Sneak Peek: "Torture What You Love" (Patreon)

Another sneak peek, open to all members. Moving towards the end of the chapter, this is meant to be the bridging scene between the Halloween party, and Julia's Story, which rounds out the chapter.

This one's in still at the draft stage - it's had a few tweaks since posting on Friday, and hasn't quite settled yet.

Oh, and if it's not obvious - the final line to Julia's meant to echo Hamlet's closet scene, when he sits his mom down and speaks daggers to her.

Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think, if you like.

***

Six: Torturing the Person You Love

“I saw him on Monday,” I say, still feeling a flutter of relief. “He came in on Monday, and the Monday after that, and this Monday, too.”

            Julia’s staring at me wide-eyed.

            “That did not happen,” she says. “No fucking way Michael—”

            “It happened,” I say.

            She pinches the bridge of her nose, as though in pain. “Michael was going to…?”

            “Yes,” I say. “Was it a cry for help? Maybe. He left the door open. But he had that gun. It was loaded. And the note on the computer was… let’s just it was brutally honest.”

            “And you—stopped him?”

            I shuffle my feet. “I was there when he needed someone,” I say. “Pure luck.”

            She goes silent for a moment, processing. Eventually, she shakes her head. “I had no idea,” she murmurs. “He seemed—I mean, he always came off so… rock solid? Stable. There were a couple of rumours floating around, but….” Julia trails off. “I didn’t realise.”

            “You’ve been there,” I say, “and I’ve been there.” I avoid her eyes, choosing to examine my nails instead. It’s remarkable how good I’ve gotten at shaping them, painting them, and tonight they shimmer with a subtle glitter in near-black varnish. “You know how it goes. We get good at keeping it hidden, right? Operating like everything’s okay. Keep busy with—whatever. Smiling and going through the motions.”

            “Yeah.” Entranced by my nails, I hear rather than see her sigh. “Yeah.”

            “But imagine you’ve got no one to share it with. No girlfriends to talk to. Can’t even cry it out. Can’t even hint at the idea that something’s wrong because, you know, it’s not manly, it’s weak, you’re a pussy if even for a second, you’re anything but strong and tough and—rock solid. Stable, as you put it.”

            I comb those gorgeous nails through my hair and pull my hair over my shoulder and smooth it down. “I’ve cried more in the past three months than the rest of my life put together and maybe, you know… I might’ve gone nuts without letting it out somehow. I used to get embarrassed crying. Especially in front of men. Just made me want to cry more.” I search for split ends, snipping a few tips between fingernails, as I talk. “Not so much anymore. And maybe it’s better this way? I’ve tried bottling it all up in the past. That never ended well.”

            I let my hair fall and smile mildly at her. “He kept it all inside. I just happened to be there when the pressure grew too much.”

            Julia’s still processing the second half of Mr Connor’s story. “And afterward he—”

            “He did.”

            “And you—?”

            “—kinda enjoyed it.”

            The sky outside is even darker now, an early-evening, late November grey streaked by the first reds of sunset. The sun’s dipped below the horizon and purple twilight hues are seeping across the city.

            “You enjoyed getting spanked.” She states it flatly. “You enjoyed submitting to him.”

            “Well, it definitely wasn’t part of the plan,” I say, and grin at the memory. “He took me by surprise. I just wanted to distract him. Keep his mind off of—but then he grabbed me—and it happened so quickly! But—” and here I blush. “It was kinda hot, and it felt—which took me by surprise—and I saw myself in the window—and….” My blush deepens to a full-blown flush, red-faced with recollected excitement and embarrassment. “It was exciting; I got excited. I—hadn’t expected that. And when he touched me?”

            She squirms a little in her seat, and I can tell from the flush to her cheeks that she’s a little turned on by the story, but she’s also disturbed by it, too.

            “Is this the same as the blowjob story?” she asks. “Are you bullshitting me?”
            I shake my head.

            “And then you went down on him?”

            “Well—yeah,” I say. “He got me off; I got him off. Only fair, right? And this was Halloween, remember, just a few weeks ago. By that point, it was hardly my first time with a dick in my mouth.”

            She shakes her head in disbelief. “On your knees.”

            “On my knees.”

            “Jesus. David Saunders, cock-sucker.”

            I bite my lip to still an angry answer.

            “I’d never have taken him for—” she rolls her hand at the wrist, searching for the right word, “a submissive.”

            For some reason, that gets to me enough to speak up. “He isn’t,” I snap.

            She looks at me speculatively. “So, Cindy is then?”

            “She—” I hesitate. “I—”

            “Yes?”

            “Maybe I am?” My voice is so soft she leans closer to hear. “Is that what you want me to say?”

            “I don’t want—” she begins, but I cut her off.

            “I felt—weak, that night, okay?” I start, and my voice stays soft but begins to simmer with resentment. “I felt weak and broken. It was too much, okay, too much happened in too short a time and I was barely coping. And I was tired. And I was trying to keep my shit together and it wasn’t happening, I could feel myself tearing at the seams.

            “You know what that’s like, right? And every time I thought I got my shit together, that I was getting on top of all this—bam! Something would come and knock me back down. I didn’t want to go to that fucking party, but I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t—couldn’t muster up the energy. And when I went into his office—

            “When he took control—"

            I glower at the floor, then sigh and my shoulders slump in defeat, but it doesn’t feel like a loss. “It felt good, okay? In that moment, to just… give in and do what I was told. I say that moment, but I think I’d been waiting for someone to tell me what to do ever since I’d come back from the Clinic. What to wear. How to act.” I drag my gaze from my feet to meet her eyes. “Like you used to do, Jules.”

            She’s taken aback. “You liked it when I took charge?”

            “Yes,” I say. “No.” I let out a huff of frustration. “I don’t know, okay? I just know that bent over his office desk like that, I wanted to be punished, I felt—broken.”

            “Broken?” she asks.

            “Because of what happened before,” I say. “With you. Because of you, Julia.”

            “No,” she says, standing, stepping away from me. “No way. You’re not pinning this on me.”

            “Funny, isn’t it?” I say, staring past her. The sun has fully set now. It’s all dark, now.  I can see my reflection in the windows behind her, my image caught in the frame of inside light and a canvas of outside darkness. And in a way I’m talking to her, the girl in the glass, even as I’m saying this to Julia.

            “It’s what you want, isn’t it? David Saunders on his knees, it’s exciting. You said so yourself, earlier. You love the idea, the image of him humbled and humiliated. Weak—thin arms, and big boobs, and wrapped in lingerie—stockings and straps, lace and bows—and with his lips wrapped around a man’s cock. Especially if those lips are plump and moist and painted. David, submissive, and docile. It’s what you wanted and I guess, in the end, it’s what you got.”

            My eyes flick from the reflected girl to Julia, and then back.  “But it’s not so fun now, is it? Because now when I’m down on my knees—well… it’s just Cindy, right, some girl going down a boy and what’s humiliating about that? Sure, it’s still sexy but there’s no… shame, no revenge, even if I’m dressed and painted like some bimbo because I’m doing it by choice, now and hey—maybe I even enjoy it?”

            I stand, then, and step towards her. “How do you reconcile the two, Julia? If I’m still really a guy, if David’s alive, you get to continue your little campaign of revenge. You can enjoy your little thrills at my debasement, watch me prance around in short little skirts and squirm under the touch of boys as they fondle my tits. It’s sick and twisted, but satisfying, isn’t it, knowing I’m suffering under all this makeup? And exciting—so exciting, watching a man suffer as a girl; you’re probably getting wet right now.

            “Wet, at watching someone else play out your revenge fantasy because you’re angry, aren’t you, so goddamn angry at me, at men, at the world. You’re a strong woman, fighting the good fight and railing against the patriarchy, and what better revenge than getting some guy to suffer the shit they force on girls, right? But then you’re just reinforcing the stereotypes, too, aren’t you? You’re complicit in all this misogynistic shit by enabling all this—even if the girl being exploited is really a guy?

            “But—oh dear—what if she’s not? What if she—I’m really just a girl, now, or at least more girl than guy and everything you want to do to me is as exploitative and shitty as anything that’s ever been done to you?”

            She steps away and I step closer and her eyes are wide as I continue. “And you’re tired of being angry, and tired of hating yourself for taking pleasure in all this sick crap. You want David gone; but you want him alive because… well, because you still love him, you want him, and what does it say about you that you torture what you love, and take pleasure in it?

            “So maybe it’s better to just believe he’s gone. But if I’m Cindy—just Cindy—well.  There’s not much fun in that, is there, what’s so exciting about a pretty twenty-year old girl doing whatever it is twenty-year old girl do? You’d have no reason to be here anymore, would you? All these stories we’ve told tonight, they carry on without you.”

            She’s up against the patio door, now.

            “So tell me, Jules.” I lean closer, until our cheeks brush and I whisper into her ear. “How does it feel? Are you happy? Is your revenge complete? Is this what you wanted?”

            “I….”

            “I’ve got tits. I’ve got a sexy little mouth. And I’ve got a cunt. And I’ve used them all, haven’t I?”

            “Please—”

            My hand reaches out and takes hers. “I wear short skirts and stockings, high heels and a bra—every day. And every day, I sit behind my little desk and smile my little lipstick smile and flirt with the boys that come into the office—is that what you wanted?”

            “That’s enough,” she says, and goes to pull away but my grip glides up to her wrist and tightens.

            “Let go,” she says, standing.

            “Receptionist. Makeup. Sucking and fucking boys. A twenty-year old bimbo whose best prospect, really, is to hook her nails into some guy and follow him, one step behind in his shadow, warm myself in his reflected success?”

            She tries to yank her hand free from my grip but fails.

            “And all I’ve got to do is be there for him, be his toy, his stress relief, his arm candy, his trophy, right? Spread my legs when he wants, mouth open like a good girl, dress sexy, and give myself to him—because he’s worth it, isn’t that right, Julia?”

            Julia winces.  “Let me go,” she says, and tries to pull her arm away again but she’s not strong enough.  “You’re hurting me,” she says.

            “Good,” I say. “I think it’s time.”

            “No.” Julia tries to free herself. “No!”

            She’s not strong enough to break away. I force her back towards the sofa. “You’re going to sit yourself down,” I say, and my voice is hard. “And listen. And I’m going to tell you one final story.”

            She doesn’t want to hear it.

            But I tell her anyway.