Busted Doll

It's probably been like three hours or whatever since I got tied up and now I just need to get this over with. Maybe I should just try to sleep. But there's no way I'm going to be able to get to sleep like this. My mind is racing too much. I mean, there's a million things running through my head at once, and my back is killing me from being in this position. I bet this is how old guys feel when they wake up after being stiff as a board in a chair for a whole fucking day. Plus my wrists are cramping and numb. I can't imagine what I'll feel like when it gets off. Probably all red and angry looking, and probably itchy like hell.

She tied me up like a fucking sailor, but instead of rope, it was her nylons. She knew exactly how she was going to do it, like this whole goddamn thing had been planned out for months. Months of her thinking about this, about me, like this -- a scrawny bird with tied wings, trapped in her cramped, pathetic little room. And now my shoulders are aching cause she cinched the stockings across my back and around my traps. Thought I might be able to wriggle my wrists out but that only made it tighter and now my hands are going all numb and I don't know when she's going to come back so I better not try anymore. I'm just going to have to sit here on her bed and wait for her come through the door with that big stupid smile on her face, all like, "Oh are you still here Marcy? I'm sorry, I totally forgot about you!" in that goddamn cheerleader voice that makes my teeth hurt. And I think I might piss the bed if she doesn't get back here soon. Like it's some kinda power thing for her, and then she'll say I should have just held it and made a stronger effort not to piss myself.

I think I might actually be getting sick. My stomach's getting all weird and I feel like throwing up. I don't know if it's from the pressure on my bladder, or the pressure on my insides in general, or if it's just the stress and weirdness of being in this position. I mean, my arms are practically falling off and I'm starting to get a headache. I don't know if I can hold it in much longer.

The knot in my stomach isn't from the piss-filled panic anymore. It's deeper, darker, like a cold fist squeezing my guts. I don't want to picture Susan untying me. The way she laughs when I whimper, the way her smile gets this smug, possessive gleam in it, it's like she enjoys the absolute helplessness of it. She'll drag it out before she lets me go. And then what if she wants to do more than just tie me up next time? What if she wants to do something else, something to me, and she tied me up just to see if I'd still be good for it? What if she's the kind of girl who likes to make you pee your pants, but not in a playful, kinky way, like... like a goddamn animal, just to prove she's got you? It makes the heat crawling down my thighs feel like something predatory. It makes the dampness against my skin not just disgusting, but dangerous.

The weed, that goddamn weed, that's what's making it so bad. It wasn't like Susan was trying to make it "chill" or some stupid, fake, happy mess. No, it was different. It was the way she'd shoved that fucking joint into my face, the way her fingers had dug into my chin and made me keep it in until I was choking on it. Like it was some goddamn ritual, not some cheap-ass romantic gesture. She was trying to make sure I couldn't fucking think straight. It crawled up my throat like a fucking spider web made of dirty, sour smoke. It's just making me feel like my goddamn head's a pressure cooker about to explode. All the dumb little thoughts I've got are like goddamn roaches in a cockroach motel, skittering around in my skull and bumping into each other. It's like the walls are closing in on me, like the goddamn nylons are turning into razor wire inside my goddamn bones.

Jesus. The air feels thick and heavy, like when you know a storm's coming, just before the wind whips everything crazy. There's this awful tick in the back of my head, the way I can never quite shake off a cold in my sinus, the feeling that who knows when she's coming back and I don't have a goddamn choice but to just sit here, naked, except for these fucking pantyhose. God I think it's the control top on these pantyhose that are making me have to pee so bad.

She said, "Good, girl" as she tied me up, her voice so soft I almost didn't hear her over my own heart thumping stupid and loud. Like she was praising a dog for wearing a new collar, except the collar was the thing that was squeezing my wrists until the blood had stopped humming in my fingers.

Good girl. It makes my insides clench harder, the way she used that fucking tone. Goddamn good girl, just sitting there, naked, and letting her do whatever the fuck she wanted. It wasn't even the nylons that make me sick. It's what those nylons mean to her, and to me now. They're a fucking signal. Like when your parents put their voices in a tone and suddenly the house smells like they're about to yell, even if they don't. She didn't just tie me up in any damn thing. These weren't just any pantyhose, these were hers, and I bet they had some kind of story on them. Something stupid and girly, something I would have laughed at before tonight. She probably bought them for a dumb, fake-sexy party, the kind where you try to look older than you are, and it was just hanging out there in her closet. Now it's like a fucking badge of shame, a reminder of how easily I can be reduced to some animal waiting for a collar to be fastened on.

Maybe it was dumb, maybe it was stupid, maybe it was just plain pathetic how I let her walk all over me like this. I mean, I let her put her hand on my back, like a goddamn slave girl getting the back of her neck rubbed when she was just supposed to do it right. How the hell could I stand there, legs splayed like a busted doll, and say nothing, just let her tie me up? But I did. Like it was a dumb joke, something I'd been doing with some loser boy in high school and it was supposed to be this weird, twisted, funny thing. And how the hell did she even get those stupid pantyhose on me? Like, did she just pull them up from the waistline and pretend I was going to be a good little girl? I bet she did. "Just get into position," she says, with that same shitty-sweet laugh that was supposed to be playful, and I'm just sitting there, my whole life shrinking down to this fucking moment, this dumb, humiliating moment where I let myself get tied up like a goddamn Christmas present.

She probably thinks girls just let her get away with this shit because she looks the way she does. All fake boobs and spray tan and those stupid little too-bright fingernails. She probably ties up other girls, too, I bet. Like this whole thing is some kinda twisted power play, a dumb, sick social hierarchy. Like she sees me, she sees I'm not one of her cheerleading dumb-asses, and decides that makes me some kinda target. Goddamn, she wouldn't even touch some of those other girls in the dorm with a ten-foot pole. She just picked me because she knew I'd just fucking take it, like some skinny, pathetic little dweeb who wouldn't make a sound. That rage thing's bubbling up again, that useless, stupid rage that just sits there like a goddamn bad smell. God, I want to scream. If she comes waltzing back in with some dumb fucking song playing, some stupid attempt to make this feel all dark and "funhouse" or whatever the hell she thinks she's doing, I swear I'm gonna lose it. Maybe I just yell it. Yell so goddamn loud that someone'll come running. Like, "I hate you! I hate this stupid goddamn room! I hate the way your stupid music sounds! I hate this stupid bed and I hate these goddamn nylons! Take them off me, you stupid bitch! Take them OFF ME NOW!"

Maybe if I just screamed. Goddamn it, that's the thing. The thing I wish I could do most. Scream and scream and scream and scream and scream until someone, anyone, comes running. Like a goddamn banshee. Maybe I could claw my way to the goddamn floor. Maybe they'd come, see me like this, naked and thrashing like some dumb, pathetic animal and think I'm crazy or something, and that'd be it, right? Like, "Oh, the goddamn freak is finally fucking cracked."

"Oh, Marcy," she'd say, with that voice, like a goddamn blue jay with a broken wing, all high-pitched and frantic, and she'd be standing there with that stupid triumphant smile on her face, her fingers still sticky with that cheap cherry lip gloss. And I'd have to say I was good, like a stupid goddamn dog. Goddamn I want to punch her. But then she'd pull that stupid nylon right up tight again, and I'd be all wet and helpless, and she'd tell me to hold still like a girl.

There's a little slick spot on the sheet right beneath me that soaked through the nylons. I bet it looks like some kinda animal stain. Like a dog peed on the bed and then it tried to crawl over to me to lick itself. But the smell of that stuff, and the heat, and the way the nylons themselves just kind of smell like her, all mixed with the weed she's got me tripping on? Goddamn, I feel like I'm in that weird fucking movie where they put those old people in those little padded rooms and they all look like they got covered in baby food.

I want to scream.

Oh fuck. Is that Jessie at the door? God, God, God, it's gonna be sick, it's gonna be sick. Jessie's got to be at the fucking door. This is it. I'm done. Done with all of this. Done with my goddamn life. This is how it always fucking happens, I'm trapped, stuck like a goddamn fly in honey. God, she's gonna see it, she's gonna see it. I can't stop the pictures in my head, they're getting worse, worse, worse, all the time, like when you stare at a bad dream and it starts to spin out of control. I'll be stuck like this, in this goddamn knot, and then I'll just start pissing on myself. And Jessie will walk right in and I'll be dripping wet and I won't even be able to tell her to stop, like some kind of... of... What, what kind of animal is it that they just tie up and make it leak all over itself? It's the fucking nylons, those are what'll get her.

It's not even the piss, it's the nylons. Because she'll see, oh god she'll see, how they're pulled tight. And she'll see the little fucking sheen where the wet's soaked into them. It'll look like I've been rubbing myself against something. Jesus Christ, how can I even think about that? I'm going to fucking die. I'm going to die right here, and it'll all be because of Susan and those nylons. What's she gonna think? I can practically hear her now, that little bitch's voice, all smug and mean-girl, going, "Oh my God, Marcy, did Susan do you good?" and she'll make that weird little laugh where her nose wrinkles up at the corners, and I bet she'll take the fucking nylons off and hold them up to me like I'm some goddamn, prize-winning show pony. She'll tell me how I'm the kind of thing you'd find in some freak show tent, and then she'll rub them all over my face, and I'll have to pretend I can't see, like she can't see I'm going to fucking scream.

"Dude, Sus?" I'm pretty sure she's trying the doorknob now. The doorknob! There's no fucking way that thing is gonna hold, and I'm supposed to just sit here, like some goddamn Victorian lady waiting to be ravished. And what am I going to tell her? What the fuck am I going to say? That I was just... just... just... doing a really deep and personal meditation about the nature of self-reliance and the female psyche? That I'm trying to channel my inner goddess, Susan just had to get home first, and the nylons are like...a kind of... a spiritual offering? I bet she's laughing, she's laughing, she knows. I bet she's laughing and shaking her head and whispering "freaky Marcy" to herself right now. Goddammit I wish she would just get the fuck out there.

And what the hell am I supposed to do if she tries to open the door?

"Dude, Sus?" Jessie again, closer now. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My chest's gotten so tight I think it's gonna explode, and my tongue's swollen up against the roof of my mouth, like some kind of goddamn prehistoric swamp creature getting ready to hiss. I can't think of how I'll explain it all, how to say I let Susan tie me up and I'm sitting here, wet and dumb, because it doesn't even make sense to my own fucking brain. Not to mention the nylons, Susan's stupid fucking nylons, like why would I be wearing Susan's goddamn nylons with nothing under them anyway? It's the kind of thing that would get twisted around into a joke, a dumb story she'd tell at some dumb party and then I'd be "Freaky Marcy" for the next four years. "Freaky Marcy," like it was some goddamn badge of shame, even though she'd know the whole goddamn thing was about Susan, always about Susan, like it was some stupid, sick, one-sided game we both agreed to play.

I can just imagine that door creaking open. Not loud, just that kind of slow, groaning creak, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand up because you know someone's seen a ghost or something in some old horror movie. Her voice, Jessie's, is just a tiny whisper, almost apologetic, like she's scared of disturbing a nest of kittens. "Sorry, dude, thought you were..." Then her voice goes all sharp, like a goddamn cat getting startled by a spider. She says something else, but it's just that awful, high-pitched whine she makes when she wants to bitch about something, and the sound of the door closing.

I don't even breathe.

There's this weird fucking warmth crawling up my spine, like someone's been holding me against a furnace and I don't know if I should get the fuck away or just lean in closer. Maybe she just walked in here, just stepped into this fucking room for a goddamn second to look at the mess Susan always makes, and she knows, she knows about Susan. Maybe she's seen it before, knows the stupid things Susan does, but she just doesn't give a shit. Just like she didn't give a shit about that time I came in to the room while she was wearing Susan's bra and panties and that stupid pink lace shit with the tassels that Susan found at some goddamn rave. Just like she didn't give a shit about how I was crying in the bathroom while Susan was just laughing at the TV and her friends were making fun of me for having a boyfriend with a stupid fucking tattoo on his ass, and then they all left and Susan just went back to whatever the fuck she was watching, and I was left to pick up the goddamn tassels from the fucking carpet.

But then I get this crazy, stupid image of Jessie in here with those stupid little, pale-blue fucking eyes of hers wide and staring right at me, right at my naked chest and the nylons that are soaking wet and at that huge goddamn wet spot under me. It's the kind of thing that would make her snort out some kind of stupid little laugh, like when she gets the hiccups, all those little gasps of air coming out of her nose.

"Freaky Marcy," she'd say. "Did she get you good? Did she, did she, did she?" It's not that she'd be disgusted, not really. She'd be fucking mesmerized. All of them are. It's like they're afraid of me being too much like Susan, and then at the same time they want me to be exactly like Susan. They think they know how to be more free than me. And I know, I know, I know... it would be a goddamn gift, a goddamn gift.

Because the more she wants to see it, the tighter the nylons are going to feel. The more the wetness is going to burn. Goddammit, the pressure's building again, just below my ribs. The way the nylons dig into my wrists, the way my ass feels, the way my thighs are just fucking pressed together...I can almost see Jessie's little face, all white and dumb and bright-eyed, standing in that stupid doorway. It feels like I'm coming apart, and the only way I know how to fix it, the only way I can hold it all in... is if I come.

The doorknob clicked, a goddamn click that just barely makes a sound, the kind of noise you wouldn't even hear over the TV, and then I think she's already turning back, and then I'm already seeing that stupid little door swinging shut, like I've been kicked out of some goddamn play. She's already gone. She's already gone.

I think it's that she didn't come in. It's the quiet click of that goddamn door, and that stupid silence that's already hanging here, heavy and wet, like it's already starting to stink with something I didn't even know was me, that's sending all the way down to my knees. It's like she just did something terrible to me and then turned and walked away. Maybe that's what Susan does to all her friends. Walks out and leaves them waiting for some goddamn train that's never gonna arrive. Maybe that's why they all want to be so goddamn close to her.

I think I'm gonna come.

And I know that if I do it'll feel like some kind of goddamn vindication. The nylons are a goddamn torture device right now, and they're soaked, and Susan knows, Susan knows she's made me wet.

God, she knows she's made me wet.

It's the weed, I think. It's that weed and the goddamn pressure, and then there's all the goddamn panic that's been building up. It's like Susan's little fucking finger's just been inside of me, not really in the way that she'll be later, but just like, up in there, poking around. The kind of poking that gets me all fucked up but doesn't ever make me feel good. And then it's the nylons, the fucking nylons, the way they're fucking me up, the way the damp is starting to feel like it's getting slicker, the way my insides are going to be like a goddamn puddle soon. I think I'm going to come.

I can't hold it. I can't goddamn hold it.

It doesn't even feel like a decision anymore, not really. It's like something else is taking over, something slick and slippery, taking the fucking reigns. Like the weed's made some goddamn phantom in my belly decide I'm a goddamn leaky faucet and it's time for me to just start dripping. It's not like a big, dramatic gush. It's more like a slow, embarrassing weeping from a goddamn burst water balloon. Just a constant, insistent, sickening leak. Wetting the goddamn sheet under me. Maybe it's the weed. Or maybe it's the pressure, the fucking pressure that's building, not just down there, but everywhere. Like I'm filled with water balloons about to burst, and there are tiny little explosions happening in my chest and my asshole and right below my ribs, all at the same time. But it's definitely the nylons, those goddamn nylons, the way they're so tight against my labia and the way the dampness keeps gathering there, slicking my clit right there where it's practically fucking impossible to get a grip on. It's that heat against the nylons that's going to be the death of me. It's the heat, the heat, the goddamn heat. That's what makes me come undone. Like something inside me is just starting to melt. I'm not even sure I can scream, not with the way everything's so goddamn swollen and tight.

I don't even know if it's Jessie's fault, or Susan's fault, or if it's just this goddamn, stupid weed, but it doesn't even feel like a choice anymore. This feeling of everything coming undone, it feels like it's been a goddamn countdown since that little click of the doorknob, like some weird, sick bomb in my insides just finally tripped and is leaking. The weed's melting me, the nylons are fucking melting me, and the idea that Susan's gonna come back in here with that goddamn high, smug laugh of hers, and she's gonna be wearing those goddamn cherry-gloss lips, the lips she's gonna lick when she pulls this stupid goddamn thing back over my head... it's all just making me lose it. I mean, I'm fucking losing it. I just want to be fucking gone, like a goddamn ghost, just let all of this just wash away.

It's not like a slow leak anymore. It's like my whole goddamn insides are a goddamn plumbing failure. It's this big, wet, terrible gush that erupts out of me all at once. I don't even feel the pressure anymore, just the insane, sick relief of some goddamn dam breaking. It's like when you drop a glass of water on the floor, not just the splash but that dumb, sickening feeling that you know it's gonna keep spreading, keep spreading, staining, ruining, and you can't even wipe it up fast enough.