A Starr is Born

Making the promise to “stop thinking” is proving more difficult than I could have imagined. “Thinking too hard” led to too many disastrous premonitions and feelings of insurmountable guilt now having to admit that I like the repercussions of “being good” more so than the repercussions of “being bad.” This is where “thinking too hard” becomes especially nasty. I just have to think about the fact that “being good” leads to fewer cuts and more bruises. It’s not that I like bruises. I swear I’m not like that, but cuts can truly kill depending upon how deep he wants to make the incision that one time.

Most importantly, however, I also have to keep in mind that “being good” and “being bad” are all terms that are interchangeable depending on the mood he happens to be in at the time. He likes to test me, and, quite frankly, I like to pass.

It’s the evening after our last screw. I try to make the effort to look exceptionally presentable. I even cook him a delicious meal of salmon cooked with white wine and vegetables. I hear him come in, and I sit dutifully across from him at the table. He sits across from me and inhales his food without looking up. I sit, expectantly, waiting for some kind of affirmation of my good deed, but he just rises and leaves.

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It’s the next evening, and I bake brownies and elaborate and elegant soup that had been cooking and caramelizing all day. He comes in, swallows it within a few slurps, and instructs me to go to bed. I nod and bound up the stairs cautiously not looking over my shoulder.

When I get into the bedroom, I am very mindful to remove all of my clothing heeding the warning that if I did not sleep naked, I would be fucked dead. I lie down on the bed, with my back facing very deliberately toward the door. I let the blanket drape casually on my waist exposing my back to him, and I wait.

He never comes to bed that night.

I don’t know if his aloof nature is a good thing or a bad thing, but I fear being “uninteresting.” If I can stay interesting, I can stay alive. If he desires me in some way, he will keep me around. That’s why I have to make the special effort to be enticing.

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It’s the next day, and I chose to make my meal even more elaborate. I don’t know who has the bitch job of getting my groceries and deciphering my lists, but he is doing a good job. He should be. I’m sure his life is on the line.

I’m putting the lid onto a simmering French classic, after having browned chunks of beef flesh, allowing the onions, carrots, and mushrooms to sweat in the beef fat, deglazing the bottom of the pan with red wine, adding fresh herbs, and returning the browned beef to the pan.

This is far too much trouble…I have nothing else to do.

After putting the lid on the pot, I decide I have nothing better to do than bake a pie considering the man-bitch got a bunch of fresh apples. I put together a simple crust of butter and flour, and I put together a filling with apples, sugar, flour, and butter.

Far too much trouble. I have nothing else to do.

I flour the surface and the rolling pin, and begin to roll out the dough. The door opens and closes.

He’s home.

There are butterflies in my stomach. My heart is beating a mile a minute. I focus my attention on rolling the dough, trying to find the right consistency and right shape. I hear his shoes walking across the kitchen linoleum. He pauses.

“You still here? Hmm…” He sniffs broadly into the air, “I guess so.”

I feel him approaching behind me, and I try to remain focused on my task. He comes up behind me, and I can feel the warmth of his body against mine. His face leans in. I can feel his warm breath against my hair. Some threads of his garments are making contact with my bare forearms. He runs his hands through my hair, being careless in the way he rocks my head from side to side. I maintain my commitment to my dough all the while.

“Hmmm?” He stops.

I stop.

“You want to know what’s strange?”

“Sure,” I respond, shortly.

“My guards haven’t been here for days.”

“Oh,” I respond, not knowing where this is going.

He massages me hair a little more. He stops.

“Oh, right,” he feigns innocence, “they’ve been with me this whole time during my long hours at Gotham. Sorry I haven’t been home. It must have been lonely with no one around.”

Oh.

“And to think, I was going to unfairly shoot them because they were supposed to keep watch on you. Well, good thing you didn’t go anywhere.”

I have a sudden thought, a very sudden thought, of where I might like to put this rolling pin. I would like to put this rolling pin in a certain place with a certain amount of force, so I can take this new energy and bring myself to a certain place that certainly isn’t here . . .

I can’t finish that thought. It’s not the time.

My body is stiff as he continues to have his way with my scalp and long tresses. He lets out a short laugh, and I realize he’s laughing at me.

No one laughs at me.

Oh, well, it’s a little hot in here with the oven pre-heating and him standing right on top of me. I put down the rolling pin and unbutton my top, just a little bit, in order to feel cooler. He becomes still, releasing his hands from my hair, and lets me complete my tasks maintaining his negligible distance. I set the pie dough into the pie dish. I go to my bowl of apples and put them into the pie. I take the other crust and put that on top. This whole time I have to maneuver around his body, which couldn’t be bothered to give me some space.

After I crimp the edges and poke some holes in the top crust, I don the oven mits and put the pie into the oven. I notice my pot is boiling, and I pry my way between him and the counter to make my way to the stove. I remove the lid sniffing in the stewing goodness. I take a wooden spoon and bring the soup to my mouth, savoring the marrying flavors of the stew. I return the lid to the pot and go to the counter to clean my mess.

I pry myself, once more, in front of him to begin cleaning.

“Auburn.” He says.

“Hmm?” I respond, still kind of high on my brilliant flavors.

“Look at me, Auburn.” He says, as if trying to find reason to be mad at me.

I stop what I’m doing. I turn to face him slowly, looking him straight in the eye. I notice his meet mine only for a second and dart down to my chest, which is very exposed, and very much clad in a very sexy bra.

I look him in the eyes that are focused on my breasts. The room is silent except for the boiling liquid. I realize I can hear the leather of his gloved fingers, fidgeting in haste. His tongue darts across his lower lip.

“You wanted something?” I ask, innocently.

He picks me up and slams me onto the counter. With his own lips, he slams them onto mine, slamming my head into one of the kitchen cabinets. I return his kiss with gusto.

I try to pry my tongue into his mouth. He removes his face from mine quickly and slaps me across the face. He quickly slams his lips back onto mine, and I heed his warning. That was too bold.

He uses his hands to keep my head still by my hair, pulling it taut. I scream at the pain, hoping my open mouth might invite his tongue inside, but nothing happens, except that he brings his lips down my neck all the way down to my open chest. He takes his hands and presses them on either side of my chest, pushing my breasts together. He kisses and licks at my cleavage. He collects a mass of my hair in one hand, while he removes one of the breasts from the cup of my bra and puts the nipple into his mouth. He sucks it hard and teases it with his tongue, and I scream from the mixture of pleasure and torture.

He pulls my hair especially taut, and brings his face close to mine, his finger over his mouth.

“Shut up!” He whispers.

I nod my head and close my lips tight as he slowly lowers his head. His tongue brushes across my hard nipple in one quick flick.

I stifle the scream.

He does it again. I clench my lips together, as he repeats his actions, flicking his tongue quickly across my nipple.

He brings his lips fully onto my nipple, sucking, while his other hand trails down my body making its way below my skirt and into my panties. He massages my mound with his massive hand.

I arch my hips into his welcoming hand, and he brings both hands behind my ass, flushing my entire pelvis against his stomach. I hump as best as I can from this angle, trying to find my agency in the whole situation.

He releases my nipple and looks hard at me.

“You’re one crazy bitch, aren’t you?”

I have no response for him except a nod.

“I must have been the best fuck you’re ever had.”

I nod back at him.

He presses one hand against my lower back and pulls my hair hard. His eyes are dark.

“What are you playing at?” He asks.

He looks deep within me, my eyes wide pools.

“Nothing,” I respond, “I’m just trying to be good.”

I look at him in earnest. I assume he has accepted my answer because he crashes his lips back onto mine. I bring my hands to his greasy hair, and he slams my head back against the cabinet.

“Hey!” He warns me and returns to attacking my lips. My hand falls back to my side. I brace myself onto the counter and use my arms to help me arch my pelvis more into his body. He returns his hands to the back of my pelvis and aids me in using his body to find an orgasm. I’m close, I feel I’m very close-

Then, he grabs my hips, hard, and pries himself away from me. He steps away, and I stare at him, flabbergasted, mouth opened.

What the fuck is he doing to me? Isn’t this what he wants?

He fixes himself and runs his hands through his own hair in a sardonic attempt to pretend he’s keeping up appearances. He looks up at me, adjusting his tie, and I stare back, still in disbelief that he would leave me hanging all wet and wild.

“What?” He asks, feigning innocence as his fixes his cuffs.

I stare back at him.

He looks up, “hmm?” He’s insisting.

I run my fingers down my own skirt.

“Nothing,” I reply.

I lean my head against the cabinet, deciding that I have to be more pro-active in my life. I raise one leg on top of the counter, while running my fingers along my clitoris myself, making the very careful circles only I know how to make.

I close my eyes and go to my happy place knowing he is watching me. I can feel his eyes are on me, and it makes my circles especially more deliberate. I bite my lower lip to repress any gasps I might let out.

I gasp as I slam my hand onto the counter. Remembering he doesn’t want me talkative, I open my eyes only slightly to look at him. I mouth the words “I’m sorry.”

He’s watching me carefully. I continue making the gentle circles around my clitoris. I close my eyes savoring the feeling I can only give myself…in his company.

He comes back to me and slams one of his hands on the cabinet right next to my head. I open my eyes to see him removing his gloves with his teeth. He brings his hand down to my panties, pushing the little fabric to the side and slides his finger effortlessly into my moist pussy.

He pumps me steadily, and I’ve never had to work so hard to repress my screams. I have to keep all that energy inside of me. He swirls his fingers inside, testing for the spot. My body jerks, and I gasp loudly.

He’s found it.

And it’s all over for me now. The combination of my own circles and his pressure leads to my final climax. I can feel my pussy walls contract around his relentless finger, and I ride it through.

I close my eyes and rest my head back into the cabinet, when I hear a beeping. I open my eyes, looking around for the noise, when I focus on the oven timer. I turn to look at the Joker.

“Dinner’s ready.” I say to him.

His brows furrows. I won’t humor him considering the fact that dinner is really ready, and now I’m really hungry and ready to eat.

I sidle my way through the small space between him and the counter. I go to the stove to turn it off. I stir the ingredients, pleased that it’s all melded into another delicious type of orgasm in my mouth. I moan at the goodness of it all, and I turn to face him.

“Would you like some?” I offer.

He looks angry. What did I do this time?

He blinks at me once and drags me by the arm over to the kitchen table. He bends me over, and pulls at my panties, slicing them easily with his switchblade. He rips the shreds off my ass, and penetrates me deep, pounding me relentlessly, and taking his time to finish .