Picking At Old Wounds

Image used with permission of Marie Rebelle.

**CW: contains verbal abuse and references to self-harm**

I’m so confused. Was I clear about what I want when I booked this appointment? I’m sure I was. I’m certain that I explained the type of woman I need. But now that I’m here, looking at her, I’m not sure I was understood.

She’s on the floor with her back to me in a position I’m used to assuming myself. On her knees with her soft ass cheeks resting just above her ankles. Arms pulled around in front of her, hands no doubt clasped demurely in her lap.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s fucking hot. Seeing her kneeling there with her head lowered and her thick, wavy locks tumbling down her back has my cock raging hard before the door even closes behind me. The floral tattoo I can see peeking out from beneath all that wheat coloured hair suggests that she enjoys pain. I suddenly feel a strange sense of connection to her. I like pain too, though not the physical kind.

But still, as fuckable as she may be, I didn’t actually pay to fuck her. I’m going to go have a word with the woman downstairs because –

“Take a seat.”

My hand is on the doorknob but I’m not twisting. I like her voice so much, it’s a shame that she isn’t going to be able to use it in the way I want her to. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, wishing I didn’t have to do the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing. But really, I don’t want this. I need to tell her, I need to explain that –

“Are you deaf?”

Her question has confused me even more. Should she be speaking to me like that? I look over my shoulder, hand still on the doorknob. She’s still facing the wall, but her head is turned slightly to the side. I can almost see the shape of her face through the shroud of her hair. Almost. There’s a stillness to her, a gentleness that goes hand in hand with the softness of her voice. What am I supposed to do?

She’s making a snuffling sound. A derisive snigger that makes me feel nervous. My chest tightens. In that softest of soft voices, she says, “You pathetic little man, take your ass and put it in that seat right now if it’s not too complicated for you.”

Oh. Oh my, I don’t know what to make of this, I don’t know what to do, to say, to think. My weak fingers slide off the doorknob and I cast my gaze around the room to locate the chair. Jesus, is that what she wants me to sit in? That’s not a chair it’s a throne. High backed, wide armed, ornate and painted a startling yellow gold. I can’t sit in that, it’s not for me, it’s –

“Sit. Down. Now.”

As soon as my ass touches the purple velvet cushion I feel like a sinner. A fraud. I shouldn’t be sitting in a seat like this in a place like this. I should be on my knees in front of a woman who –

“You sad little man,” she sniggers again. “How does it feel to be sitting in a seat meant for men greater than you? Does it make you feel important? You’re not, you know. You mean nothing. Nobody likes you. Everyone thinks you’re a pitiful, small man.”

She still doesn’t turn around. She just clicks her fingers to let me know she expects a response. But as I open my mouth to speak she cuts me off.

“You dare speak to me? Who the fuck do you think you are, you ugly creature? Does your pathetic attempt to defend yourself get you off? Does back answering your betters make your dick hard?”

Again with the laughing. It cuts right through me, making my heart gallop, my stomach roll until I want to be sick. She’s laughing at me. Making fun of me. I watch her hand rise to the side, watch her fingers part an inch as she talks in quick bursts.

“I bet your cock is tiny,” she says. “It probably isn’t even big enough to fill the gap between my front teeth. Shall we find out? Shall I suck your itty-bitty dick? I bet it isn’t even big enough to pass between my teeth.”

Her hand is against the wall and her shoulders are shaking with mirth. I’m shrinking into my seat, trying to ignore the rapid softening behind my zipper, trying to ignore the words that spew from her mouth.

“You want to fuck me, don’t you? Hateful piece of shit, you’ve brought your teeny penis to me because nobody else wants it. Nobody wants you because you’re disgusting. Fat, powerless, stupid. Who would want to fuck you? Only someone with a dick, I’d bet. Someone who could turn you away so that they don’t have to see your face. Someone who can fuck your grotesque ass until they come then leave you lying on the floor, desperate for release but crying because all you have is someone else’s pleasure leaking from your hole.”

Oh no! I didn’t mean to cry out, but it escaped me. She’s howling now, slapping the wall, singing in the harshest, most mocking croak I’ve ever heard.

“Useless, unwanted, unloved, unfuckable, ugly, sad fucking man. Do you think this could ever be for you?”

My gasp catches in my throat and I start to cough. She’s leant forward to show me her wet, shaved cunt. A cunt I won’t ever get to touch. When I suck in a desperate breath a few tears are dragged over my lips, their saltiness splattering my tongue and making me want to hurl. She’s still singing. Still deriding me, insulting me, shrieking jeers one minute and murmuring taunts in a sultry croon the next.

I can’t stop myself from crying. Tears pour over my cheeks, drip off my chin to leave grey marks on my white shirt. I’m squeezing my cufflinks in my hands so hard they might cut my palms. I hope they do. I want them to, need them to, it’s the only way this pain will leave me.

No, it isn’t.

There’s another way.

I know there is.

She knows, too.

“You couldn’t even pay me to fuck you,” she hisses. “No amount of money in the world could get me to spread my legs for a vile man like you. Do you know why?”

My shoulders are shaking now. I’m sobbing, and she can hear me. People passing by the other side of the door can probably hear me. I feel so sad I can’t even comprehend it. It’s ruinous, life-changing, maybe even life ending. I hate her, I hate being here, I hate what I want and what I need, but not half as much as I hate myself.

“Do you know why?!” she yells.

I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. “NO!” I yell back.

“Because you’re not fucking worth it.”

A low keen rises from my throat, getting higher and louder, filled with so much despair it should be shocking to me. It isn’t.

She starts to chant, “Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it,” in a harsh, angry voice. The voice I asked for, the voice I’m here for. The voice and the words that shattered my world two years ago and left me in this fucking mess, in this state that I can’t get myself out of.

My hands wrap around the arms of the throne and I try to stop it, but I can’t. I just sit and cry as piss forces its way out of my flaccid cock. It soaks the cushion, runs down my thighs, seeps into the tops of my socks. It should be warm, but it isn’t. My body is so aflame with shame my piss has gone cold.

Still, she mocks me, her words tearing holes in my soul even as they fill my dick with lead. “Pissy pants,” she giggles. “Poor baby wet his knickers because he can’t handle the truth. Smelly, pissy boy.”

I fucking hate her. Or maybe I love her. I need her to talk to me, to touch me, to look at me. But she won’t do two of those three things and I’m just going to sit here in agony while she keeps her back to me.

“Why won’t you look at me?” Christ, the pleading in my voice is sickening. I don’t want her to look at me, don’t want to see her pitying me. But I want her to look because I want to know who she is and what she looks like. I want to know who else I’m not good enough for.

“You don’t deserve it,” she spits. “You’re not worth it, you don’t deserve it, you’re not worth it, you don’t…deserve…me.”

I vaguely wonder if my scream startled her. It exploded from somewhere black inside of me, forced out by the sheer intensity of my orgasm. My whole body is rocking with it, my back aches, my thighs burn, my asshole spasms wildly with each and every pulse. It goes on and on, fuelled by fear, anger, hurt, and betrayal. An orgasm given life by the very words that broke my heart, a dreadful, lingering pleasure fed by a voice so similar to the one that had spoken them.

I don’t see her get up. Don’t hear her cross the room, don’t know she’s with me until my head is cradled between her tits and she’s stroking my hair, whispering that everything will be fine, that I will be fine.

I don’t have the energy to tell her that she’s wrong.

Week #198
Prompt by Marie Rebelle

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *