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“You—you sai-d you’d hic-stop!” You sob out, and his thrusts begin to speed up, reverberating through your whole entire body, skin slapping against skin as he pulls your arm back, straining it and causing it to throb. Not as much as your grade-school cunt that is, his free hand sinks into your baby locks, pulling your head back.
“Yeah…” He says through teeth grinding together.
“That was until you decided ta’ go on and tempt me today, you really fuckin’ expect me to stop when you keep on teasin’ me like this, huh? Huh?”
He grunts, pulling your head back with his hand. Your eyes are so wide they just might pop out of your skull, staring at him like a fawn with its leg stuck in a deer trap, begging to be put out of its misery, begging for the pain to just end. “Flaunting that little ass around everywhere you go,” A soaring pain runs through your left cheek as he gives your ass a fat smack, the weight of it as heavy as a dumbbell.
His hands are as vicious and uncaring as he is, he wraps his calloused fingers against the stinging cheek and strangles it. Soft meat oozing out of his hands, parting to see his cock slipping into the wet, pastel feel of your walls.
“waving it fuckin’ around and expecting me to stop? Ha, not a fuckin’ chance.” He stares down at his shaft, feeling his cockhead press all the way in, kissing where you couldn’t dream of, soft insides oozing all over him in a wet tsunami. “Brat.”
It’s a distant mutter, but he makes sure you hear it. The tears are more erratic, dripping and falling like a faulty sink. Your free hand, the one with the crayon still in it is trembling, scribbling all over the floor and the drawing you’d made of yourself and Anya, you cry even more through your glimpse of it.
“I didn’—i–!” You try to deny the claim through tears, but it’s fruitless, so, fucking, fruitless. You were gonna give it to her. She was so nice to you all the time, always treating your injuries and bruises from what he–did, what he’s doing to you. And now it’s ruined, tainted with awful memories and scribbled all over with green crayon.
He pinky promised, he—he told you he’d never do it again, he’d never hurt you like this again why did he lie? You can’t break a pinky promise you just can’t!
“You like this, don’t you slut?” He says, words becoming strained and drawn out like a drunk, he’s gonna–gonna do the thing again.
“I bet you wanted this. That’s why you kept on eyeing my cock during dinner, and–shifting up your skirt so I could see your little ass, huh?” You weren’t doing any of that, he’s lying! Just like he lied when he said he wouldn’t hurt you anymore–or that if you told anyone they’d think you were a naughty girl and a slut. You don’t want everybody to think you're a slut right? What a slimy word, and you believed him.
You weren’t trying to avoid eye-contact, you were just begging to be fucked again. You weren’t trying to pull down your dress overalls so he wouldn’t try to touch or stick his fingers–or worse–up there when you weren’t looking, just bringing more attention to the sun. Like a slut would. With every thrust, another staple is added to that thought.
Suddenly—all too suddenly, your head is slammed down and a pop, rather a glorified snap, rings through your ears. Everything’s a pale white for a second, then buzzing and bursting as red flows deep from your nose. The pain doesn’t register at first, your eyes roll back and it feels like cold metal pressed against your skin.
The sound that comes after it feels barely even real, swirling and dizzy. They’re chokeless sobs that whine deep and hard onto the floor, they sound like exhausted coughs more than anything.
“Shit.” He curses, pulling your face from the carnage, it globs and sticks on the floor.
He wraps his hand around your chin and leans in to get a better look, smushing your tiny cheeks together. “Ah, fuck.” You can’t tell if it’s from the shock of what he just did, or the feeling of being inside your gummy walls, seeing as he’s still thrusting in you, just much slower, kind of sensual–like a caring lover. Blood lubricating his dick.
Jimmy presses his finger against your nose in a morbid curiosity and you squeal in pain. Your breathing is all faulty, all over his hands and face making them feel clammy.
He sticks a big finger in your mouth, and you sloppily whimper against it, drooling like a damn retard all over them. “You know what you do to me.” He moans, thick and desperate for it to be true. Desperate to be the victim of a cunning seductress of a child instead of the perpetrator of innocence, desperate to say woe is me!
Jimmy brushes off your pain like it doesn’t matter, that’s because it doesn’t matter to him, not right now. What happens to your development and after this rarely ever matters. All that matters is getting his dick wet when he deserves it, which is whenever he feels like it, which is whenever he wants to, and that's when you arch your ass like a pussy in heat when he’s only a few feet from you, begging to be fucked.
You jerk back from his cock, and he sinks it in; almost like a knife to your abused cunt. Running wet and rotten from his meat. “You know what you fucking do to me.” He growls, through barred teeth.
He’s drilling into you, fucking everything inside of you, sloshing around your guts and all with his dick. You squeal, whimpering and scampering around; or at least attempting to.
“I’m raping you,” He states. “Do you know what that means?”
Jim whispers, raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner and getting up close. His hot breathing silking your cheeks and tainting your swollen, sad lips with a foul sensation.
You whine in response, the way it rolled off his tongue made it sound like a bad word, like fuck or shit. All those other nasty words that were pouring out of his mouth, his lips curve into a false grin. “Your–h-hurting me…!”
“It means im taking whats mine, and there’s nothin’ you can fuckin’ do about it.” It’s almost sing-songy, like the tune of a melody you’d sung in music class when called up. Your face scrunches even more, he didn’t think that was possible. Balled up and ugly; powdering a forbidden red once more, removing all the cuteness he chased so desperately, now just soiled and ugly with a nearly authentic childishness, if you weren’t a vixen in disguise.
Your nose blisters and burns, spreading to your cheeks in a hot red burst like a volcano, hot lava spreading from your nose to face. The taste of metal is diabetic and overwhelming.
—
“What are you two doing in here?” Anya asks, peeking out into the medbay, a clipboard in one hand, her lashes, like that of a honey-suckle flower flutter at you and Jimmy.
You're sitting on the wheely chair, swirling softly as Jimmy dabs a tissue on the gore of your face, politely swiping away the runny nose bleed he created, rough hands that spread you open with abandon now treating your injuries. You flinch with every touch, you try not to. “She broke her nose.”
Jimmy hastily responds, in an attempt to get the bitch to just shut up and leave. What? Anya’s face crumbles in an angry confusion, but above all else, a layer of shock is cast over it.
Can’t you see we're having a moment here?
“What? How?!” It’s nearly booming and you flinch, but it’s Anya yelling out of care, not Jimmy yelling. His sigh is loud and heavy and the ink as black as hell dots in your heart, your lower tummy rumbles like it’s hungry.
“She just had an accident in the utility room, didn’t you?” He looks back at you, blood soaked tissue still dabbing at your nostril, running like a firehose. His smile is kind, warm and loving, but it barely spreads to the eyes. “Mhm…” You nod unconvincingly, lips sucking in and eyes leaving his.
“Yeah..” His free hand slides against your arm, caressing it sensually, softly shaking the chair and you.
She stares at you two, then your bruised knees, then Jimmy. “Alright then,” She sighs, “If you both say so, but may I see?” Anya says, albeit through gritted teeth, that she’s asking Jimmy permission for anything. “I am the nurse after all,” She gestures to her medical patch. “I’ve already gotten it under control, can’t you see?” His hand casts over your little one, and his hand is adorned on your cheek, you’re posed like a married couple, or a dad and his daughter.
“Jim, please. Just a tissue won’t be enough,” she sighs, “I need to make sure it’s not, or won’t get infected. If her nose really is broken, then someone’s going to have to put it back in place.”
Jimmy’s eyes darken and you pout, albeit minuscule. “Fine, help yourself little miss nurse.” He says. The tissue ruffles in his hand, and he swipes it away from your face as he leaves, stomping angrily.
Anya looks back to him walking away, then back at you. Hunched over in that big chair. Legs dangling, and nose still running like a firehose. And eyes spiraling like a train tunnel–traveling somewhere far away from here. Her tattered hair, cut like a torn up wedding dress, waves softly in the slight breeze of the medbay, a surprised expression is weaved on her long face and morose eyes, the lighting of the medbay shows worry though–a deep worry that etches into you.
“Cmon, lemme have a look.” She says, with the same tone as if you were hiding an extra sweetener packet right behind your back, you look up with put-down puppy eyes and let her. The gentleness she uses is sickening, pressing into blotted skin; pruny and discolored with a mercy that dribbles like sweet nectar all over your face. You hate it.