I guess I brought this on myself, in a literal as well as figurative sense. The law says that the template individual is solely responsible for the actions of their clones, no matter which of them actually does the nefarious…
Handles
The woman in the mirror is frowning, brow creased and biting her bottom lip. A quarter-turn to the left, then to the right, appraising with a critical eye. I look up and meet my own eyes, counter the expression of anxious self-doubt with a wry roll. Let my tummy relax from its tense, defensive, held-in stance. Allow the truth to seep in and expand before me. I may never regain the smooth flat planes of my teenage shape. A sigh.
Helping Hands
Recently, I watched “Labyrinth” again for the thousandth or so time because it’s such a great movie. Aside from gawking at David Bowie’s titillatingly tight trousers and singing along with every song, I had a flash of pervy revelation. That scene with all the hands as Sarah falls into the oubliette. Uhuh.
One Rainy Night
You pulled me into the doorway alcove, pinned me against the cold concrete wall and covered my mouth with one hand. Sssshhh you told me, reaching up under my skirt. Silence now.
Watching him
He’s not fucking you, he’s using you to fuck himself. Look at his tightly-closed eyes, his thrown-back head.
He’s not fucking you, he’s using you to fuck himself. Look at his tightly-closed eyes, his thrown-back head. You can study him at your leisure; right now you’re so far over his horizon, he can’t even see you in his mind’s eye. Look at how his pursed mouth sharpens his cheekbones and squares his jaw. Isn’t he beautiful, isn’t he delicious? You’re almost tempted to clench your cunt muscles around him to see the expression you love so much; of astounded, almost-pained intensity but you don’t want to draw attention to your attention just now; there’s too much perverted pleasure in your non-participation. Don’t make a sound, don’t move a muscle fuckdoll, your task is to lie passive and silent while he masturbates furiously using your cunt as an accessory.
The Butcher
His strong, blunt-fingered hands are clean and soft, but I know what they do, day by day; where they’ve been and what they’ve touched.
CW: If you’re vegetarian, vegan or are squeamish about where your food comes from; don’t read this. If you read it anyway and find yourself squicked out or offended, don’t hate on me. I did warn you.
His strong, blunt-fingered hands are clean and soft, but I know what they do, day by day; where they’ve been and what they’ve touched.
On Display
“Look at her” Kris says with admiration. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”
He’s talking about me. Appraising scrutiny from our audience brings forth nods of approval and encouraging smiles. I’m awkward, nervous at being so exposed in front of this many people. They’re all looking at my naked body. There’s nowhere to hide. Heat rises to my face in an embarrassed blush and rushes to the pit of my stomach in a flare of arousal.
Chair Scene
The chair looms in the corner, all chunky bars and wipe-clean padding; the leather straps dangling, waiting for a warm body to enclose in their sturdy embrace. Mine.
The chair looms in the corner, all chunky bars and wipe-clean padding; the leather straps dangling, waiting for a warm body to enclose in their sturdy embrace. Mine.
One of them pushes me across the room, small contemptuous shoves as the others look on with predatory smirks, anticipation gleaming in their eyes. Today I’m playing the dumb terrified animal captured and tormented; I move as though in a daze, eyes wide and trembling, silent and passive. I’m a toy, a vessel, a doll for them to play with until they get bored or break me, whichever comes first. For this I need no words. Nothing is required of me but pliant flesh, open holes, a heartbeat.