3 comments/ 17414 views/ 0 favorites Wonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 01 By: poisonbaby Sometimes, your dolly needs to do wonderfully wicked things ... Lets play "Cats" and find a nervous little "mouse". We'll drag her off to the alley where we know that no matter how pitiful she sounds no one is stupid enough to actually hear her unless we want them to. They know us well here, of course, we're not just cats ... we're alley cats. We'll walk her through the streets, your arm slung around her shoulder, mine around her waist, like such good friends. She'll look afraid, but the folks we pass on the streets will see this feeble creature's in good hands. They might even feel a pang of jealousy, don't you think? I mean, I would love to have two good friends to walk me through the streets if I were frightened and confused ... especially while I got to feel your pretty knife caressing my ribs, under my blouse. On we go, a lovely stroll through the pretty streets as I chatter on merrily about what a wonderful time we're all going to have, and in no time we come to our turn. There's nothing like having company to make you really appreciate what you have, like the way the alley darkens after only a few feet, no matter what time of day it is. "For such a busy location we get to enjoy a limitless amount of privacy", I explain brightly yet still, her feet begin to shuffle. We make our way down the long corridor of looming brick and bars that rise up to a thin skylight. Its as if someone thought the shattered glass panes were stars and hoped to map out their future in the constellations of broken windows. Not a hard thing to accomplish in this alley come to think of it. Now that we've successfully escorted our guest off those awful crowded streets we should insist she makes herself at home. You hand me her things. A handbag and a sweater, well insulated with cat hair. "Tabitha?", I say with a giggle, looking at the name on her license, "That's your name, Tabitha? What a perfectly lovely name. You don't mind if we call you 'Tabby' for short do you? We're all friends here Tabby. In fact, you can call me Dolly, and this here is my dear Dandy." I tuck her wallet into my pocket along with her cell phone and give the contents of the bag one last look, retrieving a paper pharmacy bag containing a prescription bottle. "Edna Pritkin, Atenolol 50mg ... hmmm ... this is for high blood pressure isn't it?", I ask our guest with a concerned look. "Wait a minute, 329 Chestnut Street, that's your address, isn't it? Who's Edna? Your grandmother?" One look at our poor friend's face says it all. Our friend, Tabby, has made plans for the evening and forgotten all about poor Granny who needs her medication. I can feel my mood begin to darken. I turn the bottle around in my fingers, the pills rolling from top to bottom like some noisy hourglass, timing my impatience. I shake my head in silence, letting my disapproval slowly mount as I step towards her. "Do you mean to tell me, that you've left your sweet, vulnerable Granny home, all alone, while you're gallivanting with your friends with her medicine in your purse? Is that what you've done, Tabitha?". Our mouse shakes her head, her answers spilling from her lips like some futile decoy, revealing that she's bright enough, at least, to recognize a wheel in motion. Run, mousy, run. "You haven't left your Granny home, all alone?". Another wrong answer, another step closer. "You have? So you lied to me. That's not good Tabitha. So you are out all evening with friends with her medicine in your purse?" Run, mousy, run. Each foolish answer makes me lick my lips as you whistle up to one of a handful of faces that have appeared in the greasy windows above. Taking the pill bottle from me, you retrieve your car keys and hand both over to a man, who like many in this alley, can wear a suit without ever being mistaken for an executive. Not too many executives will run errands for little old ladies these days. "Wrong, Tabitha. You are not with friends." Icy laughter warms her face as I follow her rising figure until I'm on tiptoe. She dangles off the ground beneath your hand well wrapped in her generous mane. I watch her eyes and find myself suddenly mesmerized. They attempt, all on their own, to express themselves despite the way her hair is pulling their shape into tight slants. My thumb and finger press and pull as I cock my head to the side, gazing at these amazing orbs. I look up at you, contemplatively. "My dear Dandy, you show me the most wonderful things. You should see her eyes. They brighten so darkly." The pain registering in her eyes radiates something that could be described as a light yellow vaporous glow, though not quite as substantial as that. The sounds of her breathy shrieks are something distant as I continue to indulge myself in this seldom fed curiosity. My fingers push and press, probing the depth of the fleshy pads of her cheeks in comparison to the skin on bone where her face gains definition. I look up at you, commenting on how freeing it is to touch another human being without care for their humanity. "Maybe you knew better all along, Tabitha. It's nice not having to concern yourself with the well being of others. You were quite right you know." I laugh as the cries and shrieks of my anatomic model infiltrate my reverie. She wishes to regain her humanity? Very well, if you insist mousy. The flat of my hand connects deliberately across the fleshiest part of her round face and her tightly drawn eyes attempt to bulge. Her contorted expression incenses something in me and my jaw tightens. I slap her face once more and again her reactions drive me to a fury. Is it a fury? Or is it just pure pleasure? I speak to her through clenched teeth as I crush her face between my thumb and fingers. I'm shaking, my muscles are tense and I spit my words in a throaty growl, an inch away from her face. "If that's the way you want it, Tabitha, that's the way it will be. I promise, you don't have to worry about us treating you with any kind of human decency. What's good enough for your grandma is good enough for you right?" I let loose in a torrent, my fingers striking the same fleshy place on either cheek. Her body begins to writhe and your other hand comes up to clasp her throat, strangling the already gargled sounds escaping her. All at once, my head starts to swim and I find myself backing away, feeling strangely disoriented. You watch, as I just stand there, glaring at her as if wounded by what I see. A knowing smile crosses your face as your hands suddenly release the mouse and send her crumpling down to the alley street. Before she can truly even catch her breath, you grab the front of her blouse and pull hard, the fabric ripping stubbornly, but just enough for your purposes. You retrieve your beautiful knife, pulling her head back by the hair, nestling the handle between her breasts. A perfect fit ... the oh so sharp tip of the blade just barely managing to avoid grazing the under side of her chin. Your own eyes brighten darkly as you look down at her, your voice taking on one of your many character voices. You tell her to keep her chin up like some politician boosting morale in discouraging times, all the while, chuckling at yourself. A firm step down and your boot is planted between her breasts. No running now mousy. Sometimes I think there's a magnet effect between us. It doesn't occur to my body to protect me. Why should it? I am simply caught up in your current, with no resistance, inside or out. One moment I'm watching, my arms wrapped around myself comfortingly and the next moment, I'm in motion. I don't even know that my hair is wrapped around your hand until you've pulled me between your legs, leaning my back over the knee that's raised up by our mousy footstool. My head follows your hold on my hair and rests with ease despite the ache of your grip. I look up at you, the full range of my thoughts and feelings passing over my face for you to read. You read me well. In the silence between your hand on my face landing sharply. In the growing pulse of heat and pain. In that nearly imperceptible moment where my throbbing cheek follows your cruel hand affectionately, begging for more, you read me with perfect clarity. Some things you speak of and some you don't. I need to hear you soothe and reassure me that its all perfectly lovely. That look of amusement in your eyes is enough to address the petulant child beneath my skin that wishes to lunge at the stupid mouse beneath me for trying to make it all so ugly. Another slap to your dolly's face is enough to quiet the rising sob, spilling tears instead for so many countless times beauty was mistaken for a beast. Through my tears I watch the many facets of who you are work their way into the moment. A kaleidoscope of things dear and familiar shine in your terrible eyes. I see your thirst for my pain, and the way you swallow it down, sometimes in a thick heady rivulet, sometimes in a parched and gasping breath. I see this and follow the pain, clinging to every throb and pulse beneath my flesh to feel it to its fullest for you. Drink deeply my dear Dandy. Drink deeply. A man makes his way to the surface in the brief moments where satisfaction is found to ask what his place is there and something resonates back to him within me. "It's all perfectly lovely." At some point we've become stil. Our alley has become a sacred hall of reverent worship and beautiful sacrifice. As my senses return from the heights of this hallowed corridor I feel each sensation raining down, in and all around me. Paper, feathers, ashes and ice touching down until we're weighted. I lick my lip, a faintly metalic taste glosses my teasing tongue as I smile up at you with a twinkle in my eye. "She's awfully quiet ... you don't suppose ..." Wonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 02 Our eyes twinkle in each other's sights, reflecting a peaceful enjoyment of another that few will ever know. Alas, our time is fleeting, for as one hand cradles my head the other raises the phone to your ear. Absently spoken one worded responses and a lingering glance, pregnant with hunger, and the sweetness ends in the reluctant push of a button. "Jasper's arrived." With one fluid move you pull me up towards you and kiss my sore lips bruisingly hard. I feed them to you along with painful whimpers and feel your cock straining, rock hard against my hip. You pull off my mouth hard and before I can even wince I'm on my knees. Your hands grip my hair on either side of my head crushing your dolly's tender face against your groin. "Well? Take out the cell phone ma petite. Someone needs to make a phone call." I can feel and hear the mounting need inside you. You speak in a tone that sounds far too calm and controlled to be real. Your grip on the back of my head doesn't tighten or change but your hands are quivering and I know your forearms are as tense as they could ever become. It's as if, at any moment, desire could break through your straining arms and overcome us both. That quiver makes my mouth water. It makes me ache to free your cock and be fed. Instead, I blindly fumble for my pocket, and retrieve our mouse's phone. You gather up my hair and yank my head back, giving me one more terrible smile that disappears suddenly, as if my surroundings have gone crashing out of place. The sound of your laughter comes into focus well before I've had the chance to register that the world around me is still in tact. It's your dolly who has been knocked down on her ass. I cock my head to the side and look up at you from where I've landed, letting my eyes roll in playful little circles to your mad delight. I do so very much love how we play. It's no surprise we enact our parts so well. They are, after all, who we are. All it takes to start the show is the simple way you hold your hand up over your mouth, pretending to fan yourself like the mad French Dandy of the courts. My vision is still filled with stars like pretty sparkling stage lights floating up all around me. I wish you could see them. Can't you just picture us, arm in arm, weaving through the crowds in our finest? Lace at your throat and your blue silk breeches, your white powdered wig and satin shoes. Your dolly decked out in chiffon confection with a dilapidated ribbon accenting each deliberate bounce and toss of moppet-like hair. We'd turn heads, don't you think, my dear Dandy? A sweet little girl and a bad bad man. What a show stopper. Speaking of show stoppers. I swing one leg up and over framing mousy's splotched red face between my thighs. I look down and feel my agitation returning. I think I just figured out what it is that riles me so. "I don't understand why she bothers to open them so widely. It's not like she sees any more or less that way, the stupid girl." I comment to you with a scowl. I try. I really do. I'll admit its more of a compulsion on my part than a choice, but I have to give her every reasonable chance to do the right thing. If this goes wrong you'd damned well better believe its going to be on her head and in that case I'll need to know she had the opportunity to do the right thing, but its more than that really. To be honest? I secretly harbor the hope that somewhere behind those clueless bulging eyes there is something wonderful I can discover. Something I can pet and reward. Something perfectly lovely. Now you know my little secret ... the real reason all brevity ends as I place the phone in her hands. The real reason I pause to look deeply into her eyes. I try to anyway, but oh its just no use. An exercise in futility that ends in a teeth gritting hiss. "If you care", I pause one last time for emphasis, if only on principle, "If you care about what happens to you, then you do just as I say. You call your dear sweet grandmother, and you tell her that you have sent your friend Jasper over with her medicine. You are also to tell her that you thought you saw someone prowling around the house so you'd like her to let Jasper in to sit with her tonight, that you're working late." Every word out of her mouth makes my knuckles whiten as I dig my fingernails into my knees. I look up at you, shaking my head, the rage building as you hold your hands out in resigned understanding. As she ends the call I leap to my feet. My foot comes down hard atop of yours, still pinning the knife firmly between her breasts. The petulant child frees herself from all constraint and stomps in wounded frustration again and again as I shriek in outrage at the loathsome creature beneath me. "You pathetic, awful, stupid mouse ... HOW COULD YOU?", I scream out in horror. "That man shouldn't be near anyone's sweet grandma. I should have known better than to give you the chance to care about anyone other than yourself." I press the sole of my boot to her cheek, twisting the toe into the side of her mouth as I continue to rage at her. My entire body vibrates with tension in an effort to restrain this ravenous appetite I find myself consumed by. There is a courtship taking place between my self control and the notion that there is a time and a place for everything ... and this is the time and the place to let go and luxuriate in righteous indignation. I'm finding I can be far too easily seduced. "You stupid fucking mouse. If you weren't such a mindless, pathetic excuse for a human being your grandma would be safe right now. If you had bothered to actually look at me with those stupid bug eyes of yours, you would know that I had every hope of telling Jasper to come on back. Now your grandma is going to be in a lot of danger ... just how much depends on you, you disgusting pig!" From time to time, I dream that I've jumped up into the air and much to my surprise there seems to be no constraint on how high I can soar. It's a very successful feeling at first as I register that this is not something I can ordinarily do. Inevitably, reality comes crashing in as I reach the height of my ascent and begin to plummet to the ground in an out of control free fall. My disappointment and frustration, my rage and my disdain for something so ugly leap from my being with similar success. I can't account for what my body's doing or what I'm saying. I'm free of all constraint. Now there's a feeling not ordinarily available to me. I'll have to assume that my rage has reached the height of it's ascent the moment my foot has raised itself over her face with every intention of driving down with everything I have on my target. Unlike my dreams, however, I find myself being denied the out of control free fall. My foot swings down full force and keeps extending as I feel myself lifted off the ground by my waist. You pull me back to your side and once you've set me on my feet I crumple to the ground, burying my face against my knees. I'm instantly overcome with exhaustion. My muscles burn. My throat burns. My eyes burn and its then that I hear someone crying. It takes me a moment to realize that its me. I can hear the sound of her body dragging across the ground. I muster up the courage to peek over my arm and to my relief I watch as you secure her to the bumper of an old car. Your belt is around her throat holding her upright to the hitch and I can now see just why it is you chose to intervene. I shiver violently at the sight of the trickle of blood on her throat. Just a scratch, but my mind plays the alternative outcomes over and over in graphic detail. 'Had my foot landed...' That's all I can think, all I can see and I'm not even sure what it is that has me so disturbed except perhaps the ugliness of it all. Yes, I think that's what it comes down to. Oh how I hate her for that and even now, as I sit here, filled with self reproach, I can feel the urge to lash out once again. Instead, I bury my face into my arm and weep. Wonderfully Wicked Things Ch. 03 Tears spill down my face paying tribute to the years and the oh so many whispers thought to be spoken in secret. They haunt me even now and cause me to be afraid. There is only one thing I've ever been taught to truly fear. "She's a bad seed." I suppose, given all that I know now, that it should be of little consequence, but words are such a powerful thing. Perhaps its insignificant, but I can't help but see it as a portend for all that I would come to understand. I'm referring to something my father used to say to me from as early on as i can remember? "Say what you mean and mean what you say". How does one best define the meaning of the words they choose to represent themselves? It is their actions, in the end, that give them away and even a poet's tongue can't redeem him from the inescapable truth of his own actions. There are few choices when it comes to the conclusions that could be drawn as I witnessed men feeding on fruit grown from a seed they had declared was corrupt. I must make it quite clear that not only did they feed, they feasted until they were intoxicated and they did so with great pleasure. "Say what you mean and mean what you say". Indeed. I weep, my dear Dandy, for how those words were defined for me. There was only one conclusion your dolly could come to: I was something wonderfully pleasurable and intoxicating. I was desirable, sweet and irresistible. That's what a bad seed is. Did you know this? Well now you do. I learned the meaning of many things. I learned that a man will despise himself for feasting on something pleasurable. I learned that in turn he will come to see even the most succulent fruit as something menacing to his being. As he becomes corrupted, so will his vision of sweetness become corrupted. He'll become sick and the beautiful fruit will be named poison, a poison he'll return to time and again because it tastes too good to keep away. I learned that there is a price to pay. Desire will sacrifice any expense and I watched men suffer for their pleasures. Pleasure ... I learned quickly to fear it. I would have you know something else. Despite what I've just revealed to you, your dolly has never been corrupted. My innocence has been perfectly preserved for not once was I presented with the slightest evidence that being something pleasurable was, in and of itself, a bad thing. To this day I know myself as something sweet and irresistible. I suppose that's what makes it so instantly possible to melt against your hand now as you hold your palm to my cheek. "Now, now, cherie", you say in a tone infused with tenderness and authority that only the most childlike heart could respond to so completely. It is innocence, so well preserved, that allows me to shapeshift right here in front of you and peer up at you through the eyes of a little girl. "I'm afraid you've gotten yourself into trouble, haven't you Dolly?" You hold me at arms length, your hands on my hips, your eyes full of questions they seem determined to have answers to. Ordinarily I would enjoy your silent demands for a confession, but I'm feeling far too racked with guilt to offer any playful attempts at evading you. The words spill from my mouth with a will of their own, determined to escape the misery of my tortured mind. "I'm so sorry." Fresh sobs heave in my chest, and I hang my head, no longer able to see you through the blur of tears that spill from my downcast face and splash on the pavement below. "I hurt our mouse. I can't bear to think of what could have happened ..." And it truly is unbearable. Horrific scenes flash through my mind in graphic detail. My body tenses and I flinch as the scene continues repeating on me with the deep cutting sting of a whip there is no escape from. Misery is a brew that never truly reaches perfection. Its a rich blend that promises complexity and depths that can always be teased out and enhanced. Even in this moment of absolute self loathing, I can feel the rage rising each time her eyes emerge to the forefront of my thoughts. My hands are clasped into tight fists and tension holds my form, sweeping me off my feet. It's a waltz in which rage and regret cut in on each other and dance me to the end of what I can take. "It was so awful. So ugly." I shake my head in an attempt to shake off the hatred I feel. I may have been awful, but it was her, not me, that was ugly. "Put out your hand." Your voice cuts in with authority and the dance freezes in mid-step. It takes me longer to comprehend your command than it does to open my tightly clenched fist and hold my hand out in front of me. Fortunately, I'm not beyond obedience for there's relief to be had in the mere sound of your voice as it interrupts my miserable performance. As my mind catches up to the moment it begins to make connections. I stare between my outstretched hand and your chastising gaze. An association begins to form as my senses draw on a reference from childhood. My hand trembles as I begin to anticipate having my hand slapped like a naughty schoolgirl. Contrition settles over my demeanor. My body emanates a sweet penitence that rises from me like incense being offered in an unspoken prayer of gratitude. Almost imperceptibly, my body presses towards you on a wave of childlike affection, grateful for the safe harbor of your authority. My mind has settled itself upon a fixed idea of what to expect and for that reason, its taking yet another moment to catch up to the sight of you reaching for your knife. It's not what I expected and my thoughts reach once more for a sense of direction. At last it comes and I can only stare, half in shock, half entranced. I offer no resistance as you reach out for my hand and brace my wrist against your palm. Cold steel caresses the blue paths trailing up and down my arm and comes to a halt, hovering purposefully over my wrist. I shiver, but remain pliant as your fingers press my wrist securely into your palm. Breathless still as the blade presses ever so slightly. There's nothing for a moment. No pain, no motion, just the tension burning in every muscle of my body save the ones your blade renders motionless. Still nothing but the growing need to release the breath I'm holding as the silver tip disappears into my pale flesh. All at once I feel a burst of hot pain and a sharp drawn breath fills my lungs. A scarlet bead appears and swells behind the gleaming protrusion. Finally, as if some invisible membrane has ruptured, the scarlet swell bursts and spills over my wrist dripping down and pooling in your palm. Your knife draws ever so slowly up my arm and, still, my body offers no resistance. My hand only presses more firmly into your hold. I've stopped crying. I'm no longer shaking. I'm simply frozen, mesmerized by the site of the blade skating across the pale expanse leaving a dotted ruby line across my flesh. You withdraw the knife and hold it up for me to see. Your eyes glitter dangerously as you spread red gloss across my lips. I hear your breathing grow labored as you watch my tongue carefully caress the mirrored steel. You groan hungrily and lower your head. Your tongue dips out to lap at the crimson flow that pools in your palm and drips to the ground to join my tears. So much blood for such a tiny cut. So many tears for such a fleeting moment of unhappiness. You look up at me from your feast, your eyes heavy with lust and your breath ragged with desire. I am barely aware of the sound escaping my lips as I moan. My knees come close to giving way to the wave of heat swelling up from the center of my body. It pools in my belly, churning until at last it bursts in throbbing pulses that bring every nerve to life in a violent instant. You hold the knife up, your eyes still locked on mine, and draw your tongue up along the blade. At long last I whimper. You set the weapon down, freeing your hand to pull me to you. Your fingers tap and press your intentions into the small of my back. I gasp again. My lip quivers. My eyes are locked on yours as your gaze sears me with heat and I cannot look away. I can only arch my back into your hold and let my body plead for mercy. "Tell me, cheri, is this ugly?" You hold my wrist up for me to see, pushing it towards my face emphatically. I look at the trickle of blood now reduced to a delicate pink line across my skin and shake my head. Your fingers grip the back of my neck, clutching my hair and you drag me over to the snivelling girl tied to the back of the car. You bend me over, pushing my face towards the scratch on Tabitha's throat. "Is THAT ugly? Is it?" You shove my face into her neck as you reach out with your other hand to draw her head up. You release me with a final push towards the wound and an instant later a scream pierces the air and then freezes as a flash of gleaming metal streaks before my eyes. Left then right in upward strokes and two new crimson streams appear. "Are THOSE ugly?" Your voice is hoarse I can hear the desperation as you attempt to restrain your need for more. "All in due time, my dear Dandy." My voice coos and soothes, quietly drowning out the hysterical shrieks of our mouse. I lean my cheek against your thigh and take your hand in both of mine, bringing it to my lips. I lap at your palm. I draw your fingers into my mouth, one at a time. I'm hungry. I'm frantic. I'm not sure desire like this could ever be sated but I devour you as if I could somehow be pacified. You stand, pulling my body up against yours. Our tongues meet along my wounded wrist and all is forgotten. My hands frame your face and yours grip my hair and your tongue takes my mouth with raping thrusts. I could happily lose all time and place as you devour me in this kiss, but you demonstrate much more self restraint than I could ever be capable of. You draw off my mouth in one last lingering, painful tug of my lip and take a step back. Your eyes sparkle with amusement, watching as I finish cleaning your palm, your fingers, lapping delicately like a cat with a bowl of strawberry cream. You laugh as you finally reclaim possession of your hand and hold me at arms length. I lick my lips and look at you with a sheepish smile. "Is that what you thought you were in trouble for? No, no, ma petite. You stomped on my foot. Many times over. Such a naughty girl ... and my poor, poor foot! Tell our friend here what happens when you go stomping on your poor Dandy's feet." You turn me towards our mouse, one hand pressing me down to face her, the other gripping my hip firmly, pulling me in hard against your cock, rock hard and straining against my ass. My body yields as much as the desire that courses through me allows for. My muscles, inside and out, ache with want and grow all the more desperate to latch onto you as your hand glides up my bare thigh. I reach out, gripping Tabitha's shoulders to brace myself and I stare at her through heat glazed eyes. My fingers dig into her collar bones, making her suck a sharp breath and before she can cry out I make my confession. "Dandy says its naughty to stomp on his foot and that if I do I must be spanked." My fingers dig harder and at last her sharply drawn breath releases in a breathy screech. I laugh and lean in further, my hot breath washing over the red streaks along her throat. "And you should know, Tabitha," I whisper as another appropriately long scream of pure pain sings through the alley, "Spankings hurt. A lot."