She lay there somewhat frozen as she listened to the heavy boot falls move across the floor. Hard flooring. No carpeting. It echoed slightly. A clinic maybe. Somewhat coherent thoughts amid a moment of rationale until the door clicked shut behind the man and those hands were back upon her and that cool causal voice speaking around her.
"You are a pretty piece I'll give you that but.." A pause and a sarcastic cluck of tongue to teeth. "I am a rather lazy bitch and you are wearing more than I am in the mood to take my time with so.."
The tip of a blade at her throat. Sharp. Unmistakable. How many times had she felt such at Andrew's hand and grown whorishly wet between her legs. Even now..
Fuck. Was she so trained to respond? Would she wet for..for anyone? But unmistakable was the faint trickle of honey like moisture.
The blade was pressed and she gasped to the tiny split of her flesh, searing sting, without thought her body jerked and she moaned in true fear against the leather of the hood still snug around her head.
"Don't you fucking move filth. Pretty piece. Do you know what my favorite thing in the whole world is, do you fuckhole?" The voice right against the unzipped slit over her ear. She'd never found herself so absolutely terrified of a woman's voice before. "To make pretty things
not...." A flick of the blade, twisted, picking up the fabric of her thin tee. The distinct sound of it tearing flooded her with dread. Andrew's taunts about her vanity coming to haunt her. Though she knew, she knew he loved how she looked. He often dressed her himself. Critiqued every sweep of makeup that enhanced the natural prettiness of her face.
"...so" The blade swept up and this time she whimpered to the nick of blade tip into the curve of her right breast as her bra was torn in two. Marred. She would rather leave her dead than made grotesque. Used. Humiliated. Disfigured.
"pretty" The word was hissed into her ear as the blade was fished into her running shorts. She lay so still. She swallowed every sob that ached in her throat. She cursed herself for every tiny trickle of wet that she could fill puddling in betraying walls. Andrew's cunt was readying, even if she herself were wishing to find escape into the depths of her mind.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh"
Burst from her mouth as the blade was laid flat against the smooth folds of her cunt. She'd waxed just last night. Andrew was very specific about her routine. She was smooth as a baby's bottom and exposed now. Clothes jerked away from her by one hand. Cunt held captive in the cold steel grip of that blade.
The woman chuckled and for a moment after she'd been stripped of the tattered clothing, there was no sound. She knew she was been inspected. Every perfection, every flaw catalogued. She was nothing but what she was called. Not to them.
Filth. A piece.
