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I try on a dozen necklaces that change my look as the color changes, as the textures against my pale skin change from beads, to feathers, to woven pieces. They’re all made to glide against the skin as I move. The way they tickle me, I see it’s arousing just to wear them. The way my breasts become a focal point of my body delights me. This feels almost naughty, so much so I want to giggle.
It seems a spectacular find, this discovery.
I know these are Tasia’s pieces, the justice of wearing one seems altogether perfect, though I can’t yet fathom why… just as I can’t figure out why I feel so moved to make myself fit in with the other women and their celebration. Perhaps it’s just the day and the impending tomorrow, being swept up in something beyond myself.
Nonetheless, I can’t keep myself from pilfering Tasia’s treasure chest for my own identity.
I decide the sarong and a beaded necklace make me look nearly as earthbound as Miriam looks to me. There are a pair of Peach’s Greek wrap sandals still in the closet in our room. With straps that crisscross to the knee, they’ll look perfect with the costume. Perhaps I’ll go get them when I’m finished here, or maybe I’ll just go barefoot, like many of the other women.
I pull a pair of Analise’s earrings from her dresser. These hang long, all the way to my shoulders, with glistening beads that move like my hair moves next to my neck.
The spilled paint on the floor is drying, a regular Rorschach of blue, green and browns. I stoop down and set the small round paint pots right, thinking of my cold fury at Analise. I wonder if she still lies tied in the stone chapel? I wonder how her treasured bondage feels now after four hours of loneliness. I wonder with a fiendish fascination, if there are bugs tickling her ribs or a rat crawling over her ankles. Were it me there, I’d be terrified, but this is Analise’s dream, not mine.
There’s paint on my fingers from the sticky pots. I stare at my hands as if it’s more than just paint that stains them; I think of Peach’s blood on her bare bottom. Is it healing yet? I recall seeing the red smeared across her ass in a vile carnal painting.
I see my reflection in the low dormer window as I ponder this paint and Peach’s blood. I see my face so clearly as I, without reason, feel compelled to smear the wet colors on my face. War paint. Stripes of blue, brown and a muted green, like Analise’s half completed painting. I watch my face become something completely different than I’m used to seeing. Turning to the canvas, I notice the similarity between myself and what’s there. She’s painting a portrait of five women, with Picasso-like abstraction. I see Tasia in the picture, I see Peach, and I see myself as well; the careful juxtaposition of faces is a curious metaphor for the players in our artful game.
When I rise to look at my reflection in the full length mirror, I’m hypnotized by the woman I see. I scurry back to grab the pots of paint, intending to tattoo my shoulders, neck, and arms, with color that changes my white skin to something less bleached. I wish for long black hair and dark skin like Peach’s and that Third World aspect that would declare a mystery behind the white skinned woman that I am; but I can’t accomplish that result with these colors. This will pale in comparison to a real change.
Still, I’m satisfied with my results. I look as if I’ve gone crazy, which is a perfect reflection of how I feel.
As I leave the attic, I take the paints with me, just the blue, green and brown that I’ve used to color myself. Walking through the third floor hallway, there are appreciative smiles in my direction, and no assaults or surprised faces. I feel more one of them than I was before, even if I am disappearing more completely into this exotic other world of my making where no one belongs but me. I know what I’m going to do as I descend the cellar stairs again.
Analise lies where I left her, the simple grace of her body makes me shrink back for a moment just to stare at her. The awful grey white light cast against her flanks makes her appear even more ghostly. Igniting the torch, the warmer glow penetrates the heavy darkness. I feel almost burdened with what needs to be done now.
When I look at her face, her blank eyes stare at me. They appear hollow.
“I won’t continue if you tell me to stop,” I tell her. I analyze my leniency without a clue why
I’ve offered her a way out of this.
“Take me again, please,” she says. And I know we’re on an unalterable course.
“I will,” I tell her.
I draw on her body with the paint, liking the color on her thighs and cunt. The sweat of her body smears it. Her flowing female nectar makes it easy to spread it everywhere. It feels like child’s play, finger paints, except that Analise shudders erotically as my hands tease her. I mark her face, her breasts, her neck, and paint a bull’s-eye around her belly button. She reminds me of a sacrificial lamb being readied for the sacrifice.
When she looks exactly as I want her, I wipe the paint away with a cloth until my hands are clean. Then I lubricate my left hand until it shines, fairly glistening with the lavish liquid. Time to begin the real work. Time to take her cunt.
She gasps as my fingers begin their entry. How hard it is getting just two fingers inside her; but she’ll expand. We have all the time in the world, I think. I pause after the first penetration, to let her get used to it, then I begin to work her more as I can see her sexual need is beginning to rise. I give thanks for small hands, because her cunt will take all of my left one, if I have my way.
I can feel the dildo in her ass as my hand fights for a place within her belly. It’s tight, so very tight, and painful. I see the anxious expression on her face; I’m delighted with the hint of fear in her eyes. She must see my look too, the determination, the cold wrath, the total lack of compassion. I’d be fearful too.
I imagine that my plan will fail when I realize that I can’t fit my whole fist in her cunt—but it will be glorious trying. She opens to me, the more I push inside. Her arousal makes her cunt expand, though the more I push, the more I feel the hard dildo and the more I feel her strong muscles clamp down happily on my penetrating fingers. She bucks against me and I push harder. Too bad her petiteness gets in the way of her pleasure. She probably wouldn’t stop me even if I hurt her, she’s that far gone. This is what she wanted, I can see now. This vile abandon.
I think about stopping her, withdrawing everything, untying her so that she’s left with nothing. That would be truly vile. The best revenge.
I do decide to stop, but not altogether. Making choices on the spot, I’ll play this out my way, not hers.
I untie her hands so I can bind them together and secure them to the end of the table. Undoing the ankle straps, I slap her thigh. “Turn over,” I order.
It’s awkward for her; no doubt her body isn’t prepared to move after having stayed so long in one place. But she obeys, so that I have her on her knees, her hands reaching overhead, her face pressed against the cold stone…no soft comforters or pillows this time. I release the prick from her ass, seeing her once virgin opening now stretched so beautifully wide, it will accommodate anything I give her. I don a glove to cover my hand, then lubricate it thoroughly, seeing it glisten in the soft glowing torch light.
She responds well as I begin the assault. My how time and persistence work! Three weeks ago she’d never have believed she could endure an ass rape. How compliant now, compliant to a fault. The more lube I apply, the easier it becomes as my hand, even the widest part, slips deep inside, past the sphincter and beyond.
She screams with joy and pain taking turns. I fuck her as rudely as I dare, though not as rudely as my imagination would take me. I feel sharp spasms jerk her small form in wild gyrations. I think she’s going to cum forever. How right I was, the slut she is, the fear she’s overcome! She won’t forget this, ever.
It’s night when I’m done with her.
