One hand moves up from under my shoulders to fix on my chin, forcing me to look back up at you. I blink the tears from my eyes, determined to put on a braver face than this. I catch the smirk – the movement was not wasted on you.
“Going to be good, Toy?”
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That panic sets in as your words float through my brain and I am struggling again, uprooting myself from your grasp. My lack of complacency surprises you, just enough that I manage to wrench my head from your fingers, slip out from under your arm. I hear you hissing, feel your fingers curled at my back as I bolt, acknowledge the scream that is ripping itself from my throat as your nails rake through the gown down my skin. There is no grace in this escape – I catch my foot upon the rug and stumble, my body hitting the floor, knocking once more the air from me. I go to pull myself up, but your foot is in the small of my back, pushing me back down.
I feel you bending over me even as I throw my arms up over the back of my head, pressing my face into the rug. Instinct commands my movements now, that hysteria that rips through my body, that sense of helplessness as I feel your fingers catching the neckline of my gown. There is a faint tearing noise, and you are moving your foot – I feel my gown being pulled out from under me, split in half, and you are rolling me over to my back to ease the removal.
Wide eyed, I lay, unable to move, paralyzed by the panic mounting in my throat. You hold the remains of my nightgown in one hand, the knife that had earlier been on the table in the other, a leer painted across your face. You plant your foot once more upon me, this time between my legs, drawing a whimper from me as you grind it against me, the fabric of my panties pressing roughly into my cunt.