A Starr is Born

After our “row” from the other night, I have decided to not push myself onto him anymore. He doesn’t seem very pleased by me talking out of line, or me touching him out of line, or me giving him hand-jobs out of line, regardless of how good they might be. I resolve to let him do the leading, and I do the following trying my best to stay out of his way. I was thinking that he’d be a little nicer to me considering my “mentally incapacitated” state, but I was dead wrong.

I’m going to test this theory now. I’ve prepared him his meal at the time he usually seems to be home to eat dinner. It’s warming in the oven, in case he doesn’t come home for quite some time.

I’m sitting on the kitchen counter next to the stove watching the backdoor. My stomach is turning. I desperately wish I had a cigarette to smoke, or something to busy my hands with while waiting for him. I had tried to read a book, but was too distracted by the thought that he might come in and be pissed off again for some reason.

After some time, the back door finally opens, and he looks in a normal state: no blood schmears, make-up still intact, still relatively kept together in so much as he can be “kept together.”

I wait to see what he does, and he goes to the table. Before I see him sit, I’m at the oven removing the food. I put it on a plate and set it in front of him. I go to fill his glass with water, and I stand next to him. I never know why I started to do this thing where I stand next to him as he eats.

“Auburn?”

My eyes go wide, “Hmm?”

“Where’s my salt?”

“You like salt?” I ask back, a tremble in my voice.

No answer.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

I run over to the counter fetching the saltshaker and set it in front of him.

He doesn’t seem the type who likes to have someone watch him eat, so I stare straight forward as I hear the salt shaker relentlessly shake, a noise that has always annoyed me…

He sets it down with a definitive CLANK and continues eating. I stare forward, wondering if he can hear my stomach turning. I hope he can’t hear it over his own chewing. He always manages to sound like he’s eating spaghetti, but I didn’t prepare spaghetti this time. I don’t know how he manages-

“Auburn?”

I stare straight forward. I can feel his eyes on me.

“Auburn.” He says with a more authoritative tone in his voice.

I don’t respond.

“Auburn, you know the rules…”

My eyebrows furrow.

“Uhhh…” my voice still trembles.

His eyes are still on me, penetrating. I fear looking at him. The heater must be on extra high because I think I’m sweating.

“When I talk to you…” he continues, choosing his words very deliberately, “You look at me.”

I gulp. He is very capable at picking up on the very last thing I’d like to be doing right now.

“Auburn,” he pauses, “look at me.”

I turn my head slowly and look down at his. I look him directly in the eyes.

“You know why I do this, Auburn?”

I nod my head, “no.”

He lets out an exasperated “sigh” and looks forward. I am temporarily relieved to be free from his glance.

“When I ask you a question,” he turns back to me, “You answer me. You understand?”

I nod.

“You answer me with words. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“So, Auburn, you know why I want you to look at me when I talk to you.”

I nod “no.”

He looks at me through hooded eyes.

“I mean ‘no.’” I correct myself quickly.

“It’s to make sure you aren’t lying to me.” His expression doesn’t change, but before I can blink, he has his hand firmly on the back of my head and a switchblade at my face.

I tremble under his gaze, which has remained relatively calm considering that he is potentially on the verge of committing an incredibly violent action.

“Are you lying to me, Auburn?”

I look at him, like a deer caught in the headlights. I shakily respond “no” realizing that any movement of my head might cause a gash in my face.

He gives me a menacing half-smile. He withdraws the knife and pats me casually on the cheek.

“I know you aren’t lying,” he goes to sit back down, “the old you knew how to season food. Have you tasted this?”

I nod “no” at him.

His eyebrows go high on his forehead, “Aub-“

“I mean ‘NO.’”

“Good girl.” He returns to his food.

I let out a little sigh of relief.

“Don’t watch me eat. Go sit on the couch, stare straight forward, and fold your hands on your lap.” He shovels more food into his mouth.

I go over to the adjoining room and sit myself on the couch. I fold my hands on my lap and stare straightforward. I’m staring at an empty wall where a television used to be. I hear the relentless shaking of the saltshaker, and I’m very, very embarrassed about my poor performance in the kitchen. Truly.

I hear the settling of silverware and the plate being pushed away from him. He gets up and traipses casually into the room. I hear him still sucking at his scars and licking his lips. It’s unsettling.

He stops behind me, looking down at me. I can feel his eyes penetrating through the back of my head.

“I said ‘look forward.’”

My eyes shoot back forward. I have no idea how he could tell that I was looking as far behind me as I could without turning my head.

He saunters slowly around the couch and stands in front of me.

I stare straight forward, only because he hasn’t told me to do differently yet. I feel his eyes on me, like he’s making fun of me for some reason; like I look stupid and ugly and worthless and in need of a shower.

He leans into me, his lips brushing closely to my ear. My body stiffens.

“You’re boring me,” his voice vibrates through my ear.

Oh, no.

He stands back and looks at me again. I’m resolved to look forward.

He lets out an amused exhalation of air.

This is a challenge. This calls for a parlor trick.

I lick my lips, “Have you ever seen my spread eagle?”

“What?” He asks back.

I stare straightforward, “My spread eagle.”

I take both of my feet in my hands, and extend them fully into a spread eagle. It’s a good thing the room is so warm and that I’m wearing a skirt because I’m able to extend my feet almost to behind my head, hiking up my skirt and revealing the fact that I’m not wearing any underpants.

I look up at him, and his eyes are right on my vagina.

I wait.

His mouth comes crashing down on my exposed lips. His hands land on my ankles keeping my legs firmly in place and my vagina very exposed. He’s eating me out with much more enthusiasm than he had for my dinner, sucking and licking deeply into my orifice, as if trying to collect every single juice that’s excreting from my walls.

I gasp, and my body trembles. My hands release my own legs, and I grip the back of the sofa firmly while his own hands keep my legs wide and open.

My breathing hitches with each and every surprise he gives me. His hands trace down the back of my legs, sending tickling sensations through my entire body. My legs shrivel to my sides, still giving him open access to my privates. I’m going to let him have me.

His tongue at this point has moved from my vagina and is now meticulously circling and sucking at my clitoris. It’s too much for me to handle, and I have a climax that makes me marvel at the miracles of a little orb that can send shivers of pleasure through my entire body.

He releases his lips from my lips, his lips now being lipstick free. He triumphantly wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He grins, his yellow teeth beaming at me like the sunshine.

“You’re going to want to rinse up down there. I think my make-up might give you a yeast infection.”

His opinion of me improves tremendously as I let my freaky side out more and more. Each night he comes home, and I let him have me however he wants. Perhaps all the man needed was for someone to show some appreciation for his great talent and genius. I do hope all of this makes him more comfortable around me.

It’s another night, and my insides are burning with a lustful fire waiting for him to come home. I’m seated at the table, his food on a plate in front of me. I stare straight forward, smiling to myself. Waiting. Just waiting.

I hear the backdoor open and slam shut. My body doesn’t even jump. I don’t even bother to look at him.

I can hear him charging into the kitchen. I smile, “You’re dinner is getting cold-“ and he charges past me, but not without grabbing me by a bunch of my hair and dragging me up the stairs with him.

I follow him. What choice do I have? He leads me up the stairs and to our master bedroom. He throws me onto the bed, and I turn to face him, my eyes burning with lust.

“Fuck me,” I tell him.

He’s standing at the corner of the bed, undoing his gloves, very casually and very meticulously.

“I said, ‘fuck me!’”

He looks up at me briefly, “You make the rules now?”

I turn over on my hands and knees and point my ass at him, making sure to arch my lower back at much as possible. I hitch my skirt up.

“FUCK ME!”

I turn to look at him, challenging.

I see now that he’s removing his coat. He very carefully folds it in half and places it next to me on the bed.

“Don’t touch that,” he warns, “it’s sharp.”

I roll my eyes and sit back on my ass, looking at him, bored.

“You’re boring,” I say to him.

He’s unbuttoning his vest and loosening his tie.

“Hmm,” is his response.

I shake my head, “That’s it, I’m bored.”

I go to leave the bed, until I hear a familiar click of metal. I turn back to see he has a gun pointed at me.

I smile back and settle back into the bed, “Now we’re talking. “

He withdraws the gun and places it on a dresser behind him.

“Don’t touch that either,” he warns, mockingly.

“That’s okay. That’s not the gun I’m interested in shooting,” I say this in my extra-sexy voice.

He looks at me like I’ve said the dumbest thing in the world. Then, he goes back to loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

“I don’t remember saying you could talk.”

I silence myself. My legs are squirming. I’m trying to satisfy that itch between them.

“And don’t touch yourself,” he adds.

I stop my squirming and bite my lower lip in hopes of releasing some tension.

He’s doing everything really slowly.

“Oh, hurry-“

“Hey!” He warns.

I retreat.

“Rule number three: you do what I tell you. Okay?”

I nod.

He looks up at me, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, ‘yes,’” I correct myself.

He’s finally removed his shirt, but he’s left his pants still on.

“Take off your shirt.” He commands.

I smile my most seductive smile, and I begin unbuttoning with the same slow deliberation he had for his own shirt.

“Hurry the fuck up!” He commands.

I rip the whole thing off, buttons flying.

He points, “The bra.”

I unclasp it quickly.

“Underwear?” He questions.

I nod ‘no.’

He looks at me through the corners of his eyes.

“I mean,” I give it a beat, “no.”

He rubs his hands together, hungrily, and then lunges at me.

His hands grab my breasts hard, and his mouth goes on top of mine. His tongue invades my mouth sucking and licking at every possible orifice. I want to play, so I let my tongue do circles with him, but then he pinches my nipples extra hard, and my tongue retreats.

He releases my mouth, and his mouth crashes onto my neck, teeth bared. He bites and sucks relentlessly, and my legs kick at the exquisite pain. I smile inwardly at the mark he’s going to leave, wishing I could show it off to all of my old high school friends.

His fingers pinch my nipples extra hard again, and I let out a short scream, my hands gripping at the pillows behind me.

My legs are wide on either side of him, my pussy fully exposed. The contact his body makes against my mound sends pleasure waves through my body. I feel the brush of his erection through his underpants against the folds of my vagina, and it’s too much. I want him inside of me.

He takes notice of the way my body arches when he does this and deliberately slides it along the walls, teasingly.

I’m about to rip the sheets off the bed.

“I-“

“SHUT UP” He cuts me off. I look at him and see he’s very intently focused on my pussy. His hair is disheveled, and he looks a true sexy mess. I watch the way his arm muscles tense as he holds himself up and deliberately guides his dick through my folds.

This little action is becoming too much in conjunction with how turned on I am.

“Oh, god, I’m about to-“

He grabs my head and crashes his lips onto mine collapsing his entire body on top of my body. His tongue once again searches relentlessly through my mouth.

He releases. We look one another straight in the eyes. He sits himself up on his knees, and unbuttons his pants. He lets down the zipper of his fly, and guides his cock out of his boxers.

He takes my chin in his forefinger and thumb, and I let him guide my face to his penis. We look each other in the eyes.

“Suck me.”

He releases my chin. I bring my focus to his cock. I take in a long breath of air and exhale. I move forward and let my tongue circle the very tip of his cock, tasting the release of his pre-cum. He shudders over me as I tease deliberately, giving back to him what he’s been giving to me this whole time. I make sure it’s torture.

His breathing comes in short spurts, and I take a little bit more of him into my mouth, just sucking on the foreskin of his cock, my tongue still making rings against the very tip.

He’s muttering nonsenses under his breath, and he tries to push more of himself into my mouth, but I grab at his hips, trying my best to prevent his further intrusion.

I suck more and more, each time taking in more and more.

He’s growling as his body shakes, “No teeth,” he commands.

I say “mmm-hmm” all the while sucking.

I take my hands from his hips and use one to reach inside of his boxers, where I cup his balls and massage them gently. I can feel my own wetness soaking and lubricating my walls and folds.

I’m now pumping him with my mouth. It seems too much for him to handle, and I’m afraid he’s going to shoot everything into my mouth without giving me any, but instead he pushes me back onto the bed.

He guides his dick into my slick entrance, and my tight walls conform almost immediately to the welcome intrusion.

He pumps at me with deliberation, his rhythms changing carefully. He wants to drag this one out for as long as possible, and I’m not complaining.

My hands cling to the bed, one hand on the sheets, the other one clinging onto his coat, which is still at my side.

He stops his pumping for only a second to take my hands and place them around his back. He continues his pumping, his body firm against mine: skin against skin, sweat against sweat.

The feeling is euphoric. My hands, which were gripping firmly at his back, now slide carelessly off. He doesn’t seem to take notice, now being entirely focused on fucking me. My hands grip once again at the sheets and his coat. My one hand bunches up his coat, until it finds a warm refuge in one of his pockets.

I’m letting out involuntary gasps, “oh, oh, oh-“

I was beginning to have an orgasm, until-

CRASH!

The window shatters.

A voice, “What the hell are you doing, you motherfuckers!”

The Joker turns to look, and I look over his shoulder.

It was…Batman?

He’s still pumping steadily into me all the while looking at Batman. “Oh, Batman! You wanna play?” He laughs wildly at him.

My hand is still in his trench coat pocket. I find exactly what I’m looking for, and I hear the “familiar click” of his favorite switchblade. I wrap my arms around him, enthusiastically.

He turns back at me, “Oh, it looks like Auburn here wants me all to herself!” He laughs wildly at me, spit spraying in my face.

I smile back, nod conceitedly, and plunge that switchblade right into his spine.

His eyes go wide. His pumping stops. He looks down at me.

“You bitch-“ he manages to choke out.

I shrug my shoulders and give the knife a good twist. He gasps. I release the knife from his spine, and kick him hard in the stomach. He falls off the bed and lands on the floor with a big THUD.

I crawl to the end of the bed to see him struggling on the floor in a fetal position. I go to lunge at him, but I’m restrained by two armored hands.

I flail madly, “Let me at him! Let me at him!”

He drags me to the other side of the room.

“Calm down,” he screams roughly. I give one final flail and let my arms rest.

“Let go of me,” I demand, perfectly calm.

“Drop the knife,” the Batman commands in his scruffy voice.

I let the knife fall to my side, and he releases me.

I see the Joker in the middle of the room, his body going through spasms. I approach him slowly. The Batman stays back, surprisingly.

I stand over his crippled body. He looks up at me, glaring.

“You bitch,” he spits.

I stare down at him, expressionless, and I kick him hard in the stomach.

The Batman comes from behind me and restrains me once again, but I’m not having it.

“Let go of me, you fuck!” I elbow his armor and he releases.

I’m between the Batman and the Joker, addressing them both, “I’m fucking sick of being pushed around by men. I will not have you,” I point at the Batman, “stop me from beating the shit out of the man,” I point at the Joker, “who just imprisoned me, tortured me, and raped me for months.” I feel the Joker’s hand grabbing my ankle weakly, and I give him a good kick in the face without even looking.

I look back at the Batman, threateningly, and he raises his arms in surrender. “I won’t let you kill him.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. That’s easy for you to say.” I turn back to look at the Joker, blood spewing from his face, and I turn back to look at the Batman, my finger raised accusingly.

“You are going to get me out of here, and you’re going to get me an STD test and a pregnancy test, immediately, and if I’m pregnant,” I turn back to look at the Joker, my finger now pointed at his direction, “He’s going to pay for the abortion!”

I charge at Batman, wagging my finger at him, “And if the doctor won’t accept his ‘mob money,’ then you’re going to pay for my abortion.”

“You bitch,” I hear the Joker manage to cough out. I turn back at him, slowly, my eyes on fire.

I walk back to him, “What did you call me?”

I crouch down by him, running some of my fingers gently through his hair. He tries to shake his head from my grasp, but I grip him firmly by a bunch of his hair.

“Hey!” I command, “hold still.” I look down at him sympathetically, “You’re just mad because I tricked you. I was faking the whole time. The WHOLE TIME!”

“You weren’t faking it last night,” he wheezes.

I ignore him, toying with his head, “How does it feel, huh? How does it feel to just have a stupid post-grad, suburbanite who works at Dough from Joe Schmo’ fool you? Hmm?”

He glares back.

“Oh, and another thing, I’ve always gotten all the ass I’ve ever wanted, plus all the ass I’ve never wanted thanks to you.” I get close to his face, “I think you were just projecting all of your own insecurities about your looks onto me, but don’t worry,” I look him in the eyes, “I’m sure someone will find you beautiful, and you’ll live happily ever after.” I look at him, sympathetically.

“I’m going to get you!” he growls back at me.

I laugh at him. “You’ll have a hard time catching me in a wheelchair.”

“Cunt” he snarls back at me.

“Oh, no you didn’t,” I release his head and pound into him endlessly, when I’m restrained once again from behind and dragged away from the Joker.

“Enough!” I raise my arms, and the Batman lets go. “I’m sick of being man-handled.” I turn to face him, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

I go to the door and realize I’m not being followed. I turn around and see the god damn Batman looking down at the Joker assessing the damage.

I roll my eyes and tap my toe impatiently.

The Batman just nods his head in disgust and comes towards me leaving the Joker on the floor and dying, I hope.

“I’m going to call the paramedics. He isn’t going to die, but you got him right behind the bellybutton. He might never walk again.”

“Who gives a fuck? Let’s go,” I command.

And with that, Batman leaves the room, and I linger a little.

“My only regret are the waffles,” I pretend to whimper a little, “You realize how painful it was for me to let those things burn?”

He gives me one final look and passes out.

I go to the stairs, and I see the Batman is at the hallway closet. He brings out a big blanket and wraps it around my body. It’s only now that I remember I’m completely topless and almost naked.

“Thank you,” I consent to respecting the man who’s bringing me home.

He nods.

I point a finger accusingly, “Don’t get any funny ideas.”

He looks at me, and I smile slightly realizing the absurdity of everything. He smiles back.

We leave the front door of the house, and I refuse to look back at my prison. The Batman leads me to his big car, and I get into the passenger side.

I’m resolved to leave the whole thing behind me, but as we drive off, I give the master bedroom window one final glance. My heart stops when I think I see the distinctive silhouette of the Joker watching us drive away.

I shake my head and look again. He’s not there. It was a figment of my imagination . . .

I hope.

The End