A Starr is Born

A/N: Hey, AntiDolorifico, I had no idea how to actually contact you. Drop me an e-mail at Splunge86@aol.com or give me your e-mail in a review.

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That night I did the best I could to clean myself up. The artificial wounds on the exterior looked as attended to as I possibly could have done given my limited knowledge of how to tend to wounds. You see, my whole life I’ve never really been hurt, at least not physically. I’ve never had stitches, I’ve never broken a bone, I’ve never been to the hospital. Once I was smashed in the face with a flying field hockey ball. I couldn’t breath for a few days, and I still have an indefinable bump on my nose, but that was the extent of my injuries. My life had always been very safe. I had always been very safe.

This is different, very different. Unprecedented. The exterior wounds seemed “tended to” as much as I knew possible, but it was what was lying underneath that truly troubled me most. Am I okay beneath the artificial wounds? Am I suffering from concussions, internal bleeding, bruising? How do I cure the deeper wounds that I can’t see, but are no doubt doing terrible damage to my body?

I’m not sure, but I am sure that if I continue this way, I will be entirely incapacitated within a few days. My only option is to give in and try my best to be a “good girl.” It is imperative.

It’s now the evening after that horrific attack on my body and soul. It’s always been within my policy that even if I do not agree or care about the job I am doing, I do the best job I can at it, so I made the decision that it was my duty to make this man a truly delicious meal. Not only was I to make this man a truly delicious meal, I was to make him a truly delicious desert.

I slaved in the kitchen for approximately five hours making lasagna with Bolognese layered with a creamy béchamel sauce. Really classy. I didn’t bother with a vegetable side dish considering I didn’t think a well-balanced meal was within his life priorities. I also had my other motivations for not giving him a healthy meal, but I won’t get into that. Even so, the man ran on something, and it wasn’t healthy eating or caffeine or even drugs, as far as I could tell.

In addition to a perfectly prepared entrée, I prepared a batch of chocolate chip walnut cookies from scratch. The aromas in the kitchen were unbelievable. I wanted to make love with the food now.

Knowing he’ll be home soon, I set up his meal at the head of the dining room table, even rounding it off with a glass of red wine. It looks truly classy. I look truly classy. Well, as classy as I can look considering my body and forehead are covered in bruises and band-aids.

I hear the door open, and I stand dutifully at the side of his chair.

“Auburn?” I hear him yell in the hallway. I can tell he’s trying to irritate me and scare the shit out of me at the same time. I decide not to respond

“Auburn!” the second one is different in tone, as if demanding that if my presence isn’t made within the next two seconds, I am going to be gun-raped. I hear him looking through the kitchen, and he’s approaching the dining room.

“Aubu-“ he peeks his head into the dining room and spots me standing very respectfully at the head of the table next to his freshly prepared and very delicious meal. I should know it’s delicious, I made sure to verify through every step of the process, from sweating the onions, to browning the meat, to flavoring the sauce, to thickening the béchamel.

He looks at me, curiously, testing, as if I’m playing some kind of trick, but I’m not. I’m just trying to please him. He cocks his head to the side, smiling with half of his extended mouth. He approaches me, “What’s all this, Auburn?”

He’s now in front of me, and he runs his gloved hands up and down my arms, his hands still cold from the almost winter air. I shiver, a little.

“I’ve just decided I should try a little harder,” I answer back, innocently, and even truthfully enough.

“Hmm?” He questions the integrity of my statement, but I hold my own, even looking him in the eye making sure not to break the “you have to look at me rule.”

He looks at the set-up and back to me, “No wonder you could never keep a boyfriend, you try too hard.”

He sits down at his chair and I continue standing at his side, being dutiful in a way that precedes my generation ten times over. He looks prepared to tuck in, but then stops and looks at me funny.

“Aren’t you eating too?” He looks up, and I can see the fire beneath the smile, like he caught me.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to join you,” I reply, innocently enough because, well, I didn’t know, and I would rather take orders instead of doing something “out of line.”

He looks at me and indicates the chair next to him. I sit down at it. I half smile at him, expecting that my willingness to join him will be enough and satiate his desires, but then he pushes his plate towards me.

“Eat it.”

I understand almost immediately that he suspects I must have put something in it. What could I have put into it? Crushed advil? Tums? Powdered Fiber? There’s no arsenic in the house. I should know, I’ve already looked.

I very willingly take a forkful, chew it thoroughly, and swallow. Yeah, it’s good and not poisoned. I look at him, trying to gage a reaction.

He still looks suspicious, and he pushes his glass towards me. I look down at the red liquid. I take a very willing sip of the wine too. I cringe a little because it’s way too sweet, but most definitely not poisoned.

I swallow and ask, “Would you like me to make you a new plate?”

He brings his hand out and points to the wine glass, indicating for me to give it to him. I pick it up to place it in his outreached hand, but as I hand it off, he lets it fall on the floor where it shatters.

“Oops,” he says to me, dryly, “I guess you better pick that up.”

I look down at the hard floor. Before he can insist, I accept the challenge thoroughly and bend down to the floor to pick up the shattered wine glass. I’m on all fours, gathering all the pieces with my head inches away from his leg, when I hear, “Turn around.”

I stop, look up slightly and nod, willingly. I figure whatever sick thing he has planned for me, it’s going to be worse if I don’t do what he says now. I shuffle my body around, still on all fours, so that now my ass is actually pressing into his leg. Today of all days that I wear one of the shorter skirts he provided for me. I can hear him scooting his chair out, so that he has me from both sides.

I gather the pieces of broken glass, being very careful. I can feel his eyes on each of my cheeks. The room is very silent, except for his tense breathing. For some reason, I deem it necessary to arch my lower back further, bending my front body to make sure I’ve truly found all the broken pieces, or at least that’s what I tell myself I’m doing.

All of the sudden, I hear a SLAP, and feel the burn on my right cheek left from his hand. I lose my balance, temporarily, but regain it after rebounding from the attack.

I feel another SMACK across my other butt cheek. I pause in my duties to let the feeling sink in. He certainly isn’t doing it lightly. I hear and feel two slaps in a row, and I drop all of the glass pieces. Suddenly, I’m grabbed from behind and thrown onto the Joker’s lap, looking up at him. I squirm from the sudden attack, and he forcefully grabs my face so that his lips meet mine, and he kisses me roughly. I wouldn’t say I return the kiss, but I accept it.

He somehow finagles me onto the table, all the while our lips still making contact. I’m sitting at the edge of the table, where he is still practically sucking the life out of me. Then, I realize, he no longer has a hand behind my head, forcing me to kiss him. Instead, both arms are on my thighs, pinning me down onto the table, yet our lips are still inexplicably locked.

He runs his hands up my skirt and lowers his upper body onto mine, now bringing his hands under my shirt, where they find my ample breasts. He starts massaging them, and I moan into his mouth, savoring the pleasure of his accurate touch. My legs wrap around his waist, forcing his body to press more thoroughly against my crotch. I use the friction of our bodies to warm my loins. My own lower lips find the hardness forming in his pants, and I used it to hit my most sensitive spot. I increase the friction rapidly, hoping to bring myself to climax, when he rips his face from mine, starring down at me with a wicked grin.

“You kinky slut.” He says, smiling back at me. He pries my hips away from his, cruelly. I feel denied, and I pout at him.

It’s my lowest moment. “Please?” I beg.

He grabs me by the hips and forces me more onto the table, and mounts me entirely, pressing the full weight of his body against mine. I resume my search for an orgasm by humping against his hard body. I will not be denied again. He presses his face forcefully against mine, and I distract myself from the taste of his lipstick by ever searching for that orgasm. I feel I’m coming closer, and closer, when he pries himself away from me again.

I look at him, feeling my eyes about to bug out of their sockets. What cruel trick is he playing on me now? I made him dinner, I’m letting him have me. Can’t he let me have some?

“Strip me.” He states, bluntly.

He stands himself up on his knees, extending his hands, presenting himself, and I pounce hard at him, knocking him down onto the table. I frantically unbutton his vest, exposing the shirt underneath it, where I begin to unbutton the shirt.

He starts laughing at my eagerness, and I slap him across the face.

“Shut up!” I scream.

He laughs even more, so I slap him across the face again … and again and again. My slaps turn into punches and he laughs, enjoying it all the more.

I pound onto his chest, screaming, “Why the fuck do you wear so much clothing?”

I’m about to rip apart the rest of his shirt when he grabs me by the wrists, rising, and forcing me back onto my back. He rips open my shirt, buttons flying, exposing my bra-clad chest. I arch my back, beckoning to have him touch them, and he sits back up on his knees. I see he’s removing the layers of his costume that I’ve so far neglected: his shirt, his vest, his tie. He lowers his suspenders. Next, he unzips his fly, and brings out his fully erect penis.

I want it in my mouth, so bad. I go for it, but he restrains me at my throat, and pushes me back onto the table. I heed his warning, as he releases my throat and pulls my skirt down off my body, throwing it to the side of the table. I want to remove more of my clothing, so I brace myself back up with my arms, when he pushes me back onto the table with one hand on my chest.

“Stay!” he commands.

I again heed his warning, and he removes my panties, and I organize my legs to make it convenient for him to just slide them off.

He spreads my legs open and brings his face directly into my pussy, taking a big whiff of my womanly aromas. I moan at the tickling sensation. Then he goes in for the kill, licking me senseless, giving me the gravest tongue lashing of my life. My back arches again and I scream as his tongue assaults my privates, being very careful to intermittingly tease and satisfy my swelling clit. I press my hips closer, begging for more, when he grabs my hips, forcing me to stay still, and he licks me relentlessly. My eyes rolls back and I moan silently because I don’t want him to stop again. I no longer understand the sensation I’m feeling anymore, and I’m just waiting for sweet release. It finally comes and it’s earth shattering. My back arches and I convulse on the table as I ride the orgasm out.

My body rests when it’s finished, and I’m breathing heavily. I feel him stalking back on top of my body, and he brings my face to face his, and I allow it, looking him tiredly in the eyes. He uses his other hand to guide his dick into my very wet and very welcoming pussy. It isn’t long before my vagina walls expand to accept his girth fully.

He pumps me steadily. I close my eyes, welcoming it. I’m exhausted, but I feel the need to put in a little effort, so I contract the walls of my vagina. His body hitches at the surprise, and I release again. He pumps more, running one of his hands up and down my thigh, giving me a hard smack on the side of my ass. I scream, a little, from the sharp impact. He humps even more and more relentlessly, and I allow him to figure out his rhythm without interruption. Finding myself once again bored, I retract, and he gasps. I keep my vagina walls tight against his penis, increasing the friction, and he can’t take it anymore, and I feel him ride his orgasm into me, panting heavily.

He stops, and I can feel his hot breath on my body. He slides himself out and gets off the table. I open my eyes, and see him putting himself back together. His pants now zipped, and he’s re-applying his shirt. His make-up is schmeared and his face still sweaty. I watch him carefully and notice he doesn’t even bother to look at me. He slides his trench coat back on without looking back and turns to look in the dining room mirror. I can see myself reflected over his shoulder, and he doesn’t even look back, absorbed entirely in his own image. He brushes himself off and leaves the room, as if nothing ever happened, while I’m lying naked and used, almost, on the dining room table.

“But I baked cookies!” I yell out.

I wait. No reply. I collapse onto the dining room table.

Good job.