Pretty When She Cries Read Free Page B

he entertained himself with her ass cheeks. He lifted them, pushed them inwards, spread them outwards, squeezed and pinched them. She was extremely tense. She didn’t like facing away from him, not being able to see what he was going to do. He stood up and pressed his chest against her back, nuzzling her neck, and reaching around between her thighs, toyed with her a little more. Then he got her to face him again, kissing her. He picked her up, and carried her toward the house. Her arms were still behind her back, and he was squeezing her naked ass under his hands.
    He carried her inside, hugging her tightly, and burying his face in her hair. He let her drop so suddenly, she barely managed to keep on her feet. He closed the door, then looked at her, waiting. She stood frozen, and slowly took in her surroundings, blinking rapidly, her face quivering. The place was a mess. There were beer cans and bottles, mangy-looking furniture, cigarette butts on the coffee table, junk all over the room. In the corner there was a filthy, stained mattress on the floor. She started crying. The full hideous realization of her situation and filth of the place overwhelmed her.
    She risked glancing at him through her tears. He had been standing by the door waiting. He approached nearer and nearer, until he was very close. He brushed his hands up and down her arms. She could feel herself begin to panic. She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to escape but didn’t know how. He was looking down at her heavily, feeling her arms.
    “Don’t worry, I won’t push you too hard too fast, hey? It doesn’t have to be bad. I can make it feel good. I mean, it’s up to you how much it’s going to hurt.”
    She made a queer sobbing sound when he pulled out his pocket knife from his jeans. He cut the shoelaces off her wrists and freed her hands. She didn’t know how sore they were until now.
    “If you try to run, I will catch you and hurt you real bad,” he said, massaging the nape of her neck, and pressing his forehead to hers. He backed her up against the mattress. He sat her down, and stood in front of her. He began unbuckling his belt. “Have you ever been raped?”
    She shook her head, almost sobbing.
    “Abused when you were a kid—an uncle, brother, cousin, father, friend of the family?”
    She kept shaking her head.
    “Shit. You got off lightly. Most women I know have been fucked up one way or another. Take off your blouse for me.”
    She looked up at him. “Please, don’t do this. Let me go.”
    He slapped her in the side of the head. She put her hands up as if she had been half-deafened, but she remained obstinately uncooperative. He crouched down, and grabbed her wrist. He took hold of one of her fingers as if he would snap it. She cried out and clutched his hand, terrified he was going to break her finger.
    “If you keep pissing me off, you’ll be leaving here disfigured, or dead. Take off your top,” he said. He let her go and she held her hand. Then slowly she pulled the rest of her blouse out from her skirt waistband, and undid the rest of the buttons. She stopped and looked at him pleadingly, and dropped her hands to her sides.
    “Take it all the way off,” he said.
    She reluctantly slid the light blouse off her shoulders, and held it scrunched in her hands, not looking at him. He stood massaging his erection while he watched.
    “The bra.”
    She reached behind her back, and found her bra hooks, and pulled them apart. She let the bra slip off, resisting the urge to cover her exposed breasts.
    “Oh, yeah,” she heard him sigh. “Now your skirt. Stand up. Give me your bra.”
    She handed him her black lace bra. He examined it, feeling it, and pressing it to his face, inhaling her perfume which should have been for Cameron. Then he took her arm and helped her to stand. The adrenaline combined with the fatigue from the long flight made her unsteady. Her skirt was still bunched up around her waist. He put his hands on her bare