A Starr is Born

My mind always begins to wander, but I have to stop myself from thinking. If I think too hard, I’m going to mess everything up, and I can’t have that. I just have to “do things.”

Is he thinking? I don’t know. Actually, I’m almost positive he must be thinking this whole time: scheming and planning his each and every move. Sometimes when I’m silently sitting across from him watching him eat, he’s talking to himself, muttering strange things underneath his breath. Are they his plans? Is he talking to someone? I’ll never know. I can’t diagnose a mental illness. Part of me thinks he’s just a moody freak thoroughly convinced he’s right about everything and getting off on the idea of manipulating other people. Is there a scientific name for that or is it just “asshole freak?”

When I’m feeling less lofty in my thoughts and not trying to diagnose mental illnesses, I usually just wonder, “why me?”

It’s dinnertime and the beast is home tucking into another delicious thing that I made. I sit silently across from him with no plate in front of me. I only eat in front of him if he gives me permission to do so or insists. I always have to do the preliminary taste test of whatever I’ve made. I assume this is to make sure I haven’t poisoned anything.

I’ve decided not to remind him that there is no poison in this house, and it isn’t something I can put on my shopping list. His men must have some sort of sick allegiance to him. In a way, I can’t blame them. He holds his own and has a terrifying and imposing presence. When he steps into a room, my body turns into ice and starts shivering, wondering what crazy plan he has cooking for me this time. Is he going to ignore me completely or throw me over the kitchen table and plow me?

“I have a question,” I speak out of turn while the man is eating. He stops shoveling food into his mouth and looks at me, pissed off.

“Did I say you could talk?” He growls.

“You never said I couldn’t.”

“You can’t ask me anything.” He returns to his meal, and I push on.

“Why not?”

His fork stops, “Because you’re going to ask something like ‘why me?’ and I’d rather not hear you speak. There is no answer to that question. I just felt like it. There’s nothing special about you, get over it”

He answered the question I had, but didn’t ask. How did he know? He must have gotten it a lot from all those corpses that are piling in a ditch somewhere off the side of the road.

“How old are you?” I ask out without restraint and without thought.

He pauses again, his grip on his fork tensing, “Don’t ask me questions about myself, I’m not going to tell the truth.”

“That’s honest,” I reply.

I smile to myself, realizing I made a good joke and a good point. I look back at him. He doesn’t seem so amused right now because he’s giving me the, “go to your room” look.

“Go.”

I nod, and get up with my tail between my legs, sort of.

“No, wait.”

I stop.

“Clean up your mess first.” He gets up, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his trench coat, and he brushes past me and goes up the stairs.

As I clean the dishes, my heart races wondering what kind of reception I’m going to get from him tonight. The man gets PMS more than I do, and it’s nearly impossible to truly discern what kind of mood he’s in, and what’s a good sign and what’s a bad sign.

I finish up, and make my way up the stairs. I look down the hallway to notice the door to “our room” has been left ajar. I walk to it slowly, my legs shaking. The room is dark. I push the door open and go into the room where I’m immediately put into a chokehold from behind.

“You wanna play? I wanna play,” he laughs wildly into my ear and brings me over to the bed.

He throws me on top of the bed and shifts my body to the middle. I squirm, and he slaps me across the face and grabs me by one of my wrists. He fumbles for something in his pocket, but I can’t see what it is because the room is still dark, but I feel something being tied around my wrist.

I think it’s a bungee cord.

He wraps it around tight, and then brings it to one of the bedposts, securing it tightly. I go over to that bedpost, and try to frantically untie myself as he goes to the other side of the bed.

He reaches for my other wrist, which I try to deny him, but he’s for too strong, and he pries my wrist from my body and pulls it to the other bedpost, securing it as well, with some type of rope.

Now both of my wrists are tied to either post, and just when my eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness, he wraps a dark fabric around them blinding me.

I panic, “What are you going to-“

“No questions!” he says as he gags me with another piece of fabric. My legs squirm like crazy and I try to kick him away from me, but he pins them down easily.

“I’m sick of your squirming.”

“Then go fuck a corpse!” I gargle through the cloth.

“What did you say?”

I try to articulate myself, “Then GO FUCK A CORPSE.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.” He grabs one of my ankles, and he puts a restraint around that, bringing it very easily to one of the bedposts, and he repeats the same action with the other leg.

Now I’m completely restrained in a spread eagle position, and now he can do whatever he wants to me without me seeing or being able to annoy him with my inane questioning and/or screaming.

“Good girl, this is just how I want you tonight.”

I whimper through my gag.

He crawls on top of my body, and sniffs my neck like a dog. I try to push myself away from him, but it’s futile. He easily restrains my head with one of his hands. His nose is sniffing millimeters away from my neck, his short breaths tickling, and I try to hunch my shoulder to pry him out. He pushes that shoulder down preventing me from itching and protecting my vulnerable skin.

The next thing I feel is his wet tongue slithering across my neck. I whimper through my gag, as his tongue delicately tortures the tender flesh.

He tugs at my shirt.

“Hmm, I thought I told you no clothing to bed.”

“What?” I think and try to say, but it comes out garbled.

“This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

I feel the familiar and undeniable sound of his switchblade, and I cry even more. I can feel my tears wetting my blindfold. There’s nowhere I can go, but I try relentlessly to find the flaw in his system, a lose knot, anything, but every attempt I make seems more and more futile. It’s as if the more I squirm, the tighter the knots become.

“Hold still.” He warns me.

I cry through my gag. I feel him approaching me, and he straddles my hips, crushing them into the soft mattress. He lifts the underside of my shirt from the bottom, and brings the switchblade under it, and with one sweeping motion, he has my shirt open. I scream through my gag.

“Oh, shhh, I’ll get you another one.” He lifts the middle of my bra, and slices through that.

“I don’t think I’ll bother getting you a new one of these.” He cackles, and he pries the shirt and the bra open, therefore exposing my breasts for him to have however he chooses.

I cry relentlessly, hoping he might feel bad for me, cut me a break, and send me home to my mother, but instead he takes both of my breasts in his ungloved and rough hands and starts massaging them.

“Hmm,” he moans, “it fits perfect. “ He comes down to my ear, “You know, for a girl as pretty as you, it’s surprising you haven’t been fucked for almost a year. “

I’m silent, but trembling.

“Why is that, Auburn?” He’s tweaking one of my nipples as he speaks, “Is it because you’re a lesbian? Hmm?” He pinches harder, “Answer me.”

I nod my head ‘no’ in response.

“Is it because you’ve been holding out for me to come into your life?” He asks, teasingly, I think.

“Tell me, Auburn, that’s it, isn’t it? No one wants to be with you because underneath all of this you’re just a freak, like me.”

I hitch my hips trying to force him off of me, but instead it seems like he’s just enjoying the ride.

“Oh, Auburn, you’re mine, aren’t you? Or we’ll see, won’t we?”

I growl through my gag, and he puts a finger to my mouth, silencing me.

“Shhhh, I have an idea.”

He leaves me and goes to the other side of the room. I hear him from there, “I bought you a present because you’ve been such a good girl,” he’s fumbling through the drawers, “I bet I’m the best boss you ever had because your Joe Schmo’ boss didn’t give you presents the way I do.”

“Ahh, found it.” I hear a click, and the next thing I hear is a dull vibration. I scream as loud as I can through my gag as he approaches, slowly. My mind races about what it is. It sounds like it could be an electrical knife, an eggbeater, a chainsaw? I don’t know, I can’t see, and he’s coming closer and closer.

He straddles my hips again, and I scream as best as I can for mercy. I don’t want to know what that thing is, and I don’t like the fact that it’s coming closer to my body. I cry loudly, weeping completely through my blindfold, when he brings the device to my nipple, and I realize.

It’s a vibrator.

My screaming stops as he circles the vibrating nub around my erect nipple, gracing it ever so gently. He replaces the vibrator with his tongue, tickling it in circles, as he brings the vibrator to my other nipple.

“I bet your so ashamed, Auburn,” he warm breath makes my body shiver, “You’re so ashamed that I’m the best you’ve ever had. It’s too bad you couldn’t be a normal girl like everyone else and meet a nice boy who would treat you well and protect you, so that you wouldn’t have to work at that dump anymore. I saw you, every night leaning over the counter, staring out into nothing, imagining him coming. Instead, you got me.”

He takes the vibrator from my nipples and uses it to tickly my mound. I only wish I could close my legs in order to satisfy the burn, and bring myself to orgasm, but he’s rendered that an impossibility. I’m helpless to him, and now I have to be settled with the fact that he can have me however he wants. I can either let the current take me or fight it frantically, but either way, it’s going to take me.

My whimpering ceases, and I try my best to calm my nerves. He doesn’t seem invested in killing me, at least, not right at this moment. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why he’s doing this to me.

Why me?

He shifts his body to the side of mine, but keeps the vibrator tickling at my most sensitive spot while he sits on the side of the bed. I bite my bottom lip trying to repress any outward expression of the need he’s creating for satisfaction. He seems content in teasing my clitoris, and I wish I could beg him to let me release.

I can’t take it anymore, and I try to get away from him, but as I press my hips more and more into the bed, the vibrator follows, so I try to shift my hips sharply to the side, when he grabs it immediately.

“Hey! Hold still.” He demands, holding one of my hips to the bed. My face contorts in expectation of the inevitable, and I hope he doesn’t tease me like he did the other night because I think I would die if I didn’t get this release.

And it comes, thankfully.

I have a very modest orgasm that sends little shockwaves through my lower body. I whine, lightly through my gag, hoping he’ll get the signal that he accomplished his task; that I’m ashamed, and he can take the blindfold off me now and make me sleep with him and blah blah blah.

But he doesn’t stop. Now he’s humming a tune to himself, while still tickling my clit, and I’m not sure if I can take another one just like it.

I hitch my hips to the side, and he pins it back easily to where it was, forcing the contact.

“I think you should relax . . . or I’ll cut it off.”

I hold still. Very still. If there’s something I still want, it’s my clitoris.

I feel the second wave coming, and I let it happen, and my hips start convulsing. It should be obvious if he had a goal in mind, but instead he just keeps it there.

“I wish you would orgasm already, my arm is getting tired.”

I let out a big squeal and he shushes me.

“Shush, I’m doing this for your own good. This is your reward, remember?”

I can’t fight it anymore because he’s relentless, so I decide to let it come again, and I cum again. My body shivers from the third wave, and I feel ready to pass out.

But it’s still there.

All of the sudden, I feel a warm liquid squirting on top of my exposed body, and I realize really quickly what it is and what he must have been doing with his other hand. It wasn’t about me, it was about him getting off to me being bound and helpless.

I can feel his warm cum dripping over my stomach and chest. Some of it shot up to my face. The vibrator’s still at my swollen clitoris, and I can feel another one coming, so I press my hips into the vibrator beckoning it to come faster, but when I do this, it retreats.

I feel the bed shift, and I can hear him loosening the bounds of one of my ankles. I bring my leg in weekly, so as to itch the insufferable itch in my groin area. He releases my other leg and I recoil it into myself, trying to just let the feeling pass.

The bed shifts again and I feel him sit on top of it. I accept his warm presence against the cool air in the room. He releases my gag, and I lick my lips in order to bring moisture back to my mouth. Out of nowhere of I feel very gentle and almost billowy lips against mine, and I gasp.

“What do we say?” I hear him ask, only a centimeter away from my face.

“Thank you,” I manage to whimper back only because it seemed like the best thing to do at the time.