TIME TO WAKE UP, SUICIDE GIRL

TIME TO WAKE UP, SUICIDE GIRL

“Time to wake up, suicide girl.”

His voice is soft, gentle, but with the force of command behind it, just like the hand that caresses your cheek, then delivers the softest of slaps, surgically precise, right to the meatiest part of your face. 

It’s just enough to jump your consciousness up into the next level from this delicious sense of non-being you’ve been drifting through for gods know how long. You notice you’re not in pain, not really, just a general kind of overall soreness that you associate with oversleeping. You don’t really have time to wonder why you expect so much more pain than that.

Your eyes flutter, you do something that’s one part burp, one part hiccough, one part cough, and try to sit up. He meets your eyes as his hand presses between your breasts. His mouth is quirked in a Mona Lisa smirk, but his eyes are smiling. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired. His face is unshaven. He has the beard of a much older man, not a college boy of nineteen or twenty. He presses harder.

“It’s not time to try sitting up just yet, suicide girl,”  he says with just the faintest hint of a chuckle in his voice. “You’ve had a rough go of it.”

It’s an undoubtedly American voice, with just the faintest hint of British in the vowels and phrasing like “You’ve had a rough go of it.” He presses your torso down into the welcoming mattress so gently, gently but authoritatively, just like the way he commanded you to wake and the way he smacked your cheek.

Why can’t you remember his name? You’ve been obsessed with him ever since that long talk at the fountain you had after class about the veiled eroticism in Alice in  Wonderland and you suddenly can’t remember for the life of you what his name is! You’ve written it dozens of times, but you just can’t begin to have a clue about what his name actually is!

It’s only now you realize you’re naked.

You can see your naked feet behind your naked breasts and feel the cool air on your naked pussy as his naked hand presses your naked back down into the mattress. Reflexively, you start to struggle.

Now you realize why you’d expected so much more pain. The pain comes on like a forest fire. White hot, searing agony tearing through you, centered on the insides of your wrists. Your wrists are bound to the rails of the bed, so pulling against the restraints sends harsh signals of horrible damage already done, more to come if you move, but you can’t help but move, you have to get away! You’re naked! You’re naked and the boy you can’t stop thinking about has his hand just between your tits!

His hand is no longer pressing on your chest. Its mate has joined it in holding your head still. Gently, but firmly, insistently,  his smooth, strong hands force your head to be still until his voice penetrates your distress.

“That’s okay, my suicide girl,” he croons. “It’s a natural reaction. Just be still. Let it pass. You’re all right. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Be still. That’s it. Be still.”

Your struggles deteriorate to tremors, then to shivers. You’re acutely aware you’re breathing in huge heaving gasps. You hear a strange animal keening. The pain is rapidly fading into a low throb that’s just this side of pleasant until the moment you realize that the keening’s coming from you and you’re making this horrible sound because you just now realized that you did this to yourself.

You tense again, triggering another flare of pain, that almost feels like it’s pulled away by the strong warm hands holding your head still. You collapse and he lets you go.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl. My good little suicide girl,” he croons as he strokes down your neck, over your collarbones, down your sides. You once again feel very peaceful, like you’re floating in a cool swimming pool, or maybe drifting in the middle of a cloud. His face is like the sun.

“Are you ready for some water, suicide girl?” he asks. You nod enthusiastically, suddenly acutely aware of how dry your mouth is. Gluey tendrils of dried spit are pasted to the roof of your mouth. He takes up a remote, presses a button. The bed hums, your head and shoulders smoothly elevate to some near approximation of a sitting position. He takes a glass of ice water, holds it close enough to your head so you can feel its coldness, drizzles a few droplets on your parched lips. You lick up the icy drops and it feels sooo good. He takes his fingers away, puts down the glass he’s had his fingers in, picks up a fresh one, and brings a straw to your lips. He only lets you drink about half the glass before he takes it away. You moan and probe the air with your tongue. Then his wet fingers stroke your lips and you find yourself suckling them like a pacifier. His cold wet fingers warm in your mouth as your eyes slip shut.

“I’m going you give you a pill now,” he says. “It’s a cocktail. Mostly just ibuprofen and caffeine, to help with the pain and the swelling and also to help you feel a little more awake for what comes next.” The pill is bitter. More cool water and it goes straight down. His fingers return to your mouth and again you suckle them like a little baby.

“Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, my suicide girl,” he says. “Don’t bother trying to speak. Nod for yes and shake for no. understand?” you nod.

“You come from a quaint little suburb of the next big city over in whatever direction that may be. It’s at closest barely day-trippable. It’s the kind of place where everyone has perfect lawns and your options for teenage hijinks were to say the least limited. Yes?” You nod.

“Both your parents work. Both went to college. Both spend a lot of time and energy keeping up with the Joneses. Your… Dad? Describes himself as a classic WASP, but he’s from where you get that naturally black, decidedly un-caucasian hair. Yes?” You nod.

“Your mom’s Latina, but passes for white, right?” He takes his fingers out of your mouth.

You nod. “Columbian,” you murmur. “I was already in gradeschool ‘fore I figured out it din’t mean she was from Caroliney.” You hate how weak your voice sounds. And decide to go back to nodding.

“Appearances’ sake is about the only use either has for organized religion.” You nod again. You swallow and begin to drown in his eyes. His eyes would have to be called brown on his drivers license, but on because they don’t allow for colors like deep amber with burnt umber rings at the DMV.

“You’re the oldest child and you have one younger… brother?” you shake your head. “Sister?” you nod. “She’s five years younger? Thirteen?” shake. “Fourteen? Four years younger?” nod.

“You were a bit of a late bloomer. Your little sister’s an early bloomer. She gets all the attention. Cheerleader?” You nod.

“Most people think you’re shy, but you’re not particularly. You’re instead reserved and rather quiet. But you don’t have any trouble making friends even though you struggle with believing how pretty you actually are. Which is very, by the way.” You sniffle and sob. How could he have read so much about you just from your letters? Waitaminute?!? Does he mean he thinks you’re pretty not just pretty but very pretty?

“You got over 700 on your SAT Verbal and a perfect 6 on the writing, yes? You’d have to to write like you do.” you nod and quiver a little, blushing with pride.

“You could have gone all Ivy League, but you won a partial scholarship here to our sleepy little Research I state university and got turned on by its reputation as a top ten party school. You came here to fuck.” You bite your lip and nod, knowing his questioning is just about to get devastatingly embarrassing.

“You’ve been sending me scented handwritten letters, signed ‘SG,’ silver ink, textured purple paper, uncial differenced with a thin nib, longer tails, spirally flourishes… “ he grins, drawing your eyes to those perfect perfect teeth.

“…and really hot content.” You bite your lip, look away, look back, and nod. He’s holding one of your letters.

“I want you to be my first,” he reads. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not completely naïve. I’ve sucked enough cock to get pretty good at it if I do say so in behalf of my own damn self. But I’ve been saving my cherry and I want to give it to you.

“I want you to claim me at the Dressed for Success Party next weekend right there in front of everybody. I’ll be wearing red and white so you’ll know it’s me.

“Strip me, order me to strip, cut off my clothes with a linoleum knife, whatever you want, it’s all for you. Collar me, leash me, and lead me away like I’m your slave or just stick it in me right there in the middle of the dancing and the pot smoke and all the other naked girls.

“I’m your fucktoy. I’m your whore. I’m your own personal pornstar. I’m your fuckslave. i’m whatever you want me to need me to be. Fuck my pussy. Pop my cherry.  You can fuck my ass, but you’ll have to clean me out yourself if you don’t want santorum on your cock because I’m just a little too chickenshit to give myself my own enema. You don’t even have to wear a rubber. If you trust that I’m on the Depo, I’ll trust that you won’t give me any gifts that I can’t return at the campus med center.

“You can even share me with your friends, just so long as you’re the one to fuck me first. Nothing at all is off the table because just the thought of you inside me gets me so wet that I have to stop to finger myself just to get on to the next sentence.

“There’s more,” he says. “But I need to be sure of this right now. Nod for Yes or shake for No: You wrote this to me. You wrote this yourself without anyone else reviewing the content. This is your work. And you meant. Every. Word. Nod for Yes. Shake for No.”

You shudder hard enough to hurt your wrists again, sort of a whole body nod.

“Well.” He says with a chuckle. “That could easily be interpreted as both a nod and a shake. Or neither but rather a quiet little orgasm.” He pinches your clitty and inspires the same reaction.

“Since I’m just not going to accept a mixed message here, I guess I need to hear you say it, suicide girl. Did you mean what you wrote?”

He runs his hand through his bronzed baby shoe hair and suddenly he’s not the commanding compassionate alpha male, confident and strong, but a twenty year old college junior studying to become that man. He needs an honest answer here and you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and give him what he needs.

“Yes.”

The alpha male is back and strokes your hair. “So you put on that red gingham alice dress that you’d worked so hard to alter so it’d come off completely with one long pull of the bow of the pinafore perched just above your pretty posterior. You put on those lacy little girl panties that you’d done the same stripper thing to. You put on your white knee high stockings, your platformed mary-janes, and braided your hair.

You went to Dress for Success counting on canoodling with me. You somehow mis-timed your entry so as to see me leading Kimiko Watanabe away nearly naked on a leash. Just like you asked me to do.”

“Yes,” you whimper.

“You pluckily picked up the pieces of your pulverized expectations, proceeded to get drunk enough to settle for second best, whomever he might be, but by that time there wasn’t anyone tasteful enough or curious enough left around to pull on that pinafore and right around ten past two you snapped and decided to off yourself.”

“Yes,” you nearly sob.

“You assumed that I was not in fact into getting into you, that my failure to respond to your letters was my sick way of leading you on for the fun of reading you pouring your soul out to me, that I’m the kind of dickhead who’d rather fuck an easy little catgirl like Kimiko Watanabe than someone mysterious and literate like you.”

You try to say, “Yes,” but it doesn’t even come out as intelligible to you.

“What you didn’t realize is that first of all, that I am the kind of dickhead who would treasure the kind of girl I think you are above all others. And while I am that sort of dickhead, I am only just twenty years old and I wasn’t going to initiate contact because my confidence frankly isn’t what I hope it’ll be once I get my degree. It could’ve been a joke, or even worse a trap, and while I was pretty sure it was you, I did not in fact know.

“I also think you don’t have the fullest appreciation of just how easy it is to mistake a Kimmy in white gogo boots, red short shorts, a white domino mask, and dim lighting for you. Same height, same build, same decidedly non-caucasian glossy black hair, same pale dusty skin, no tats, no piercings.

“Third, I don’t think you realize that while Kimmy’s indeed a prize, I’m not the type to settle for second best and that I was on my way back to the party in hopes of collecting you when I got your little text message suicide note.”

That’s all it takes and you’re bawling like a five year old who just lost her doggie. Before you can open your stitches or anything, he’s in bed beside you and he’s gently releasing your arms from the rails, deftly trapping your flaming wrists, minimizing your agony as he pulls you into his lap and holds you close.

“That’s okay, my perfect little suicide girl. Just let it out. Let it all out,” he croons.

The pain actually helps you here. The harder the cry the worse the pain, the stiller you are the, better you feel, the better you feel the less you cry until you’re just whimpering and sniffling again, and then you’re rapidly drifting back into that cloudy neverland but one thing fetches you up.

You shift your leg against the front his sweatpants and you feel his boner. Ooh, it’s a terrific boner. It’s a full ready sitting up at attention ready to go boner. It’s the boner you’ve been dreaming about, trying to catch glimpses of, writing to, masturbating to all fucking term. You want to feel it but he’s trapping your hands because moving your arms is agony. You want to taste it but you can’t get your head down there because he’s holding you up and trapping your hands because moving your arms is agony. Maybe you can shift and wriggle and get that boner up into you somehow using your virgin hips and inexperienced ass…

And then you notice where his other hand is. It’s squeezing your boob. He’s squeezing your boob and it feels really good, but the more you move, the harder the squeeze, and the harder the squeeze the less good it feels and the less good it feels, the less you want the boner so you settle down and listen to him again.

“I see you’re ready for the next step, suicide girl,” he says. His lips are right by your ear, so he speaks very softly. “But I’m afraid that in all fairness, I have to disclose some things first so you’re as well informed as I can make you before I’m ready to proceed.”

“You’re probably wondering where you are,” you nod and something like an ‘uh-huh’ escapes your lips and you burn with shame. Uh-huh is one of your pet peeves and you have to bite your tongue to keep from correcting everybody who uses that horrible adult diaper of a word.

“You’re in my home. I’m the youngest of seven children, fourth of three brothers. Dad’s in several for-profit businesses, Mom’s in several charities and plays the cello on a professional level and a semiprofessional basis. Both of them hold PhDs from our fine university. My family would like to describe themselves as ‘comfortably well-off’ but the truth is we’re rich, just not flashy about it.

“My grandmother, Dad’s mom, built this bungalow herself, meaning she was her own architect and stonemason, after retiring from the university’s building trust in 1969. She left the place to me when she died just before my Freshman year. It’s about ten miles from campus and my scholarship covers room and board so I sleep in my dorm room at Albert Hall most weeknights and live here for breaks and weekends. I drive a hand-me-down car and I work summers so I can put a lot of that into this place so I can do most of my serious play here and I do this here because by any rational standard I am batshit crazy.”

His hand strays from your boob to your nipple, which he softly rolls and pinches gently, pulling it out, letting it go. You gasp and roll your head back against his shoulder.

“You see, I don’t feel things the way most other people do. My emotions are characterized by a distinct lack of nuance. I feel things very little or very nearly completely. I can’t feel the difference between guilt and fear, annoyance and anger, love and lust.

“This makes me a colossal pervert. A colossal pervert and a domineering prick who’s learned to lie a little. Normal vanilla sex is a means to an end  for me. It’s something I do, I’ve learned to enjoy even, in order to show a girl that I can be a thoughtful and attentive lover en route to tempting her into learning to like the sort of stuff I live for.”

He cups your breast and squeezes it like a handshake, then his hand wanders south, ruffling your short-trimmed pubes. You are so turned on right now that you’re finding it quite difficult to pay attention to what he has to say.

“That’s why you’re here, not hospitalized and about to be subjected to a nice long round of group therapy and personality improvement medication. I claimed Kimmy, thinking she was you, fucked her good and hard anyhow, got your despairing little goodbye while on the way back for you, detoured to your nearly empty dormitory, found you unconscious but alive, fished you out of that bloody tub, got tourniquets on your arms, and called my friend Cameron.

“Cameron works for about $10.50 an hour as an EMT and part-time for my family at a rather higher rate of pay because ten years ago, he graduated from medical school about six months before getting caught accepting the gratitude of a patient who was only sixteen years old. He’s very lucky that he’s allowed to even work for peanuts at the second or third most thankless job his industry has to offer.

“I got to you in time and gave you first aid. He pumped you full of fluids, oxygen, and antibiotics, stitched you up, then gave you about 3 quarts of someone else’s blood. You bled away quite a bit more than half of your oxygen transfer system. Cameron said that means that when I found you, you were as little as two minutes from becoming a sad little tragedy, suicide girl.

“You’re going to feel weak and shaky for the next few days. You’re going to want to sleep at least eighteen hours a day, your wrists are going to take a while to heal completely, but you’re going to be fine. The way I see it, you owe Cameron about exactly half the gratitude for that.”

“Oh, I agree completely,” you murmur. “And I can’t wait to show him how grateful that is. But you’re going to fuck me first, right?” you wiggle your butt against his boner.

“Most definitely,” he says with a chuckle. “Indeed, here’s where I proceed us to the next scene in this little drama.” He slides across the bed and lifts you in his arms and carries you across the room to where you notice there’s a gynecologist’s chair that he seats you in. You look around while he gently uses gauze to bind your hands into the oh-jesus handles. It’s a small room, obviously originally a small guest bedroom or maybe a study. There are two generously sized windows shaded with roman-style canvas shades that look like sails. There is a door to what has to be a closet and another door to what must be an attached bathroom. There doesn’t appear to be a door to anyplace else. Weird, you think idly as he moves to strap in your legs. In the corner across from you is a large wooden toybox. In the final corner is a large oaken chair. It’s massive and bolted to the floor. There are leather cuffs permanently installed on the armrests and front legs. There is what looks at first to be a reading lamp attached to the back. Then you look to the wall and see the huge industrial strength switch and put it together. That can’t be real, you think.

He’s strapped your legs in good and tight, ankles, shins, and thighs. Your hands are loosely and securely tied your upper arms cuffed to the back of the chair. Your legs are spread wide and you’re reclining backward, the oh-jesus handles your hands are bound into are giving you further support. You’re in perfect fucking position, you realize. You must be about to get fucked. It’s finally going to happen. Finally you’re going to know. Where is he? You take a deep breath and relax against the headrest, closing your eyes, breathing deeply, trying to get ready to be impaled on his boner, hoping it’s going to be good.

The sudden pain is not what you expected. You shriek and convulse. It’s hot. It’s a hot burning fiery pain. It’s a hot burning fiery pain, wet like lava, not dry like a blowtorch. It’s a hot wet burning fiery pain but it’s only on the outside of your pussy. There’s no sensation of penetration. And you do know what that should feel like. You’ve kept your cherry intact, at least mostly intact, but you used tampons before you went on the Depo. You’ve had your fingers up there, and even a skinny little vibrator Kimmy called “Willie the Wonder Weasel Worm.” This isn’t right. You look down.

He’s… diapered you?

No. It’s a hot towel. A hot towel that’s rapidly cooling off to feel oh. So. Good.

The cold air on your hot pussy rouses you from the driftiness you didn’t realize you’d settled into as he removes the towel and smiles down at you. “You just look so cute there with your legs spread and your nipples hard like a little kitty wants to play.” He leans in and kisses you. He kisses you tenderly and passionately but all too briefly and all too chastely. You whimper in disappointment, trying to chase his lips with your own, but of course you  can’t move far with your arms and legs immobilized. You can, you discover, get a fair amount of movement out of your hips and ass.

While you drifted he set a tea table beside you on which he placed a bowl full of frothy suds, a shaving brush, more clean pristine white shaving towels, three bottles of lotions, and the 1909 Scheiffler and Sons of New York brass handled straight razor your grandfather shaved with every day until you were thirteen and his hands started to give out. He reluctantly moved to Gillette, passed on to your father who rather offhandedly asked you if you wanted it. You’ve shaved your legs with it your whole short adult life and it’s what you used to slit your wrists. He opens your razor. “We know this is good and sharp, right?” he asks with a perfectly evil smile. Then, he’s lathering your pussy and you’re moving your hips in counter-time to his ministrations and if it feels this good fucking is going to must be pure heaven because you’re getting off from just having your pussy brushed and suddenly he stops.

“Better hold still, suicide girl. I wouldn’t want to cut you…” he pauses, smiling dangerously. “…inadvertently.”

You hold still.

Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. That’s all it takes. Five quick strokes and your neatly groomed pussy is as bald as it was when you were ten and in the bathtub and discovered that rubbing your clitty feels really good and tinglie.

Now he’s wiping your bald pussy and now he’s treating it with lotion and now he’s standing up and pulling off his t-shirt pulling off his sweats and there’s that beautiful boner sticking straight out well not straight out now it’s sticking slightly up and it curves up a little like a cucumber but he’s been cut so it’s like a cucumber with a mushroom stuck in its tip but it’s not green it’s this wonderful rich reddy purply color and he’s about to stick it in you.

He leans down to kiss you and this is the real kiss, the full kiss that mirrors what his boner is going to do to your pussy.

You treat his tongue like it was his boner and swirl your tongue around it and suck and swirl and you feel his hands on your tits stroking and cupping and squeezing, lightly pinching your nipples and now he’s eased in just the tip, it’s not really even in your vag yet, not even pressing against your cherry so you thrust your hips forward and he pulls back with you so now you’re straining to keep the tip of his boner pressed against your cherry and it’s really starting to hurt and he freezes.

He freezes just from the hips on down as you strain and start to tremble, as he backs up and strokes your lips your face. “Is there anything you want to ask before we continue, my suicide girl?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you find yourself saying. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

He looks a little confused.

You continue. “I mean I know you’re gonna fuck me. You’re gonna fuck me and I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum and then you’re gonna give me to your EMT friend who stitched me up and he’s gonna fuck me to his heart’s content and I’m gonna cum some more and I mean what after that?”

“Hmmm. To be frank, I don’t really know for sure. A lot of it depends on you and the choices that you make, the kind of person you really are, not just the kind of person you are when you write scented lust-letters.”

“Okay.”

“I plan to keep you through the break. I already talked to Uncle Rupert and he’s going to enroll you in one of his extracurricular workshop things that’ll explain your absence to your parents.”

“Heap Big Professor Wooly Rupert’s your Uncle?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“I guess I’ve kinda had a lot on my mind.”

“I guess so. Anyhow, he doesn’t know all the details, just enough so that you’re covered through the break.”

“Are you gonna send someone to the dorm to get my clothes?”

“You won’t be needing clothes.”

“Ohhhh. I see.” You lick your lips and swallow, trying the concept out in full for the first time. “So I really am gonna be your slave for real?”

“Through the break, at least. After that, who knows? One thing I can promise, however, my suicide girl…”

“What’s that?”

“You will not take your own life. I forbid it absolutely. Whatever else happens I will not let these magnificent tits…” which he squeezes, “…go to waste.”

At that moment, you realize that in your weakened, imprisoned state, your hips have slipped back, just a bit, and his have slipped forward just enough to maintain that tenuous connection vag to dick, boner to pussy.

With a savage cry, you thrust your hips forward explosively just as he thrusts his forward in the opposite direction, your pelvises colliding in the middle. You feel your cherry-pop feel exactly like getting hit with a broken rubber band. He pulls back. You pull back. You thrust together again. His mouth descends to meet yours. Your tongues touch. His hands push up the bottoms of your magnificent tits.

And your head explodes.

To be continued.