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She was bent over.
The floor of her kitchen had not provided the purchase her feet needed to escape, precious moments eaten away as she did a frantic Flintstones impression while adrenaline surged in her blood stream. She’d had the music too loud, been too lost in the soothing structure of her baking, and she had seen him much too late. After he was inside. After he found her. After he started for her.
He caught her in the next room, the dining room with the lace curtains that she’d loved so much. She crashed into the table when he shoved her, chairs sent sprawling with her. She’d hit her heat on the edge of the table, her ears ringing for a moment, the world suddenly turned to the deck of a little ship in a big storm. She tottered, tried to climb to her feet and discovered that her balance was an asset she no longer possessed. She’d all but fallen into the position she was in now, her ass in the air, all of her so exposed to him.
Except she hadn’t been exposed then. Somehow he knew he’d had enough time to return to the kitchen, he seemed to be moving around her with a pace and patience that scared her more than if he’d simply taken what he’d come here for. She struggled still on her hands and knees, the room’s spinning slowly coming to a stop, the ticket she bought for that particular ride all but used up. She saw his shoes, his shins, and she nearly planted her face on the floor when she tried to reach out for him.
He was bending then, coming down to her level, and her chin was taken into his hand, fingers digging into her cheeks. Her head was yanked up and back, a yelp escaping her before she even realized the air was leaving her throat to create it. Her eyes met his, and the adrenaline in her blood was replaced with ice at what she saw there. The knife came into view next, the big chef’s knife she’d saved for two months to buy, the knife she used at every possible opportunity just because she so liked the way it felt as if made perfectly for her hand. Her eyes bounced fast from his face to the knife, the knife to his face, each one filling her with a sick fear in her belly she wanted no part of, neither providing the escape she was desperate for.
He didn’t even say anything when he released her and stood up, the knife apparently doing all his talking for him. She trembled there on all fours, the floor she spend time sweeping, moping, polishing, now foreign to her, a lesser enemy than those circling her but an enemy nonetheless. The grooves of the wood cut into her knees, left lines in her hands, her forearms, her face when he took her head in his hand and shoved it down.
She cried out when she felt the steel of the knife against her, felt where the steel of the knife was against her, and again at the relief of light pressure when her panties were torn asunder, rendered useless. Fabric that now hung in halves, each one tickling her thighs, a feeling that would be teasingly pleasant under other circumstances. The same shoes that had stood in her limited field of vision moments earlier now found the inside of her knees, pushing each leg further apart. More room for him to work. She moaned, shuddered. A tear was on her cheek suddenly, it’s appearance almost as much of a surprise as his.
The slap came quickly, the sound slicing through the room in a way that reminded her of the knife. Right now, everything reminded her of the knife. She cried out, arched her back up, a vain attempt to get away from the next one.
"No, no, please," she said, pleaded, as the point of the knife was pushed against the small of the back. The pressure dimpled her skin, she knew the slightest increase would pierce her, and her back sank down, throwing her ass up in the air lewdly. She knew she looked like she was posing for him, exposing herself for him, and her cheeks burned. He hit her again, and again, but the knife was a constant presence on her back, such a tiny point keeping her so easily in place, forcing her to endure his assault.
Somewhere, dimly, she allowed herself to hope that someone would hear her cries, come help her, rescue her before he could do what he’d come here for. Even through the slaps between her thighs, the cries that left her lips and the knife point in her back, she remembered the heat of the day. She remembered the reason she wore the simple red sundress, the one she so loved that he’d see to ruin any moment now. The air conditioner kicked on then, as if it was only too happen to confirm that all the windows were closed, as if the air streaming through the vents was laughing at her while he slapped her cunt in her own dining room.
He stopped abruptly, and then she heard him laugh, a sound that only filled her belly with molten lead.
"I don’t believe it," he said, the amusement in his voice laced with a poison mockery, "You’re getting wet from this, you little cunt."
She sensed his movement, and then his hand was against her face, pressing her head harder into the floor while he used her cheeks, her nose, her lips and chin like a towel. Wiping himself off on her. Wiping herself off on her. She could smell her own arousal, and she hated it. She hated her body for responding to him, hated that she knew it was only making her wetter, making it all easier for him.
The same hand planted, palm down, on the floor in front of her face, she found it suddenly impossible to take her eyes away from it until he leaned down over her. His lips were close to his ear, his voice husky and low, and she could tell he was hard. She hated that sound in his voice.
"I’m going to make you hate your cunt," he said, then pressed his nose against her cheek, inhaling the scent of her off her own face. "I’m going to make you hate that you’re a woman," he said when his lips moved near her ear again.
He moved away from her, the hand gone, and her eyes closed. The world was reduced to sound and feeling, and the scent of her own betrayal on every breath she took. The knife was against her back again, this time shredding the sundress she wore, another piece of clothing, her last piece of clothing, made useless. Finishing her exposure to him. His hungry eyes, his cruel hands, all of her bared to serve his demanding cock.
Behind her, she heard the zipper pulled down, a sound that brought a protest from her lips. His laughter confirmed that it was as pathetic to him as it sounded in her own ears, the fight was over, her body, her cunt, her every last hole if he wanted, were his prize to claim, and all that was left now was for him to take it. She’d face that fact soon enough. She knew he’d force her to, even if it took her laying bruised on the floor of her dining room, within a barely a step away from those pretty lace curtains, her cheeks streaked with tears, his cum leaking from her ass. Making a spot on the floor she’d have to polish. And she knew he wouldn’t help, knew he’d only laugh as she worked to scrub away the stain of his seed he’d left leaking from her.
"No," she said as she felt the head of his cock against her, slipping between her folds, his hardness apparent even in that first touch.
"Please," she said as he pushed into her, the fight draining from her voice just as quickly as her treasonous cunt grew wetter around him.
He used me
time and time again —
my body painted
with mark after mark,
displaying his need for me,
and when he was done,
he deciphered his handiwork
like an archaeologist
who has just discovered
an ancient text.
The he used me again.
It’s not that I’m jealous and possessive. It’s that you’re perfect and I will kill them.
