tagNonConsent/ReluctanceWonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 03

Wonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 03


Tears spill down my face paying tribute to the years and the oh so many whispers thought to be spoken in secret. They haunt me even now and cause me to be afraid. There is only one thing I've ever been taught to truly fear.

"She's a bad seed."

I suppose, given all that I know now, that it should be of little consequence, but words are such a powerful thing. Perhaps its insignificant, but I can't help but see it as a portend for all that I would come to understand. I'm referring to something my father used to say to me from as early on as i can remember?

"Say what you mean and mean what you say".

How does one best define the meaning of the words they choose to represent themselves? It is their actions, in the end, that give them away and even a poet's tongue can't redeem him from the inescapable truth of his own actions.

There are few choices when it comes to the conclusions that could be drawn as I witnessed men feeding on fruit grown from a seed they had declared was corrupt. I must make it quite clear that not only did they feed, they feasted until they were intoxicated and they did so with great pleasure.

"Say what you mean and mean what you say".


I weep, my dear Dandy, for how those words were defined for me. There was only one conclusion your dolly could come to: I was something wonderfully pleasurable and intoxicating. I was desirable, sweet and irresistible. That's what a bad seed is. Did you know this? Well now you do.

I learned the meaning of many things. I learned that a man will despise himself for feasting on something pleasurable. I learned that in turn he will come to see even the most succulent fruit as something menacing to his being. As he becomes corrupted, so will his vision of sweetness become corrupted. He'll become sick and the beautiful fruit will be named poison, a poison he'll return to time and again because it tastes too good to keep away. I learned that there is a price to pay. Desire will sacrifice any expense and I watched men suffer for their pleasures. Pleasure ... I learned quickly to fear it.

I would have you know something else. Despite what I've just revealed to you, your dolly has never been corrupted. My innocence has been perfectly preserved for not once was I presented with the slightest evidence that being something pleasurable was, in and of itself, a bad thing. To this day I know myself as something sweet and irresistible.

I suppose that's what makes it so instantly possible to melt against your hand now as you hold your palm to my cheek.

"Now, now, cherie", you say in a tone infused with tenderness and authority that only the most childlike heart could respond to so completely. It is innocence, so well preserved, that allows me to shapeshift right here in front of you and peer up at you through the eyes of a little girl.

"I'm afraid you've gotten yourself into trouble, haven't you Dolly?"

You hold me at arms length, your hands on my hips, your eyes full of questions they seem determined to have answers to. Ordinarily I would enjoy your silent demands for a confession, but I'm feeling far too racked with guilt to offer any playful attempts at evading you. The words spill from my mouth with a will of their own, determined to escape the misery of my tortured mind.

"I'm so sorry." Fresh sobs heave in my chest, and I hang my head, no longer able to see you through the blur of tears that spill from my downcast face and splash on the pavement below.

"I hurt our mouse. I can't bear to think of what could have happened ..."

And it truly is unbearable. Horrific scenes flash through my mind in graphic detail. My body tenses and I flinch as the scene continues repeating on me with the deep cutting sting of a whip there is no escape from.

Misery is a brew that never truly reaches perfection. Its a rich blend that promises complexity and depths that can always be teased out and enhanced. Even in this moment of absolute self loathing, I can feel the rage rising each time her eyes emerge to the forefront of my thoughts. My hands are clasped into tight fists and tension holds my form, sweeping me off my feet. It's a waltz in which rage and regret cut in on each other and dance me to the end of what I can take.

"It was so awful. So ugly." I shake my head in an attempt to shake off the hatred I feel. I may have been awful, but it was her, not me, that was ugly.

"Put out your hand."

Your voice cuts in with authority and the dance freezes in mid-step. It takes me longer to comprehend your command than it does to open my tightly clenched fist and hold my hand out in front of me. Fortunately, I'm not beyond obedience for there's relief to be had in the mere sound of your voice as it interrupts my miserable performance.

As my mind catches up to the moment it begins to make connections. I stare between my outstretched hand and your chastising gaze. An association begins to form as my senses draw on a reference from childhood. My hand trembles as I begin to anticipate having my hand slapped like a naughty schoolgirl. Contrition settles over my demeanor. My body emanates a sweet penitence that rises from me like incense being offered in an unspoken prayer of gratitude. Almost imperceptibly, my body presses towards you on a wave of childlike affection, grateful for the safe harbor of your authority.

My mind has settled itself upon a fixed idea of what to expect and for that reason, its taking yet another moment to catch up to the sight of you reaching for your knife. It's not what I expected and my thoughts reach once more for a sense of direction. At last it comes and I can only stare, half in shock, half entranced. I offer no resistance as you reach out for my hand and brace my wrist against your palm. Cold steel caresses the blue paths trailing up and down my arm and comes to a halt, hovering purposefully over my wrist.

I shiver, but remain pliant as your fingers press my wrist securely into your palm. Breathless still as the blade presses ever so slightly. There's nothing for a moment. No pain, no motion, just the tension burning in every muscle of my body save the ones your blade renders motionless. Still nothing but the growing need to release the breath I'm holding as the silver tip disappears into my pale flesh.

All at once I feel a burst of hot pain and a sharp drawn breath fills my lungs. A scarlet bead appears and swells behind the gleaming protrusion. Finally, as if some invisible membrane has ruptured, the scarlet swell bursts and spills over my wrist dripping down and pooling in your palm. Your knife draws ever so slowly up my arm and, still, my body offers no resistance. My hand only presses more firmly into your hold.

I've stopped crying. I'm no longer shaking. I'm simply frozen, mesmerized by the site of the blade skating across the pale expanse leaving a dotted ruby line across my flesh.

You withdraw the knife and hold it up for me to see. Your eyes glitter dangerously as you spread red gloss across my lips. I hear your breathing grow labored as you watch my tongue carefully caress the mirrored steel. You groan hungrily and lower your head. Your tongue dips out to lap at the crimson flow that pools in your palm and drips to the ground to join my tears. So much blood for such a tiny cut. So many tears for such a fleeting moment of unhappiness.

You look up at me from your feast, your eyes heavy with lust and your breath ragged with desire. I am barely aware of the sound escaping my lips as I moan. My knees come close to giving way to the wave of heat swelling up from the center of my body. It pools in my belly, churning until at last it bursts in throbbing pulses that bring every nerve to life in a violent instant.

You hold the knife up, your eyes still locked on mine, and draw your tongue up along the blade. At long last I whimper. You set the weapon down, freeing your hand to pull me to you. Your fingers tap and press your intentions into the small of my back. I gasp again. My lip quivers. My eyes are locked on yours as your gaze sears me with heat and I cannot look away. I can only arch my back into your hold and let my body plead for mercy.

"Tell me, cheri, is this ugly?" You hold my wrist up for me to see, pushing it towards my face emphatically. I look at the trickle of blood now reduced to a delicate pink line across my skin and shake my head. Your fingers grip the back of my neck, clutching my hair and you drag me over to the snivelling girl tied to the back of the car. You bend me over, pushing my face towards the scratch on Tabitha's throat.

"Is THAT ugly? Is it?" You shove my face into her neck as you reach out with your other hand to draw her head up. You release me with a final push towards the wound and an instant later a scream pierces the air and then freezes as a flash of gleaming metal streaks before my eyes. Left then right in upward strokes and two new crimson streams appear.

"Are THOSE ugly?" Your voice is hoarse I can hear the desperation as you attempt to restrain your need for more.

"All in due time, my dear Dandy." My voice coos and soothes, quietly drowning out the hysterical shrieks of our mouse. I lean my cheek against your thigh and take your hand in both of mine, bringing it to my lips. I lap at your palm. I draw your fingers into my mouth, one at a time. I'm hungry. I'm frantic. I'm not sure desire like this could ever be sated but I devour you as if I could somehow be pacified.

You stand, pulling my body up against yours. Our tongues meet along my wounded wrist and all is forgotten. My hands frame your face and yours grip my hair and your tongue takes my mouth with raping thrusts.

I could happily lose all time and place as you devour me in this kiss, but you demonstrate much more self restraint than I could ever be capable of. You draw off my mouth in one last lingering, painful tug of my lip and take a step back. Your eyes sparkle with amusement, watching as I finish cleaning your palm, your fingers, lapping delicately like a cat with a bowl of strawberry cream. You laugh as you finally reclaim possession of your hand and hold me at arms length. I lick my lips and look at you with a sheepish smile.

"Is that what you thought you were in trouble for? No, no, ma petite. You stomped on my foot. Many times over. Such a naughty girl ... and my poor, poor foot! Tell our friend here what happens when you go stomping on your poor Dandy's feet."

You turn me towards our mouse, one hand pressing me down to face her, the other gripping my hip firmly, pulling me in hard against your cock, rock hard and straining against my ass. My body yields as much as the desire that courses through me allows for. My muscles, inside and out, ache with want and grow all the more desperate to latch onto you as your hand glides up my bare thigh. I reach out, gripping Tabitha's shoulders to brace myself and I stare at her through heat glazed eyes.

My fingers dig into her collar bones, making her suck a sharp breath and before she can cry out I make my confession.

"Dandy says its naughty to stomp on his foot and that if I do I must be spanked." My fingers dig harder and at last her sharply drawn breath releases in a breathy screech. I laugh and lean in further, my hot breath washing over the red streaks along her throat. "And you should know, Tabitha," I whisper as another appropriately long scream of pure pain sings through the alley, "Spankings hurt. A lot."

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