graced his grip up her arm, feeling the bare skin of her flesh all the way up her slender arm until it met her shoulder, and the strap of his dress.

"That isn't what I came here for." His hand slid through the curls on the back of her head, cupping it, and then pulling her face forward toward his own as he leaned down toward her. He held her close enough to feel the breath from her nostrils and mouth as she exhale, to see the soft motions of her eyes moving even in the increasing darkness. "Now for a properly welcoming kiss." He lowered his hungry mouth down to press against hers, rougher lips meeting softer ones, feeling them yielding as he forced them open, making room for his tongue. He holds her in the kiss with one hand, catching her irregularly breathing through her nose. Her tongue responds to the caress of his own seemingly automatically-her breath tastes hot and salty. He broke the kiss, but continues to hold the back of her head, dropping his other hand to her hip, and pulling her body toward his, gripping her with firm fingers.

"I assumed the little prince was sleeping." He studies her face carefully in the darkness. "But the way you stormed out, screaming, and he didn't make a noise." He pressed up against her hip, letting her feel the outline of his arousal, threatening in its own way as his hand cups her ass and squeezes, holding her against him. He moved his head down to graze his lips against her neck before whispering against her ear. "He's not here, is he?"

He moved quickly, then, lifting her up slightly by the grip on her ass while his foot kicked her legs out. He was down on her as her shoulders hit the soft grass, his weight pressing on her as he grabbed at her wrists, pulling them up to pin on either side of her head. He leered at her. "I was hoping to wake him up with your screaming. To let him know what mommy sounds like as she's getting a proper fucking..." he continues to speak softly as he leans down to her neck again, his lips beginning to kiss it almost sensually. He can smell the grass and weeds near his face as he tastes her skin, making her allure seem almost exotic. "But it seems there will be no one here at all to hear the sounds you make. The sounds you'll make for me." Her wrists were tugged together, and then he leaned forward to get his weight on them more, allowing him to hold her down with one hand. His free hand pressed against her thigh and began hiking up her skirt.

 

[saysalice]

Something about his smile, and the soft light gleaming in his eyes, was troublesome. He didn't answer right away, and her own smile got heavier and heavier on her lips as she watched him look her over appreciatively. Could he see a blush in this light, at being so openly appraised? She fought the urge to glance back at her open doorway again, just steps away. In spite of herself, she took an uncertain step back as he stood, taking her by the wrist and running his hand up her arm to finger the thin strap of her sundress. He would feel the goosebumps he was raising.

That isn't what I came here for.

Instincts are never wrong - it's a hard lesson she'd had to learn again and again, and this night would be no exception. She caught her breath as he tangled one hand in her hair and pulled her close enough to hear her swallow nervously, and her worried cry was swallowed up by his open mouth on hers. She did not resist as he pushed his tongue into her, even kissing him back tentatively. Placating him. It didn't have to be that way again. A kiss is just a kiss, her mind sang inanely: a sigh is just a sigh...

Did she sigh just a little, when his lips left hers to let her breathe? She'd read too many bodice-rippers. This was what passed for romance.

Still, when he pulled her to him abruptly so that her hips pressed flat against his, she brought her hands to his chest and pushed, straining against him - if only to feel how useless it was. His pelvis ground against hers until the distinctly erect shape of him dug into her thigh, and she felt a gingery trickle of fear run down her throat and into her belly as he gripped her ass in one hand and squeezed, like property. She couldn't help squirming, but it only pressed her moist heat up into his crotch or gave him a fuller handful of ass. She tossed her head, feeling his lips against her neck and the hot rumble of his breath in her ear. She didn't like him speaking about her son.

He's not here, is he?

She murmured uneasily, and then the sound was jostled out of her as he swept her legs out from under her and she hit the ground with a breathless shriek. On her - all at once - and pulling her, pinning her, laying out long on top of her, and she had time to scan the summer star-streaked sky and wonder: was it a full moon?? Her head ached where it had thumped against the grass, and she could see his hungry grin now, the wet look of his teeth in the dim light as he told her smoothly that he was going to make her scream.

His kisses were suddenly an unbearable thing - why must they kiss her, when they so obviously meant to take her by force? Was it to make themselves feel better, or was it to taunt her with sensuality, to make her feel the contrast? She was struggling against him, wrestling under him, trying to get her hands free, trying to get her knee up where it might count. He held her so easily. She was already making little whimpering noises through her closed lips, jerking her head away to try to avoid his kisses - wouldn't kiss her lips, though - not now! Smart man. She was so angry with herself for stepping outside, for putting the knife down. She'd feel better if she could taste his blood in her mouth.

There was no one to hear her. He didn't have to tell her. Part of the appeal of this place, calling it home, was that it was miles from anyone. She couldn't quite stifle a frightened whine through clenched teeth as she felt his hand pushing up her skirt and she began twist under him, trying to pull her knees up or at least together, trying to kick, her stretched arms tensed with muscle as she tried to wrench her wrists out of his grip. Sweating and hurting herself against his body. Breathing harshly through her teeth, and every breath a little more panicky. No. She would not scream for him.

 

[saysalice]

Reverie - for a Bad Man's Birthday

PLEASE NOTE: This is a BDSM scene, where consent is implied.


I'm on my knees, kneeling in front of his chair, waiting for him to acknowledge me. Hoping he will want to use me in the worst ways.

He won't even look at me. He's not interested, today, and I've run out of tricks.

I've got my knees spread, to show him what I want. He won't even look. I am not patient when I'm feeling this needy - which is often.

The silence is getting to me. I begin to beg - quietly at first, but then encouraged by the sound of my own voice.

"Sir."

"Sir, please...please...anything you want."

"Please use me, Sir."

He glances at me at last, but his expression is absolutely uninterested.

"Do you think if you say please enough, you'll get what you want?"

I'm not used to this. I'm used to being - appreciated. I am a twisted fucking freak, and I am used to men appreciating that fact. Taking full advantage of it. He has enjoyed me, in the past. Maybe he just wants me to work for it.

"Anything you want, Sir," I murmur.

"Yes, you said that. But I don't want you."

I can't look at him, it's like he's slapped my face. I wish he would slap my face.

"Don't you want to hurt me?"

I hear him sigh and turn away, muttering, "This is pathetic."

And I know I should stop, I try to stop, but I can't. "Sir, please...I want your cock."

He is losing patience. "Like I give a fuck what you want. Stupid fucking slut. I don't care."

If he would just let me show him - "Please...let me sit on your cock, let me choke on it...hurt me with your cock, Sir -"

"You don't deserve my cock. You don't even get me hard. You're boring."

Tears prick my eyes - it's the most crushing insult, and I don't know what to do about it. I sit there, sniffling, and now he is watching me, but it's not enough to stir him from his chair. We fall back into an uncomfortable silence. But he won't tell me to go, and I can't resist.

"Sir -"

"Fuck," he says, but I keep going.

"Please...make some use of me. Let me do something. Let me feel useful, even if I - I bore you."

After a long, tense moment, he says, "Fine. Get down on your hands and knees - not like that, I don't want to look at your pathetic, eager face - other way. Lift your ass up."

I hurry to obey, feeling the scrape of the carpet against my knees and palms, feeling the excitement lunge from my belly to my throat, strangling the small sounds of agreement and gratitude before they can escape my lips. He won't fuck me, he said, but maybe I'll feel his fingers, I think, as I arch my back to present my bare ass to him. Maybe he'll slap me, or - I shiver and writhe in anticipation - use his belt on me - on my ass, or my cunt. I spread my knees wider to show him that I want it. Maybe he won't touch me at all, but he'll come on the sight of me, and I'll only feel the hot spurt of his come, spraying thick all over my bare -

I feel the smooth rounded edge of a heel fit into the small of my back, the cuff of a pant leg brushing the swell of my ass before it rests flat against my spine. Then the other, crossing over so that the corner of his heel digs into my soft flesh. And that's all. His legs and feet are unexpectedly heavy - but maybe it's just the humiliation of being used in this way.

"Don't move," he says absently. "And I don't want to hear a peep out of you. You're furniture - that's your only purpose. If you fuck this up, you go - we're done."

I just have time to digest this when I hear the door open quietly, somewhere behind his chair. Someone waits in the doorway until he says, in a much kinder tone: "Come here."

I listen - maybe he's invited someone else to use me or abuse me for his entertainment - but the new person doesn't speak, and I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. I can't even hear the telltale swish of clothing, just soft steps coming closer. Without thinking, I begin to turn my head over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of smooth leg and bare thigh.

His voice breaks the silence abruptly - chilling and emotionless as he puts pressure on one heel, digging it into my kidney. "Turn around again - see what happens. You have one job."

It's almost tempting. I'm that kind of girl. But I'm so afraid he won't put his hands on me, won't make me sorry. I don't look again.

She stops at his chair, and I can feel his legs shift slightly as he leans in her direction, the subtle movements as he reaches for her, and I can hear the shaky intake of her breath in the silent room, and the little noises she makes in her throat. I drop my head lower between my shoulders when I hear him say, "Spread."

I didn't see her at all. Is she younger, prettier, skinnier than me? Is it someone I know, or is it a brand new girl, presenting for his consideration? What makes her more interesting than me - is she more submissive, or less? Sluttier, or more corruptible? Can she take more than me, or will she crumble almost immediately?

It doesn't matter. He wants her. He has more use for her than for me.

He shifts again, and I can feel the change in the weight against me and hear the rasp of her skin against his clothes and know that he has pulled her into his lap. He is speaking to her, a voice I've never heard, murmuring his approval, calling her a good girl. I squirm at that - I tell myself I can't help it, but I know when it doesn't come that I was just trying to get his attention. Looking for a sharp kick in the ribs, in the ass. It doesn't come. He's forgotten me, I'm not even worth punishing.

The sound of a firm slap makes me still again, and there is jostling movement as she scrambles out of his lap, and in a moment of wild hope I wonder if she bores him, too. Then the weight of his legs and feet are gone from my back, I hear his shoes on the carpet and wonder if he's leaving with her, until I feel her stumble against me, the full weight of her across my back, the pendulous soft flesh of her bare tits hanging over the side and her heaving chest against my spine as she braces herself with her hands on the floor. We are a complicated piece, I think - modern art - and then I hear the brisk hiss of leather snaking from belt loops, seconds before the crack across her ass.

My turn now, I think enviously - but, no. The next blow falls on her, and the next, so that I can feel her tensing up with it and squirming against me, and hear her panting, too close. I wouldn't even have to turn my head, I could probably just shift my gaze and see her face - if he caught me, now, with the belt in his hand... I don't look. I feel every impact in her reaction against me, I part my lips and exhale silently with her every cry, and will him to miss - just once. He doesn't.

It goes on and on, until her moans become shrieks and then wails, and she is leaning more heavily into me as the blows land harder and faster and she can only go limp and endure it. I hear him laugh - whether at me or at her, I don't know, until he tells her to spread her legs.

She pleads with him in a rush in the silence between blows, and I hear the malice between his clenched teeth as he answers, "Oh yes, fucking beg me not to - " and then the belt comes down again with a harsh slap, and she screams.

I am moaning - I can't help it - and not in sympathy. This is pure envy. I am trying desperately to draw his attention away as she is writhing against me, sweating against me, trying to twist away from the belt, and squealing: "Please, Sir - please, Sir - please, Sir - " I am moaning to drown her out.

"Shut up, slut," he snarls warningly at me, and I press my lips tight over a low, longing whine as I feel him step close, between her legs, and lean in to pull her up by the hair or the throat, turning her and shoving her down on her knees.

"Open," he tells her, and I hear her whimper as his cock plunges between her lips, and the hitching sound of her throat as she gags on the sudden length of it. His grunt and his appreciative chuckle as she begins to work up and down on his shaft, and the room fills with the wet sounds of her mouth.

"Good girl...you see how hard your screams make me? You're not finished screaming."

She is leaning back against me to keep her balance as he uses her roughly, fucking her face, and I can feel her bobbing with the violent thrusts, hear gasping shallowly between strokes as she chokes on him. I wonder if he is looking down on me as he uses her, but he is close enough that he will see me turn, and he might put me out of the room. As excruciating as this is...somehow, I want to stay and know I am of some use to him.

With an animal growl, he pulls her up suddenly and throws her back down on me. She's on her stomach across me, slick with sweat, and then I feel his weight, too, and I lock my elbows to bear them both. For one brief moment, I can feel the thick rigid flesh of his cock brush against me, and then it's gone and she squeals again and he grunts: "Scream for me, bitch - " and they are both hard, tense muscle against my wobbly frame. He is entering her - her ass or her cunt, I have no way of knowing - but she screams.

He's telling her she's going to take it - all of it - no, he's not going to stop, and I am swaying on my knees with the rocking weight of them, struggling not to collapse. You have one job. She has put her hands on me to brace herself as he sinks inch by inch into her - one hand is on my shoulder, the other is on my ass, and as he forces himself deep, her fingernails claw into me and my gasps join hers. I can feel him shuddering with the sound as he begins slamming us both with deep, jarring thrusts.

I can feel him reaching around and my heart stops on the thought that he is going to touch me, but he only puts his hand between her thighs to bury his fingers in her cunt so that her wails take on a more urgent pitch.

"You don't get to come," he warns her, and I can feel her trembling helplessly between the two of us, gripping me in two pinching handfuls as she gasps and gasps, trying frantically to obey.

He is jackhammering into her, and I can hear the slap of his balls in a frenzied rhythm against her when at once his hand is in my hair, jerking my head back at an awkward angle to look at him. With fierce eyes and a hard grin, he demands, "Tell me how much you love it, slut."

I stare at him for just a second, but then I am nodding eagerly in his grasp, blurting, "I - I love this, Sir."

He releases me just long enough to grab my chin, smearing his wet hand across my face, and laughs, "Yeah - so does she."

Then he grabs her hips and plunges deep, and I the harsh guttural cries of his climax as he leans heavily into me, holding himself deep as his cock pulses way up inside her.

We are both moaning under him, gratified, but she hears me and gives me a deliberate wrench with her claws - this is her accomplishment, she has worked for this, it has nothing to do with me. When he pulls out of her at last, with his come oozing out onto me, I hear her thank him breathlessly.

He straightens up, and pulls her up with him, and I lower my head and wonder anxiously if he will make me clean him - or her - or both of them, but he is walking away with her. I look up at both of them, but nobody cares, now. They leave the room without looking back, and I am left crouched on the floor, to get up or stay put - whatever I like. He's finished with me.

To the empty room, I whisper, "Thank you, Sir."

 

[saysalice]

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

It was his first visit to her little corner, which seemed a strange fact when one considered it for any length of time. Still, he had waited this long, and so it only seemed appropriate to make it a memorable one.

The sun was long gone, burning it's way into the other side of the world now, the night around him deep and dark and cold. His steps were slow and deliberate as he neared her little wagon, then ceasing altogether just on the edge of the clearing. He wore dark cotton pants and a simple black t-shirt covered by a light jacket, not quite enough to keep him warm, but dressing tonight had been for another purpose than warmth.

Mentally, he counted out time in his head, watching the small windows of her little abode for any signs of life. The moon was out, silver light obscured by the occasional cloud, but enough of the shadow of the earth covered it that it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, bright out. It had taken his eyes some time to adjust to the dim light, and after a few minutes they detected no indication that there was any light burning inside. He stepped into the clearing.

The circle where the long-dead fire had been was given a wide berth to account for anything he might not see tripping him up and ruining all. At the bottom of the wooden stairs he stopped, the toe of one shoe pressed into the heel of another, and he stepped out of them each in turn. The ground was cold under his bare feet, and he wiggled his toes in the grass, sucking in a slow breath of chilled air. Each step up was taken slowly, deliberately, his weight gradually shifted from the back foot to the front. The sounds of night were alive around him, nocturnal creatures weaving their way between trees, but still he took no risk to let the steps creek under him and wake her, or the young one who slept near her.

Once at the top of the stairs, he moved as if swimming in syrup, fingers closing around the icy knob of the door, twisting slowly so the bolt retracted, allowing him entrance. His body pressed close to the door, and with a slowness that almost made his muscles ache, he pushed it open, widening the entrance just enough to silently slip through. Every swing on the hinges risked a sound that would wake her, and he'd come too far for something as silly as a door to give him away.

As quickly as he dared, he pushed the door closed behind him, worried that too much cold air might give him away as much as any noise might. Exhaling quietly, he allowed himself a moment to breathe once he was inside, the riskiest part of all of this upon him now. Bare feet moved over the wood as he turned his back to the door, and in the darkness he listened to the twin sounds of sleeping breaths as he surveyed the room.

Each step that followed was like those taken on the steps, every board under him a threat to wake one of them. He'd planned for such an occasion, even she was smart enough to realize he'd not leave that to chance, but this...

In time, he stood over her, watching her sleep so peacefully just inches away, completely unaware someone stood so near. Able to reach out and take hold of her before she knew what was happening. Throw back the covers, cover her mouth with a hand, and be inside her before her mind could muster up a feeble attempt at realizing that she was no longer alone, and that her cunt was being violated.

He smiled down at her as the thought flowed through his head, a quick river of thought that had the side effect of making him harden a bit as he watched her. But that was, perhaps, for another time.

His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jacket, and each one was holding something as they withdrew.

In the first, his fingers held a thin, flat-panel phone, it's screen dark.

In the second, each digit was coiled around the dark handle of a knife that glinted in the dim light.

Leaning over her, the tip of the knife was moved carefully until it just dimpled the skin next to the column of her throat. The pressure was far from enough to draw blood, the change in the shape of her skin just this side of perceptible, and it was only then that he let the phone light up. The screen reflected back on his face, dimmed as far as it would go, everything that showed through the camera on the other side of it an artificial green that made the most of the light in the room.

His breath was held as he moved the camera into the best position - her sleeping face, the point of the knife against her neck, and much of the length of the blade all in view - and then he tapped the button four times in rapid succession, four quick pictures taken. The moment the last was done the knife was pulled back from her and the screen extinguished, and then he waited above her. She stirred, just a little movement of her head, and then settled again, her breathing never leaving the pattern it had been in when he first intruded.

The phone returned to the pocket first, the knife replaced then, and the process of retreating from the room began. Slow, barefoot steps retraced his path to the door, but he paused before it once he'd traversed the length of the wagon again. Using his body to shield the light, the phone was woken again and we went to the best of the four pictures, then turned the camera so the picture was in landscape, filling the screen. Shielding the light with his body, the brightness was turned up all the way, and then the screen turned off again.

Across the back of his hand was a strip of tape, and he pulled this off now, but just as with everything else it was done quickly, the quiet in the room even deeper than he'd expected it to be. The back of the phone was held to the door, and the tape was stretched across the screen, with the extra length on each side holding it in place. His fingers pulled back just a fraction of an inch, but remained in place ready to watch it if the tape didn't hold. To his delight, the device remained in place.

The reverse of his entrance finally played out then, the door opened slowly, his body slithering through the opening, but with one change: An arm reached around the door and hit the Home button on the phone, lighting up the lock screen. A blind, practiced swipe of his finger across the front unlocked the phone and displayed the picture of her and the knife, and at last the door was closed with a quiet click.

He made his way casually down the stairs then, mostly unconcerned with the sound now, and stepped back into his shoes. The deliberate, slow pace was gone was he collected up some logs then dumped them in the barren ring where a fire had burned earlier. Short work was made of starting a new one, and a chair was moved to be just off of directly across from the door, so the fire would not obscure his view of her. Or her view of him.

The darkness was another matter, though, and before lowering himself onto the cold seat of the chair, he pulled it back so the top half was shrouded in shadow. The yellow light of the fire reached almost halfway up his torso, but his face was hidden by the darkness as he waited, hands curled inside the pockets of his jacket.

Inside one, the handle of a knife was gripped. At the ready.

 

[saysalice]

In her dream, she was dressing for a wedding - she would always wonder whose. In her dream, she was giddy with the anticipation of it, shimmying into a pretty yellow sun dress, only absently aware of the sting. Listening to her son babbling happily in the background, and aware of the sting. Turning to the mirror to tie her dark curls up in a yellow ribbon, and gasping to see a black wasp with a body the size of a strawberry clinging to her neck, bent double to thrust his stinger into her.

The baby was screaming now as she batted the insect away in horror and clutched at her throat, feeling the lingering burn of its bite, feeling her throat closing up - though she was never allergic to stings. Feeling the skin beneath her fingers grow hot and shiny-tight, swelling as she gasped for sips of breath, and through it all that terrible buzzing in her ears, the threat still present as she stumbled back through the cabin to protect her child. She had just reached the little hammock to find it empty when a hand in her hair jerked her back, and a strong forearm snaked around her neck and squeezed, pulling her back into a choking embrace against a hard chest, against an erection.

She woke in a panic, bolting upright on the bed, bathed in a cold sweat and taking great painful whoops of air before she could fully convince herself that she was awake, and alive. She looked automatically to her son, but even in the darkness of the cabin she could see that he slept peacefully. She held her breath and heard the light, even flutter of his exhale.

Everything was all right.

She eased back into the pillows with a little groan at the overtime workings of her imagination, and stretched one bare arm over her head, flicking impatiently with her fingernail at the dreamcatcher in the window until it bounced and spun in the soft glow of the firelight.

"C'mon, you," she whispered. "Work as advertised, or I'll turn you into a bracelet."

She settled down under the quilt, curling her body into an S-shape and turning onto her side, closing her eyes with a soft sigh...and then opened them again.

Firelight. She felt again the constricting arm across her throat, pressing the breath out of her chest as she lay frozen on the bed watching the subtle movements of shadow puppets on the wall - strange, restless creatures that had never danced there at this hour before.

She'd watched the fire die out hours ago. She had stirred the ashes - but not soaked them. Maybe a gust of wind had breathed life into one stubborn smoldering ember, and now -

"Burn the whole forest down," she muttered, kicking the covers off and jumping to her feet. Her voice wavered only slightly in the stillness. That was it, of course. Of course it was.

Stepping into a pair of shoes, she turned to locate the kettle she'd left half full of water, and blinked in the harsh green glare that was nothing natural - a square of bright green light, near the door. A cell phone. She stopped in her tracks, heart thumping, and had to stare for several seconds to reassure herself that there was no one in her house - no one just inside the door, holding the phone...just - somehow, the phone.

Trembly with nerves, she strode purposefully across the small space, but stopped short before she was close enough to rip it down from where it was taped to the door. Catching her breath in a horrified squeak, she regarded the image of herself as she had lain sleeping, just moments ago - with a knife pressed to her throat.

She turned and stumbled back through the vardo to her little son's corner, tears standing in her eyes as she made herself pause, made herself breathe - don't scare him, don't scare him - before she reached his hammock. Very gently, she laid a hand on his chest to feel it rise and fall, then spread her fingers to feel for tears in the fabric, or anything, anything - wet. There was nothing. Her eyes flooded and ran with hot tears as she bent to kiss him - he was utterly unharmed, undisturbed...but someone had been here, with a knife that looked like something you'd use to gut an animal. Someone had pressed the sharp tip of it into her neck while she slept. She rubbed at the spot, remembering the wasp from her dream. He - and she was sure it was a "he", wasn't it always a "he"? He had not cut her, had not touched her baby, but the message was clear - staggering - sickening. She looked up. The soft flickering light made new shadows on her wall as the chilling realization settled into her flesh at last: he was still here.

Breathing hard, she ran to the front door and slammed her weight against it, turning the deadbolt, feeling the reassuring thump of the bolt sliding into place. He would hear the sound, and know there was a locked door between them - she wanted him to. She waited, listening for movement outside, but heard nothing. Maybe - she wanted so desperately to believe - there was no one out there, he had been here but now was gone, and the fire - well, the fire was just another message, he was just letting her know...

She couldn't continue, couldn't fool herself. He was still out there. He was waiting for her to come to him.

She slammed her fists against the closed door in answer - she would have liked to scream it at him, but her raised voice would frighten her son. He would hear this, outside - as she pounded the door once more to emphasize its solid bulk separating them, keeping him out - locked, and she could wait in here all night and day...

She tried, but could not keep from looking back at the picture on the cell phone, of herself so horribly vulnerable. He could have done anything to her - what had he done? - she hadn't had time to take inventory of her own body. He had entered so easily, invisible - had the door been locked? She didn't know for sure. And how long could she stay inside, realistically, with no one around for miles, and no one likely to stop by for days? She would need fresh water, she would need to cook food. A night and a day, maybe a little longer, and she would be forced to emerge. If he even allowed her that long.

Stepping back with both hands still pressed to the door, as if she would hold it shut, it occurred to her for the first time that the lock she found so reassuring might not keep him out. How long, then, would he be patient to wait by the fire, before he decided she wasn't coming out? How long before he climbed the steps again and threw his whole weight against the door, brought his foot up to try the strength of the lock - and how long before he succeeded, crashed into her home, waking the baby to screams? How long before she started screaming, too?

She stepped away as if she expected him to come through the door at any moment. Stared at her sleeping face on the phone. An inane little poem made famous on bathroom walls hummed in the back of her brain:

I was here,
but now I'm gone
I left...

your little life, untouched.

Now he sat by the fire and waited. Don't make me come back.

Moving swiftly about the cabin now - back to her son first, to tuck a blanket around him, stroking his forehead. He wasn't interested in her baby, but if she cowered in here and made him break down the door, she could not hope to keep her boy safe. She thought of the clever little birds that would fake a broken wing, flopping about pitifully to draw a predator far from their nests. It was a little late to employ a similar ruse, but - as she sank to her knees to root under the bed - perhaps this time events wouldn't unravel exactly as planned.

She paused once more to pluck a key from where it hung on a hook over the bed, and to pull a shawl across her shoulders. She walked quickly to the front, tearing the phone down without another glance at the image, and quietly opened the door.

The fire was burning merrily by the time she stepped out, and the logs snapped and sent up bursts of sparks like miniature fireworks into the night sky. She hesitated on the first step. She could see the shape of him where he sat in one of her chairs - not his face, but she wasn't concerned with his identity yet. She watched him for any sudden movement. When she was sure that he was content to wait for her, she pulled the door closed and hurriedly slipped the key in the lock, turning it and then letting it fall between the steps to land in a tuft of brown grass under the wagon. She wasn't sure if it was a smart move - if anything happened to her, tonight...

She wouldn't let herself finish the thought.

Coming slowly down the steps, she didn't bother to hide the club of smooth, polished ash that she held at her side, stamped with the words: Louisville Slugger. They should enter into this arrangement with no illusions about each other. She was sure he still had the knife on him. The bat felt good in her hand, but still she felt herself shudder as she approached him, this nightmare made flesh.

She kept her distance, kept to the shadows several long strides from where he sat, and pulled her shawl more tightly around her bare arms. She waited, feeling her chest rise and fall heavily in apprehension, and when he did not speak, she held his cell phone out in her left hand, keeping a firm grip on the bat with her right.

"Yours, I presume?"

Before he could rise, she tossed it to land between his feet. He could just stay where he was.

She would not ask him why he was here. She could guess. Instead, holding the bat in both hands where she was sure he could see it:

"So why don't you just take it, and be on your way? I don't want any trouble here tonight," her faltering voice betrayed her uncertainty, but she held her ground, " - and neither do you."