Crush

3:17 AM. You hate being late.

My hallway is dark, but you knew that already. You pass the chair I always throw my coat over when I walk in the front door after work. The blue one. It was a gift from my mother. I have to call her. You know that because I always call her on Wednesday mornings before work but after my shower. While I watch the news. Channel 9. I'm prettier than the anchor, you think. You wonder if I know that. You watch me trip over the chair running to answer the phone. I'm such a klutz.

You love when I wear the yellow, cotton panties. You fondle them in your pocket. You snatched them yesterday morning from the top of my laundry pile.

You stand in front of my door, slightly ajar. As always, I've fallen asleep with the television on mute. A man is cutting through a sneaker. An audience is pleased. There is a free gift with purchase. The light dances along the slope of my cheek in flashes of cyan and paling fluorescence. I am curled against my favorite pillow. The one that smells just like my hair. My mouth is slightly open. A tiny pool of saliva. You lean down. I smell wonderful. Like Sunday lunch. Your entire body is gripped with arousal. Pumping through your veins, engorging your cock. You want to savor this moment forever.

You tap my shoulder, I turn over and open my mouth to scream. My eyes are two darling little marbles, still with fear. You immediately seal my mouth with duct tape, pre-measured and cut to fit my lips which smell like the peppermint of my balm that you once fingered lovingly and later suckled out from under your fingernails.

Flip me over onto my back, press your knee against my chest, press the gun to my pussy. Tell me what a little a little slut. Standing in front of my open bedroom window changing for just anyone to see. Masturbating every night, moaning and groaning. Screaming with orgasms knocking my headboard. Countless lovers in and out of my apartment. I'm nothing but a common whore. You say, no shame. What did I expect to happen? Reach your hand under my pillow and pull out my vibrator, force it under my nose, rip up the tape and force me to lick it. Tell me to smell and taste. It's what a fucking cunt smells like, see? The little contraption, well ripe, you know, was pressed hard to soft swells not even two hours ago. The room reeks of pussy. How pathetic I am.

You draw me up by my hair and lead me into the bathroom. I'm shaking, crying, begging you not to hurt me, I'll do anything, ANYTHING! Every time I open my mouth for some slob-salty plea I am answered only with the blunt of your steel-toed boot. I roll down the hallway, unraveling as a ball of yarn pawed off by a cat. The walk to the bathroom is the most terrifying of my life. For all I know, you could be leading me to my death. Nothing. For all, I know nothing.

You flip the bathroom light on, look around. You know the room well. You've mapped out my whole apartment. Including tonight, you've broken in thirty-seven times. You feel as if you know it as well as your own home.

You swing my body around. I'm staring at myself in the mirror above the sink now. My mascara has melted and runs down my face, it trails down my cheeks, drips off of my chin and catches on my nipples, two pink pills, both painfully taught. Pooled with adrenaline perhaps and if you weren't so decent you would chew them clear off.

Look see how disgusting I am. Not so pretty now am I. I am the most hideous thing you've ever seen and you'd give anything in the world to know what it would feel like to wear my hair on your head and my toenails and live in my throat.

You push my face against the cold mirror. Mucus, tear, and the sweet sudor of fright combine to create a sort of shroud against the hard pane of glass. My ragged breath, the pound of my left breast, the course of my veins synthesize and are a sing-song to your ears.

You keep your left hand on the back of my neck, tangled in hair. Let the right travel down the length of my back, leaving goosebumps in your trail. You reach the small of my back. I flinch with terror. My skin you could, you imagine, push your fist right through and on theother side. Oh the other fucking side. Softly, slowly, lovingly, you let your hand fall against my ass. Kneading, massaging. You feel me relax into your palm. In your head, you count to ten. Slowly, calmly, beat by beat. Exactly ten.

You smile to yourself. Nobody there, there's nobody there.

In an instant you've thrust three fingers hard into my pussy, digging. I cry out. You curl your fingers in. Claw at me. Searching for any moisture to grab hold of, like a bear at a beehive. You lose your breath a bit, for a moment, there is no time. Only for a moment. You are inside. Oh fuckoh.

I am whimpering, grunting, begging, sobbing. You're going to have to slap me again, aren't you? How are you going to teach me to shut the fuck up? This bitch never shuts up! You keep digging, digging. My pulse is quickening, my breath shortening. My sobs are rolling into long, flat moans. My pussy is wetter now, the walls gripping, drawing you in. Just as you feel my breath catch, my muscles twitch with the upward spiral towards climax, you slip the rope around my neck. Nobody there. We are in the anteroom. Lost in the quick of dumb heat I've barely opened my eyes as you loop the knot. I am so predictable, I am a gorgeous fucking pig, I am the queen of queens a knotted gut I am--