I want a hood. A proper one, black, padded, smooth. I want him to pull it out after he’s been at me a while and my face is red and tear- and snot-stained. “I don’t want to look at your ugly face anymore.” I look up at him beseechingly as he pulls it over me, then settle into the darkness as he adjusts it so that only my lips are visible, pulls up the zip at the back so it tightens around my throat.
I want to imagine I look appealing, my features pretty and delicate under the fabric, but really I just look strange. A black blob, nose slightly poking out, red lips lipstick half gone. You can’t tell there’s a person there, not exactly, but that’s what we want.
I want him to forget my wide smile when he told me I was his good girl. I want him to forget how I looked the first time I kinda cried for him, tears delicately balanced on my nose and cheeks. I want him to forget how my eyes flash in anger or widen in shock.
I want him to forget me, momentarily, because then he’ll fuck me the way he really wants: without caring about hurting me. He’ll punch me hard, harder, if he can’t see how it makes me cry and he can’t feel the twinge of guilt. His hands will tighten around my throat often because it doesn’t matter whether he gives me time to breathe. He’ll slap my tits, twist my nipples, shove his fingers roughly into my holes because here is all this flesh for him to enjoy, not a person anymore, just a toy, just a faceless plaything, just something for him to vent on, sort of like those inflatable punching dolls.
yousharknotpass
izzy806
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
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