September 3, 2016 § 1 Comment

Wet your fingers, the bowl next to you. Chew the clay off the block, feel it begin to soften in your fingers. Press the peddle, run the wheel. I begin to take shape in your hands. The curves and edges of myself are your will. Create me, I am yours.

Something calming about control outside of yourself.

“Take off your clothes.”

I begin to. My pale, shaking fingers reach for the straps of my bra. I can feel eyes, but I keep my eyes focused downward. Soft belly, invisible skin, white enough to see purple lattices of vein like an old woman.

I prepared for this. Hours before the mirrors, seeing all of the parts of myself at every angle. Hairs, discolorations, those fucking veins, parts of flesh that shake. Hit myself and I’ll bruise further. He wouldn’t like that.

I was late a few weeks back, working until last call and not wanting to rush back so quickly. Offered drinks and grass with my coworkers, I knew how it would end afterward, but I wanted it. I didn’t explain, I just let him. I knew what would happen, the punishment, but I wanted it. I wanted the knuckles in my jaw.

“Text me when you’re pretty again.”


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