So I've had this one nagging at me for a while. To be honest (a bad habit I'm trying to break (blush)), I didn't really know if it 'fitted' into GWA. Heck - that's one of the reasons I'm posting it. To see if it does :-). So if you (Moderator Deity or GWA citizen) don't think it 'fits' here, let me know. You can post a reply here,or send me an IM, and I promise I'll take no ill of it (heh, not that it would matter if I did - the needs of the many are greater than any poor scribble of mine :-)) ).
So why do I wonder if it 'fits'? Well, apart from the fact that it's just another scribble, as it sits in my head, it doesn't stand alone. In my head, it's Part 1 of (so far at least) 3. And though I've tried to make it stand-alone capable, that arguably makes it too disjointed and too long for what ye all would prefer here (blushes again). And also, because even though i want it to stand alone, it's still potentially a lesser part of an even less significant whole (just a scribble, so it is :-))) ), it has elements of back-story in it. And finally - it might just not be 'stimulating' enough to fit what folk want here. but like I said - just let me know, and I can always move it to TJ's subreddit or some such :-).
Thus and so. That's probably far too many words, especially for somethin g that's just more words. Without wanting to break any of the posting rules (and my apologies if I am), I'd be interested to know if you think it fits here - and if you'd like to see Part 2 and Part 3. Or, um, not (blush.)
So here it is. Over to y'all...
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DOCTOR'S ORDERS - Part 1 (maybe)
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Cunt. Slut. Fucktoy. Like, I don’t know who you are, you out there. But if you’re a woman, and someone called you one of those, which would you hate most? And if you’re a guy, which one do you think a woman would hate most if you used it to her, about her?
Well guess what. It’s a trick question.
It’s a trick question because, well, because if one of them’s wrong, then they’re all wrong. But if one of them’s right? If one of them’s right, it’s not just that they’re all right. If one of them’s right, then the woman it’s said to, her clit’s going to get hard, and her nipples are going to get hard, and – well. Like, and. With serious ‘and’ on the side. And if one of them’s right, then the guy using it? His cock’s going to get hard, and his – actually, yeah. His cock’s going to get, like, so fucking hard. To have a woman he can use words like that to, and she’s not going to call the cops, and she’s not going to throw things. Because she’s not going to do a damn thing but get dripping wet and want more. And yeah, I know guys get hard nipples too. But not like a woman gets hard nipples. So hard and so tight they hurt, and so hard and so tight all she wants is for them to get just a little bit harder, just a little bit tighter, and hurt just a little bit more. And big. Big enough to suck, big enough to bite, and to pinch and twist and…
Fuck. I am so fucking wet.
See, it’s not that guys got the short end of the stick. I’ve got nothing against cocks – well, actually, what I most like against cocks, the right cocks, is me – but guys? Cock is pretty much all they have. So not so much the short end of the stick, more just the stick. But, and again only if it’s right, that can be more than enough. Like, a guy with the right stick, and the right woman? Hell, yeah. Like, fuck yeah.
And that’s me. Because I love a guy. A guy with a stick.
Actually, that’s not really true. Because it’s not just a stick. I love a guy with a crop, and a whip, and a belt, and a hard hand on soft skin, and…
Fuck. Like, fuck!
So that’s how it is. Cunt. Slut. Fucktoy. When it’s the right woman? When it’s the right woman, it’s like that movie. You know, where she walks into that bar and she says, like, play it again, Sam. But the movie in my head, it’s not like that. Because she walks into the bar, and he, the guy Sam, he says, like, ‘hello cunt’. Or ‘hello slut’, or ‘hello fucktoy’. And her? She looks at him, and she’s got this smile on, and you know her nipples are fucking hard under the silk shirt she’s got on and the bra she hasn’t. And she smiles, and she says, like, ‘say it again, Sam’. And he says it again. ‘Hello, slut’. ‘Hello cunt’. ‘Hello, fucktoy’. And she’s down on her knees so fucking fast, and she’s got his zip down and his cock in her mouth so fucking deep…
Shit. I am so wet.
I hate it when he has to go away. But he always leaves me something to do. Like this. And I’m a good girl. I always do as I’m told. So here I am. Doing it. And I don’t know who you are, you out there, or rather, who you’re going to be. I don’t even know if you’re going to exist at all. He just told me to record this. Will he send it to someone? Post it on the Net for anyone to find? Make it our answer-phone message? I don’t know. I don’t know, and I don’t care. Because he told me to do it, so I’m doing it. I’m sat here in my high heels, my garter belt and stockings, and fuck-all else apart from his steel collar locked round my throat. And it’s steel and it’s cold – but that doesn’t stop it burning me everywhere it touches, every time it slips and slides on my skin. Burning, but with a fire I love to burn in. And he told me to do this, to record this, so that’s what I’m doing.
Welcome. Welcome to my me.
Me. You ever think about that, you out there? I mean, we all know who we are, right? We spend all day being us, so we must know, yeah? Well, fuck that. We don’t. Sure, we spend all day being someone. But it ain’t us. Or moistly it… Shit. I hate that word. Like ‘moistly’. But I know what he told me I had to do tonight, and I’m sitting here, with my knees wide apart like he said in his email I had to keep them, and I’m ‘moistlying’ like Niagara fucking Falls. So sue me – I meant ‘mostly’, OK? As in, ‘mostly it’s just us being what we think we have to be, or what we think someone else wants us to be. But that’s not what tonight’s about. Not what he told me I had to do. So you out there? You stop thinking about what’s between my legs right now, and maybe I can too. Stop thinking about what’s between my legs, I mean. How hard it is, how wet - how empty and aching to be…
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.
I know. I’m getting distracted. He said I had to tell you about It. That Day - the day I started being me. And doing as I’m told is pretty much what all this is about. So here goes.
If I’m going to do this, I sort of have to not do it. Because he told me to tell you about That Day – the day it started. But it didn’t – start That Day, I mean. I mean, yes it did – but it really didn’t too. Because that’s not how things are, is it? Like, they don’t ‘start’. There’s something else, and somewhere in it something happens, and only after you, like, see how maybe that was the start. So yeah. I’ll get to That Day. But I have to tell you some other shit first, or it just won’t make sense. And maybe it won’t anyway, but I have to do it so it makes sense to me. Not that it does, really. But it doesn’t really have to, because…
Fuck.
So I got this phone call. My Mom and Dad had died. Well, I say ‘died’. Blown brake line doing fucked-if-I-know miles-per out on the highway. And if nothing else made sense, I mean what happened later, that did. Because they died together, and that was Mom and Dad. Like, that’s how it was. Mom and Dad – Dad and Mom. As far as they were concerned, that was it. Me? They knew I happened somewhere – but I didn’t really. Because Mom only saw Dad, and Dad only saw Mom. And that sounds kinda nasty, like they didn’t give a shit. But it wasn’t like that. They made me, and they took care of me, and they brought me up just fine. And when i said it was what i wanted, they put me through med school. And I got my hugs and my kisses when I was a kid – but it was when Dad walked into the room that Mom got that look in her eyes, like the sun just came up. And it was when Mom was near that Dad was the same. So yeah – they loved me. But they loved each other. And all the time I was growing up I didn’t resent what they had – not even being part of their family, but not really part of ‘it’. But fuck – I knew I wanted the same damn thing when I grew up. The exact same fucking thing.
But I knew. I knew when they told me about Dad. I knew I’d be getting a call some time. Because Mom wasn’t going to let herself be around one damn second without Dad. And Dad, he’d shown me the test results. I was practicing by then, and he wanted me to tell him what they really meant – not the shit his own doctor was giving him. And I wouldn’t tell him – so he knew. Because I wouldn't tell him.
So that was it. I wondered how Dad had done it. He would have wanted to make sure I got the insurance, so it wouldn’t have been anything dumb like a hacksaw. And Mom? She’d have watched while he did it. Because it was just one more thing they did together, like everything else. Did – then got in the car, got on the highway and – well. And. Hammer down, and gone. So I got the insurance. And I got the house too. I didn’t need it – I had my place in the city. I could have maybe kept it, gone there weekends and shit – but I wasn’t really the country type. Everything I wanted was in the city. To me a place with no neighbours for miles was just a good way to get bored.
Yeah. Bored. I can feel myself grinning. Like, bored. Hah!
So I go out there, and I figure I’d better look the place over before I find a Realtor to turn it into spending green. And I’m going over the place, and you’d think it would be, like, all my old memories rushing back. Like maybe the door frame with all my little height marks on it, where Mom and Dad measured me on my birthdays. Thing is, there wasn’t one. A doorframe, I mean. That’s just something you get in bad movies. And memories? Home wasn’t big on those, good or bad. It wasn’t my place. My place was med school, and Charlie Baker the nights we had study time and went wild on 'human anatomy'. My place was graduation night, and Sally Spence showing me how girls had 'anatomy' too, and how damn fine it was studying that. The house? The house was Mom and Dad’s place, not mine.
So I’m going through the place. Not so much the ‘one last time’ thing. More gathering papers, checking the safe, Mom’s jewellery. Not that I had to. The safe was open, a box on the shelf above it with a list in Dad’s handwriting. Every paper, every record, all itemised. Mom’s jewellery? All sorted, neatly packed, that list in her handwriting. And nothing else. No clothes, no pictures, no old photographs – I mean, hell, did they burn them? A taste of fire in advance of the one they were going to make on the highway? Fucked if I know. But whatever it was, I knew they’d have done it together.
And then it happened. Because I was in their bedroom, and I tripped. Tripped, and reached out to the wall to stop me falling. And I hit the wall, or my hands did – and they went right through it. Because it was a fake panel. And I stood there, looking at the handcuffs and the chains, the whips and the paddles, the blindfolds and the other shit – the shit with sharp points and oiled leather, the glass and metal plugs. And I looked at the photographs, all neatly hanging on the real wall behind the fake panel, pictures showing in detail just how Dad used every one of the things behind the used-to-be fake panel on Mom – and I knew. I knew I’d never really known them at all. And I knew something else. I knew…
I hear the door open behind me. I feel his hands reach round me, take hold of my nipples and twist - so very hard. He pulls on them, then wraps my hair in his fists and lifts me up, then pushes me down to my knees. I look up, to the smile I love and the man I serve, and I know The Day will have to wait. Because his cock is hard, and it’s right in front of my lips. But I wait, because that’s what I know I have to do. And he smiles even wider. He pulls hard on my hair – and I open my mouth wide.