Archive of Our Own

For the first time, you noticed that the camcorder in your basement prison was duct-taped to the wooden dowels your captor used as a tripod. It wasn’t perfectly even, one leg of the tripod was longer than the others. You wondered if he’d purposefully done that so that the camera looked down at you. You looked behind yourself, at the polaroids on the wall and you looked at the bloodied face of some stranger. Had she seen Bo’s piss-poor filming set up too? It was funny right? What kind of hick bullshit was a tripod made of wood and duct tape? Anyone who saw this must’ve thought it was in some way funny… right? Surely you weren't the only girl with a sense of humor here. Hell, you had about thirty new friends whose pictures were tacked up on the wall. Someone had to think his shitty tripod was funny.

Sighing, you looked at the polaroid closest to your head. You couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive in the photo. Had she met her end right here where you were sitting? Where you’d been sleeping for weeks on end? Was she mad at you for being here?

You tried to analyze the brick behind her head so you could figure out where exactly her polaroid had been taken, but looking at the photo made your head swim. The more you looked at her face, the more her features began to morph into yours. Soon, you were looking at your own eyes and familiar panic began to peck at your corpse like a hungry vulture. The fear came with a bruising impact while the bird’s beak tore flesh from your bones. You weren’t even sure what hurt anymore. With shaky hands, you touched your face and you were surprised to feel your clammy flesh, you almost expected to feel the dry remains of yellowed skin that stretched thinly over your skull. You were already dead, weren’t you? You were there on the wall. Every picture up there was another photo of you. You’d died over and over and over again and some cruel bastard kept forcing you back up, he couldn’t just let you rest. He kept feeding you, washing you, stealing kisses from your lips when all you wanted to do was cry. You weren’t sure when it happened, but the only time you felt truly alive was when he was buried inside of you. He was so warm, so much bigger than you. His hands on your body were welcomed because he awakened your decaying corpse, slowing the rot he inflicted. Each brush of forced affection helped you reunite with your still-beating heart.

You were alive because of him. He told you that enough. He let you live because you were a good girl. You were so grateful. You owed him your life, he was good to you. He hadn’t hurt you like the other ungrateful sluts on the wall. You were better than them.

Why couldn’t you be grateful in the way that he needed?

You hated being left alone. It was constantly dim in the basement. Nighttime was never truly dark, he left the lights on for you as a favor, as a gift but you wished he’d leave you in the dark.

When you were little, you nearly drowned in a pool one day. There were so many kids in the pool along with you that nobody noticed your struggle. You remembered being so scared that you could feel nothing else but fear. The more you struggled, the more you watched your limbs grow sluggish. You watched your hippo-shaped floaty get further and further away from you and you were so sad to see it go. Soon, you forgot why you were sad, you forgot why you were fighting so hard when it would be easier just to give up. You just got sleepier and sleepier… and then the next thing you knew— you were coughing and throwing up water on the rough concrete as strangers fussed above you. Your lungs burned, and throwing up made you cry. It hurt to breathe again. Every panicked breath felt like fire in your chest. You’d forgotten you were supposed to be scared until your daddy was hugging you tight, yelling at the lifeguards for not noticing you. You remembered crying for three hours straight after that.

Drowning felt nicer than breathing again.

Whenever Bo paid you a visit, your lungs felt the same as they did that day at the pool. You needed him, but breathing him in hurt. Wanting him hurt. You couldn’t go without him but being left alone would probably be nicer, maybe even safer. You could just close your eyes and never open them back up. You’d be another girl on the wall, maybe they’d finally talk to you if you stopped messing around with their executioner. Maybe they wouldn’t be mad at you if you gave up. You imagined one happy circle of girls, all braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys.

You found it funny that Bo seemed to want you starved for him, but he came by to feed you twice a day. He wanted you desperate, he wanted you begging. But he’d bring you a warm ham sandwich, telling you he made it special just for you. He’d make you thank him— he’d make you get on your knees and you stopped thinking about how pathetic it was to suck a guy’s dick for a fucking sandwich. Recently, you asked for a new blanket and he brought it the next time he came to see you. It smelled like it’d been in a closet for thirty years, but it wasn’t overall disgusting. If he wanted to be cruel, he could do much worse to you.

He chained you to a pipe— locking you up with a cuff around your ankle, but your leash was decently long. You could use the bathroom. You could look at yourself in a cracked mirror and wipe your face with your hands until your cheeks burned. In the corner of the little bathroom, he’d left a duffel bag full of things for you. Presents. Rewards for being such a good girl. In the mirror you pulled at your cheeks, pinching them with two fingers to pull them as far as they could go. You wondered if it was supposed to hurt more or less. You didn’t trust the way you felt pain anymore.

Bo made the pain feel good. He hurt you in ways that made you wet. He hurt you in ways that made you cum. He made you say words you would’ve never imagined saying, it was as if he pulled the filth right from your lips so he could slap you across the face with them. You remembered him licking tears that’d begun to spill down to your throat. Your sorrow wasn’t your own anymore, he’d stolen it— consumed it. You wished you knew how to stop feeding him.

Back in your hellish corner of the basement, you sank back down to the mattress. Above you, you heard his truck pull into the garage and you sat up quickly enough that the resulting headrush had you blinking away dizzy songbirds from your vision. You rubbed your eyes and you wondered if he was early or late. You hoped he was early. You hoped he wanted to see you badly enough that he hurried on down here to come to make you cry again. You’d make it good for him. You’d give him a show if he wanted.

You waited at the stairs after practically scrambling over. The chain at your ankle pulled tight and your heart was in your throat. You could hear him moving around up there. Exiting his truck and the like. Something metal scraped against something else. You ran your nails through your hair and you anxiously pulled at any tangles you could find. The resulting judgment you felt from the polaroid girls had your skin feeling ill-fitting and itchy. How long did dying usually take? Were you doing it wrong? Were all those other girls somehow smarter than you and you were the one idiot who hadn’t figured out how to die?

Above you, you heard his footsteps. At this point, you felt like there was something alive and writhing inside of you, Bo must’ve put it in there because it only awoke when he was around. You were this ugly shriveled thing that piloted your tired corpse around while you hid in the chasm of your chest. Your bottom lip quivered. Why wasn’t he coming down? You knew better than to yell, but whatever strength you found in your excitement began to weigh down heavily on your shoulders. You wanted him to come down because you felt like the girls behind you were pointing and laughing at you. Bo was always good at shutting them up.

You stalked back to your bed feeling dejected. Your limbs felt heavy and your chain link leash dragged on the floor. The basement was muggy and your clothes felt like they were made of saran wrap. Discomfort made your skin sensitive, and you thought back to drowning in that pool. You were weightless. Free. Nothing hurt. You weren’t scared. It would be so nice to forget what it was to be afraid.

The bralette you wore was too small around the band, and the lace itched. Your blanket smelled and you wanted a bath. Everything you felt was overwhelming and you curled up, hugging your knees while you shut your eyes. Bo was just above you. You weren’t alone. You felt bratty for wanting him to come visit you. You were always a greedy little slut when it came to him. You wanted to be good. Why couldn’t you behave when he worked so hard to put manners into your stupid fucking head?

By the time you heard the door to the basement push open, you were stubbornly wiping away bitter tears that you were too weak to hold back. The girls laughed at you. Stupid goddamned bitch, you couldn’t figure out how to die— you couldn’t figure out how you were supposed to keep yourself alive either. As you heard his boots on the stairs, you sniffled and anxiously smoothed down your hair. Your fingers picked at nonexistent tangles. You sat up and you felt small, inconsequential. You might as well be any of those girls on the wall, to him there was no difference between one girl and the next. They were all the same woman and now you were as well.

Bo stepped into the room holding a metal tray with what was presumably your dinner. He turned on the harsh overhead lighting to the basement and the fluorescent flicker made you shut your eyes. You wanted to ask him nicely to turn it off.

“–And hello to you too, sweetheart.” Your captor huffed, unhappy that you didn’t greet him first. When he put your food down, the fork rattled on the tray.

Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.

Weakly, you got up on shaking legs and you approached him just close enough to ensure  that he couldn’t take a swing at you or pull your hair, or something equally mean because you’d fucked up by forgetting to be sweet. You looked at your feet. There were just the smallest hints of nail polish on your toes. You remembered painting them in your bathroom. How long ago was that?

“Go on now, eat.” There was an edge to his tone. He was always in a bad mood, but tonight he seemed particularly touchy. You were supposed to fix that weren’t you? You looked at the microwaved TV dinner with the film still over it. One compartment had a bubbling, molten-looking brownie. You used your wrist to wipe your eyes and you took a quick inhale of musty, salisbury steak-smelling air as if it would give you a bite of confidence.

“I missed you.” You whimpered out, your words came out weaker than a mewling, rain-soaked kitten. You couldn’t force your gaze up from the floor. You felt like you’d offend him by looking at him directly. Were you supposed to ask permission?

“Yeah?” He asked with a smile in his voice. He was so handsome when he smiled. Shyly, you looked up, meeting his gaze and you nodded. As if your body finally decided it had enough of your weak, stupid brain, you stumbled forward and you hugged him as if you had any right to do so. Immediately, you braced yourself for impact— for a knife in your belly, a swat to the side of your head. At the least, expected him to shove you off of him. Maybe falling to the floor would shock you to your senses and you’d finally figure out how to behave.

Instead, he hugged you back. One of his hands found the back of your head and he pushed you into him. You felt his chest expand with his breath and he let out a grumbling, elongated sigh. The sort of noise you might make after resisting a cigarette all day or after holding your bladder for hours and hours until you stumbled back home to piss in the peace of your own bathroom. His sigh was utterly content, his arms around you were possessive. You felt like you just walked into a bear trap while fully knowing that it would mangle you. Behind you, the polaroids on the wall murmured, you felt like the new girl at school and you’d just spilled chocolate milk all over your shirt.

“Missed me huh?” Bo spoke in a low voice, haughtily asking for you to give him a repeat performance of your surrender. You nodded and he leaned so he could rub his cheek against your hair. He breathed in and there was a barely suppressed shudder beneath his gloating. A hand skimmed down your back and he grabbed a handful of your ass as if to tell you in his own way that he missed you too.

The flimsy shift you wore was made of fucking rayon or something. It felt like a tarp. You hated it but right now you felt pretty.

“It’s hard to go about doin’ chores and other bullshit when I know you’re down here waiting for me.”

His words pulled an involuntary whimper of agreement from your throat and he shushed you. His lips pressed against the top of your head.

“You put this on for me?” He pinched at your shift, his thumb possessively stroked over your hip.

You nodded. You wanted him to be proud of you. You didn’t tell him it was one of the last bits of clothing that he gave you which he hadn’t yet cut off of you with a knife. You felt like you were floating, you felt like you had little termite wings that were doing their best to lift you off the ground. You wanted to burrow into his praise and you wanted to make a nice little house in it. You wanted somewhere safe to hide. Maybe he’d let you stay? You’d be such a good house guest. You’d cook and clean and you’d scrub the floors with a fucking toothbrush if he wanted you to.

“Gimme a moment,” Bo stepped away from you and you forced yourself to close your open mouth. Whatever words you were about to say were forgotten in an instant. You almost wanted to whine for him to come back. From the distant corner of the basement, he rolled over an old office chair. The thing only had one armrest on it, and one of the wheels didn’t roll all that well. It scraped against the floor as he dragged it to the table. He sat down and patted his lap, Bo reached across the table to drag your dinner tray closer.

You crept over and hesitantly sat sideways in his lap. Without back support, you had to sit stiff and uncomfortably. His arm came to wrap around your hip and then he pushed you into leaning your side against his chest. Instinctively, you hunched your back, you wanted to be smaller as if you wanted to crawl into yourself. Snails were lucky fucking shits because they came pre-equipped with somewhere to hide. You felt just as slimy and yucky after you spent all day baking in your oven of a prison.

Taking another deep inhale of your hair, Bo hummed appreciatively. “Y’smell good.” His big hand placed itself on your thigh, his fingers dug into the meat of your flesh, squeezing with almost bruising intensity. “Feels good to know y’missed me. I missed you too sweetheart.”

You loved the cadence of his voice. It wrapped around you like a blanket. He sounded sincere. Knowing that you made him happy at least a little bit felt wonderful. You sniffled again, overwhelmed by everything. His hand left your thigh in favor of grabbing your fork. The TV dinner’s main compartment didn’t look all that appetizing, the perfectly circular “steak” looked mushy. He tore a piece off with the fork and he pressed the food against your lips. When you took what was offered, he skimmed his free hand up your side.

“That’s my good girl. Got busy today an’ I didn’t have time to bring you lunch. Y’know how it goes.”

You nodded, but you had no idea how anything went. You didn’t know what he was talking about in the slightest. You took a mouthful of peas and carrots and you didn’t say anything when some of it was burning hot while a bunch of peas were frozen solid and they crunched when you bit them. If he asked you how things tasted, you’d say this was the best thing you’d ever had. You were grateful. So grateful.

Balancing in his lap was already a little difficult. The chair wasn’t exactly made for two people. You wished you were smaller. You wished you didn’t need to be fed. You wished you were a plastic pretty Barbie doll who’d only come to life whenever Bo wanted to play with you. That’s what the song said right? Life’s fantastic when you’re made of plastic. His finger traced a scar on the side of your thigh that disappeared beneath the hem of your shift. Had he left that there? You couldn’t remember. You hadn’t put on panties because you only had one pair left. You didn’t want to upset him just in case he one day told you to wear some and then you’d have to tell him that he ruined every pair you had. Now, you wished you put them on.

His pants were rough. He smelled like motor oil and his hands were dirty. Every time he gave you another bite of your dinner, the smell from his hands seemed to waft into your food and then you swallowed a mouthful of mush that tasted like engine exhaust. After one more bite of watery mashed potatoes, Bo put down the fork so he could grab a handful of your tits. His thumb grazed against your nipple and it smeared a black streak over the baby pink of your shift.

“Gonna poke my eye out with these damned things.” Bo laughed at his unfunny joke, “What’s the matter with you sweetheart? Bein’ babied like this gets you goin’? This make you wet?” He grabbed your thigh and forced it open so he could grab the mound of your pussy. With his finger and thumb, he pinched the puffy outer lips of your cunt which made you jolt in his lap. He laughed behind you, cruel and boyish as he pinched and prodded at you. Dirty fingers pulled at your nipples over your shift and you whimpered, your leg spread wider, just a smidge.

“Askin’ for it and you’re not even done with dinner.” He paused, dropping his voice lower. “I knew you were a slut.”

You weren’t sure if he wanted you to agree with him or not. He said the word without any tone indication for you to understand what he wanted. You whimpered because he was trapping your clit between your outer lips, pinching them together, and making them kiss. The barest not quite touch was beginning to make your breath catch in your throat. Your throat bobbed with a dry swallow,

“I’m still hungry,” You squirmed as Bo mashed your breast in his big hand, giving your poor pussy a momentary break. He hadn’t fed you everything on your shitty TV dinner and Bo seemed annoyed to be reminded of it. Perhaps he was annoyed with the fact that you needed to eat. He picked up your fork again and he finally scooped up what you now realized was supposed to be pudding, not a brownie. He’d just overcooked it until it had a film over it. The clumpy pudding steamed and he held the fork an inch away from your lips.

“Blow. Shit’s hot.”

Your heart softened at that. He didn’t want you to hurt yourself. That was good right? You did as told and you looked up at him, ready to receive another “Good girl.”

Bo met your gaze with an appraising sort of smirk, he tilted his head to the side as if he wanted to ask you what the fuck you thought you were looking at. “You should thank me. I made you dinner didn’t I?”

“Thank you, daddy.” You said without an ounce of hesitancy. The title crept out of you as if your throat was an unwilling vessel of its existence. The title breached into the space between your bodies as if it was annoyed that it took you so long to figure out where to place it. Like those stupid toys for babies, where the triangle block went into the triangle space. You felt like you’d been jamming a star into a circle for months until just now.

Bo’s adam’s apple bobbed, and his tongue came to wet his lower lip. His eyes seemed to grow darker in an instant. A sly smile pulled at his lips and unfamiliar pride shot through you with the sight. You felt like you’d finally done something right.

“That’s right baby,” His voice was a husky growl, he seemed as if it was an act of genuine restraint to keep from bending you over the table right here and now. You could feel him hard against the back of your thighs. Bo pressed another kiss to your temple as you finally took your mouthful of clumpy pudding.

“Such a good girl aren’t you?” He whispered, his knuckles bloomed white with how hard he held your fork. He stabbed at the plastic of your TV dinner, barely catching any pudding before he was pressing it against your lips again. You licked the pudding off and Bo groaned behind you, “Fuck, babygirl you make daddy so fuckin’ hard. Makes it hard to goddamned think around you.”

The heat in his voice transferred between your legs. You took a shaky breath, and you watched Bo drop the fork to the metal tray with a clatter. He scooped up the remnants of your pudding with two fingers and you barely had a moment to crinkle your nose before he was shoving his fingers past your lips. He pushed them far as they would go, you hadn’t a moment to relax against his invasion before he was pushing at the back of your throat. You gagged, unable to hold the noise back and Bo’s free hand tightened its grip on the side of your ass. His hips rose, unashamed as he rut himself against your thighs, you loved that you made him downright feral. Sometimes he got so rough that you were afraid for your life, but what little restraint he enacted always made you feel so fucking special.

“Suck 'em clean.” Bo rumbled as if he got off on the sound of his own voice. You sucked at his fingers, giving him the best show you were capable of performing right now. Your tongue flicked up and down his index finger and you tried not to think about the taste in your mouth. Rust, motor oil, and the chocolate pudding of a likely expired TV dinner never tasted so good. Bo dug his fingers beneath your tongue, he thrust them into your mouth as if to mimic the way he wanted to fuck your face. He made it difficult to do as he asked but you tried your best. Trying your best was all you could do.

“Tonight’s special, y’know that?” Bo removed his fingers from your mouth and he grabbed you by the throat, his fingers constricted around you and you clenched your hand at your side. Stubborn instincts told you to claw at his wrist, but you knew better now. Your eyes scrunched shut and you bit back your panic. You were a good girl. His good girl. If daddy wanted to choke you, if he thought you deserved to be choked— then you’d be misbehaving if you thought otherwise. His fingers were sticky against the side of your neck, his grip was firm just under your jaw. You swore you could feel his cock pulsing beneath you.

“Wh-” You struggled to speak and Bo lessened the pressure at your throat. Just enough to allow you a full breath of air. Blinking away tears from your eyes, you coughed, “Why’s tonight special?” Your voice was a squeak and you were unable to cover the panic in your tone.

You didn’t want tonight to be special. You were just fine for tonight to be like any other night. You wondered if all the pretty butchered girls on the wall were told the same thing. You wanted to cry because you felt as if you’d finally figured out how to solve the stupid brain teaser of who he was and you were just about on the cusp of figuring him out.

“Tonight’s special ‘cause you’re gonna be daddy’s pretty lil showgirl. ‘M gonna film you.”

Now you really were crying. Bo didn’t seem to take offense. Maybe he liked it when you cried. He let you get a few sobs out before he took his hand from your throat, he wrapped both arms around you and he leaned his forehead against your temple, he kissed your hair. “Shh, don’t worry, beautiful. Daddy’s not gonna hurt you, I jus’ wanna video. You’ll be okay.”

You knew his words had as much substance as fluffy cotton candy. You knew they were bad for you but you still gorged yourself on them. You weren’t stupid, but it was often easier to take a mouthful of sugar than it was to complain about it. Bo lied right to your face all the damned time. He’d tell you it was Monday when you knew it was a Thursday. He’d tell you that if you sucked him off real good, maybe he’d let you go. Once he told you he’d unlock the manacle at your ankle if you told him you loved his big cock in your ass.

“P-please don’t.” You clung to him, hoping he’d give you just one more chance.

“Why not baby? It’s just for me. You wanna make me happy don’tchya?” He huffed and his attitude changed in an instant, “Always fuckin’ complaining. Can’t fuckin win huh? ‘Course you gotta make it goddamned difficult.”

The hint of his anger had you babbling your apology, you frantically shook your head no. “I-I don’t want to be a showgirl.”

“Mmhm.” You watched his jaw tense. Bo patted your hip and you got off of him on trembling legs. He crossed the room and unlocked the bottom drawer of a large red tool chest. Squatting, he pulled a few things from the drawer. The metal around your ankle seemed to flare hot, burning you. For the first time in a long time, you wondered if it would really be so bad if you bit off your own foot like a rat in a glue trap.

You flattened yourself to the wall when Bo walked past you to the bathroom. He dragged out that big bag of clothes and he knelt to dig through it. You’d been shoving whatever clothes you had in there, you wanted to make as little a mess as possible. Momentarily, you watched some rust-stained shirt flutter to the ground and you tried to wrack your brain for any recollection of whether the blood on it was yours or not. Was that what you came in with?

Finally, after making a mess of your prison, Bo grumbled under his breath after apparently not finding what he was looking for. Crossing the room, he unlocked a tall metal cabinet. You previously assumed it was a gun locker. Inside there was a mess of clothes. He sifted through the pile, but it only took a moment before he pulled a flouncy white dress out of the thing. The skirt was made of tulle that stuck out every which way like a crumpled ball of paper. You wondered if the dress was a Halloween costume or a homecoming dress for a very annoying princess of a girl. You pictured her with a piggy nose and pouty lips. Revulsion made your stomach flip as you realized the face you pictured was a face you’d seen before. She was right there on the wall. You shot her a glance, and as you expected— there was your princess, wearing her white dress with a watery smile on her face. The bile in your throat tasted like chocolate pudding.

The smile on Bo’s face was an ugly thing. You thought it made him look grotesque. He looked awful while holding that stupid fluffy dress. He brought it to you and he patted your head like you were a cute little puppy. When you didn’t take it from him, Bo sighed. “Alright then, arms up sweetheart.”

You did as told and Bo pulled your shift off of you. Distantly, you wondered if this was the first time he undressed you without the aid of a knife. You watched your shift meet the ground near the rest of the clothes he threw about. The duffel bag looked like a corpse, its body cavern was gaping, sagging under its own weight. Its entrails were thrown about the room. It looked like it was torn apart by an animal, but at least an animal might’ve had a justifiable reason for such a messy slaughter. You raised your arms above your head for Bo to bunch the fluffy white dress up so he could pull it over you. It caught at your chest, you had to hold your tits down with your hand so the dress could fit over you. Hooting out a wolf whistle, Bo pulled at one of the tulle layers of the dress, fluffing it out in a way he liked.

You felt like the world's most miserable tooth fairy.

“Look at you!” Right now, Bo looked like a peacock and you felt like an ugly duckling. He was all chuffed up and proud, puffing his chest up and standing tall. “I got my own personal Marilyn Monroe right here!” He grabbed your fluffed up skirt to throw it up, laughing at his joke while you awkwardly tried to cover yourself. “Ain’t I lucky? Got me some kinda Beverly Hills, Hollywood girl!”

You bit back telling him where you were from. He wouldn’t care.

He whistled again, grinning at you. You shifted on your feet and the chain attached to you jingled. Bo’s gaze snapped toward your ankle and he knelt just as soon as he seemingly remembered your restraint’s existence. After lifting your foot to rest it on his knee, Bo leaned in to press his lips to your shin. The fluffed up expanse of your skirt kept you from seeing his face. You imagined him looking up your skirt. His fingertips danced over your calf and then they trailed up your thigh.

“Y’make me fuckin’ crazy y’know that? Been thinkin’ about my girl’s sweet little cunt all day.”

You hated yourself for the way that his words made your clit seem to pulse, he unlocked the cuff at your ankle and you stepped back on both feet as soon as you were able to. Bo stood up before you could award yourself with the sight of him on his knees for you. You didn’t expect him to lean down so he could pull you into a hungry kiss, but at this point, you’d given up trying to figure him out. His mouth on yours was claiming, his tongue forced its way into your mouth and he seemed as if he was doing his best to fuck your tongue with his, like was searching for some orifice of yours that didn’t exist because he needed to make you uncomfortable.

You sputtered against the attack, unable to do much of anything besides let him bite at your lips and choke you with his tongue. When he pulled away from you, giving you an increment of space— you stood on your tiptoes to steal another kiss. He met you with a groan, and your heart gave a pathetic flutter. It felt good for your bravery to be rewarded. He let you hug him earlier, he pulled you into his lap to feed you dinner. He liked you didn’t he? The polaroids at your back seemed to disagree, and the ill-fitting dress you wore disagreed as well. Their judgment had your face feeling hot. Their annoyance had you wet between the thighs because fuck them, you had to be special. He told you as much, didn’t he? There wasn’t any point in distrusting him anymore. It would all lead you to the same place in the end. If you forced your brain to take a hike, maybe you could hop and skip right over any pain he might give you. Maybe you’d forget it entirely and it wouldn’t hurt at all.

Maybe he’d be merciful if you let yourself be the dumb little whore he wanted.

“Are you gonna make me a star daddy?” You whispered against his lips, deciding to play the part. You squeaked as Bo leaned to pick you up. He spun with you and then he dropped you to sit atop that metal table next to your TV dinner.

“Mmhm, there ain’t gonna be a soul in Ambrose who don’t know who you are.” You felt him smile against your lips.

To you, that meant nothing. You didn’t know where you were. Your memories got fuzzy when you tried to remember how you ended up in his basement. Nonetheless, a bright smile lit up your face, giving in to the insanity of your situation was surprisingly easy. Your dress was tight but breathing came easier than it had in months. You kicked your legs while sitting on the table, your mind felt like it was a helium balloon and you were holding it by a pretty ribbon, watching it bob up and down in the air.

One of your fingernails must’ve split at one point. You looked at your nail’s crooked reformation and you wished you had some polish. You vaguely remembered clawing at the concrete floor of your prison, trying to escape as—

Bo went back to that red tool chest and he brought you a zipped little bag with a cute pattern of bright yellow lemons. Something so cutesy looked foreign in his hands.

“Some girly shit’s in there. Figured you might wanna doll yourself up for your big show and all.” Bo let the bag fall to the table with a thump as if he couldn’t stand to touch it for a moment longer than necessary. You unzipped the bag and you swung your legs giddy and excited as you dug through a bunch of makeup. Amongst the makeup, there were a few odds and ends— a bobby pin, a hello kitty mechanical pencil without any lead in it... A little travel-sized foldable hair brush hid amongst the jumbled products and the hair left tangled in the bristles wasn’t at all like yours. The skin color of the concealer wasn’t your shade. There were a few lipsticks, you held the lot of them in your hand so Bo could see all the different shades.

His eyebrows gave an impressive job of mimicking annoyance, the frown on his lips was entirely fabricated. Faking apathy, he puffed out one cheek, and then he pointed to a cherry red before he hurriedly went to busy himself with literally anything besides looking at girly makeup. If he really didn’t care, he could’ve told you as much. With his back to you, he unlocked another drawer of the big red tool chest. Whatever he touched in there jangled together, like silverware in a drawer.

You took the little lemon-printed bag and scampered off to the bathroom. The lipstick was sort of old, it felt tacky on your lips. You noticed that the concealer was dried solid. You used an eyeliner pencil and you wondered if you looked like a silly little girl who’d gotten into her mother’s makeup. Maybe he’d like that though. Limp, unwashed hair hung from your head, it looked sort of funny compared to your poofy dress. You used the brush to fix your hair as best you could, it wasn’t anything like Marilyn's but you could pretend. You remembered putting space cadet Barbie's outfit onto a cinderella doll when you were little. The silver suit fit her all wrong, and you thought that she’d never survive in space with her wrists and ankles exposed. Cinderella’s plastic hair looked funny in the costume you put her in.

You floated out of the icky bathroom on your pretty white cloud and you found Bo messing with his camera setup. He put the thing on top of a tire, and he seemed to be messing with the angle of the display. You wished you could’ve seen him drag the tire over. You watched him flip open a knife from his pocket and he cut away the duct tape on the tripod only to re-affix the camcorder to the platform with a new strip of duct tape. On top of the mattress, another camcorder sat on your blanket. The screen of it was open and it was already recording. You stood at the edge of your mattress, you wished your heart would choose to float above you like your brain because right now, it was thudding hard enough that you worried it might bruise you.

You just knew Bo would be so upset to find bruises on you that he didn’t make.

“There’s my showgirl,” Bo stepped over to you, a wolfish grin on his lips. You wondered if he was going to eat you. What big hands you have, mister wolf! What big teeth too! You gonna bite me mister wolf?

Maybe you’d ask him to do a red riding hood video? He’d probably like that.

He picked up the camcorder from your mattress, and slid his hand into the grip of it. The nylon strapping of the handhold was fraying, a long string of it fell down past his wrist.

“Do a spin for me,” He used a finger to pantomime what he wanted.

“Is my dress okay daddy?” You spun, you looked into the camera and you gave him a picture-perfect little pout. “It’s tight up here.” You patted your chest, you used the finger to pull the bodice away from yourself and you curiously eyed the diamond-looking appliques that lined the sweetheart collar. What the hell kind of dress was this? The dress’s original owner didn’t answer you, which seemed rude because she was only a few feet away, tacked up on the wall. She clearly wasn’t doing anything important, but she still had nothing to say to you.

“Mmhm,” Bo drew the sound of his agreement out, “Best to keep them puppies covered up anyway, can’t be showing them off to every horny shit who wants a look. That’d make you a slut, wouldn’t it?”

Looking into the camera lens, you huffed, playing your part. “I’m not a slut.”

“Yeah?” Bo chuckled, the sound of it felt like ghostly fingers tickling up your spine. “Not a slut huh?”

He snapped his fingers, pointing to the mattress. “Git down then, spread your legs and let's see if you’re wearin’ any panties under there.”

You sat down, dainty like a princess. You whined, “But daddy-!” You sounded like a complete and utter brat. But you were acting, this was acting. You were his Hollywood, Beverly Hills girl. An empty goddamned shell of a person for him to force his Marilyn Monroe fantasies onto. You wondered what characters he had the polaroid girls play for him. Were they ever given the privilege of a script? Was this an audition or were you already cast as his Barbie doll?

Your indignation earned you a growl. Bo knelt and he wrenched your legs apart, still holding the camera. You looked up toward the other one sitting atop the tire. You kicked at him and that earned you a harsh slap to the thigh. The pain had you giggling. He would’ve slapped you right across the face if he wasn’t trying to zoom in on your cunt. Was it in your best interest to rile him up? Were you supposed to be demure and submissive? The hunger on his face told you that he liked you bratty, but you didn’t want to play a brat if he’d hurt you for it.

You pushed the fluffy tulle back down, but Bo caught your wrist.

“Uh-uh. Y’aint wearin panties and you’re tryin to hide your pretty little pussy from me? I didn’t think you were stupid babygirl.”

You whimpered and Bo sucked a breath in through his teeth. He clicked a button a few times on his camcorder, zooming in maybe?

“Fuckin’ wet already. Sloppy bitch.” He mumbled, using two fingers to spread your lips. “Cock hungry little whore, betchya want daddy’s cock huh?”

He spanked your pussy before you could answer, a surprised wail left your lips and you squirmed on your filthy mattress. You tried to close your legs, but Bo used two hands to hold you open.

“Please?” You swallowed any disgust and you watched your helium balloon of a brain float above you. You imagined it to be one of those shiny mylar balloons. Sagging a little. It was probably for mother’s day or some random holiday. If it touched the fluorescent lights above you, would it pop?

“Please what baby?”

“Please fuck me.” You lifted your hips, asking for it by all definitions.

In lieu of an answer, Bo spat on your pussy. His saliva hit you with a warm splat. He slapped you again, swatting his fingers over your clit in a way that had you biting back a scream. He wasn’t gentle but you didn’t expect him to be.

“Nah. Sorry angel, walkin’ around with no panties in the pretty dress daddy got you? You’re turning into a filthy little whore, I bet you spread your legs for any fucker who wants some huh?”

Bo roughly plunged a finger inside of you, and you groaned at the invasion. You were wet enough for it, needy enough for it to feel good, but he hadn’t given you any sense of warning. He pumped his finger in and out, admiring the wet squelch and the way your pussy swallowed his finger, sucking on him with each retreat.

“Still so fuckin tight though,” Bo’s entire demeanor was electrified. You felt as if he was soon to start tearing at you like the way he carelessly tossed around the duffel bag’s contents. He felt less like a man and more like a weapon. The thought made you a little sad.

“Tell me, princess,” He snarled, “Tell me how your pretty fucking cunt is still so fuckin tight after you’ve been whoring it out?”

“I-” You stammered, unsure what he wanted from you.

“Can’t talk? Girl, I've barely touched you and you’re suckin on my finger like you’re trying to keep me in there. You fuckin love it when I plug that lil pussy up yeah? Nasty god damned bitch, how many times have you come screamin’ around daddy’s cock?”

You bit your lip because you didn’t think you’d survive if you laughed at him. You felt as if he was the one who was quickly forgetting how to talk. His rambling was almost cute. Fuck, he was cute, wasn’t he?

“Asked you a question,” Bo pulled his finger from your pussy only so that he could pinch your clit, he pulled at it and as if he couldn’t help himself, he spat on you again. His saliva felt slimy and cold against you now, you crinkled your nose in disgust. Your fingernails were leaving crescent-shaped indents in your palm and your jaw was clenched hard enough to ache.

“I heard the only girls who make it in Hollywood are the ones who put out. I-I thought you wanted to make me a star daddy?”

Your answer had him hooting out a laugh, Bo threw his head back from the force of it. “You really are a showgirl! Look’atcha! You’re made for the screen huh?”

The backhanded praise felt nice, it filled you up inside. It gave you a sense of padding to use for any incoming insult. You preened and you skimmed a hand down your torso, you fluttered your lashes toward the camera on the tripod.

“You think they’ll like me, daddy?”

“Mm, I know so princess. Every jealous son of a bitch is gonna be draining themselves fuckin dry wishing they could ruin your whore cunt.”

Bo hummed and he set his camera down, apparently, he was done using it for now. He stalked toward the metal table with an odd swagger in his step and he grabbed a sheathed hunting knife, uncaring that you’d see what he held in his hands. Maybe he wanted you to beg him not to hurt you? You looked at the red blinking light from the mounted camera while you played with the ribbon attached to your brain. You looked at the slack face of the girl in the photo that was stuck to a metal pipe. She didn’t feel like sharing her experience with you because the face in the picture stayed dead and bloody.

He tossed the knife’s leather sheath to the ground, and you noticed that it seemed well-worn. The blade glinted in the light. You knew the thing. Your skin remembered it even if your mind didn’t want to.

“You’re not gonna cut me up.” You said more to yourself than to him. It was spoken as a statement as if that would somehow charm him into leaving you unscathed.

“Uh-uh. Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bo schmoozed, his words felt oily. They stuck in your greasy hair, making you feel filthy. “Wouldn’t ever hurt a hair on your pretty lil head.”

He was a good actor too. A good liar. Strangely, his words made you feel ugly. The camera watching you seemed to jeer, the girls on the wall booed their displeasure. They hated you, didn't they? Why else were they always so quiet, only speaking up when they wanted to hurt your feelings? Your bottom lip quivered without your consent and a damning sniffle escaped from your useless restraint. You watched the way that Bo seemed to force his expression into one that might mimic his idea of human empathy. You sat up to press yourself against the wall, and you felt photos sticking to your clammy skin.

“What?” His expression was loosely nailed down, underneath the mock pity there was hunger that he could barely keep a hold on. “This?” He pointed the tip of the knife at you, showboating for the camera. “Aw c’mon now, I said I wasn’t gonna hurt ya. Breaks my heart that y’dont believe me.”

Your lip quivered again, guilt made your tears fall harder. You reached for him and Bo crouched so he could graze the tip of the knife over your bare shoulder, it slid down your arm and you jerked away on impulse. He wasn’t pressing hard enough to cut you, but the bite of the metal had you involuntarily trembling.

“Don’t cry. Shit makes me feel like a fuckin monster. I won’t hurt you, baby.”

Maybe you’d believe him if he could keep the laugh out of his voice. He grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. He held your wrist possessively, hard enough to ache as if he wanted to remind you that there was nowhere to run. Bo opened your palm and he dropped the handle of his knife in your hand, his fingers curled around yours. You blinked up at him, your mouth hung open with your jaw slack. You tried to come up with something to say, but words escaped you. You tugged on your mylar balloon, hoping it might kickstart and remember it was supposed to be a brain.

Bo bent your elbow so that you held the knife to your torso, and the flat of the blade rested against your collarbone. Your hand shook and the only thing keeping the knife in your grip was his fingers wrapped around yours. His eyes were blown black, his pupils washed out any color he had and he looked as if he’d taken a hit of something. It solidified your mental image of him as your big bad wolf.

“You’re gonna do one thing for me. And you’re gonna do it 'cause you’re my brave girl yeah? I ain’t keepin’ no daddy’s girl who can’t be brave.” His accent was thick enough that the sound of it choked you. You were hypnotized by the eye contact, you nodded even though you felt the furthest thing from brave.

“O-okay.” You agreed shakily, you wanted to be whatever he wanted from you. Being brave might be nice. Maybe he could help you remember how to be something other than terrified.

“Good girl.” He purred, the smile on his lips was genuine. He looked proud of you, and that hint of pride was enough for your hand to stop shaking. In response, Bo let go of you, leaving you holding the knife all on your own. He picked up the camera, and you noticed his hand slip as he situated the camera in his grip. He whipped the display open hard enough that the aged plastic hinges creaked.

“Gonna be brave for me?” He repeated, emphasizing his point.

You nodded, you used your free hand to wipe your face and Bo reached to do it for you. He wiped away your tears with his thumb, “Alright showgirl, I want you to take that knife. And you’re gonna give me a nice, clean cut right here.” He brushed his fingers over your cleavage, his index finger traced a space, Bo clicked a bunch of things on his camcorder again, presumably zooming in. “Not too deep, but you better do it good the first time, otherwise you’re gonna have to do it again and shit’s gonna sting.”

Distracted as he was, you wondered where to stab him so that he’d be wounded enough for you to make your escape. His neck maybe? You sucked in a heavy breath through your nose, filling your lungs with your imagined bravery. You couldn’t envision any sense of victory, you couldn’t imagine wearing the same deranged smile of his. It wouldn’t fit right over your face. You were alive because of him. He was so sweet to you sometimes. You didn’t want to hurt him and realizing this made you sob.

“Hey.” Bo snapped, shooting you an annoyed look. “C’mon now. No crying. You said you’d be brave. I know you can be brave.”

Your brief revenge fantasy crumpled to pieces, shattering like glass around you. Your breaths came shakily, and you worried that you might puncture your lungs with the pieces of your broken hate. You didn’t hate him anymore. Not in the slightest. You should hate him, shouldn’t you? Tears spilled onto your lip and you licked your lips on impulse only to recoil at the tacky paste on your lips.

Before you could suffer any more embarrassment, before you could suffer any more of his disappointment, you swiped the knife across your chest— leaving one, clean cut across your cleavage. When it was done, you dropped the knife onto the mattress with your hand shaking. Your shoulders heaved and you whimpered, you noticed the biting sting only now that blood began to bloom from the cut.

“Fuck, that’s real good sweetheart.” Bo panted out, his words were airy. He leaned in, filming your wound, his free hand grabbed your side, holding your ribs with his fingers splayed wide. “Such a good job. That wasn’t too bad yeah sweetheart?”

You shook your head no, but you weren’t sure if you were saying No, it wasn’t that bad, or No, it hurt and you hated it. Little rivulets of blood rolled down to stain the sweetheart collar of your dress. You felt as if you were miles away from your body and you were watching yourself from someone else’s point of view. You felt as if you were some sadistic freak who looked up videos of pretty girls being hurt. Like you were the sort of person who’d watch the video that Bo was currently filming.

He said he’d make you a star, didn’t he?

“You made me ruin my dress.” You spoke slowly, testing the words as if you wanted to make sure that you still had the capability of speech. You looked up through the tears in your eyes and you watched Bo run a hand over his jaw, his eyes were half-lidded.

“I’ll get you another one. Anything you want. I’ll fuckin’ spoil you rotten.”

You didn’t like the way he emphasized the word rot. You supposed that didn’t have anything left inside of you besides the sick way you wanted him. He’d already turned your insides to putrid filth. Through all the stages of decomposition that he’d inflicted upon you… he hadn’t yet figured out how to extinguish your hope that’d begun to mutate into fungal growths inside of you. You hadn’t hoped to escape in a very long time. These days, you only hoped he wouldn’t kill you. You convinced yourself he wouldn’t, you told yourself over and over again that he had to care for you in some sick way. He could be so much worse to you than he was. The current hiding place of your rotted hope seemed to flare to life at that, it bloomed warm in your gut. Sluggish but stubbornly alive.

You came back to yourself when hearing the sound of his belt coming undone. You blinked slowly, still looking at the blood staining your tits, running down into your dress. Bo carelessly let the camera fall from his hand and it bounced from the mattress to the floor. Instinctually, you tried to catch it and his features softened. Something foreign ghosted over his face, quick as a flash of lightning. The brief glimpse of genuine affection made your mylar balloon finally float out of your fingers. You felt weightless.

Frenzied hands fought with his pants, you giggled at the way he seemed angry with his zipper. Finally, he grabbed you by the hair and shoved you down. You knew to get nice and comfortable on your knees. You licked your tacky lips as he gave himself a few slow strokes, he was hard enough that the veins along his shaft seemed angry. While Bo’s entire demeanor seemed subdued, momentarily stunned by your obedience and the blood on your chest— meanwhile, his cock was throbbing and angry.

No one on the wall found that as funny as you did.

You opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out but he shook his head no. “Uh-uh. Kiss it. I want you to kiss it.”

You quirked an eyebrow but your momentary entertainment found in his request quickly amputated itself from your psyche once he yanked on your hair. You hissed and he cooed in response, annoyed that you forced him to hurt you. You covered his hand with yours— a sad parody of holding hands— as you wordlessly asked him to let go of his cock.

You wondered if the cherry red of your lips matched the color of your blood. Was that why he chose this particular lipstick? At this point, you were sure that the crumbly pencil eyeliner you applied was decorating your face with streaky black, your tears likely left you looking less than pretty. Leaning in, your lips met his shaft, and he panted, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. His mouth was slack, his full bottom lip looked biteable. For the first time in the entire spanse of your captivity, you felt powerful as you covered his cock in sticky lipstick kisses.

You used your hands to cradle his dick against your face, enjoying the weight of him, the heat of his cock. Like this, you could pretend you were just his toy, and servicing him like this was the only thing you’d ever wanted. Then you’d go back to Barbie's dreamhouse and you’d sip on a plastic margarita next to your hot pink pool. You pressed a wet kiss to the head of his cock and you licked away his precum with a sigh. Beyond the waxy taste of lipstick, his pleasure tasted so good. It made you feel dizzy and drunk. “Please let me suck it, daddy?” You kissed him just under his twitching head, your tongue teased at his sensitive frenulum with practiced technique.

“God fucking damn…” He mumbled, Bo’s grip on your hair was firm but his touch felt almost affectionate. At this point, the blood on your chest was sticky. Just a stain. The slice was beginning to scab. You wanted to wipe at your chest, but you forced the impulse back. Looking up at him with watery eyes, you sealed your lips around just the head of his cock. You squeezed him with your hand and your eyes fluttered shut as you felt him throb in your mouth.

Pulling off, you traced his length with a finger, “I want to make you cum daddy. Please?”

Were you still acting? Were you still supposed to be playing a role? Nothing you said felt genuine, but you didn’t need to think about the words at all. Were you a good actress or were you a horrible one because you weren’t acting at all? You pulled his boxers lower, noticing the faded, ratty old fabric had you filing the image away to laugh at later. Your pretty princess dress was much nicer than his underwear. With his balls free, you lifted his cock to suck each into your mouth, one after the other. You were a little drunk on the way he smelled, it was overtly masculine. Musky and heavy. It made your mouth water as you pressed sticky kisses to his balls, and you let his cock rest over your face. Lipstick stains likely smearing onto your skin.

“Y’been such a good girl. I guess I could let you suck it.”

Disguising his desire for you to suck his cock as a reward for your behavior was… stupid. But he said it so confidently. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh at him or if you wanted him to teach you how to say stupid shit like that with a straight face. Were you jealous of his confidence or was it envy?

You giggled with his prick against your lips, before he could punish you for your laughter you opened your mouth wider so you could bob your head down. He was thick enough to make your jaw ache, but you loved the way he couldn’t hide his pleasure while he was buried in your throat. With his face likely out of the camera’s view, you were proud to think that the way that his lips fell open in a soundless gasp was saved just for you. The camera wouldn’t know about the way he pulsed heavily against your tongue as you took him in your throat. You curled your tongue at the sides as you began to suck on him and he hissed through his teeth. When you bobbed back up, you noticed a cherry red ring around his cock, decorating him like a pretty red necklace.

With blood on your chest, and your red lipstick adorning his cock, your heart fluttered while wistfully thinking about how the both of you matched. Red really was your color, wasn’t it?

Bo scoffed while giving you the makeup earlier, he called it girly shit and he seemed as if his masculinity couldn’t take the blow of looking at it for more than a moment. Now, he was wearing lipstick just like you, it stained his cock and you loved the way you caught the flare in his eyes as if he too just noticed the mark you left. To save face, he used your hair as he thrust into your mouth, uncaring that you were halfway down and taking any more of him would make you gag. You splayed your fingers against his abdomen, enduring his series of thrusts as best you could. You began to taste acrid chocolate pudding in your throat again. Each thrust into your mouth was accompanied by a wet sounding “gluck”.

You grabbed his thigh, squeezing as you choked and gagged. With a groan of frustration, Bo let you pull off of him and you coughed, sputtering as you caught your breath. Drool spilled from your bottom lip and you used your wrist to wipe your face. Undoubtedly smearing what remained of your lipstick.

“Sloppy fucking slut. You love this yeah?” Bo wrapped his fingers around himself only so that he could slap you in the face with the meat of his cock. It came away sticky against your face, you peeked an eye open to watch pearly precum rolling down his length and you stuck your tongue open, hoping he’d feed it to you.

Predictably, Bo thrust back into your throat. He bucked into your mouth with shallow thrusts as he held himself at his base, his other hand firmly held your hair. You did your best to be good for him, but he was so rough— gagging made tears form in your eyes. You blinked them away and your eyes began to sting. “Daddy’s perfect little fucktoy, y’look so fucking good like this princess. Feel so fuckin good gaggin’ on me like that.” He enunciated his point with a heavy thrust, burying his thick cock down your throat. The hand in your hair forced you down, he crushed your nose to your pelvis and your shoulders trembled as you did your best to remain conscious. Hazy, black fog crept at the corners of your eyes, your head felt dizzy.

Your nails dug into his filthy pants, involuntary tears spilled down your cheeks. With another annoyed grunt, Bo let go of your hair. Immediately, you pulled off of him so you could spit the mucus from your throat onto the floor. You gagged even as you coughed, your throat burned and your coughing didn’t want to stop. Bo crouched to whack your back like burping a baby and finally, you figured out how to breathe again. You laughed as you wiped away the tears in your eyes.

“Stop making me cry.” You whined, “I wanted to look pretty in my movie.”

Bo scoffed, “Any fucker on this shithole earth would be a fuckin fool to think otherwise.”

Your next inhale was painless. You momentarily forgot the burning in your throat. You looked toward the camera on the concrete floor and you crawled on your knees so you could pick it up. With surprisingly steady hands, you handed it to him with a sleepy smile. “Will you film me when you fuck me?”

“When I fuck you?” Bo took the camera and he scoffed, he opened the screen of the thing and you watched the red blinking light atop the lens turn on again. Bo shoved you back, and you laid down as you assumed he might want you. He straddled your torso, settling his knees at your sides. His free hand found your throat and you pouted as he wrapped his fingers around your neck, squeezing tightly just beneath your jaw. “I don’t remember promising that I was gonna fuck you at all, thought you said you wanted me to cum in your throat?”

You weren’t sure how he expected an answer while he was choking you. You knew better than to struggle, you laid perfectly still as you felt like your head was dunked underwater again. Panic was far from you, you felt like you were suspended in air. Fog spilled into your vision, the phosphenes behind your closed lids became pits of inky tar—

Your head whipped to the side with the sudden impact of Bo’s palm cracking against your cheek.

“Hey! Don’t be fallin’ asleep on me now. We’re not done here darlin’ “ He managed an air of mock concern. Your hazy mind grabbed at the way he seemed to insinuate that you were falling asleep all on your own and it wasn’t because he choked you until you were on the cusp of blacking out.

“I didn’t mean to,” You still felt like you weren’t breathing right, but you apologized because it was easier than anything else.

Sleepily, you watched Bo stroking his cock while his balls sat on the bodice of your dress. He was so rough with himself, the red of your lipstick made his cock look inhuman. Leaning over, Bo reached for the knife that you carelessly discarded. You were too oxygen-deprived to worry just yet, you felt dizzy. With the flat of the blade, he directed your chin so you’d look up at him. You were met with manic hunger, a wild grin on his lips.

He tapped your bottom lip with the knife, daring to press it against you enough for it to sting. “Open up, be a good girl for me.”

You stuck your tongue out, looking up at him while ignoring the knife at your lips. You wanted to show him that he didn’t need to be cruel… you’d listen to him just the same. You watched apprehension flicker over him, it seemed to force his manic joy to simmer at a low boil. He made a show of gathering saliva in his mouth, and he let it dribble out of him so it would fall onto your waiting tongue. Using the flat of his blade, he swatted your chin, prompting you to close your mouth and swallow.

As you swallowed, you noticed the taste of iron in your mouth, you licked your lips and you noticed that he’d cut your lip. Against red lips, he probably didn’t notice the blood. If you told him what he did, it wasn’t as if he was going to apologize. You licked your blood away without any sense of defeat. It felt more like acceptance. You felt as if you’d gone through the stages of grief, mourning your own death and now you were in your afterlife, reborn and unsure who you were supposed to be. You figured that Marilyn never quite stopped being an actress. The world ate her up and she was probably just as rotted as you were inside by the time she died. Barbie was just about every single type of girl and she seemed happy. Was Bo your Hefner or your Kennedy? You were pretty sure he was not your Ken.

“That’s my showgirl…” Bo’s praise tasted like his saliva, you decided you liked it because your abused throat would burn if you gagged again.

He hunched his shoulders above you, crouching low as he pointed his knife straight down at your chest. His weight worsened the way that the bodice of your dress was too tight, his eyes raked up to yours and you wondered if he was disappointed that your tears had dried up. You reached up toward his face, and he leaned down so you could set your hand against his cheek. His skin was slightly rough, fine grain sandpaper against your palm. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. Despite the rarity of being allowed to touch him, your heart was surprisingly frozen. You felt like the blood in your veins was coagulated and thick. You were a ghost wearing someone else’s body.

The moment dragged on longer than it should’ve. Everything stilled and the knife pointing down at your chest felt as if it had a beating heart, it was alive when you were not. Bracing yourself for impact, you looked to the side and wondered where he stashed that polaroid camera. He hadn’t brought it out. Were you not pretty enough for a photo?

You came back to yourself as Bo began to cut the bodice of your dress, sawing at the fabric. The ugly husk came apart with a satisfying tear. He used his fingers to rip the rest of it off of you to leave it in tattered shreds at your sides. The damned thing was so tight and his weight above you wasn’t helping you breathe. When his knife cut through your uncomfortable bralette, you moaned in relief.

“That's better…” You whispered, speaking more to yourself than to him. Bo took a breath as if to speak, but you cut him off. “Thank you, daddy. You’ll buy me a new one right? One that fits?”

“Sure thing sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

Ah. You were acting again. Back in your roles. Greedy fingers pawed at your tits, you couldn’t find it in you to whimper as he teased your nipples into peaks. With a manic giggle, you thought about how Barbie didn’t have nipples. You were some pretty toy he stole from some sad little girl and you were just awaiting the day he decided to tape a bottle rocket to you.

Offended by your laughter, Bo scraped his nails over your wound and you cried out, the shock pulled you right back into yourself.

“That hurt.” You whined with an accompanying sniffle, ready to cry again. Instead of responding to you, Bo crept his knees up higher, trapping your ribs between them. Holding the camera as he was, he was unable to touch you as he wanted. Before he could bark your orders, you held both of your tits and pushed them together. You looked up at him with a pout, jutting your lower lip out to sell the expression. “Do I get a bath after this?”

This was you asking. Not your character. You encased his cock between your tits as best you could and his lipstick-covered prick smeared over your tits that were streaked with blood. It was tacky by now. Tacky like your lipstick. Bo didn’t seem to mind, he didn’t answer your question but he had that braindead look on his face once again. Tilting your chin, you stuck your tongue out so you could lick the tip of his cock.

He rut his hips forward, thrusting in and out of the valley of your breasts. His knees at your sides pressed tightly as if he was trying to break your ribs, maybe he was testing if he could. The ridge of his cockhead dragged against your cut and every time he thrust forward, you couldn’t help but grumble in discomfort.

“What’s the matter, girl? You’re down there bitching at me.” He rolled his eyes.

“My tits aren’t big enough.” You lied, “I think our movie would be better if you’d fuck me. Please, daddy? I’ve been good right?”

Growling something unintelligible under his breath, Bo flicked you in the forehead. “Maybe if you’d ask, rather than whine. Should’ve known some Hollywood girl would be a bitch and a half to break in. All that goddamned attitude, who raised you huh?” Bo flicked you again and the impact seemed to rattle a few emotionless tears out from your eyes, “Demanding little skank. I bet your daddy didn’t spank you enough.”

Nothing you did was ever right. His insults didn’t sting. Maybe he’d choked the sense out of you, but you wanted to roll your eyes. You jiggled your tits in your hands, and you noticed that the friction had your wound bleeding once again. Bo clicked the zoom on the camcorder a few times as if to get a close-up of the way he smeared your blood down between your breasts, how it smeared over his lipstick-reddened cock.

As if he’d gotten bored with this method of torture, Bo finally got off of you. Rather than ask you to reposition, Bo manhandled you into rolling over. He pulled your hips up and you rested your weight on your cheek. Blindly, you reached next to yourself and grabbed your blanket. You bunched it up so you could rest your head on it and Bo mumbled behind you something that sounded like “Pillow princess.”

You didn’t respond, which apparently was the wrong thing to do. Swiftly, Bo slid his belt out from his belt loops. You turned your head back, wondering what he was doing behind you only to watch him wind his arm back with his belt folded in half and clenched in his fist. The impact of his belt against your ass sounded like a whip crack. Instinctually, you collapsed onto your stomach, wailing in genuine pain. Giving you no time to recover, Bo spanked you again, yelling at you to get the fuck up.

“On your fuckin knees, ass up. Your daddy didn’t spank you enough and now I gotta fix his fuckin mistakes.”

Shakily, you forced yourself back into position. Your mylar balloon of a brain floated above you, and you glared at it, hating that you hadn’t a single ounce of hesitation when it came to listening to his command even though you knew he was just going to hurt you even if you followed his instructions to a perfect T. Around the tenth spank, the world around you began to color into a hazy pink. You drooled into your blanket, every whipcrack against your ass came and went until they all blended into each other.

“S-stop!” You kicked your heels, squirming but you made no move to get away from him. If anything you arched your back. You pressed your legs close together, hoping to shield your pussy from his belt. You didn’t understand what you’d done to deserve this and you were beginning to feel as if there was no point in behaving if you’d be punished just the same. He spanked you again and your legs trembled, you did your best to hold yourself up but your body felt weak. Blinding pain kept flaring behind your eyes, and waves of heat seemed to ripple from your abused ass to the rest of your body, covering you in inescapable discomfort.

“Y-you said you weren’t gonna hurt me.” You blubbered.

Behind you, Bo laughed. “Stop sounding so fuckin good when I hurt you then. I’d say you’re fuckin asking for it. Sure, you’re sayin’ stop but I’m not seeing stop.” His belt met your flesh once more, this time on the back of your thigh. Your ass cheeks flared hot, pulsing in pain. You felt as if you’d gotten the world’s worst sunburn. The pain bordered on feeling itchy. Spanking your thighs again, you sobbed out another pathetic plea for him to stop. The pain shooting through you settled odd pinpricks at your fingers and toes. Your lower back ached and you took deep, heaving breaths as you struggled to suck down air.

“Y’know sweet thing,” Bo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think you’re lying to me.” The confidence in his voice was liquid, it seeped from him like drool. Like blood. “I think,” His fingers reached between your thighs, and Bo cupped your pussy, trapping your clit between his knuckles. “I think you're a filthy little pain slut and you like it when I make it hurt.”

For the first time tonight, genuine anger flared through you, harsh enough that you felt as if you’d shocked yourself. You growled in pure outrage and your nails clawed into your mattress. Bo only laughed at your frustration. He grabbed a handful of your ass to jiggle your stinging flesh for the camera. “For a daddy’s girl, you’re all kindsa confused.”

You felt his dick jabbing you in the thigh and you huffed, uncaring to disguise any of your bratty frustration. It was admirable that he was still hard. You weren’t sure how old he was, but he had quite a few years on you. You waited for him to explain his insinuation, but you felt him shift his weight behind you. He pushed on your lower back and you lowered, your arms went limp at your sides. He rubbed the head of his cock over your twitching asshole, pushing it against you, rocking his hips, and using his thumb to press himself into you— teasing you with his dick and using you like a toy. You squirmed, whining in your throat. Maybe you were confused, but that was his fault, wasn’t it? Everything you did was all his fault. You didn’t have bodily autonomy anymore. You were just his fucking toy. If he thought you were acting like a bitch, then he’d just have to blame that on his fucking self.

“Tell me where you want it.” It was simply fascinating that his own voice seemed to be his preferred brand of gas station boner pills.

“Fuck me please,” You spoke dryly. Your ass stung, and the cut on your chest was sticky and uncomfortable. You were tired of this.

“I’m gonna fuck your ass dry if you don’t cut the shit and tell me where the fuck you want me to fuck you.” Bo threatened, his voice giddy. He wanted you to give him a reason to be cruel.

Reaching back, you used two hands to spread the lips of your pussy as you spread your legs wider, showing him where you wanted him. You were well past the point of frustration, well past the point of exhaustion. You were hungry, empty, and fucking numb. You didn’t have human thoughts, your dignity and the person you used to be were likely buried in the dirt or tacked up on the wall… Unable to resist your offering, Bo slid himself between your legs, splitting your lips with the head of his cock. The silky skin of his twitching dick was so soft compared to the thick-headed jerk attached to it. You moaned as he rubbed against your clit, your arousal coated his length, easing the slow thrusts he teased you with.

You were surprised at the way your body received such pleasure. You wanted to tell yourself that you were at his mercy and that this was all about him. You wouldn’t be so wet if you truly hated this right? You wished he could’ve frustrated himself with your disinterested cunt, you wished you could weaponize the only thing he seemed to value about you, but he’d broken something in your fucking brain and you couldn’t help the way your corpse reacted to him. He made you into this mutated version of yourself. Your arousal was his, your pussy was his. You didn’t exist beyond the way he liked to play with you and you were lucky that he seemed to want to fuck you and humiliate you more than he wanted to kill you.

Without him, you felt barely alive. Even when he made you hurt, even if he made you cry… at least you felt alive.

You reached beneath yourself and grabbed him by the dick. Before he could react, you sank down on him with a completely uninhibited groan. The familiar stretch made your breath catch in your throat, the intrusion was quick and dirty because you didn’t want him to take this away from you. Whatever discomfort you felt was well earned. You’d inflicted it yourself, this was a victory. Bo only grunted when you bottomed out. You wiggled your hips, flexing your inner walls around him as you celebrated taking what you wanted. Above you, Bo panted like a fucking animal, he was oddly still as if it was taking all the strength in his body to keep from breaking you.

With a shudder, he pulled out of you. He slammed back inside with another deep grunt. He began to fuck you with a bruising pace, it was as if he was completely mindless while encased in the wet vice of your cunt. You arched your back, loving his surrender and he spanked you to cover his groan.

“The fuck makes you think you’re just gonna get away with that?” He spanked you again, but the pace of his hips picked up speed. His clothes were abrasive against your stinging asscheeks but he was giving you exactly what you wanted, fucking you just like you wanted.

“Mgh… I’m daddy’s girl, aren’t I? I wanna be just like you.” You laughed, feeling lightheaded and dumb while caught between pleasure and pain. Each stroke of his cock had the curve of his shaft brushing against somewhere inside of you that was beginning to make your vision swim all hazy and drunk like it did when he choked you. “I want you to be proud of me,” You babbled, your words felt thick and heavy against your uncoordinated tongue.

Bo chortled out a laugh that was as close to a giggle as you’d ever heard from him. “So you’re acting like a bitchy little brat ‘cause I ain't told you that I’m proud of you?” The force of his thrusts was pushing you up the mattress, he had to readjust to not slip out of you. Bo adjusted you easily, you didn’t need to move or think, his cock pulled embarrassing squeaks and groans from your throat.

Your brain was completely devoid of logical thought. You loved this and you hated this. You loved the way his cock made everything else hurt a little less. You felt less empty while stuffed full of him. Being a toy was fulfilling in a way. Your grave laid undisturbed as your ghost left it be, giving up with trying to wake you. You weren’t there anymore, the only thing in your grave was a barbie doll with ratty hair. He could carve you up, rip you limb from limb, you were already dead anyway. It wouldn’t hurt anymore. You wouldn’t be upset with him, you knew that shitty little boys were awful to pretty things just for the sheer sake of it.

“Actin like a brat but you’re still daddy’s little cocksleeve huh? You’re fuckin drooling…” Bo slowed his thrusts and he attempted to film your face, but he huffed in annoyance because of the mess of your hair. Giving up on his handheld camera, he dropped it to the ground. You wondered how the hell that thing could take such a fucking beating and still turn back on.

Being fucked from behind left you almost able to tune him out, of course, Bo had some sort of sixth sense when it came to your happiness and he pulled out of you without any sense of warning. You held back your annoyance as he forced you off of your bed so he could lay back. Your stupid skirt still hung uselessly at your hips and you felt like you were wearing a hula hoop of white fluff. Rough hands maneuvered your body atop his, Bo positioned you with your back against his chest. He lifted your skirt so the mounted camera would get a good view of your dripping cunt. His fingers rubbed circles over your clit and he draped your legs over his hips. One arm caged you over your collar bones, holding you almost suffocatingly against his chest. You understood the message. He didn’t want you to move.

When his cock pressed back inside of you, you wiggled your hips, unhappy with the slow thrust. The tiny movement earned you his hand around your throat again. He didn’t squeeze, his thumb stroked over your neck. A warning.

“Be good. Y’hear?” Bo groaned, open-mouthed against your shoulder.

You thought to tell him that you were trying to be good, but the arm holding you to his chest let you go in favor of picking up that damned knife again. Slick sounds accompanied his frenzied hips. The looming camera would capture the way your tits bounced and the way your thighs began to shake. The pleasure felt like the impact of his belt against his ass, it made your vision swim. He was so deep inside of you that each thrust came with a pinch of pain and you had no choice but to endure. He already destroyed everything inside of you, everything that made you a person. He might as well fill that vacancy with his cock. You dreamily sighed, thinking about the way that you were sure that no one else had fucked you so deep. Really, you should be grateful that being used like this felt so good. You felt like your pussy was tailor-made for him, he did such a good job making you into the girl he wanted. If the camcorder liked you too, maybe he wouldn’t need to let his polaroid friend get a turn with you.

The knife dragged between your breasts, just the hint of pain had you feeling lighter than air. You felt as if you were soon to vacate your body. Terror registered inside of you with the sensation of biting teeth. The little wisp of who you were bounced around in your chest, glimmering like a shooting star. So many people were made famous only in death. It was beautiful in a way, memento mori and all that shit. Some nameless girl, wearing a cloud, butchered in her debut movie… what would you be called in the papers? The tooth fairy? The ugly duckling? You wondered if the black dahlia would give you her autograph in the afterlife, no one gave a shit about her until she was left in an alley— no one gave a shit about you either.

But Bo would make you famous. You were his showgirl after all. You trusted him.

The girls on the wall agreed with your bitter sentiment and you picked out a blank space for your headshot. The Hollywood walk of fame reeked of piss in real life. At least in the basement, it smelled like motor oil and musk, maybe your ghost could hover around for a while. You’d been here for so long, you weren’t sure where you’d go when you were free. If you weren’t good for anything besides the wet heat of your cunt, you hoped that maybe you could at least keep him company as a ghost. You always figured out how to make him smile in some way or another. He could tie you down like your mylar balloon of a brain and use a pretty little ribbon to keep you tethered.

Building pleasure bloomed inside of you, hot and alive. You could feel him inside of you, unmaking you, rebuilding you. Smothering you, consuming you with gnashing teeth. Was this it? Was this where your movie would end and he’d leave you bloodied in your torn-apart dress? Would he at least let you come first? Ugly grunts and whines left your throat, everything was too much and too little. You felt too much, but too insignificant just the same.

You must’ve flinched or something because Bo shushed you. The bite of metal had you squirming in his hold and his fingers tightened at your throat, “Better keep still darlin’ I might accidentally cut you like this. You’re not gonna make me a liar right? I said I wasn’t gonna hurt you.”

You frantically shook your head no, but a snap of Bo’s hips had you writing against him. You were so close… With each pump of his hips, his balls thwacked against your ass, reminding you of your earlier spanking. Each pull and drag of him inside of you was bordering on pain, you were oversensitive and overwhelmed. You felt like you could taste your orgasm. You were salivating for it. Fucking starved for it. After everything he did to you, you deserved it. All of his meaningless accusations began to solidify. Maybe you really were a slut, a nasty little pain whore, or whatever the fuck else he told you that you were.

His knife pressed tip down against your gut, his wrist was steady but his thrusts were becoming sloppy. “You’re gonna cum,” He spoke as a statement, “I can feel you fuckin quivering around me. Y’better not buck up too hard.” The violence in his tone accompanied by his hand that tightened around your throat had you croaking out a broken gasp, you felt like you’d forgotten how to talk. You babbled incoherently, begging for him to please don’t but you weren’t sure whether you were begging for him not to hurt you or if you were begging for him not to stop. You wished he’d rub your clit, but you knew he wanted to be cruel. He wanted your orgasm to be hard-fought and exhausting. He wanted you to cry and whimper and beg.

You had a few critiques when it came to the script he gave you. Maybe he was an alright talent agent, but he was a shit director.

Your hand desperately covered his at your throat, you squeezed, wordlessly begging him to choke you harder and you swore you could feel his cock throbbing inside of you. Bo gave you what you asked for and soon the lack of oxygen had your body falling slack, your head filled itself with floating lights and fluffy cotton candy. With your throat constricted, you were unable to tell him that you were about to cum. Instead, you seized up, your mouth open and closed with a soundless gasp as your legs involuntarily trembled. You bucked up just like he warned you not to, mindless as your orgasm split you into tiny pieces. The brief kiss of pain had you seizing up all over again. Your cunt clamped around him, and Bo sheathed himself deep, just grinding into you, you felt like you could taste him at the back of your tongue.

His hand let up your throat and you dry heaved, choking on air as you desperately sucked it down. The bright little wisp inside of you flared hot, annoyed that he forced you to breathe again. You were so ugly as you were in your prison of flesh and bones. It seemed unfair to keep your ghost caged, she was a gleaming diamond inside of you. Beautiful and unbreakable. She reflected light in millions of crystal prisms, reflecting glitter and rainbows and endless iridescence. You rolled your hips, riding him as best you could as you fought through the remaining tremors of your orgasm. Everything felt electric, you felt inexplicably and undeniably alive. Like Frankenstein's monster rising from the table, you could hear thunder crashes in your head. The doctor exclaimed his classic “It’s aliiiive!” and you took a groaning breath as you got used to your new body.

You weren’t sure if you were coming for the second time or if your first orgasm ever let up. There were sparks in your vision, your throat burned as purely animal grunts spilled from your lips. At some point, Bo transferred both hands to your hips while still holding his knife. The blade scraped against your stomach, carelessly giving you another cut. Earlier he told you that your daddy didn’t raise you right, but you wondered if his mother ever taught him how to play fucking nicely with his toys. His fingers dug into your flesh as he held you down, giving himself as much leverage as possible as he fucked you with the grace of a feral, snarling dog.

“I want you to cum in me,” Your ghost babbled, giddy with the way your rotten lungs began to work again. “Don’t pull out, I want to feel it.” You couldn’t remember if you ever begged with as much passion even in your past life where you used to beg for silly things like your freedom.

One of his hands fought its way into your mouth to shut you up. He grabbed you by the teeth, digging three fingers beneath your tongue with his thumb placed beneath your chin. Unable to close your mouth, you were helpless to simply drool all over his hand. You felt his teeth sink into your shoulder and you shrieked as they tore your skin, piercing into you. He was such a fucking liar, every time he insisted that he wasn’t going to hurt you, he then found a way to make you bleed. Your hate turned into hazy pleasure as he fucked your thoughts right out of your head.

With his teeth digging into you, he came with a growl. Hot jets of cum spilled inside of you and you lazily rubbed your clit, figuring he was too gone to the world to berate you for it. Little tremors of aftershocks coursed through you and you flexed your walls around him, hoping to make him squirm. You were so hot inside, burning up. You felt your wisp extinguish and settle down in your chest, like a paper lantern that fell back down to earth.

Bo thrust his knife into your mattress, and he sort of sagged beneath you. You sat up on his lap and you blew a kiss to the camera, giddy to think that you might be the first girl who was alive at the end of her video. Beneath you, Bo’s breathing steadily began to even out, and you eyed his knife curiously. Now would be your chance right? The girls on the wall whispered to themselves, their tone hateful. You wouldn’t do it, you weren’t cut out for shit like that. The mounted camera’s red light blinked as if to tell you it was watching. It would see the way your hand twitched, hovering toward his weapon. Maybe you wouldn’t kill him, but you could hurt him. You thought he deserved to bleed in front of that stupid fucking camera. How many deaths had the damned thing seen? How many girls bled out in this stupid basement?

You pulled off of him, letting his softening cock flop down to his abdomen and Bo folded his hands behind his head. Without missing a beat, he opened his mouth and the sound of his voice effectively killed your half-baked revenge fantasy. “Be a good girl and light daddy a cigarette will ya?” He lifted his ass and pulled the things out of his pocket, you realized he must’ve fucked you while his cigarette box crushed against his ass. Wasn’t that uncomfortable?

You took the cigarette box and lighter from his hands and you wondered if you could cover him in gasoline and light him ablaze. The girls on the wall cheered for that thought, and you felt a little less hated. Despite the violence in your thoughts, you caught yourself lighting his cigarette just like he asked. He took it without any word of thanks and you absently thought about how there weren’t any windows in here. Your prison always stayed stuffy. This was a gas station, wasn’t it? Was smoking in here dangerous?

Bo manhandled you into laying next to him and the twin-sized mattress forced your back against the wall. He didn’t seem to care that some of the lower hanging photos were looming above you and that you had an audience. You figured he didn’t hear their chatter, they probably didn’t want to talk to him. Helping himself to your body, his fingers delved between your thighs. You whined as he plunged two fingers inside of you, lazily beginning to pump them in and out— simply marveling at the sloppy sensation of your well fucked cunt. With his fingers in your pussy, he took a slow drag from his cigarette with his free hand. He looked like a coyote who just obliterated a chicken coop, all fat and bloody and satiated, too lazy to leave the scene of its crime. Bo lazily appraised your chest, unabashedly feeding his ego with your bloodstained tits and your cut-apart dress that he pilfered from a long-dead girl.

You felt like an object. Less than a person. Without the haze of sex, feeling like a Barbie didn’t feel all that good anymore.

“Hold this.” He passed you his cigarette and you did as told because you might as well be a cigarette holder amongst your other title of being his fleshlight. You just about brought it to your lips before Bo tutted a disapproving noise, “Uh-uh. That’s a nasty habit.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t argue. You just tapped the ash off of it and you didn’t care as it fell to your bed. Finally, he pulled his fingers out of you and spread the two digits to watch your combined fluids trail between his fingers. He smeared them over your chest, right under your cut. “You did good showgirl, real good.”

He scooted lower on the mattress and his lips pressed against your throat. You were achy there, you could already feel bruises forming. His sandpaper face scraped against your oversensitive skin, trailing kisses lower until he met your wound. Following a dribble of dried blood, he licked it off of you with a sigh. He kissed the tops of your breasts, one after the other before he sucked one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue circled the bud, stroking and teasing your nipple into a point. Wetly sucking on your tits was a different look for him, but you wondered if this was some new vulnerability that you hadn’t yet noticed.

His fingers teased your other nipple, you’d known him long enough to know he was completely averse to simply leaving you be. Often, it seemed as if his cruelty was designed to keep you scared and constantly alert so that every instance of feigned affection would force-feed you all the buzzy, happy brain things that kept you addicted to him. Right now, you weren’t sure if he was doing this for your comfort or his. Had you done something wrong? Was this… a reward? You didn’t understand him and his suckling was beginning to make your nose tickle as if you had to sneeze.

He switched to your other tit after cleaning away more streaked blood from you with his tongue, he sucked your nipple into his mouth and the contentment on his face left you stunned. Every time you thought you understood him, he had to throw another wrench into your jumbled-up thoughts, jamming up the whole machine, and then you’d have to come to him all slack-jawed and stupid, asking for him to pretty please fuck you until your thoughts stopped giving you a headache.

You looked up and of course, the girls on the wall didn’t have any answers for you. They never fucking did. You were beginning to understand why Bo did what he did to them. Bitchy, opinionated god damned sluts, the lot of them. The girl whose dress you wore seemed to peck at the back of your eyelids and you wanted to stick your tongue out at her. Her ugly dress looked terrible on her and it looked equally shitty on you. You weren’t sorry that he ruined her pretty princess poofy dress.

He promised you a new dress, didn’t he?

You slid your hand into his sweaty curls, petting his hair. Teeth pulled at your nipple, making you wince, but he soothed the bite with his tongue. You weren’t sure if that was him telling you to quit it or if he was encouraging you. His hair was soft, the sensation of it between your fingers humanized him. Just a smidge.

Maybe you were playing house now? Was this another scene in your movie? For the millionth time tonight, you wished he’d given you a script.