Chapter summary: Okay, when Rosalie said she wanted to talk ... or did I mis-hear the first letter? I'm not sure. I thought she said 'talk,' but I guess the first letter was an 'f'? Sort of? Anyway. Whatever! What Rosalie wants, Rosalie gets. And, boy, did she get some. I'm Bella Swan, and I'm so fucked. Or was. By her. A lot. NSFW. (p.s. Oh, and she bought me presents, too, but you'll never guess what. Unless you read the chapter title, you pervs!)

Rosalie walked me into the house, then turned on me suddenly and slammed me against the door, pressing into me hard, and started to grind.

"Fuck, Bella, fuck!" she cried. "Fucking ... quick, take off my pants!"

I was shellshocked for a second but then reacted quickly, unbuttoning her capris and sliding them over her hips.

Her hourglass hips. She stepped out of them, toes pointed, dancer's feet, then flicked them away from her with a whip-crack flick of her foot.

Her panties were black satin, matching the color of her capris, but they were soaked, no: drenched.

"Quick!" she gasped as she continued to grind, "quick, Bella! Quick!"

I understood. I hooked my thumbs around the waistband of her panties and slid them over her hips. They fell, with a heavy splat onto the floor at her feet, and she kicked them away from her, forcefully.

That one kick was a second's pause, but that was all she needed. She glared into my eyes, panting with lust, then grabbed me by my hair by the scruff of my neck and pulled my head back, hard.

Then she screamed into my face.

I gasped in shock, taken aback, and that's when her lips crashed into mine, and she kissed me passionately.

Her other hand was busy, it flipped up my skirt and then her hips sought mine, and she squirmed about until she found what she wanted.

My cunt.

Her clit was engorged and was rubbing about until it found my slit, and she rubbed up and down, side-to-side, viciously, until my body reacted, and my little clit peeked out from the hood.

Our clits touched, and that's all she needed.

She snarled right into my mouth, and it felt like her snarl was going right into my throat, so it felt like I was snarling.

And then she threw her head back and howled. No. She screamed.

"FUCK!"

It was over before I even knew what hit me.

She rested her head on my shoulder and panted her way back to reality, her breath coming like the blows from a bellows.

"Fuck, oh, fucking fuck, Bella," she sighed, as she continued to breathe big gasps of air, holding me up against the door to her garage.

But then her breathing changed, and she pulled back a little, and examined me closely.

Then she got a wicked, evil, hooded look on her face.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

And she started to rub against my cunt, nice, and soft, and slow.

"Cum for me, my sweet little cunt," she purred.

And I looked at her with what probably qualified as the dumbest expression a girl could make.

I thought she wanted to talk with me?

"Cum for me, Bella," she coaxed, and rubbed, softly and sweetly.

"Um, ..." I said helpfully.

She shook her head. "No, sweetie, not now. Don't think. Give yourself to me. Give yourself to me and cum for me."

"Uh, ..." I said helplessly.

"No," she said. "Just let go, baby, please. Just cum for me."

I opened my mouth, probably to say something just as intelligent as I had been saying, but that's when her lips came gently down on mine, and she silenced me with a kiss as she continued to sway and to slide her hips, gently rubbing against me.

Then her hand that had flipped up my skirt? It eased its way from the bottom of my shirt up to my tit until it found what it was looking for.

She gently began tapping, oh-so-softly, on my nipple. Tap-tap, then tap-tap. And then she repeated that, over and over, softly and gently as she kissed my lips and ground into my cunt.

I think that was about the time I said to myself, 'fuck it.'

I mean, really. Rosalie Hale rubbing up against you, telling you to cum for her?

Who am I to say no?

I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms about her.

She hummed in pleasure. Pleased that I obeyed her in this, and in everything.

I think, but I'm not sure, that I lifted up my leg and wrapped it around her hips. You know. Just to help her a little bit. Just to pull her into me a little bit more, a little bit harder.

She got the hint. She pressed harder into me, and I ...

Well, I maybe ... kinda ... started rubbing her back. A bit. Maybe.

I think I moaned then.

It took a while, but I ...

Well, okay. I did cum, okay? It wasn't her screaming whatever-the-hell-that-was, and I think I'm going to have PTSD from that, I swear to God, but she brought me all the way up, gently, and she brought me all the way back down.

And, okay. Yes, I came.

Afterwards I sighed into her mouth. I felt her smiling.

She kissed me, looked into my eyes, and kissed me again.

Then she wrapped me in her arms and sighed contentedly.

"Nice," she remarked.

Just that. Just a remark. Not snide nor superior, just an observation. It was 'nice.' She couldn't have been talking about her Big-'O' because there was nothing 'nice' about that. Terrifying, yes. Nice, no. So she must have been talking about mine, but why would she care if mine were nice?

Why would she care about me? and how I felt?

She pulled back, smiled at me, brushed an errant strand of hair out of my face and then ...

She smirked and tousled my hair.

Swear to God. I swear to God, that annoys the hell out of me, but ... that God damn Rosalie Hale melts my insides every single time she does that.

She pulled me from the wall and sat me down in the den.

"You want a diet coke?" she asked solicitously.

I hopped right up to fetch one for her, but froze when she gave me a glare and then pushed me back onto the easy chair.

The easy chair. Not the footstool where she usually sat me.

And then she went into the kitchen herself to get us the drinks.

Holy fuck! Holy fuck, what had I done this time? This was fucking serious. This was so fucking not the routine. What the hell was going on?

You see, the routine was, well, what I said before. I'd fetch her a diet coke, then I'd prepare her a supper of whatever she wanted. Her menu was planned on the refrigerator door, and I learned to cook her meals exactly the way she wanted them.

You don't have to ask how I learned to cook, do you? I learned the hard way, okay? One very painful punishment for each and every cooking snafu I made.

And 'exactly the way she wanted' included me, too. Naked. I cooked her meals naked except for a cooking apron, and I think that was more for show, so it would hide just a little bit of me, so it would drive her insane with lust, not being able to wait to rip that thing off me after I finished cooking so she had a tough time choosing which to eat: supper, or ... me.

And then, after supper, after Rosalie fed me from her plate by hand, me, on my knees, face upturned like a little bird that she fed, sometimes getting the food in my mouth, sometimes not, smearing it all over my face, and then kissing and licking my face clean, driving me insane with shame and wanton lust, her little pervy slut...

She always, always put me in place. Her place, that is: exactly where she wanted and how she wanted me to be.

After that, I had to wash the dishes, keeping my ass clenched against a probing invading finger, if I were lucky, or if I weren't so lucky, then it was a spatula that sang through the air before it struck my backside so hard I thought I was in space because I think I saw stars as it struck me.

After that? I had to wash my panties. By hand. In the kitchen sink. Under Rosalie's close supervision. If I wanted them back... the next day ... after she hung them out to dry, on her deck, in full view of every neighbor whose house backed to hers. It was an elitist community, so that meant only two or three neighboring houses within binocular range, and guess which sports stores in town suddenly had a rush on binoculars, huh?

God almighty, rich people are such fucking pervs, having nothing better to do than to ogle teenaged girl's panties hanging out to dry, for fuck's sake!

Apparently the Hale household's dryer was much too good for my panties. That's why they had to be hung outside in full view, you see. Not to advertise that I was Rosalie's bitch, or anything like that.

I had run out of panties a couple of weeks ago. Rosalie kept souvenirs from me, her conquest. So she bought me new ones.

The shocker for me was the ones she bought for me weren't slutty. They were pretty, with pastel rainbow stripes, or little and big red hearts, or with the word 'love' in bold, block letters. Not black panties, that was her, but so not me, and she somehow knew this, so she chose white cottens or pale pinks and blues.

And when she gave me them, I almost broke down and cried as she made me open the package, breaking the seal that no one, not her, not the sales lady, not anyone had broken but me, and try on my first pair, and ...

... and it fit perfectly, not tight and lewd, exposing a camel toe, but ... just right. They were ...

They were pretty and modest. Just like I thought myself to be.

And ... she read that in me. And gave me fresh, clean, pretty panties that were sweet and feminine. Brand-new, not faded and thread-bare, fringy at the bands, like my old ones were, washed out to barely nothing, almost worn to holes in some places. No. She gave me something by taking and taking and taking away my poor, ratty undies and just gave me a whole package of bright, colorful, demure panties, and I ...

I almost broke down, right there in her room, trying on my brand-new panties ... her gift to me that she knew I needed, even as I didn't. I didn't even notice my own panties. I just wore them.

But Rosalie noticed. And ...

Cared.

And I fell in love again with her, all over again, in that moment, just like that.

She could be so harsh, and so cold, and calculating and cruel, and then just ...

And then just melt my heart with the thought and attention and kindness and care she put into a simple, little gift. Just for me.

But it was a gift for her, too. Everything was always about her, even her kindness to me.

Because ...

Because that first day she owned me? She said, 'no more panties, ever, that dirty little cunt is mine now, you got that?'

And, well, nice theory, for her, but ... in practice, it didn't quite work out. Not even that first day, when, yes, I obeyed her.

She didn't think about gym class.

When it came time for gym class, and I was in the locker room, realizing my predicament now, with thirty other girls all changing into their tees and shorts, and me, standing there, trembling and then ... I couldn't do it. The longer I waited, the more curious stares I got. And then I got physically sick, vomiting on the floor as my thumbs hooked on the waistband of my skirt, ready to pull it down furtively, but by then I felt every girls' eyes on me. And as I was puking onto the locker room floor, girls gagging and clearing the locker room, avoiding me like the Plague, I think I actually blacked out.

I woke up in the nurse's office. The nurse was cool and professional. But she knew. And I almost got sick again, right there, seeing her not looking below my face. I would've gotten sick again, but there was nothing in my empty stomach now to heave anymore.

So it was a new rule after that. Rosalie had a ... change of heart, so to speak. She relented. She backed down on her command, something I thought her incapable of doing, ever, and I got to wear panties again, the day right after that day, right after the day Rosalie told me never to wear them again. Now, she let me.

But I had to take them off before I got into her car for the ride home that day.

That was the deal for my ride home from school with Rosalie Hale, my own personal, dominating, sadistic driver.

Oh, and I had to have proof I was thinking about her. During school.

Proof. On my panties. That she could smell. Right in front of me. And make me smell, her holding my panties to my face and waiting for me to breath in my musk.

And when I did, she would smirk an evil, wicked smirk, and snarl a gleeful 'you dirty, little slut!' and then she would drop them into the sink, watching me wash them, blushing so hard with shame, washing away my so obvious shame, my so obvious stain: the shame of wanting her so bad, even in school.

That turned her on so much. Sometimes she'd lose it and grab me, slamming me against the counter and hump my ass until she came. Other times her fingers would work me up into a frenzy, teasing and caressing my tits, rubbing and probing my slit, invading my ass.

But she wouldn't let me cum. I had to keep washing those panties as if nothing were happening, as if she weren't driving me insane with her fingers and lips and super-intense stare. She'd reduce me to a quivering mess as I washed my panties and make me beg for it, then she'd ask what I'd done 'to deserve a good, hard cum, huh, Bella? What have you done to deserve it? What are you willing to do?'

And by then, I'd be willing to do anything. Just 'please, please, please let me cum, Rosalie, please! I'll do anything.' 'Anything?' she'd snarl. 'Anything!' I'd beg.

And sometimes, if she were feeling particularly nice, she'd let me cum right there, and laugh at me as my knees buckled and my eyes rolled up into my head and I moaned as quietly as I could, trying to hide my weakness from her that I never could. 'You slut!' she'd snarl contemptuously, ... gleefully, ... as I came, 'You horny little cunt, Bella! I swear to God!'

But sometimes, ... she'd take me up on that 'anything,' and strap me down, or across, whatever was available, and get to work. On me. And my ass. Just my ass, ...

... if I were lucky, that is.

Oh, but when Rosalie Hale works, she works with a will.

But the way she works ... with her hand, or the paddle, on my backside, using the full strength of her body to break me, to make me cry out, ...

But her other hand, stroking my clit, oh-so-gently, teasing me to a fever pitch, but keeping me suspended there, and while doing that, snarling in my ear as she worked my ass into a blistering, searing mass of agony, 'Goddamnit, Bella, you're so fucking wet! You're enjoying this, you bitch!'

And I'd cry, 'No! No, I'm NOT!' but my traitorous body was saying 'yes, oh, God, yes, I am! Please, more, please let me cum, Rosalie, please!' and she knew who to listen to, and who was telling her the truth, and she'd take her hand from my cunt and smear the evidence all over my face.

And get right back to work on my ass, beating it into a pulp, beating me into submission. God, she loved it when I broke, unable to take any more, but unable to stop her, just crying as she punished me for whatever reason she wanted to use to bend me over and use me like that.

She'd finish her punishment only when she was God damn good and done with me. It didn't matter how hard I screamed or cried. She finished when she was done. And I'd lie there, broken, defeated, beaten, on the kitchen table (not the big dining room table. Her family ate off that!), and then she'd bring me off, strapped down, so exhausted I couldn't move, so I'd just shudder, immobilized, and come in relief as fingers, or, oh, God! the privilege of her tongue, her God damn heavenly, sweet, soft, teasing tongue brought me off, and I felt the heat rising off my poor, beaten ass in waves and the tears falling from my eyes onto the kitchen table, forming a puddle by my cheek resting on the tabletop, as she eased me gently over the top then eased me all the way back down, so that I couldn't feel my arms, my legs, even the agony that was my ass. All I could feel was my heart beating in my chest, strong, slow, steady, and Rosalie's lips, kissing me there, sweetly, as she brought me back down to Earth from Heaven, so, so gently.

That's when she'd ... turn from a Holy Terror, from a terrifying monster who frankly scared the shit out of me (oh, God, sometimes literally), to ... to ... oh, God, to someone who took care of me, helpless me. And she rub my poor, chapped ass with scented oils, and untie me, checking my hands and feet, fingers and toes for circulation, and kiss my tears away, and support me, half-stumbling, up the balconied stairs to her bedroom, and make love to me, slowly, tenderly, and hold me as she fucked me, and I held her and I looked up at her as she screwed her face up and then just let go with a guttural moan as she came so hard on me as all I could do was lie there and recover as the Rosalie Hale came on me. And then she's slump down on top of me, breathing hard, panting, totally spent.

And I'd fall hopelessly in love with her, all over again, as she held me afterward, easing the slicked hair out of my face, sweetly kissing my forehead, holding me, tightly, into her chest.

Oh, God, I love Rosalie Hale. Oh, God, I love her so much.

And we'd fall asleep like that, in each other's arms. And it was heaven.

But it never lasted.

Eventually, like the machine she was — I swear to God she's a terminator or something! — she'd stir and wake up, and rouse me, and we'd shower, and dress, and she drove me to my home, my hovel, and I'd start to get out, easing my poor, beaten ass out of her super-comfy passenger seat, and she'd say, oh-so-casually, oh-so-careful to appear unconcerned: 'Pick you up for school tomorrow?' and I'd say, without hesitation, 'Yes,' and then 'Yes, please.'

And she'd smile at me, and I'd take that smile with me into the darkened trailer, my mom and her current boyfriend already fast asleep, and I'd fall asleep to the sound of my mom's boyfriend's snores, and Rosalie Hale's warm smile in front of my closed eyes, and a fresh pair of panties on that Rosalie gave me that night after she toweled me off from our shower.

She now kept a stash for me. For these occasions, that happened ... more than occasionally.

I'd fall asleep, and my fingers would quest down, and, yes, I found, I was 'thinking' of her again, already, so soon after she left me.

I couldn't not think of her.

Rosalie Hale was my everything.

I tsked to myself and to my errant, betraying body. I think I had run out of panties again. Rosalie took them away from me, day by day, and, well, ... sometimes I had to ... replace the ones I had been wearing during the day. And I think I had run out again.

I wonder if she'd let me ask her if she could buy me more. Sure, I could buy more myself, I suppose, but that would entail me asking my mom for money. A lot of money. Like, maybe twenty dollars. To buy panties. And then having to answer the impossible-to-answer question as to why I didn't have any anymore.

My brow furrowed, and I think I fell asleep that way: wondering how I could get more panties like the cute ones Rosalie had given me.

...

Last night, at three-fourteen am, I just woke up. Mom's boyfriend, Phil or whatever his name was, stopped snoring, thank God, not that I noticed anymore. You learn to sleep when you can and where you can, mom's double bed being right next to mine. Privacy is a privilege for people who can afford to pay rent, you see. At least her bed is against the far wall and mine against the side, so I don't have to look at them as they're ... you know. God, so gross and fuck my life.

But.

Anyway.

I woke up because I have to tell you something. Can I please, please, please, please tell you this? Because it's just so ...

It's just what she's like. And maybe you'll understand a little better, or maybe you'll just say I'm blind and making excuses, but whatever.

Well, it's this.

Rosalie picked out my own soap for me. You know? When she showers me?

Of course, she has her own soaps and her own scented oils and perfumes. And, oh, my fucking God, that woman knows how to make a girl lose it by walking on past you with just her scent.

Just guess what her scent is? for her soaps? I'll give you three guesses, and you can choose between rose, rose, and rose, if you want options.

The fucking ego of her, I swear. She has her own God damn soaps made for her and they have fucking rose petals imbued in the soap, and I honest-to-God shit you not. You know how in that movie Fight Club there were these guys that sold soap for forty dollars a bar in specially wrapped paper and tied with twine? You know that stuff is real? With real, super-rich women who actually buy that stuff? For real. You ever meet one of those girls who buy that soap?

I have. I know one of them, very personally.

And. But. She picked out my own soap for me. My own scent. Forty dollars a bar.

And, was it the first bar, the first scent she picked? No way. No fucking way. With Rosalie Hale everything had to be fucking perfect, because if it wasn't, she wasn't happy, and when she got 'not happy' ...

Well, I know what happens when Rosalie Hale's not happy.

So for two solid weeks, day after day, she and I'd be showering, and she's unwrap a new bar with a brand-new scent and try it on me and ...

Taste me.

She'd pull me into her, and breathe me in deeply, and lick my shoulder, and ...

And she'd be like, very definitive, like: "No, no, no! No, that's not it!"

Or she'd think about it for a while, and dither, and be like ... "Well, ... hm ..."

And then toss the bar.

Just toss a bar of forty dollar soap into the waste bin in her own private bath. Just like that. Forty dollars. In the trash.

After a couple of days, I made a mistake. A big mistake. I was just hurting, looking at her just waste all that money! And I was like, "It's okay, Rosalie, we can use that, really."

Right? I mean, after a few days, you think she'd make up her mind, or just settle on something, for God's sake, am I right?

She lost it. Lost her fucking mind, right there in the bath tub.

"Do you think you're a slice of fucking pumpkin pie?" she screamed right in my face.

The soap she had thrown had a cinnamon-pumpkin scent.

And what could I say to that? When she was right, she was right, come Hell or high water, and fuck-all what anybody else thought.

But I didn't have that insight then, did I? No. I did not.

So I said, "Well, I could ... take that home, or use it in the gym, or ..."

I used the industrial soap dispensers in the gym when I showered.

Hey, at least I got soap there. And a shower. That's more than I got at home. And with that forty dollar soap bar, so, so smooth on my skin, that would be a million, no, a billion times better than that industrial soap from the dispensers in the locker room.

Right?

Wrong.

"USED SOAP?" she shrieked.

I swear to God I saw murder in her eye, and I think she was actually considering doing violence to me.

I mean, like real violence. Like strangling me. Or scratching my eyes out. Or both.

The water from the shower head beaded on my skin as it washed through my freshly shampooed hair. I hung my head.

"I just ... I just ..."

Her finger gently but firmly tilted my head up so I had to look into her eyes.

Crystal blue eyes can be so terrifying, can't they? They convey no emotion; they're just two blue pools that you get lost in. There's no warmth to them, at all.

"We are going to get this right," she snarled. "I swear to God, we are going to get this right if it's the last thing I do. You are not going to walk around with the wrong scent, Bella. I mean, seriously! The fuck!"

And I stared into her eyes, and just did not ...

I mean, there's like leagues, right? And then there's Rosalie Lillian Hale. I mean, to her, it was like life and death what soap you used? I mean, honestly!

Well, after two weeks, every day trying a different bar of soap, a different scent ...

And, okay, where the hell did she get time to shop? She didn't cut classes. She was in the running to be Valedictorian against two other girls and this football linebacker, of all things, named Emmett McCarty...

But after about two weeks, she unwrapped a fresh bar — forty dollars, every day, Christ save me — and lathered it up in her wash cloth, soaped me up, pulled me into her, breathed me in so deeply, and ...

"That's it."

I could barely hear her. Her voice wasn't even a whisper: it was a sigh.

...

That was two weeks ago, but every day, after she takes me on her roller coaster ride, and then deigns to bring me back down to the Planet Earth when she God damn pleases to, she showers me, and she uses that exact same soap scent, every single time since that day.

I stirred in my bed. In the stench of our trailer park trailer, I lifted my arm up off my unwashed sheets to my nose and breathed myself in deeply.

Lavender. The very softest hint of lavender was awash in my skin.

I turned my head to my left shoulder where Rosalie's chin rested on me as she breathed me in, and I smelled the almost imperceptible scent of rose water...

And realized she was right. She was always so God-damn annoyingly, perfectly right. It did matter what a girl smelled like. No, it didn't matter. It was essential.

I closed my eyes and fell back to sleep, dreaming of walking through an elegant English garden, a gentle breeze showering me with rose petals.

...

That was last night. That's every day with Rosalie Hale. I serve her and I service her and she makes me feel like shit and then she makes me feel like I'm in heaven, and I never, ever, know where I am with her, my head's always spinning so fast.

But today was ... different.

Rosalie came out from the kitchen. Oh, look, she had slipped back on her capris! I hadn't noticed, but I guess it made sense.

I mean ... I don't think she'd like all that much the wall-eyed expression on my face and the drool coming out of my mouth as my eyes fixed on that one place — what did they call it? 'Heaven's Gate' or something? — every time she'd uncross her legs to shift position on the couch.

She handed me a tall, heavy glass of diet coke, iced, and sat across from me on the couch with her own. She took a careful sip, regarded me closely and then put the glass aside on a coaster on one of her end tables.

"Drink, Bella," she ordered.

I took a small sip of the coke.

"More," she said.

She was totally unreadable.

I drank a bit more.

"Put the glass down."

I carefully placed the glass on the glass table between us.

Rosalie frowned. She picked it up, herself, and placed it besides her own. Two heavy tall glasses out of the way, out of the line of sight between us, my glass with a little more coke drunk than hers.

"Let's talk," she said.

I'm glad she had told me to put the glass down. It would've been bad, me having to clean up the mess of coke and broken glass all over the floor if the glass had been in my hands then. It would have slipped through nerveless fingers.

A/N: Um. Um... GAWD! sigh ... a little disjoint here in this chapter, time-linear-wise, but if you didn't get the time shifts, just reread the chapter (again) (because I know you will, you pervy pervs!) :p