#consensualnonconsent

…

“Do dolls decide?” You crooned softly. Another step forwards. The lip of the sink cut into my back. My pulse throbbing in my fingertips as I curled them into my palms, as if that could clamp my mouth shut too. A whimper still escaped. This was your favourite part: drawing out the moments before you touched me. It built a storm of anticipation that quivered on my skin. You knew. And I knew you were going to draw this one out as long as you could. Your half-smile split into a whole one, glittering with the malicious. Now clinging onto the edge of the sink and, unable to bear it any longer, I dashed for the door. I heard your chuckle before I felt your arms around me. Then you were spinning me back around, pressed into the sink again, but against my tummy this time. One hand had my wrists pinned, the other on my throat. I watched as it moved up to make a fist in my hair. You yanked my head back, my wide eyes pulled from our reflection. And then your voice against my ear, clenched and threatening:

There was one rule: I had to already know you were in the room/flat. No jumping out, no grabbing me from behind when I thought I was alone. One rule and my safe word. Minus that, the stage was all yours. I was merely the puppet. A fuck toy. A doll whose holes ought to be used. But dolls don’t decide when that is. I was brushing my teeth. Making a bubble bath in my mouth, when I became aware of you watching me. Casually leaning against the doorframe, hands in jean pockets, your eyes moving up the length of my body. Slowly. I watched your reflection drink me up as you licked your lips. Slowly. Your eyes met mine in the glass, and I knew. Frantically spitting out the minty froth, I started to shake my head, my eyes not daring to leave yours. “Nooo,” I finally breathed. Spinning to face you, mind racing for an escape route. You: calm, a half smile, and a step towards me. “Do dolls decide?” You crooned softly. Another step forwards.