My Sister Rosalie, Book I: Captor

by geophf

Chapter 92: You know what's hard? Being with Rosalie. Fighting with her, all the time. You know what's worse? Being without Rosalie. That's really hard. I just didn't know hard it was... until now. And now I know, don't I. So, what am I going to do about this? More importantly, what are WE going to do about this? The end.

73. totus tuus

Chapter Summary: I am hers. She can do with me whatever she wants. And she is my Rose. Warning: graphic and gratuitous depiction of physical punishment. NSFW.

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"That took a while."

Rosalie didn't shift a muscle, and her face was expressionless. She just sat there, leaning against the hardback of the chair.

It was an observation from her of the passing time. Only that, and nothing more.

Except for the undercurrent of her annoyance and mounting displeasure with me.

"Yes, it did," I said quietly in acknowledgment.

I wondered if I should apologize, or if that would tick her off more?

I bit my lip. "I'm here, though," I said, hoping she understood what kind of effort that it took me to do just that, just to show up.

Rosalie was still, just examining me dispassionately. She raised her eyebrows, just ever so slightly in acknowledgment, not even giving me a 'Yeah, so?'

That's all I got.

That's something I noticed about her. She was always catching me doing bad things. And, okay, so I screwed up. I really screwed up this time, and, well, every other time, too. But it was like, I don't know, maybe she wasn't waiting for me to screw up, but it seemed like she was always there to catch me when I was messing up.

I screw up big time, all the time, in her eyes. That's how she seems to see me: a screw-up.

And ...

But she never acknowledges when I do something good, even if it's a little thing to her, but it takes everything I have just to try, and she's like ... she doesn't even know nor care. She's always on me about the way I speak, but when I tried really hard to use a big word, like 'spontaneity,' she didn't even say anything at all about it, and she even said I was stupid to think that thinking doesn't let you be spontaneous!

Or I offer her a flower, and it takes all the guts I have to do it, and, worse, she has to give it to me, so I can even think about giving it to her, and she's like, Pffht! You can take your flower back; I don't want it.

I mean, like: okay? Ouch!

And then, okay, so, yes, I'm tired, but I wanted to help, and she goes ballistic on me! She could've just explained this to me, but no, she goes nuts, and then she won't even give me a chance. She's all, like, furious because I want to help? And so now I'm in trouble for that?

I do something wrong, I get in trouble. Okay, but I try to do something nice or I make an effort, and I get in trouble for that, too?

Where's the justice?

Rosalie flicked her fingers at me in a shooing motion.

Remember, Bel-... I mean Lizzie, watch the tongue. Watch the attitude.

I stood there. I didn't know what she meant, but I didn't trust my voice to sound neutral, and, right now, I'd rather be considered stupid than belligerent.

Rosalie waited, but I just kept quiet.

Finally, she said, "Take off your coat, Lizzie, and stay a while."

Then she added, "You are going to be staying a while. A long while."

I had started to take off my coat at her command, but when she added that afterthought, I stopped mid-button, looking at her.

She didn't look angry, which I took as a good sign, but she didn't look anything, and that worried me, because when I couldn't read her, that meant she could go any way, and there was no way for me to tell which way her mood would twist: she could be furious in an instant, or she could be kind and forgiving, or she could be both, one after the other so fast my head would be spinning, trying to keep up.

I restarted unbuttoning again, and asked her, carefully: "Uh ... how long is ... uh ... this gonna take?"

Rosalie was quiet again, just staring at me, watching my every move.

I was locked into her sights.

"Did you ever receive corporal punishment from either of your parents?" Rosalie asked.

There was nothing in her expression or her tone that I could reach out to.

I shook my head.

I never caused any trouble at home, so Pa never needed to. And Ma ...

All I remember from her was her look whenever she looked at me. She didn't punish me, ever, she just wished I wasn't there.

"I did," Rosalie said.

"I don't remember the infraction," she said, her voice emotionless. "I don't remember ever being intentionally disobedient, but something must have happened, because one day ..."

She pursed her lips in thought.

"Well, my mother didn't brook irregularity, and one day, I found myself over her knee, and ..."

She looks away as she said tonelessly, "...she beat the shit out of me."

"And then," she said after a pause, "she told me a Hale doesn't cry — 'Why are you crying?' she demanded — so she beat me until there were no tears left in me to cry."

"I never cried after that, ever again," she said.

She looked back at me. "Well, after that, we had an image to uphold, so by dinner I had to act as nothing happened so Father wouldn't be perturbed. It must have been hard to sit for me, I suppose."

She shrugged. She didn't say anything after that.

I looked at her, cold, dispassionate, detached.

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Ten, I suppose," Rosalie said.

The same age Ma punished me, by leaving.

"Oh," I said.

"That's how long I'm going to beat you, Lizzie," Rosalie said.

I felt my heart beating, my breaths coming in shallow sips.

I licked my lips and asked tremulously, "'Til ... 'til I can't cry any more?"

"No, Lizzie," Rosalie said coolly, "Mother beat the shit out of me. Well, I'm going to find what in you says the word 'fuck,' then ..."

Her hand on her chin came down to rest on her lap. "I'll beat the fuck out of you."

"Oh," I said.

Suddenly, I wasn't so sure I'd be able to make it through this.

"Um, Rosalie ...?" I put forward tentatively. "I've been ... well, okay, I thought a bit outside, and maybe ... you know, we could ... resolve this like adults, you know? I am sorry, and I shouldn't have said it, and I know ..."

I paused and whispered, "I know I hurt you, and I'm sorry about that, Rosalie, and I won't do it again."

Rosalie regarded me coolly from her seated position, and I felt vulnerable and exposed standing there, my coat half off my shoulders. She brought her hands up to her face and steepled them in front of her.

"That seems a very reasonable suggestion," Rosalie said in a considered voice.

I watched her the whole time she said this. What she said was a compliment, right?

But I couldn't tell, by looking at her, what she was thinking — what she was really thinking, that is. Her whole demeanor was relaxed, but there was nothing at all coming from her body language.

"Very mature," she added neutrally.

Still nothing from her. At all.

"Thank you," I said carefully.

"So," she confirmed slowly, "you thought of all this just now, did you?"

She did the hand flick-thing again. So I finished taking off my coat, looking at her the whole time, as I responded humbly, "Yes."

I dropped my coat by 'our' clothes piles. I don't think she had the patience for me folding it neatly.

"So," she continued coolly, "this all came to you after saying 'fuck you' to me, and not before?"

"Uh, ..." I contributed wittily.

"Right," Rosalie noted grimly.

She examined her nails critically.

I didn't know what to do. I was nervous, but also frozen to the spot.

"Do you need an engraved invitation?" Rosalie remarked, sounding bored, but I could see her mounting irritation.

"Oh," I whispered, and started going to her.

She looked up at me and tsked.

I stopped.

"Pants," she ordered, and flicked with her hand.

The blood drained from my face.

I guess there were rules to this. I felt really embarrassed for not knowing them, and I felt scared that she was making me strip right in front of her. I looked around in a panic for something to hide behind while I took off my pants, but that's when I saw that she had folded the triptych back into itself and leaned it against the wall.

There was nothing between her and me.

I bit my lip hard and undid my belt, and then started to unbutton my fly. I was looking down, hard, only at my clumsy hands trying not to shake as they undid the buttons, and the heat on my face was almost actually burning hot.

But that was nothing to what embarrassed me when I slid down my pants.

You see, there are the blond-nordic Germans, those blond-blue-eyed teutons that have only hair on the tops of their heads and eyebrows and need to look at the razor once every two weeks for that one hair, maybe in one armpit. And then there're the brown Germans, or ... gorillas. You know: the girls with mustaches and beards who shave every few days, and it all comes right back — thick, rich, 'luxurious' are possible words to describe the hair here, there and everywhere — and, well ... I hadn't shaved since before Rosalie picked me up on this field trip to nowhere. So that was ... a week? two weeks?

So guess which type of girl I was?

My pants went down around not Rosalie-pristine leg-skin, but a nice long spindly pair of lawns, or shaggy rug carpets, or ...

Oh, God! I looked ugly!

But, luckily for me, I had my huge knobby knees to distract attention away from my skinny, hairy legs, right?

Rosalie could have skipped the spanking and just had me stand there while she stared at my legs, and I couldn't've imagined a worse punishment than that.

I stepped out of my pants, actually shocked that I hadn't lost balance taking them off and sat on my butt or fallen flat on my face, and looked down at them, wondering if I should put them somewhere.

Wondering anything, just so as not to look at Rosalie.

But I forced my eyes up, and swallowed, taking a step toward my doom.

Just to get this over with and then crawl under a rock and die.

Rosalie frowned and shook her head.

"...enh?" I asked, being all intelligent like that.

"Panties," she commanded.

"Whaaaa?" I exclaimed, shocked and mortified.

"Take, ... your panties, ... OFF!" Rosalie thundered, nearly screaming, her patience clearly gone.

I looked at her in complete surprise. She couldn't mean ...

"But why?" I pleaded.

Rosalie arose from her chair.

She was done playing.

She stalked toward me, death hanging about her like a cloud. I backed away from her, and promptly tripped over my own pants on the floor behind me.

She kept coming until she was right by my head, and she sunk down to her knees, looking at me beneath her with an utterly-controlled look of fury in her eyes.

"Baby," she said very calmly, very quietly. "Here is what is going to happen. I am going to give the orders, and you are going to obey them, without question. I am going to spank the fuck out of you, then I'm going to wash out your fucking dirty mouth with soap, and then you are going to be grounded until such time that I feel that I no longer want to fucking kill you whenever I even think about what you said to me. Now, you can choose to go along with this plan, or you can choose not to, but either way, this is what will transpire."

"Now," she brought her hand to my shoulder, and I almost screamed in terror at her light touch, "you can remove your panties, or I will. Either way they are coming off. So, I say to you, one last time: Take. Off. Your panties."

I looked at her preternaturally calm, impassive face, and I'm sure mine looked nothing like hers. I was panting a mile a minute, and my eyes were as big as saucers.

"Please," I begged between gasps, "Rosalie, I can't. I can't do that. I..."

Her face was without mercy.

"I..." I whimpered. "I can't. You ... please, Rosalie ... you take them off, I guess."

I turned my head away, so ashamed, so ashamed of myself, so reduced to a sniveling worm.

"Lizzie," Rosalie said quietly, "look at me."

I looked toward her, breathing shallowly, an emotional wreck.

Her left hand was resting on my shoulder. She slowly raised her right hand about a foot from my face and turned it, slowly, so that her palm was facing away from me.

Was I scared she would hit me?

I actually was just completely transfixed. I knew if she did hit me, she could hurt me really badly, but her hand just stayed there.

"Do you see my hand, Lizzie?" Rosalie asked quietly. "Look at the fingernails."

I did as she bid.

Her fingernails were closely cropped to her fingers, almost, but not quite recessed.

She sat back on her feet, her back upright, as she showed them to me.

"Esmé clipped them before they ..." She was quiet for a second, "... became what they are."

She continued more rapidly, confidently, as if having gotten over the difficult part. "She had to, for, you see, they aren't fingernails anymore: they're as hard as diamonds, and as sharp as razors. If they weren't trimmed, I would slice through metal vault door, for example, just by brushing my fingertips along its surface."

She grimaced. "Of course, Esmé just had to clip my nails before I got to Royce cowering in that vault, so I had to use my fists, instead, but ..."

She shrugged.

"It all ended up the same, anyway," she concluded darkly.

She took her hand away.

"Here's how I'll take off your panties, Lizzie," she said quietly, redirecting her attention to me. "I'll put you over my knee, and flay at you with these stubby fingernails until there's not a shred of cloth from your panties left on your body."

I looked up at her in terror.

"But...but..." I stuttered, "there might be some blood."

One side of her lips twitched upward in a hard half-smirk, her eyes two lumps of coal. "No, sweetie, there will be lots of blood. All over the place. On you. On me. The walls. The floor. The ceiling. Everywhere."

"But, Rosalie," I said, scared, "how will you control yourself if that hap-..."

"So, either you take them off, or I do." Rosalie was both businesslike and ironic. "I suggest you take them off."

I looked up at her, her hand gently on my shoulder.

"Oh," was all I could say.

I bit my lip. "I'll ... take them off, then, I guess," I said sadly, looking away, cowed, humiliated.

I started to scooch my butt as I hooked my thumbs around the waistband.

Rosalie's hand on my arm stopped me.

"Are you a cur?" she demanded. "Stand up!"

I realized I was looking at her, opened-mouthed, just so enclosed into myself, trying to shut everything else out in my embarrassment.

I mean, you take off your panties in front of somebody else! ... who tells you to!

I hadn't changed in front of another soul in ... in ... I don't know how long! Ever since I learned how to dress myself, I did, and alone when I got the hang of it. I didn't dress and undress in front of Ma, and especially not in front of Pa. That was basically my entire life that I could remember that I had my own room where I did that, and my parents respected the closed door.

There were no separate rooms in this cabin.

I was ashen.

I breathed in. I breathed out.

She called the shots. And I was the shots. Or something like that, God damn it!

I was going to make it through this. I had to.

I turned on my side and Rosalie's hand slid off my shoulder, and I clumsily pushed myself up to my knees, then somehow stood. I don't know how. I was shaking all over and my limbs seemed numb and lethargic.

Rosalie face was right in front of my ... right in front of my panties.

I looked away, not even seeing the walls, and hooked my thumbs again.

I felt Rosalie shift, and looked toward her instinctively.

You know how I stood up? Like a drunkard getting up off the bar floor.

Rosalie just ... rose. She was kneeling, and then her legs straightened underneath her, and then she was standing, a head taller than me, but looking at me, down at me, eye-to-eye.

I pushed my panties down. They went over my butt, whispering across my thick bush, and then they went ... down.

They slid down to my feet so easily, ...

And I felt them go, and I felt ... I did that ... I denuded myself.

Rosalie just kept looking at me. I waited for something from her.

It came.

"Look at that," she drawled sarcastically. "You said you couldn't take off your panties, and, lo! you took off your panties."

She glared at me scornfully.

"Just for reference," she added. "I hate the word 'can't' coming from your mouth when I know full well you can. You might want to remember that, hm?"

I bit my tongue. I swallowed hard. "Okay," I murmured.

Just get through this.

She crossed her arms, waiting. Glaring. At me.

"Do I take off m-my shir-... my shir-... my sweater, too?" I asked.

I almost said 'shirt.' But if I said 'shirt,' would she not think just my sweater? would she also demand I take off my tee shirt, too?

The thing is, I wanted to keep on the sweater. My hands were cupped in front of my ... my legs, but the sweater also came down lower than my tee, and covered half the curve of my butt and half of my ... frontal.

But I didn't know what Rosalie wanted me to do.

She glared down at me, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."

She turned her back to me, and returned to her chair, then sat and waited.

I followed quickly, trying not to think, keeping my sweater on, but pulling the hem of it down over my front, feeling the air between my legs and on my behind as I scurried to her.

I gave her impassive face a quick look, and then ducking my head, draped myself over her.

Her left arm came to rest over my shoulder blades. It was there lightly, but ask me if I could move.

I felt like I was in a very loosely closed vise, or in a machine press.

"No lecture, baby," Rosalie said dispassionately. "There's no point. You won't hear anything I say, anyway. But I do give you permission to scream, if you like, or to beg."

"It won't make any difference."

She said this with absolutely no emotion in her voice.

She gives me permission? I thought affronted.

And then the first strike came, without warning.

Thwack!

"Oh, my God!" I gasped involuntarily.

Rosalie's hand had come down on my left cheek, and it felt like ...

I don't know what it felt like, okay? I had never felt that before. All I knew was that it hurt! It felt like someone had taken a two-by-four and hit me with the flat side of the board. Hard.

But it also felt cold, and hard, not like wood-hard, but like marble-hard, and smooth.

I knew it would be painful. But if she were hitting this hard, I don't think I could last more than five or so smacks.

"Just gauging your tolerance before we begin," she explained.

"Well," I complained bitterly, "that was ha-..."

THWACK!

"aaaaa-eeeeeeeeeeee!" I screamed.

If the first lick was painful, I don't know what that just was. I think I almost heard the wind whistling from her hand coming up off my left cheek, then coming down so hard on my right cheek I thought I was going to die from the pain.

No, that's wrong. I wasn't thinking. I was screaming.

For a while.

Rosalie waited.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God," I cried over and over again when I finally could hear what I was saying.

"That was the first one." Rosalie announced, like it was the first ... something.

I don't care what is was the first of, okay? For God's sake! I thought the other one was the first one. I thought I could survive for a little while if the licks were like the other one.

This one?

That's it. Game over. We are done here.

"Rosalie," I begged. "Oh, my God. Oh, God, please stop. I..."

THWACK! Her hand came down on my left cheek.

I screamed. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

THWACK! Right cheek.

This time — Oh, my God! — she didn't wait for me to stop screaming, so the blinding agony didn't recede from my eyes from the last one. The pain of this one bled right into the last one, and my screaming from the last one just tripled in intensity when the pain hit me from this one.

How many smacks was that?

I don't know. When the first one was so God-awful painful you lose track of yourself, counting them becomes pointless.

But I did know I was an utter and complete mess. Spit and snot were flying up my face because I was draped over her, so my head was down, and those mixed o-so-nicely with my tears that I squeezed out when I shut my eyes so hard with the blow came.

And the sweater?

Now I regretted keeping that on. Sweat had pooled in my armpits, and the sweater worked wonderfully in drawing heat from the now roaring fire in the stove. Sweat created rivers from my armpits, trickling down my arms and over my elbows and dripping off my fingertips. But not only from my armpits, no: it seemed sweat was just coming out of nowhere and was tickling my tummy and ribs and was pooling around my spine, and yeah, okay, was between my legs and rubbing between my butt cheeks, and was ...

It was itching me between my titties, but it was also on them, and it teased me on my breasts and I felt droplets of sweat on my nipples, and that felt uncomfortable and embarrassing and just wrong.

The tee shirt wasn't a tee shirt anymore. It was a sopping wet cloth wrapped so tightly to my body that it was a second skin that didn't like my first, real, skin underneath it, so it bunched and slid in the most embarrassing and unpleasant and contrary directions.

You know how I got to feel all this?

Rosalie had let me.

I finally realized and was aware that she had stopped.

"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "Please, Rosalie, please stop. Lemme up, please. Lem-..."

THWACK!

I screamed.

THWACK!

Oh, my God!

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWAAACK! THWAAACK!

What was so unfair —if I had a functioning brain to analyze it — was that those last five licks weren't light quick ones. No, they were harder than the first one and just kept getting harder.

The last two stung so badly I felt them, the heat of them, vibrating through my whole body, not just in my butt, but in my front and down my legs and up through my chest and up and out through my arms.

I was in agony.

Rosalie lifted me up off her lap, holding me on my arms, just below my shoulders like I was a rag doll. That's exactly how I felt like, because I was blubbering helplessly.

"Had enough?" Rosalie asked casually.

"Oh, God! Yes, please, Rosalie, please!" I screamed.

"Funny," she replied without humor, "because I'm just getting started."

She looked at me coolly. "What would you do to have this stop?"

"Anything!" I cried. "Anything! Please!"

"Anything, huh?" Rosalie smiled cruelly.

"Yes!" I cried desperately.

"Lie to me," Rosalie commanded.

My breath caught in my throat.

I hung my head.

"Just one little lie," she wheedled. "Just tell me you didn't say it, and you're off my lap."

"Rosalie, please..." I implored.

"'Rosalie, please,'" she imitated my words, but not my tone, for she said them so calmly. "'I didn't say it,'" she added helpfully. "That's all you need to say, baby."

I was trying to look away, but she brought her head down and looked at me right in the eye, no matter where I tried to look, and with her hands on my arms, she just turned my whole body so that no matter how much I tried to turn my head away, she was always right in front of me, looking into my averted eyes.

"Hm?" she prompted. "You didn't say it, right, sweetie?"

The tears fell.

"I... did...say it," I wailed.

"Yup," she said easily, "you did."

And she turned me back over her lap, and right then:

THWACK!

"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhiiiiiiieeeeee!" I screamed.

God, that hurt.

THWACK!

No, I was wrong. That one hurt more. I think. I was screaming so loudly, it was affecting my ability to think, but not my ability to feel, because the pain came, then went away, but then came back with a vengeance.

You would think you'd get used to it.

You don't.

I screamed and screamed.

"So," Rosalie said.

THWACK!

I cried out in agony.

"What would you be willing to do..."

THWACK!

"Hm?"

THWACK! THWACK!

"Anything!" I screamed. "Please, oh, God, Rosalie, anything!"

"We've already been down that road, sweetie." Rosalie chided. "You said you'd do anything, but then you didn't. That coin's been weighed and found to be dross."

She paused then said with more feeling, more anger in her words: "What,... would you,... be willing,... to do? Right now." Then she snarled: "Right now."

"I..." I began.

THWAAAAACK!

"Aahhhhaaahahaaaaa!" I screamed, in agony.

"Yes?" Rosalie asked.

"I..." I said.

THWAAACK!

"Oh, GOD! OH! GOD! Rosalie, PLEASE!" I cried.

"Yes?" she demanded angrily.

"I..." I whispered...

... and flinched hard, expecting the blow.

It didn't come.

"Oh, God," I whimpered. "Oh, God, please, Rosalie, what do you want me to do, please, tell me."

"I notice you haven't been saying 'fuck' all that much since we started this little corrective action," she noted. "Do you find it efficacious?"

"Yes," I whispered.

My arms were useless; they just hung there. My entire body was wracked in pain, and I had no idea why, because she was only spanking my butt, but my whole body cried out to me in agony.

"Hm. That's nice." Rosalie commented dryly.

THWACK!

"AAAAAAhhoh my god my god omygod!" I cried weakly, although the pain hurt even more.

"Ya ever gonna say that word again?" Rosalie slurred.

THWACK!

"Nooo! NEVER!" I screamed.

If Rosalie was getting that Back East accent, she must've really been losing it.

Me? I lost it a long time ago. It was all her now, because I was beyond helpless.

"'Never,' huh?' she demanded.

THWACK!

"Yessssssth! NEVER! Please, Rosalie! I promise." I begged.

"You promise?" she snarled.

THWACK!

"YESSSS!" I cried.

This seemed to displease her.

"Say!" THWACK!

"You God-damned!" THWACK!

"PROMISE!" THWACK!

"I promise!" I screamed. "I promise! I promise! I promise!"

"You sure?" THWACK!

"YES!" I pleaded, then added as fast as I can: "I promise, Rosalie, please, oh, God! I promise!"

It stopped.

I breathed. I breathed bubbles through my mouth and bubbles through the snot in my nose.

I was lifted up, gently.

Rosalie regarded me, both critical and cool.

"You promised, baby," she stated. "You just made an eternal promise. Do you understand?"

I was panting, trying to catch my breath, and trying to hear her words above the ringing in my ears and the hammering of my heart and the bellows that were my lungs.

I finally gasped out a very weak "yes."

If she weren't holding me up, I would have fell over and hit my head on the floor.

She looked at me carefully, then said a grave and curt, "Good."

I started to breathe a sigh of relief.

That's when she put me right back over her knee.

THWACK!

"Aaaahhh! Why, Rosalie! Why?" I screamed. "I promised! I'll be good! I promised!"

THWACK!

"Aaaaahhh!" I cried, now totally lost. And I mean, 'lost' like I was losing control of my mind. I was losing control of my body. I was losing my grip on reality

"I'm afraid you're under some misapprehension," Rosalie said calmly.

THWACK!

I screamed and cried in utter confusion.

"Ask me if I give a shit about your promise, hm?" she said coolly.

A gurgling sound came from my voice, and I tasted bile.

"Let me put it another way," she said.

THWACK!

I screamed helplessly. I wish it would stop. I wish it would hurt even a tiny little bit less. But she just seemed to know the exact pacing and the exact amount of force to leave me hovering in agony, and then when I thought I could contain it, or bear it, just push it all again right to the front of my mind.

I had no thoughts. I had only pain.

"Am I beating the shit out of your ass, baby?" she asked coolly.

"Yes!" I cried.

"WRONG!" she shouted.

THWACK!

I screamed again, and then my body did a little tiny tug inside.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no! I just peed. Please, I just peed. Don't ... don't ... just ... just hold on ... just, just hold on...

THWACK!

"That's not your ass I'm beating, baby," she said.

And ...

... I let go.

I was crying helplessly now, so ashamed as I peed and peed.

Rosalie didn't notice? Or just ignored it?

"Your ass is mine now," she said factually.

THWACK!

Oh, God!

There was no mercy from her. She didn't give me a chance to be embarrassed that I peed all over her legs. She didn't care. She just kept whipping me with measured, agonizing strokes.

"And if I wanna beat this ass,"

THWACK!

"Then I'll fucking beat this fucking ass,"

THWACK!

"UNTIL I'M DONE BEATING IT!"

THWACK!

"YOU GET ME?"

"YESSSSS!" I screamed. "OH, GOD! PLEASE! ROSALIE! YES! OH, GOD! oh, god, oh ... oh, my god."

Rosalie lifted me up again, me facing her. I think. I could barely see.

"Oh, God," I whimpered. "Oh, God."

"Do you know what 'your ass is mine' means, Lizzie?" Rosalie asked quietly.

All I could do is pant. I could barely hold my head up.

"I asked you a question," her tone became menacing. "I don't like repeating myself. I asked you: 'Do you know.' 'What.' '"your ass is mine.'" 'Means?' Lizzie."

I tried to focus.

"Lizzie. Do you know what 'your ass is mine' means?"

Rosalie was just as cool as ever. Just as ...

Oh, God.

Just as cruel as ever.

"I..." I whispered, tasting the tears and the snot as it went into my mouth.

Think. Please, God, think. What does 'your ass is mine' mean?

"It means ..."

Oh, godogodgodogodogod. Oh, God.

Oh, God, help me.

"It means m-my ass is yours, Rosalie." I said hopelessly.

Rosalie's eyebrows shrugged and her lips turned down.

"No," she said.

Oh, no. Oh, God. My mouth tasted bitter as I awaited what my wrong guess would earn me.

"No, it means, Lizzie, that you are mine, you got it? You, your heart, your soul, your breath, your body, your mouth, your thoughts, your ass, ... all mine. You. You got it? You are mine."

She held me gently above her lap, my legs draped over her legs, holding me up to her at eye level.

"Yes," I whispered, despondent.

"Say it, Lizzie," Rosalie growled. "Say that you're mine."

I took in a breath. I let it out.

I did that two more times.

I am hers.

I let go.

I looked into her eyes.

"I am yours, Rosalie," I whispered.

Two tears fell. I looked away, and shut my eyes hard as more tears fell.

"No," she said, displeased. "You didn't get it."

Ah. Oh. Why? What did I do wrong?

"Look at me," she commanded.

I looked, biting my lip.

"You are mine?" she asked in clarification.

I nodded my head.

She waited, looking angry.

"Yes," I said helplessly. "I'm yours, Rosalie, you can ..."

"Stop." she barked.

I stopped.

"Lizzie, look. at. me, God DAMN IT!"

I hadn't even realized I'd looked away. I looked back at her, focusing and unfocusing at the same time.

"If you're mine," she said to me, "then you don't have fucking permission to LOOK away from me without FUCKING PERMISSION! GOT IT?"

She said 'fucking permission' twice.

I was just wondering if you noticed that.

"Yes."

That was all I could say to her.

"Good," she said coolly, and nodded just ever so slightly encouragingly. "Now. You are mine. Say it."

She just ...

She just said it like it was gonna happen. She said it like I was hers, and all I had to do was say it.

I was hers.

"I am yours, Rosalie," I said humbly.

"Ah! AH! LIZZIE!" Rosalie warned.

I gasped and collapsed, my head lolling. I was panting.

"Look at me, sweetie," she said gently.

"I can-..."

"LOOK AT ME!" she screamed.

I looked.

Her hands slid up, and I slid down.

My head was now cradled in her hands.

Just like outside, before, when I fainted.

Just like this morning — Oh, my God! Was it THIS MORNING? — when she held my head in her hands, telling me I was beautiful, and then telling me that this was the way she would kill me.

"Don't even think about moving those eyeballs away from me this time!" Rosalie glowered, then smirked.

"You are mine, Lizzie," Rosalie said softly, gently.

Then nodded her head up, once.

I breathed.

"Lizzie?" she prompted.

"I am ... yours, Rosalie. All yours."

I breathed.

She looked into my eyes intently.

The tears were falling from my wide open eyes, looking directly into hers.

I felt myself being pulled into her, and I felt ...

... This time, I felt her being pulled into me.

I felt us becoming one.

I wonder if she's gonna kiss me now?

"That's good, Lizzie," she smiled warmly, "because you stink."

"Ah-hah," I gasped. "Ah-haha, Augh-hah."

I didn't know whether I was laughing or crying.

"No, really, baby," she said. "You smell like tenderized meat."

Her jaw worked, and she swallowed.

"Heh, ah-haha."

Now I knew what I was doing. I was laughing and crying.

And hiccoughing.

"Hic."

Lovely. I thought.

"Hic," I hiccoughed.

"This is no laughing matter, baby," Rosalie scolded. "This is serious."

"Isht's okay, Rosalie," I sniffled, "I'm, hic, yours."

God damn hiccoughs!

Rosalie looked into me so intently. "Yes, baby, it's okay, for you are mine."

"All yours." I said in a sing-song voice.

"You're all mine, Lizzie," she said so quietly this predatory snarl and purr, claiming me.

It felt ... freeing, in a way, kinda.

"Hic,"

"Oh, for God's, hic, sake!" I shouted.

Rosalie sniggered, and she smirked at me.

Her eyes were wanton, pitch black, and the look she gave me could've turned a saint into a sinner in three seconds flat, depending on how fast her panties hit the floor.

"You are so cute!" she sighed happily. "Can I eat your face?"

I didn't know if she were serious or if she were joking. Or ... both?

"No, Rosalie, you can't eat my face," I sighed wearily, the only thing keeping me upright were her hands.

"But you're so cute, Lizzie! Just let me eat your face, hm?" She entreated.

I rolled my eyes. Jeez! This woman! WHAT was I gonna do with her!

"Oh, c'mon, Rose, I'm not food, you know!"

One second. One breath.

Rosalie's shocked face.

Two seconds. Two breaths.

Utter stillness.

Three seconds. Three brea-...

"Lizzie," she said very coolly. "It's 'Rosalie.' Not 'Rose.' 'Rosalie.'"

She raised her head, ever so slightly.

I shook my head in her hands, and — would you look at that? — I started crying again.

"Lizzie," she warned. "It's 'Rosalie.' No one calls me 'Rose,' not after Royce did the night he killed me. Do you hear me? Not Edward, nor any of the Cullens, not you, sweetie. Not anyone. I am Rosalie Lillian Hale. Understand?"

"Rosalie," I said sadly, "I am yours. I am your Lizzie. But you are my Rose, and ..."

I gasped and sobbed.

"... and you always will be. You are my Rose, Rosalie."

I shut my eyes. The tears fell, and the breaths came in easy gasps. She was Rosalie and she was my Rose, all at the same time, and I couldn't explain it.

"And," I sobbed. "I'm sorry Royce did that, that he hurt you so bad that you hate everybody. I'm sorry. But you are my Rose, and you always will be ... and ..."

I just looked at her, beyond despair, beyond crying. I was just gasping in her through my opened mouth, because I couldn't breathe through my stuffed nose at all.

And I was just ... giving myself to her, entirely. Me, in her hands, just breathing her in, breathing her out, and giving myself totally to her, resting entirely in her hands.

"Lizzie, ..." Rosalie whined-sighed plaintively.

Was it her last warning before she crushed my head between her hands?

"Yours, Rosalie. Always."

I wanted to say 'Rose' but my tongue wouldn't obey. I was hers. I was Rosalie's. But she was my Rose. And I didn't know how to say it.

Yes, I did.

"My Rose." I said.

She held me, my Rose, in her hands.

She held me.

---

A/N: From the Latin, totus tuus: "All yours."