#tw hitting

The sharp, clean sweep of headlights cutting through the darkness was your only warning. Hours had passed, the trailer sinking into a deep, quiet gloom that was only broken by the distant hum of the freeway. You hadn't moved from the couch, just sat there in the dark, waiting. The engine died, followed by the soft click of two doors opening and closing, one more careful than the other. Then came the voice Curly's, low and placating, and Jimmy's, slurred and belligerent.

You stood up, your heart sinking into your stomach. You smoothed down your worn-out t-shirt and ran a hand through your hair, a pointless attempt to look presentable. You opened the door just as Curly was practically holding Jimmy up on the rickety steps. Jimmy's expensive polo was now wrinkled and stained.

"Sorry about this," Curly said, his face etched with that familiar, weary apology. He'd been Jimmy's friend since middle school, and he'd been apologizing for him just as long. "He had a few too many. Wouldn't let me call a cab."

"It's fine," you mumbled, stepping aside to let them in. Jimmy stumbled past you, reeking of top-shelf whiskey and bar smoke. He careened off the wall, knocking a framed picture askew. Curly's presence, so polite and put-together in your crummy entryway, made the whole scene feel even more humiliating.

"Alright, man, get some rest," Curly said, patting Jimmy's shoulder before turning to you. His eyes were kind. "You need anything, you call me. Day or night. Okay?"

You just nodded, unable to find the words. "Thank you, Curly."

He gave you a sad, tight smile before letting himself out. The soft click of the expensive car door and the quiet purr of the engine fading away was like a starting pistol. The air in the room immediately thickened, turning suffocating.

Jimmy was leaning against the wall, trying to look tough, but his balance was shot. He glared at you, his eyes bloodshot and mean. "You... you listenin' to him?" he slurred, pushing himself off the wall. "Makin' googly eyes at Curly? Thinkin' he's your fuckin' knight in shinin' armor? Bet you wish you were in his fancy car right now, huh?"

"No, Jimmy, I was just—"

But your words were cut off by a memory, sharp and vivid as the night it happened. A different night, a different bar. He'd come back just as drunk, but angrier. He'd grabbed an empty beer bottle from the counter, its neck still slick with condensation. He hadn't even kissed you. He'd just shoved you down onto the lino floor, yanked your panties aside, and forced the cold, hard glass inside you, twisting it with a drunken, cruel laugh while you sobbed, your body arching in pain that was so much worse than a slap or a kick. The memory hit you like a physical blow, stealing your breath and making your vision swim.

"Hey! You listenin' to me?" he roared, closing the distance between you.

You tried to back away, your hands held up placatingly. "Jimmy, please. You're drunk."

"Jimmy, please," he mimicked in a high-pitched whine. He lunged, his heavy body crashing into yours. You both went down in a heap on the floor right in the entryway, the impact knocking the wind from your lungs. He was on top of you, a suffocating weight of muscle and booze, his face buried in your neck. His mouth found yours, a violent, bruising kiss that tasted of whiskey and bitterness. It wasn't a kiss it was a claim, an invasion, his teeth scraping your lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth.

Panic clawed its way up your throat. Through the haze of the memory and the assault, one coherent thought broke through. The neighbors. Their windows were just a few feet away. The walls were paper.

"Jimmy," you gasped, turning your head away as much as you could with his weight pinning you down. Your voice was a terrified, shaky whisper. "Please... we're outside. The door's open. The neighbors can hear us."

He pulled back just enough to laugh, a loud, ugly sound that echoed in the small space. "Fuck the neighbors!" he yelled, his voice carrying into the night. "Fuck 'em all! Fuck Curly and his fancy fuckin' car!" He grabbed your chin, forcing your face back towards his, his grip tight enough to bruise. "They can listen. They can watch. Let 'em see who you belong to." His lips crashed down on yours again, harder this time, his other hand already fumbling with the button of your jeans. His intent was unmistakable. There was no one coming to save you. There was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the open door, framing you both in a rectangle of indifferent moonlight.

Your body was rigid, frozen between the memory of the beer bottle and the reality of his weight on you. His clumsy, drunken fingers struggled with the button of your jeans. He grunted in frustration, pulling back to glare at you.

"Take this shit off," he demanded, yanking at the hem of your t-shirt. "Now."

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, and that was all it took. His patience, never more than a razor's edge, snapped.

"You know what? Fine." He shoved your hands away and grabbed the collar of your t-shirt, ripping it upwards with such force the fabric strained and seams popped. The thin cotton was torn over your head, leaving your torso bare to the cool night air. His hands went back to your jeans, roughly tearing open the button and wrenching down the zipper. Then he saw it: the simple, worn leather belt threaded through the loops.

A cruel, knowing smirk twisted his lips. "What's this?" he sneered, his thumb hooking under the leather. "Why are you making it harder for me? You got a lock on this you forgot to tell me about?" He yanked the belt free from your jeans in one smooth, violent motion. The leather hissed through the loops.

He held it up, dangling it in front of your face. "It's like you don't even love me," he said, his voice dropping to a wounded, predatory whine. "You're not even gonna let me fuck you. Gotta make me fight for it every goddamn time." He doubled the thick leather in his fist, wrapping the end around his hand, the metal buckle dangling ominously. "Maybe this'll remind you how to be a little more grateful."

Panic, pure and absolute, seized you. You knew what was coming. You scrambled backwards on the floor, your bare skin scraping against the dirty lino.

"Please, Jimmy, no," you sobbed, holding your hands up in a futile gesture of defense. "Don't... please don't hit me."

"Stay still!" he roared, raising the belt.

The first strike landed across your ribs. It wasn't a slap. It was a sharp, searing line of fire that stole your breath and made you cry out, a loud, ugly gasp of pain. Before you could recover, the belt whistled through the air again, this time catching you across the thigh. The impact was solid, a deep, bruising thud that radiated agony through your entire leg.

"Jimmy, stop! Please, stop!" you begged, your voice dissolving into hysterical sobs. You tried to curl into a ball, to protect yourself, but it was no use.

The third lash caught you on your back as you turned, and the fourth was a vicious, downward slash across your exposed ass. Each blow was accompanied by his grunts of exertion, his drunken rage fueled by your cries. You were screaming now, begging him, the words "please stop" a meaningless, broken mantra.

Finally, he stopped. You were trembling uncontrollably on the floor, a mess of pain and snot and tears. He stood over you, his chest heaving, the doubled belt still clutched in his hand. He looked down, not at you, but at his own feet.

"Look what you made me do," he panted, his voice a mixture of anger and self-pity. "Now look at this mess." He dropped the belt onto the floor beside you with a heavy thud. "Get up. Get up and take those jeans off. You wanted it hard, now you're gonna get it." He nudged you with his boot. "Move." The heavy thud of the belt hitting the floor was the only permission you needed. Terror, sharp and cold, shot through your veins, overriding the searing pain. You scrambled to your feet, your movements clumsy and frantic, desperate not to make him wait. You were crying in earnest now, hot, silent tears tracking paths through the grime on your face and dripping from your chin.

Your fingers trembled so violently you could barely work the button on your jeans, but you managed, shoving the denim down your legs along with your panties in a single, desperate motion.

He watched you, a predator admiring the effect of its work. He took a slow, deliberate step towards you, his gaze raking over your naked, bruised body. "The rest," he commanded, his voice low and flat. "Bra and panties."

Your bra was already gone, torn and discarded in the entryway. You just shook your head slightly, a miserable, pleading gesture. He grunted, a sound of vague annoyance. "Bend over the couch," he ordered, tilting his head towards the stained, sagging piece of furniture. "Now."

You obeyed without hesitation, your feet shuffling on the dirty floor. You leaned forward, placing your hands on the rough, nubby fabric of the couch cushions. The position was humiliating, forcing you to present your ass to him, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, your entire body tensing in anticipation of another blow.

You didn't have to wait long.

The whistle of the belt cutting through the air was your only warning before a line of white-hot pain exploded across your already bruised ass. You cried out, a sharp, involuntary yelp that was quickly followed by a sob.

"Need to be reminded of your place, huh?" he grunted, his voice thick with exertion and cruel satisfaction. The belt whistled again. CRACK. Another stripe of fire, this one lower, perfectly parallel to the first. "This is your fuckin' place. Bent over. Ready."

He hit you again. And again. Each strike was a punctuation mark to his hateful lecture.

"This is all a cunt like you is good for," he sneered, the leather landing with a sickening slap against your thighs. "A tight hole and a warm place to land my belt when you forget your goddamn manners." The pain was blinding, a world of pure, white hot agony that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

"You think I give a shit about what you think? What you want?" Another lash, this one wrapping around your hip, the metal buckle catching the sensitive skin there and making you scream. "You're property. You're a set of holes with a pretty face I get to look at when I want. You exist to make my dinner, wash my clothes, and take my cock."

He stopped for a moment, breathing heavily behind you. You were a trembling, sobbing mess, slumped over the couch, the rough fabric wet with your tears. You thought for a fleeting second it was over.

"Beg me for it," he said suddenly, his voice dangerously quiet.

You didn't understand. "Wh-what?" you stammered.

"Beg me to fuck you," he clarified, his voice hard as steel. "Tell me you're sorry for being a useless bitch and that you need me to remind you who you belong to."

Humiliation washed over you, colder and more debilitating than the pain. You couldn't. You couldn't form the words. Your throat was thick with sobs.

He answered your silence with the belt, bringing it down harder than ever across the tender soles of your feet. You shrieked, a raw, animal sound of pure agony.

"BEG!" he roared.

"Please!" you screamed, the words torn from your throat by pain and terror. "Please, Jimmy! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please... please fuck me!"

He was on you in an instant, the belt clattering to the floor. He kicked your feet further apart with his boot, his hands rough and possessive on your bruised hips. "That's what I thought," he growled in your ear, fumbling with his own zipper. "That's all you needed. A little reminder."

He was on you in an instant, the belt clattering to the floor. He kicked your feet further apart with his boot, his hands rough and possessive on your bruised hips. "That's what I thought," he growled in your ear, fumbling with his own zipper. The sound of his jeans falling was followed by the sickening, familiar pressure of him against you. He didn't prepare you. He didn't care. He lined himself up and slammed into you in one brutal, gut-wrenching thrust.

A scream tore from your throat, raw and agonized. It wasn't just the pain; it was the violation, the sheer, unadulterated violence of the act. This wasn't sex. It was punishment.

"Please, stop!" you sobbed, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the couch cushions, trying to pull yourself away. "Jimmy, please, you're hurting me!"

His response was a cruel, breathless laugh in your ear, thick with the liquor on his breath. He drove into you again, harder this time, his hips slamming against your bruised ass with enough force to rock the couch. "Tha'ss the... fuckin'... point," he slurred, his movements sloppy but brutal. He was leaning heavily on you, his drunken weight a suffocating burden. "You think this feels... good for me? Stuck with a... with a dried-up bitch who can't even..." He trailed off, punctuating his unfinished sentence with another vicious, punishing thrust. "This is what... you're for. You get it? This... this is it."

Your begging devolved into incoherent sobs, your body limp and pliant under his assault. You just wanted it to be over. You wanted to disappear.

He seemed to sense your surrender, and it wasn't enough. He wanted more fear. He wanted you broken. He shifted his weight, one hand leaving your hip. You felt his rough fingers wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a promise of what was to come. Your breath hitched, your body tensing all over again.

"Jimmy... don't," you whimpered, a new wave of terror washing over you.

He squeezed. It wasn't a controlled, calculated pressure; it was a drunken, clumsy grip that was all the more terrifying for its unpredictability. It cut off your air completely. Your eyes flew open, your mouth working soundlessly. The world began to gray at the edges, the sounds of his grunting and the slap of skin on skin becoming distant and muffled. Your lungs burned, screaming for oxygen that wouldn't come. Your hands flew to his wrist, your nails digging in, but his drunken strength was like trying to bend steel.

Just as black spots began to dance in your vision and you felt yourself starting to fade, he loosened his grip, not out of mercy, but because his drunken coordination faltered. You sucked in a frantic, ragged gasp of air, the rush agonizing. Before you could get a proper breath, his hand fumbled and squeezed again, his thumb pressing awkwardly into your windpipe.

He was toying with you, choking you just to the brink, then letting you have a sliver of life, only to steal it away again. He was still raping you, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more primal, fueled by your panicked struggling and the feel of your pulse fluttering under his thumb.

"That's it," he groaned, his voice thick with a drunken ecstasy. "Fight it. That's... that's the only way you're any fun." He released you completely, and you collapsed forward, coughing and choking, dragging air into your burning lungs. The reprieve lasted for only a second before he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, arching your spine at an impossible angle. With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself inside you, his whole body convulsing as he emptied himself into your abused body.

He stayed there for a moment, his weight heavy and suffocating, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. He was panting, his body suddenly seeming to lose all its energy. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he collapsed.

Not off you. On you.

His full, dead weight crashed down, pinning you to the floor. His head slumped against your shoulder, his face pressed into the crook of your neck, his hot, whiskey-scented breaths coming in slow, deep puffs. He was asleep. Just like that. The storm had passed, the rage expended, and now you were trapped under the rubble.

And you cried.

It wasn't loud. It was a silent, suffocating storm of tears that seeped from your eyes, soaking into your hair and the dirty floor beneath your cheek. The sobs were trapped in your chest, choked back by the heavy body crushing your lungs. Every breath was a struggle, a shallow sip of air that smelled of him sweat, alcohol, and the acrid, musky scent of his release.

Your skin stung. Everywhere he had touched, hit, and invaded felt like it was on fire. The raised welts from his belt throbbed in time with your frantic heartbeat, a hot, insistent agony. Your throat was raw, the memory of his clumsy, drunken grip a phantom pressure that made you swallow reflexively, the movement painful. Inside, a deep, aching bruise seemed to bloom from the violence of his assault.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the feeling inside. A profound, soul-deep dirtiness coated you like a second skin. You could feel him, still leaking out of you, a hot, sticky reminder of the violation. You were a thing, an object he had used and discarded, now just a soft place for him to rest. The sobs finally broke free, turning into hitching, silent gasps that shook your entire body, causing him to stir and snore softly against your neck.

This was Taski's doing. This string of inconveniences. When you loved someone, you knew all their calling cards, and this has her weird fingerprints all over it. When you wake up, your sheets are tied off in a way meticulously designed to snare your foot and make you faceplant when you try to get out of bed. The day was starting with the Taski curse already. When you try to get some cereal, the bag is some kind of indestructible plastic. You figure that she must have manually poured the cereal into a bag she knows is unopenable and then put the box back in place. After trying to slice it open with a razor like you're using a sword to cut epic swathes into an indestructible tank, you realize that it all worked out because you wouldn't have eaten dry cereal anyway and your fridge was superglued shut. It all worked out. It all worked out...

You're obligated to take note when you see the forcefully warped wood at the bottom of your front door. What the hell? Did she seriously somehow squeeze herself under the door? And with this much force? How was that even possible? Whatever witchcraft she did to it, she broke the damn thing; it won't even open anymore. You march past the kitchen and the silverware drawer which has had all its silverware "reversed" and has had a note scratched into the outer wood that says "okey not ma best work". Oh, when you get your hands on her... Well, you don't have to take too long to wonder about how stern her what-fer should be. When you get to the living room, everything is upside down and resting on the ceiling and your TV is tuned exclusively into unnaturally-warping static with eerie, deep voices murmuring out of the background. If it couldn't be any more obvious that this was her doing, a single rug remained on the ground, a conspicuous mass bulging from it making it pretty clear who was under it. Tendrils of red hair snake out in different directions from underneath the rug, subtly waving about like feelers. As you take a few steps forward to properly reprimand her, Taski's hair gently caresses your leg to properly identify you. With the information properly gathered, the form underneath the rug begins to shudder, her hair-thing wrapping around your leg out of sheer... Well, what you hope is fear, but you'd likely be wrong.

Lecture fully loaded into your brain, you grab Taski's other hair tendrils and lift her out from under the rug. She lets out a small yelp before being dangled around helplessly in the air, a dark gray blush blooming on her skin. The imp fixes you with a smile and wide, expectant eyes. "Yuo've been PRANKD, LOSER!1! Whatt a horribel shame that I have ruined your haus FOREVER!11 Aw shuckz I guezz I gotta get whatz coming to me~!" Taski finishes her spiel with a cheery sing-song voice, batting her eyelids at you, waiting. Fine, if it's punishment she wants, it's punishment she'll get. You tell her that she's banned from your house for a month. She rolls her eyes and groans as you set her down so you can loom a little better. "Firzt of 4ll, that obvs won't work on m3. Secondlyyy... Thats a supa lame punishment. Get a lil more cre4tive with it, c'mon." You feel like you're missing something when Taski darkens and begins losing stability. "Yuore REALLYYY mad. Your SO MAD! Mwahaha! C0me on, h1t me!1!" What?! You're not gonna hit her. She causes some trouble for you, but you still love her... "STAWP! Youre gonna m@ke me mushy and thats n0t the agenderrr. H1t me, I can take it!1 I make u so much troubie. Dont wimp out on me." You refuse. You have no idea why she's even suggesting this.

Seemingly getting impatient, Taski reverts to her familiar form and gives you a sharp kick to the shin. You yelp and clutch your leg, glaring daggers at her as you hop around in place. What the hell is her problem?! "L00k at you, I didn know I wuz dating a CHIKKEN. Bawk bawk, das you." Roaring with fury, you grab her hair and cartoonishly stretch it out in all directions. You don't know how to channel your frustration and confusion in a better way right now, but the confusion only grows when Taski bites her lip, small tears forming in the corners of her eyes from her involuntary hair-yoga. "Oh, fuggg yea..." You let go of her tendrils like you were holding a copper wire and someone just said that they were turning the power back on. There was no denying what you just heard, and that expression on her face... "W-why'd you stawp?!!1 Dont forgiv3 me yet, we just started!1" That's enough for you. What was this? It felt like she was goading you into doing something... rough, and you aren't sure how you feel about it. You ask her, no, demand that she explain what this is all about. Her blush returns and her outline sharpens in color. The odd legs she wobbles around on cross and shudder as she whines. "Quit itttt! Stawp... ha... stawp being a soggy noodle and put me in my pl4ce already..."

And that's when her three-fingered hand shoots out to pinch a particularly sensitive part of your chest. You yelp in surprise, reflexively backhanding her by accident. As she reels from the hit, her red eye rolling around in surprise, you apologize profusely. You really didn't mean to do that, she just shocked you. You aren't dense, though; that was what she was hoping for. You ask if she's okay, to which she regains her bearings. Her face says it all. Taski's eyes are half-lidded in bliss, her mouth drooling as she massages the sting out of her cheek. The whiskers of her outline bristle with excitement and she woozily slurs her words, still coming down from the rush. "Waitr, waitr, more of th@t pleaz..." You feel odd and tingly as Taski seizes your hand and nuzzles into it, smiling smugly up at you. "I kno youre horrible at doin stuff I ask, but I think I still did a lotta bad stuff, so... Imma need you to choke me a lil too. Thatd be pretty swe3t." Taski pants with slightly unnerving excitement as you comply and push her down onto the ground, hands squeezing around her throat. You want her to feel good, so you're happy to help out, but... You hope that she can just ask for this in the future instead of trashing your house. You should probably keep a crowbar on you for the fridge, just in case.