Page 20 of Deviant

I turn my lip up and sneer back, only that makes him actually laugh.

Slowly, he undoes one cuff and then the other, rolling his sleeves up his arms to reveal tanned, toned, beautiful skin beneath.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin a perfectly good shirt,” he explains, like the fabric is worth more than my life.

It feels like a taunt, a challenge, and before I can truly consider the consequences, I throw my head back and spit, ensuring it lands right onto that precious white silk he’s so concerned about.

His features morph into anger and he springs forward, grabbing me before I have a chance to get away. His hand wraps around my throat, he slams me back into the concrete, and a flash of pain explodes behind my eyes as my skull takes the impact.

My legs kick out. I’m not even trying to fight at this point, I just need to get some damned oxygen in.

“You really want to goad me?” He taunts.

“You think I’m just going to roll over and make this easy for you?” I hiss back as best I can.

He grins more, dropping his gaze to stare at my naked chest, at where my breasts are heaving with the struggle to just breathe. As quickly as I can I pull my arms up, covering myself.

“No need for modesty,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you is mine now, so I’ll look where I like, touch what I like, break what I like, too.”

“Like hell you will.” I snarl.

He grabs my hair, yanking me from the wall by it and he slams me down onto the floor so that I’m bent over, almost completely incapacitated with his body right over mine.

“You’re going to learn very quickly that I do not like to be contradicted.” he says into my ear.

I jerk my head, ignoring the searing pain of my scalp, and slam it into his nose. It’s not hard enough to break, not hard enough to do anything but make his eyes stream, but it’s all I can do in the circumstances, and I revel in that tiny victory.

He growls, slamming my face into the floor hard enough that for a few moments I think I black out. When I come around, he’s no longer on me, his weight is no longer holding me down. I must have split my lip at some point because my mouth is filled with the coppery taste of my own blood.

I try to crawl away, try to force my body to move, but he grabs my ankle snatching me back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

I whimper. I hate that I do it, I hate how pathetic it sounds, but I’m still too dazed to think properly, to think rationally.

He grabs my hair again and it feels like there’s a thousand tiny daggers ripping into my skin. I scream, trying to lash out with my bound hands, but he’s quick to pin them down, to pin me back down under the weight of him.

And then, I hear the sound of a motor. It buzzes as it comes to life and he drags it over my skull, over my scalp, grazing it as it bites inch after inch while I stare in horror as one long mass of bleached hair drops to the floor. I can feel the metal now, I can register the back-and-forth action as he starts hacking away, shaving off my hair bit by bit and leaving it to cascade down to the dirt around me.

It shouldn’t matter.

It’s just hair.

And yet it feels violating.

It feels horrific.

I jerk, I snap my neck from side to side and all that does is grant me a blow to the face and more cuts from the blade.

I don’t understand why he’s doing this of all things, why he’s destroying my looks.

When he’s done, when it’s all gone, he tosses the shaver, and gets back to his feet as if he’s an artist admiring his work. I scramble back, scramble away and as far into the corner as I can get.

“Curious,” he says, tilting his head to get a better look at me, as if he hasn’t stared enough. “I knew the drapes didn’t match the carpet, but I’d never have pegged you as a redhead.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughs again, undoing his belt slowly, like that too is a taunt. “Since you’re asking so nicely…”

---