The first blow lands on the soft cushioning of the sofa, less than inch from my face. You’re speaking to me now, shouting almost, but I don’t know what you’re saying. I can’t think. Your fist lands at the other side of my face now, more words I don’t understand. My body starts to react and I start to struggle, whimpering pathetically, as I try to get free but can’t. Your other hand is gripping my wrists. Both of my wrists, held tightly in just one of your hands. I can’t remember the last time I felt this scared and small – and you haven’t even hit me yet.
I can feel your hand resting beside my hair, so close to my face. It could almost be comforting if it wasn’t like a promise of what’s yet to come.
And yet, you let me go. As suddenly as you started, you stopped. I can move my wrists and instinctively I shuffle away from you into the corner of the sofa. It takes me a minute before I realise that you’re sat still, just… looking at me.
You give me a moment to compose myself as best I can before you tell me to come over to you. Your expression doesn’t change as I edge carefully closer. For once I manage to look you in the eye, you’re giving nothing away.
“This” you slide your fingers under the strap of my dress “…Needs to come off”
I find myself undressing, the urge to do as you ask taking over my growing nerves and embarrassment. You unzip my dress and watch as I remove it first. I try to hide behind my already dishevelled hair as I slide my panties down over my thighs. I’m now left kneeling in front of you in just a pair of black hold-ups, like I’m on display for you.
“Turn around for me” your voice is low as you cast your eyes over me. I try cover my body with my hands as I turn my back to you, well aware that any semblance of modesty I once had is now gone.
You lean in close to me and push me forward, I can smell the whisky on your breath and it’s intoxicating. The whisky seems to fill the air around me and I lose myself in it for a moment whilst I’m positioned on to my hands and knees. My body starts to hum and I hear myself exhale.
Your hand brushes down my back as you move away from me, I can tell you’ve positioned yourself at the other end of the sofa when I hear you pick up your glass from the table.
The liquid in the glass makes a soft sound as you raise it to your lips and take a sip. I can’t see you, but I can feel you. I can feel you staring at your view, knowing how it makes me feel.
“Spread your legs and shake your arse for me”
I take a sharp breath before my chest begins to burn and the feeling in the pit of my stomach turns to dread. Such a small thing, but I just… can’t. I hesitate as you tell me to hurry up, you’re waiting. I try to move my legs, to humiliate myself, but my pride won’t let me.
“I… I can’t” I mumble. As though I have a choice.
You hit my arse as though you were expecting me to say that. You probably were.
Before I can try to protect myself, your fists are raining down on me. You are all over my, my arms, my legs, my arse. Everywhere. I try to move on my side and curl away from you, but you keep going.
Every time you hit me you show me that you won’t back down, I can’t get out of this. Every slap or punch shows me you won’t stop, you don’t care if I’m hurt, you don’t care if I’m bruised. I will not win this.
For just a few seconds, your fists stop falling on me. Thinking if you saw my pleading eyes you would feel sorry for me, you would stop, I turn and look up at you. You run your thumb down the side of my cheek before I feel the back of your hand land violently on my face. The taste of warm copper starts to fill my mouth and I realise that my lip is bleeding. The taste is overwhelming and I can’t process what’s happened. You’ve made me bleed. Fuck. I want more. I want you to taste me, taste what you did.
I feel in a daze, no one has ever made me bleed before. I think I asked you to “please, taste me” because I almost screamed when you bit my lip. Hard. Your expression was dark and almost primal, I felt like your prey.
You kiss me softly, the first moment of tenderness since you arrived, and it brings me back to the present.
“Now, back to before. You can do better than that” – your voice is the opposite of mine, firm, taunting, as you lean back and gesture me to try again. I was hoping you had forgotten.
My arms feel weak as I try to lift myself up slightly. My arms and legs are aching now, sore from defending myself from you. I can’t stop touching my lip my tongue.
You’re watching me again. Waiting. The smell of whisky back in the air.
I spread my legs apart and start moving. I hate myself at this moment. I hate that I made such a fuss. I hate that this is hard for me. I hate how much I want you to hurt me. I hate that I’m doing this. Most of all… I hate how turned on I am. I hate that I enjoy feeling this way. Too ashamed to admit I enjoy degrading myself for you… desperate for more.
There are no tears, but I sob to myself as I shake my arse and cunt for your amusement as you sit back and watch me break.