Box Family - Interlude
(Just a small parenthesis, set a few weeks after Oliver has been named. Felt too short to be a Part all of its own. @deluxewhump, @im-not-rare-im-rarr, @haro-whumps, @raigash, @manip-loki, @maybeawhumpblog;)
“Now come here, under the light.” Mistress’s nails were cold and sharp under his chin. Oliver sprung his neck out; caught his reflection in the mirror before blinking down.
Mistress sat on her plush stool, and Oliver knelt on a pile of pillows. He squirmed, doing his best not to fall face first on Mistress’s legs.
“Mm. God, you're pale as a ghost.” She turned to her vanity, inspecting the drawers. After a moment, she gasped a little ah! And picked out a sleek, black tube.
Oliver watched, mesmerised, as Mistress took the cap off the lipstick. The slick tip glistened a bright red. “This should suit you.”
“Stay still,” she grasped at Oliver’s shoulder. “Move and I'll stick this in your eye.”
Oliver held his breath while the soft, felt applicator coated his lips. Immediately, he was aware of every crack and irregularity underneath it. “This dries quick, so.”
Mistress leaned back. “Not bad, uh?”
He blinked at his reflection again. The line of his lips was higher than natural, and it gave him a pouty look. The color itself was a little too bright for Oliver’s liking - not that he could have a taste of his own, but.
“Thank you, Ma'am.” Oliver said. In the mirror, Mistress rose up, scurried over to the nightstand. She emerged with a pair of leather gloves.
“Sit on the bed.” Her voice had shifted to a lower register. Oliver scrambled to his feet, and feel on the edge of the mattresses. Mistress slid the gloves on, one finger at a time.
She opened and closed her fists, testing the fabric.
“I wanna see how long before it smudges.”
---
The first punch was harsher than Oliver had expected. Mistress’s arms were toned and strong, from pushing herself through row after row of chlorine water.
She hit him in the stomach. Chest. Arms, legs, she slapped harsh and fast. It reminded Oliver of the paddle they'd use at the Facility.
One struck him in the face. He fell against the white comforter, leaving red scrapes.
“Ah, shit,” Mistress grabbed him by the hair, pinched his cheek so hard Oliver thought she might just pull the skin off his bones.
“Didn't I tell you to sit still?”
“Ss- orry, Ma'am,” He coughed. She made an exasperated noise deep in her throat, muttered something along the lines of can't even sit quiet and pretty.
“Fine. Fine. I'm done, anyways. Wait here,” she pulled the gloves off, threw them at Oliver’s face.
Soon as she was out the room, Oliver let himself fold: he groaned, hugging his middle. This was ironic - finally allowed on the bed again, only to be beat.
Was it something he said? Something he'd done? No. Oliver knew there wasn't necessarily a reason to Mistress’s outbursts. It was his duty to comply.
The door creaked open. Master peeked in, then tsked. He entered, carrying a small, white box. “You poor thing,” he mumbled, sitting next to Oliver.
He stroked Oliver’s matted hair, fingers carding slowly through his fringe. “At least she went easy on you.”
While Master patched him up, Oliver did his best not to think what Mistress’s bad would be like.