There's a hand against my back. Pushing. I resist; I stumble. I am propelled forward, through an open door. The room is small, a laundry room. It has pine paneling on the walls, but the floors are cement, painted with grey sealant. I am standing in the middle, mind blank, trying to be calm.
I'm standing with my back against the wall, between the mattress on the floor and the small, broken dresser that houses my clothes. My eyes are closed, but tears continue to fall. He's yelling at me again. My entire body aches with the need to shake. I will not let it. I will not show my fear. He pauses. He must be looking for a response. I squeak out "Yes, Master." The yelling continues. I open my eyes in time to see the hand that is about to connect with my cheek. I close them again.
There are hands on my shoulders. He is about my height. With my shoes, he's only about an inch taller. I take deep breaths. He professes his adoration for me, saying that I'm the most intelligent, most beautiful woman he's ever met. I thank him. What else am I s'posed to do? He asks something else; I quickly make up a reply. I hug him, and say I must go; I have things to do. I need to leave. His hands tighten on my shoulders; he pulls me closer. He tries to kiss me. My lips are pressed tight; I back up. My ass is against the laundry tub. I cannot go any further.
My shirt is practically torn off me. He presses me harder against the wall with his body, shoving my yoga pants off my hips. They are loose, and fall to the floor. My panties are ripped. He tosses me to the mattress. I know better than to resist by now, but I still fight. My hands are slapped to the carpet, held tight around the wrists by his hand. I feel the carpet begin to burn with the friction he's created. All of his weight is on me now. He raises his other hand, asks a question. I do not respond fast enough. The crack of his fingertips against my face echos off every surface in the room. He asks again. This time, I am not loud enough. Another crack. He asks again. I am quick enough and loud enough. He is satisfied, so this crack does not echo quite as much.
He asks me why I won't let him kiss me. I am otherwise engaged, I remind him. I gloss over the fact that I am not attracted to him, and even if I was, this is not the way to get me to like him. He takes off my glasses. I stare at him, or rather, though him. I cannot see. I do not want to see. He tries to put my specs back on me, but fails. I take them, and place them properly. He tries to kiss me again. I turn my head away. I try not to shake. I will not show my fear. With a burst of inspiration, I remember a question he had asked earlier. I give him the answer. It is not one that he likes. He tells me, nay, begs me, to stop. He cannot hear anymore. Still, I talk. I tell; I explain. I am empowered.
His hands are gentle. His kisses a large slice of heaven. He worships me. I live for the moment. I am the moment. His hands are in my hair - and I am not frightened. His lips are everywhere. His scent is everywhere. I am floating and falling. He is perfection. I curl up tight next to him, a smile on my face as I drift off to sleep.
I repeat that I must go. I hug him again and begin to push him aside. Someone opens the door. We both glance at it, me with relief, him with regret. I repeat my need to go again. He finally - finally! - respects something I have to say, and I scamper off.
We say our goodbyes, and get in our respective cars. I cry. Someone who respects me. Someone who could cherish me. Someone who could truly love me. And I let him go. But the things you let go, sometimes come back. He came back. He is my otherwise engaged. He is the one that makes me smile as I enter the realm of dreams. He rescued me.
~ IronKit ~
Zeit. Ich brauche mehr Zeit. |
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