He's going to kill me, he's going to kill me, he's going to fucking kill me.
Ariadna told herself this was the only thing going through her mind as she propositioned him, as she stripped for him, and with every thrust of his. While this was definitely part of her self talk, Ariadna also prefered to conveniently forget the other parasitic thoughts that had plagued her then, and still did now, striking mostly but not only at night.
His eyes, the way he looked at her, cold and disdainful at first, then warming up, burning as his gaze trailed along her bare skin. Outside he wouldn't have looked at me twice, she thought, and she hated him for that. His mouth, as she wondered how he would kiss, before she found out. Later she would tell that it disgusted her, and yet when his lips found hers, she couldn't help kissing back almost violently. He took her too harsh, too quick, she wasn't ready and between that and the tranquillizers, there was no way she was going to come. Not that she wanted to, she thought, and she hated that it even was a concept. Ariadna actually feared that she would never be able to orgasm again, the stress, the trauma, the meds, the everything.
The next time he fucked her, she was still afraid that he would kill her, but more kissing and groping followed with eye contact during the act took care of her peaking problem. She actually tried to avoid it, concentrating on the fact that he always had his gun at hand, but it failed. Failure also her attempt at hiding her pleasure, as she came hard, her cunt pulsating and clamping hard, gripping at him just like her hands did until he was coming too, warm and wet inside of her. The feeling only incited her more.
The third time, he insisted on her never averting her gaze from his, and he held her wrists not as gently as he could have. "Do you trust me, beautiful?", he asked. She shivered at the word, but mouthed no. She expected a slap, back handed and casual, but he only laughed and descended on her.
He's going to kill me, he's going to kill me, he's going to fucking kill me.
What she could read in his eyes was both empty and also unhinged, with a veneer of control and a cloud of desire. She was certain at least one of them wouldn't make it out of this madhouse. Yet she was the first to come, again. She knew it amused him. But in a deeper way, it also flattered him, and this was a surefire way of endearing herself to him. At the time it appeared like a great idea.
The first time he demanded a blow job instead, she was still unsure if it was the same spiel as taking her from behind, in order to think of something - someone - else. She didn't want to care.
She would never have thought that she would start suggesting it to him, her hand trailing southward or licking her lips, just because she feared she would come on his cock again. Every time destroyed her already lacking self esteem a tad more. But as they got used to each other, she would become wet for him, aching to touch herself while she pleasured him, occasionally coming untouched, just from his strong grip on her curls and the way he allowed himself to be more expressive than in the beginning. At first almost silent, barely giving her a groan as he filled her mouth, she would never forget the way he called her name as he was close, telling her exactly how he wanted her to stimulate him, his eyes straight on her, fixated. She was now certain he was thinking of her only, and it pervaded her with horror and arousal both. The blow jobs became worse than the fucks, because at least then she could blame his enthusiastic thrusts, rubbing her where she ached for him again and again, for her orgasm.
He hadn't killed her, in the end. He proposed instead, mentioning children, and she almost lost it. She had been avoiding the very thought that he could get her pregnant. They had only had a few days, and she had been clever enough to suck him off too - he almost always kissed her after, as if to make sure she had swallowed, but it wasn't like he needed to. It excited her to finish it that way, just as it excited her for him to come inside her. Ariadna did enjoy that time he was sitting on his desk as she took him in her mouth, only for him to finish on her face, a mix of swear words and pet names that made her shiver, but there had been something missing to that. The power of knowing he could inflict death or life, though he found release only in her body.
So no, he hadn't killed her, and she had actually gotten him killed. It was a relief, she wanted to think, and though she had left some of her last remnants of innocence in la Casa de Papel, she would be able to rebuild.
Or so she thought.
Things were and remained pretty peachy as long as she took her meds - again, still -, went to her therapy appointments regularly, where she told the poor shrink everything he wanted to hear and none of the rest. Shrinks were for Americans and crazies alright but she seemed to need it.
Real problems only began when a coworker - she had gotten a job somewhere else, somewhere that wouldn't remind her of his eyes and his voice and his cock - gently told her that she thought maybe, just maybe, it would be time to start living again. She was able to get up in the morning and go to work, so why couldn't she go out at night, have a bit of fun, live a little and perhaps... Meet someone. Ariadna stood up and ran toward the toilet where she dry heaved like she never had, even back then. Not at the idea of some guy touching her, no, but because the first image that had come to mind had been Berlin on top of her and she had yearned.
After that incident, her coworker plunged into deep guilt and never mentioned it again. She had probably been scolded by the human ressources, on top of that. But the damage had been done, and the nightmares, as she was intent on calling them, were back full force.
She decided that the real thing could drown those out, and started going to bars and nightclubs in search of... Finding nothing. She was most certainly sending creepy vibes, because the usual fuckers didn't even approach. What if he had marked her forever, his, as he said. She could hear him in her ear, whispering "mine" as he filled her. "You feel how hard I am for you? You can't leave me like that, pretty". And then his semen leaking out, there was so much of it it had to be mixed with her own arousal, and he knew it and he knew that she knew. She was opened and soaked, leaking in pleasure over his cock much before his pre-cum slicked her too.
Seedy joints soon replaced the regular clubs and cafés she had been attending. There the men grew more desperate, and didn't fear the lost girl, but most of those who accoasted her she denied, because she refused to fuck without desire again. Of course, the again was a lie. If anything, she was searching for someone who could do it for her, turn her on so much she would forget the guilty pleasure...
Ariadna wasn't planning to go for someone who would look like him, or someone who would be his opposite. Enthusiasm and youth would be welcome, as would experience and seriousness. She heard so many crappy lines, creepy ones too, and it was never the right vibe.
"Hello! May I buy you a drink?". A gentle voice, and just the right amount of formality. She turned toward him as he sat down on the stool next to hers. He had nice blue eyes, boyish good looks and yeah, he could be that. She smiled and agreed. They talked for a few minutes, a speed dating of sorts, she thought amused. When he finally gathered the courage to softly lay a hand on her arm, she knew two things.
She liked him. He would certainly have ended up in bed with her, before.
She couldn't do it with him. There was no way she would be able to tune off Berlin's charisma and presence while this nice guy was taking her, much too close to making love for comfort.
Ariadna wanted to cry, and had to excuse herself. She prayed that he would meet a good girl, one who wouldn't go to that type of places, one who wouldn't be thinking of...
Good girl, Ariadna, swallow it all.
Maybe she should have provoked him until he lost it, until he killed her, because God help her, she was dead already.
For two months she didn't go back, more afraid of that nice guy than of her nightmares.
She finally trekked to the bar one night, because she was fed up of her fingers failing to get her off - maybe they would have, if she didn't stop every time she caught a glimpse of Berlin - Andres, the news said - in her mind's eye.
The Nice Guy wasn't anywhere to be seen, thankfully, and she was quite bitter about that at the same time.
"Beautiful eyes", he said, and she was brought back to that time as a hostage, her hand knocking off her glass. Bravo. Now he was certainly going to run. She decided to pretend she was half drunk if he commented, but he only laughed low, mocking not too nicely and she pressed her thighs together. Once upon a time she would have retaliated, but she watched him as in a trance. She had been searching for this.
- soooo... Where do we want this to go? does she get fucked by some not too nice scoundrel? is he even a Berlin copycat of sorts, who read up about her fate and finds it a turn on? Or... is Berlin alive? I'll write whatever you think is best, let me know! Tons of ideas for number two and three -