Skinny Masochist

07/10/2010

Edit: oh yeah, I actually wrote this a few days ago on my phone but couldn't get it online until now.

Anorexia trigger warning. Sexual content. BDSM themes.

I'd appeared to have successfully finished eating my meal, so Luke moved to take my plate with his into the kitchen to be cleared. Wait! I protectively threw my arms over my plate and held it down, before mumbling an embarrassed apology and suggesting he take a seat on the couch and relax. I wanted to do the dishes tonight, I told him. As soon as his back was turned I stuffed the scraps of food hidden under my dinner plate into my pockets. Shit. That was close. And what's more, why the fuck am I starting this shit again? A gentle thought reminds me, hissing seductively in my head: you need this, this is who you are, the alternative is worse. The alternative is worse. The alternative is worse. Pockets turned inside out over top the bin, shredded, squashed, ruined pieces of perfectly decent chicken fall around my feet because I'm not even trying anymore. Can't be bothered. By the time he notices it on the floor, he won't wonder why it's not rotting away in the pit of my stomach, where he intended it to be. No. Stop taking stupid risks. Hide all evidence. Are you trying to get caught? Hands and knees.
"What are you doing?" I peer over the kitchen counter. He's on the couch. Thank god he can't see me.
"Picking shit up off the floor."
"Needs to be mopped."
"I'll do it."
"Not tonight."
"Ok. Tomorrow."
"We'll do it together on the weekend."
"Oh, ok. ...Bin's full. Just taking it out."
"Thanks, babe."

I mosey on over to the couch and lay down, throw my legs over his lap and close my eyes. Luke has turned the volume down on the TV completely and is buried in the pages of a new book. A waste of electricity but I don't mention it. Probably watching out for the news headlines or some shit. I have more interesting things to think about. Close my eyes. Mentally calculating calories, kilometers, minutes, days, and finally, kilograms, centimeters. Fingertips fall over ridges, skinny ribs. Touching myself. Pull my shirt up, who cares. I just need to know myself. Know the damage. This body. The one thing I own. Luke turns a page in his book and a hand squeezes my knee. My hands sweep over my stomach. Can't help but smile with relief as I discover the concave shape has returned. Ah, home. My fingers play with my hip bones. Cock twitches. I open my eyes. Lazily I watch Luke for a moment. Close my eyes, feel my bones. God, it's a great feeling. Makes me breathless. Makes me gasp.

I'm getting hard. Fucking tight jeans. I leave it, let it hurt. Makes me harder. My nipples, too, as I dig my nails into my chest. My cock has to come out. I watch Luke quietly as I undo my jeans and pull them down a bit. He glances down at my thing for a moment, smirks, then continues reading. Fine. I can deal with that. Close my eyes, enter my own little world, stroking, squeezing, playing with myself, my own rules, stop and start and make it last forever, the way I like it. Luke would make me cum again and again and again 'til my dick just ached. He loves it when I'm pathetic and exhausted and nothing but a shuddering mess of cum and tears. Ah, fuck, that thought makes me groan, crave him, pull my jeans down further, enough to spread my legs a little, I accidently knock his book but he still just ignores me. Grinding my ass against his thigh, silently begging for attention, and when I get too close to cumming, hands off, freeze, oh god, want it so bad, but I won't take it, love just wanting, waiting, totally getting off on being ignored. I'd been going like that for about half an hour, when I finally sat up to take my jeans off and started kissing his neck, rubbing his chest and was about to take his book off him to straddle him but he interrupted me.
"You know what?"
"Mmm?"
"I've changed my mind. I'd like you to mop the kitchen floor tonight afterall."
"What? But it's... Let's just," I tried to kiss him but he just moved his head away like he was dodging a bug or something.
"Needs a good scrub, actually. I'll get the bucket ready." He got up and headed for the laundry.
"Luke! I don't wanna do that anymore!"
He turned to face me briefly, smiling sympathetically, and said, "baby, I don't give a fuck what you want."

I sighed and put my jeans back on while Luke took a bucket from the laundry and filled it in the kitchen sink with steaming hot water. When he saw that I'd redressed, he demanded that I take my clothes off again. Then he walked around me and inspected my naked body casually, smacking my ass for fun. Finally he pushed me onto the floor. Funny how I just let myself fall. Landed straight onto my hands and knees with a smack. Really fucking hurt, too. He laughed as I swore, dusting off the palms of my hands. The bucket landed next to me, hot water splashing onto my bare skin. He threw a scrubbing brush next to me. I didn't move, and he threatened to step on my fingers. I still didn't move, so he stomped on them extra hard (wearing boots, mind you) and kicked me in the ribs.
"Do your fucking job, piece of shit."
"Please, I can't..." Felt so paralyzed, disgraced. ...Ashamed, even. Disappointed, because I just wanted to get off. "I don't want this."
He bent down next to me and forced me to look him in the eye."I told you. I don't give a fuck what you want. If you refuse one more fucking time you'll be sleeping outside on a pile of newspaper like a goddamn fucking dog." He stood up, spitting on the ground in front of me. "Now clean that up." Body on autopilot now, my will was absent and replaced with his. Without hesitation my hand dove into the bucket with the brush and emerged red hot, I just bit my lip through the shock of pain and scrubbed where he'd spat. Kicking me in the ribs again he said, "gotta learn to do what you're fucking told."

He stood there and watched me while I scrubbed. The floor was filthy, he was right when he said it needed to be scrubbed. But he even insisted I get the grout looking good as new and I had to use a toothbrush and jiff. Then I had to rinse it all off because jiff is a bitch. If any tile wasn't perfect he demanded I scrub it again and again. I had to mop the entire kitchen with clean water twice to finish it off. The whole process seemed to take forever and he enjoyed every second of it, while I hated it and even more hated how much my dick reacted by staying erect the entire time, especially when he'd kick me or insult me. I hated it, loved it, how hard I was breathing, groans escaping my lips at unexpected but frequent intervals, my heart beating so damn fast, my whole body alive and my dick throbbing while Luke just mocked me.

The night didn't end there, but this entry does.