TW- Body horror, drunken assault
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By the time dinner ends, her head is heavy, mouth cotton-dry even as she slides an ice cube over her tongue. Miserable, she stares at her still-full plate, having only been able to pick at the vegetables. She couldn't bring herself to eat the chicken, couldn't repress his voice long enough to make herself forget. So instead she stared at him, watched him take his time with his meal, feigning obliviousness to her gnarling chest. She watched him use the same knife he threatened her with to cut into a steak, the rare meat bleeding red. It is the same red of the wine, of raw throats, of skinned elbows. Even when she closes her eyes, the electric light paints the inside of her eyelids red. The whole world is weeping sanguine.
Her head jolts forward as she almost falls asleep against her propped fist. She considers just laying her head down on the table but doesn't, instead stares at her knees. She hates her knees. Or rather, she hates how they stick out. Her body takes up too much space. Maybe if she was smaller, she wouldn't be noticed. How lovely, she thinks, to fade right into the wall. She imagines being too small to see, too small to hit. To just be a mind… no body, no skin, no verdict… She nods off again, startling awake when Olaf laughs.
"Not tonight. Maybe next time."
Standing, he grabs her arm, lifts her from her seat. She trips over her own foot, stretches to smooth out her dress. Idiot, she chastises herself, dressing like it's a damn funeral. If she had worn white, if they had seen the blood- But no. She'd sooner bleed empty than wear white again.
"Someone's tired," the waiter chuckles.
She starts to tell him no, she's just drunk, but Olaf interrupts her.
"Kids, am I right?" He smiles that fake smile again and she hates him, hates the practiced movement of his hand as he more autographs than signs the check. "No thanks at all." Surreptitiously, he reaches around her, pinching her arm.
"Thanks, dad." She jumps away from his hand, inadvertently moving closer to him.
"You be good to your father now, you hear?" The waiter smiles. She imagines sinking her teeth into him and is horrified at her capacity for such thoughts.
"Oh don't worry. She's a real daddy's girl; aren't you?" She is somewhat aware of Olaf pinching her cheek. Sluggishly, she shoves at his hand. Both men laugh.
Her feet are uncertain, balance uneven as they walk, but even in her state she is marginally aware that they have made a wrong turn.
"This isn't-" she stumbles, holding onto his arm as he opens an unmarked door, pushing her inside. It's dark and decidedly the wrong room, but he's shut the door behind himself before she has the chance to do anything more than brace herself against some hard ceramic. He wastes no time in groping her, grabbing her breasts with both hands as he tries to kiss her, missing her mouth. Pushing back, she fumbles against the wall, tries to find a lightswitch. She scarcely has space to step before she's hit the back wall, fingers brushing over plastic tubes, wooden sticks. A broom closet. She's in a broom closet. Roughly, he shoves her, stepping between her legs to hold her up with his thigh, grinding his crotch against her hip. He relinquishes her breast long enough to grab her face, locate her lips and shove his tongue into her mouth. When he kisses her, all she can think of is congealed blood. Gagging, she spares a moment to be thankful there are plenty of buckets nearby should she actually vomit.
Ever greedy, his fingers work their way under her dress, lifting it up. The waist pinches as it's forced upwards, inside seams scratching her skin, but he does not care. He is already pulling down the cup of her bra, pinching her nipples with his fingertips, always so desperate to hurt her.
Crouching slowly, he kisses down her sternum, knocking her breath with a particularly harsh kiss to the crux of her ribs. Her skin is so smooth, like the glossy magazine centerfolds, all bone and trampoline abdomen. He imagines biting his tongue, leaving a trail of blood over her body, marking her as his. He wants to bite her lip and bleed into her mouth, crawl inside her veins until there is nothing left for him to take.
Kneeling, he lifts her leg, searching with starved fingertips for where he has cut her. "Look what you've done," finding the wound, he clicks his tongue before pressing his lips to it, feels her shudder as he runs his tongue over the seam. His fingers dig into the flesh of her thigh, her pretty dress falling around his arms. "I don't want to hurt you, Violet, but you keep insisting upon it," he mutters, kissing a bruise into her leg so that the slash becomes an exclamation point.
"Olaf, please. I want to go to bed."
He can barely see her in the dark, can only just make out her pinched forehead, the razor line of her eyelashes. She isn't looking at him, won't look at him. He smiles.
"Don't you want to be good for me?"
"I want to sleep."
"Oh, no no no," he clicks his tongue, standing again. "Not after you spent all night being such a tease." He rocks his leg between her thighs, digs his fingers into her ass. She shudders. "That was an expensive meal, Orphan. If you're going to make me pay for all that wine, the least you can do is put out."
"Please!" He can hear the tears standing in her eyes as she grips his biceps, tries to keep herself upright. He chuckles.
"Oh, come on now." Kissing her eyelids, he licks the salt from his lips. "Be a big girl." Without waiting for a response, he slides his hand into her panties. She turns her face away, but does not try to leave, letting a sob rack her body. Quick, he smacks a hand over her lips, shushes her as his fingers find purchase, begins stroking her. "Quiet, now. See? I'm being kind. All I want is to make you feel good." He rubs her in tight circles, keeps his leg between hers though she is no longer held against it. She holds onto his arms, elbows locked as she cries hot tears over his fingers.
"God, it's so easy to get you wet," he whispers against her ear. Her fingers curl into fists. She wishes she could see, had something to fix her eyes upon. The darkness is swimming, spinning, turning her stomach in drunken horror. He kisses along her jaw, his moan vibrating throughout her skin as she gasps. "There we go, good girl. See? I knew you weren't a frigid date." Her knees buckle, blood rushing her head as she realizes with surprise that she is on the brink of climax. He speeds up, rubbing her clit in tight, raw circles. The heat grows metastatic inside her, spreading up her spine. She doesn't want to finish against his unwashed hands, doesn't want him to think she'll let him handle her so easily. If she passes out, will he catch her?
The ridiculous girl is still crying. His own breath is heavy, labored as he works; he knows she likes it rough. Her whimper catches between his fingers, weight dropping as she flattens her back against the wall, groaning.
"Good Brat," he pants, trying to see her face. "Good little whore."
Her eyes are ringed in little red halos when she finally deigns to look at him. Smiling, he makes her ride out her climax, not stopping until he is certain she is going to topple over.
There are so many germs in her body. She can feel them crawling off the floor, up her body, into the splitting gorge of her leg. She pictures his teeth, loose and clogging her flesh. Again, she retches, but his hand is still over her mouth and so the sound goes unnoticed.
This is not a broom closet. It a courtroom floor. She is sitting witness to her own homicide, her body neatly labeled Exhibit A. She watches how easily he makes her cum, how he is more acquainted with her body than she is. If she had to pick her face out of a lineup, could she? He could. He found her a world away, in the middle of the sea. She watches her toes curl inside her shoes, her tongue pressing to her teeth as she groans. I didn't want this, she tries to explain. Perjury, the gavel bangs. You testify against yourself.
She falls into his arms easily enough, and so it is a small task to unzip his pants, lift her onto the rinsing tub and shove himself inside her. A well-trained girl, she muffles her cry against his shoulder. His arousal is a painful knot in his belly, and so when he thrusts, it is neither gentle nor kind. She gasps, legs tightening against his hips.
"That's right, good. You like getting fucked like a brat, don't you?" Tugging at her ear with his teeth, he growls. She whines in return, clutching him tighter. "Do you like it when I hurt you, Orphan?" He laughs as she flinches away from his teeth. Silly girl. "Do you like it when I punish you?"
"Olaf, I'm-" She groans. "I'm so dizzy."
"Answer the question! Do you like it?" He tightens a fist in her wonderfully soft hair, feels her fingers dig into him in response.
"Yes, daddy! I like it!"
"Good girl," he smirks. "You're insatiable, aren't you? Is that why you're always acting up, hoping you might be so lucky that I decide to throw you over my knee?"
"No, I don't-" he interrupts her with his lips, doesn't care to hear what she has to say, too busy playing inside her. She feels his poison tongue, feels the death of his soul creep into her body. It's never been about filling the emptiness inside him, she realizes. He wants her to be as hollow as he is, wants to eviscerate her until they are one and the same. Motionless, she lies still in his arms, stares at the tumbling darkness as he moves her. Maybe he will sleep tonight, she thinks. Maybe she can sleep tonight. He grunts in rhythm with his thrusts, teeth hitting hers. For a moment she is afraid he will unhinge his jaw entirely, swallow her whole.
Without warning, he pulls her off the tub ledge, places a hand on the top of her head to shove her down. It is a movement she is accustomed to, and so she falls to her knees easily, the linoleum floor biting painfully into her kneecaps. Groaning, he slides himself into her mouth, holding the sides of her face as he begins the thrust again. She feels him hit the back of her throat, remembers again the spinning nausea in her gut. If she throws up, he might actually throttle her. Holding her breath, she closes her eyes, forces herself not to cough. With a moan, he shudders, cums on the back of her tongue. He pumps a few more times, spending himself entirely before stepping back with a contented sigh. She tucks him back into his pants, rezips the close before trying to stand again on her unsteady feet.
"Good job, Orphan." He grips her bicep, pulls her to her feet with a grunt. "Very nice." She stands silent, all her words exhausted as he fixes her dress for her. Giving her one more pat-down, he kisses her lips before opening the door, shoving her out into the harsh, spinning electric light.