tagNonConsent/ReluctanceWonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 01

Wonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 01


Sometimes, your dolly needs to do wonderfully wicked things ...

Lets play "Cats" and find a nervous little "mouse". We'll drag her off to the alley where we know that no matter how pitiful she sounds no one is stupid enough to actually hear her unless we want them to. They know us well here, of course, we're not just cats ... we're alley cats.

We'll walk her through the streets, your arm slung around her shoulder, mine around her waist, like such good friends. She'll look afraid, but the folks we pass on the streets will see this feeble creature's in good hands. They might even feel a pang of jealousy, don't you think? I mean, I would love to have two good friends to walk me through the streets if I were frightened and confused ... especially while I got to feel your pretty knife caressing my ribs, under my blouse.

On we go, a lovely stroll through the pretty streets as I chatter on merrily about what a wonderful time we're all going to have, and in no time we come to our turn.

There's nothing like having company to make you really appreciate what you have, like the way the alley darkens after only a few feet, no matter what time of day it is.

"For such a busy location we get to enjoy a limitless amount of privacy", I explain brightly yet still, her feet begin to shuffle. We make our way down the long corridor of looming brick and bars that rise up to a thin skylight. Its as if someone thought the shattered glass panes were stars and hoped to map out their future in the constellations of broken windows. Not a hard thing to accomplish in this alley come to think of it.

Now that we've successfully escorted our guest off those awful crowded streets we should insist she makes herself at home. You hand me her things. A handbag and a sweater, well insulated with cat hair.

"Tabitha?", I say with a giggle, looking at the name on her license, "That's your name, Tabitha? What a perfectly lovely name. You don't mind if we call you 'Tabby' for short do you? We're all friends here Tabby. In fact, you can call me Dolly, and this here is my dear Dandy."

I tuck her wallet into my pocket along with her cell phone and give the contents of the bag one last look, retrieving a paper pharmacy bag containing a prescription bottle.

"Edna Pritkin, Atenolol 50mg ... hmmm ... this is for high blood pressure isn't it?", I ask our guest with a concerned look. "Wait a minute, 329 Chestnut Street, that's your address, isn't it? Who's Edna? Your grandmother?"

One look at our poor friend's face says it all. Our friend, Tabby, has made plans for the evening and forgotten all about poor Granny who needs her medication. I can feel my mood begin to darken. I turn the bottle around in my fingers, the pills rolling from top to bottom like some noisy hourglass, timing my impatience.

I shake my head in silence, letting my disapproval slowly mount as I step towards her. "Do you mean to tell me, that you've left your sweet, vulnerable Granny home, all alone, while you're gallivanting with your friends with her medicine in your purse? Is that what you've done, Tabitha?".

Our mouse shakes her head, her answers spilling from her lips like some futile decoy, revealing that she's bright enough, at least, to recognize a wheel in motion. Run, mousy, run.

"You haven't left your Granny home, all alone?".

Another wrong answer, another step closer.

"You have? So you lied to me. That's not good Tabitha. So you are out all evening with friends with her medicine in your purse?"

Run, mousy, run. Each foolish answer makes me lick my lips as you whistle up to one of a handful of faces that have appeared in the greasy windows above. Taking the pill bottle from me, you retrieve your car keys and hand both over to a man, who like many in this alley, can wear a suit without ever being mistaken for an executive. Not too many executives will run errands for little old ladies these days.

"Wrong, Tabitha. You are not with friends."

Icy laughter warms her face as I follow her rising figure until I'm on tiptoe. She dangles off the ground beneath your hand well wrapped in her generous mane. I watch her eyes and find myself suddenly mesmerized. They attempt, all on their own, to express themselves despite the way her hair is pulling their shape into tight slants. My thumb and finger press and pull as I cock my head to the side, gazing at these amazing orbs. I look up at you, contemplatively.

"My dear Dandy, you show me the most wonderful things. You should see her eyes. They brighten so darkly." The pain registering in her eyes radiates something that could be described as a light yellow vaporous glow, though not quite as substantial as that.

The sounds of her breathy shrieks are something distant as I continue to indulge myself in this seldom fed curiosity. My fingers push and press, probing the depth of the fleshy pads of her cheeks in comparison to the skin on bone where her face gains definition. I look up at you, commenting on how freeing it is to touch another human being without care for their humanity.

"Maybe you knew better all along, Tabitha. It's nice not having to concern yourself with the well being of others. You were quite right you know." I laugh as the cries and shrieks of my anatomic model infiltrate my reverie. She wishes to regain her humanity? Very well, if you insist mousy.

The flat of my hand connects deliberately across the fleshiest part of her round face and her tightly drawn eyes attempt to bulge. Her contorted expression incenses something in me and my jaw tightens. I slap her face once more and again her reactions drive me to a fury. Is it a fury? Or is it just pure pleasure? I speak to her through clenched teeth as I crush her face between my thumb and fingers. I'm shaking, my muscles are tense and I spit my words in a throaty growl, an inch away from her face.

"If that's the way you want it, Tabitha, that's the way it will be. I promise, you don't have to worry about us treating you with any kind of human decency. What's good enough for your grandma is good enough for you right?"

I let loose in a torrent, my fingers striking the same fleshy place on either cheek. Her body begins to writhe and your other hand comes up to clasp her throat, strangling the already gargled sounds escaping her. All at once, my head starts to swim and I find myself backing away, feeling strangely disoriented.

You watch, as I just stand there, glaring at her as if wounded by what I see. A knowing smile crosses your face as your hands suddenly release the mouse and send her crumpling down to the alley street. Before she can truly even catch her breath, you grab the front of her blouse and pull hard, the fabric ripping stubbornly, but just enough for your purposes. You retrieve your beautiful knife, pulling her head back by the hair, nestling the handle between her breasts. A perfect fit ... the oh so sharp tip of the blade just barely managing to avoid grazing the under side of her chin.

Your own eyes brighten darkly as you look down at her, your voice taking on one of your many character voices. You tell her to keep her chin up like some politician boosting morale in discouraging times, all the while, chuckling at yourself. A firm step down and your boot is planted between her breasts. No running now mousy.

Sometimes I think there's a magnet effect between us. It doesn't occur to my body to protect me. Why should it? I am simply caught up in your current, with no resistance, inside or out. One moment I'm watching, my arms wrapped around myself comfortingly and the next moment, I'm in motion. I don't even know that my hair is wrapped around your hand until you've pulled me between your legs, leaning my back over the knee that's raised up by our mousy footstool. My head follows your hold on my hair and rests with ease despite the ache of your grip. I look up at you, the full range of my thoughts and feelings passing over my face for you to read.

You read me well. In the silence between your hand on my face landing sharply. In the growing pulse of heat and pain. In that nearly imperceptible moment where my throbbing cheek follows your cruel hand affectionately, begging for more, you read me with perfect clarity.

Some things you speak of and some you don't. I need to hear you soothe and reassure me that its all perfectly lovely. That look of amusement in your eyes is enough to address the petulant child beneath my skin that wishes to lunge at the stupid mouse beneath me for trying to make it all so ugly. Another slap to your dolly's face is enough to quiet the rising sob, spilling tears instead for so many countless times beauty was mistaken for a beast.

Through my tears I watch the many facets of who you are work their way into the moment. A kaleidoscope of things dear and familiar shine in your terrible eyes. I see your thirst for my pain, and the way you swallow it down, sometimes in a thick heady rivulet, sometimes in a parched and gasping breath. I see this and follow the pain, clinging to every throb and pulse beneath my flesh to feel it to its fullest for you. Drink deeply my dear Dandy. Drink deeply.

A man makes his way to the surface in the brief moments where satisfaction is found to ask what his place is there and something resonates back to him within me.

"It's all perfectly lovely."

At some point we've become stil. Our alley has become a sacred hall of reverent worship and beautiful sacrifice. As my senses return from the heights of this hallowed corridor I feel each sensation raining down, in and all around me. Paper, feathers, ashes and ice touching down until we're weighted.

I lick my lip, a faintly metalic taste glosses my teasing tongue as I smile up at you with a twinkle in my eye.

"She's awfully quiet ... you don't suppose ..."

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