Notches and Feathers
Envied his mistress’s long silken tresses. So distressed himself, because he was losing his hair–receding, self-confidence ebbing. She was sympathetic at first, but his continual whining was winding her up. Enough’s a bloody nuff.
He was spending all their money in a hair transplant clinic. Clinically depressed, with stitches in his sore head, sparse tufts sprouting. Shouting and sobbing like a spoiled brat; having always to keep under his hat wispy hair failing to grow up.
Tightening the locks on chains and handcuffs, in barely human bondage. The mistress bound for fleeting fame in tabloid rags, her life in tatters.
Her auburn hair splayed across flat, yellowing prickly pillow. Stripped–he bit instead of kissed, pinching and squeezing instead of cuddling and caressing; slapping almost becoming hitting.
This was the only way he could express his sexual jealousy. She agreed to all this, because she was bored stiff, and usually very pissed. Room and head spinning, swimming in the dark, sinking–weighted down. This way he could satisfy himself quicker. “Get it over with,” she sighed, only wincing slightly at the hurt.
“Hurry up,” she had moaned, and he had gagged her with a filthy, snot-green hanky. Her hair wound in and around his fist, as he twisted it to make her writhe. She did not like the gag–tied too tight. Became a little frightened, choking back tears, as he became rougher–poking and scratching–claws unsheathed. Pain behind his eyes–as the violence intensified–as well as hers wide with naked, mortal terror.
For the first time in ages, their hearts were pounding in unison. Hard to tell which was the loudest. He lowered his head, opened his mouth to rip into her furry slit, savage out of control, biting her clitoris hard, blood dripping. Her whole body in agony, trembling not with pleasure–either of them. Her knee jerked up, caught him on his still tender, bandaged head. He snapped. Slapped. Left the room, and came back: coming twice.
Her best friend found her naked and spread-eagled, and still manacled and gagged on his wet, blood-soaked bed. No longer just a bottle redhead: raw and bleeding. Her friend had not the courage to free her, seeing and smelling her fear. The victim’s eyes widening, rolling in pain and useless warning as the door opened.
The lover had returned. His woman’s long hair covering his scalp, with a ribbon in it. Seeing the new visitor he whooped–a flash of cold steel–he swooped, like a bird of prey. Had always fancied himself as a brunette. Only gentlemen preferring blondes.
