Chapter epilogue: So. Prone. Rosalie wants me prone on her bed NOW, or she'll serve me up on a platter. Be nice to know what 'prone' means, but that's been made clear to me that's my problem, not hers. I'm Bella Swan, and I'm lying prone in Rosalie's bed, or I hope to God that I am! Oh, sh!t, here she comes now. Wait. Geddit? Here she 'comes'! Ba-dum-cha! Sigh. You don't get it.
One-oh-four. I looked down at the scale, with its treacherous numbers, and knew one thing: Rosalie Hale was going to kill me.
That first day I stepped on the scale ... that was the scariest. Rosalie got very quiet when she saw two digits: ninety-six.
She took out her phone and looked it up. Girl, eighteen years of age (wrong age, but I wasn't asked, so I didn't offer anything), five-four height.
Ideal weight: one-twenty-one. Acceptable range: one-ten to one-fourty-six.
My weight wasn't 'acceptable.'
Rosalie didn't look pleased.
From that day on, every day thereafter, I was on the scales. After spending time with her, actually eating lunch in the cafeteria, instead of looking at everybody else's, and actually eating supper at her house (hand-fed to me, of course), instead of going to bed hungry, skipping the nonexistent supper, my weight started to go back up, and Rosalie became less grave. When my weight started to head toward the acceptable range, I think I actually saw her smile.
Yesterday, I weighed in at one-oh-six. Today I'm two pounds less.
I haven't been two pounds less yet. And there was no way to hide this: she was going to take out her little black notebook, ask my weight, and enter it in the next column and chart it.
Fucking chart it. Then draw the line, and see it go ... not up, toward the ideal weight, but down, ... away from it, back toward unacceptably low.
I look at food, and I ... lose weight. Some girls would be jealous of me.
I wouldn't be. Because I just knew it, Rosalie Hale was gonna get that look on her face and ...
I fucking screamed.
It was Rosalie, standing right next to me.
Okay, like, really! How does she do it? How does she go up the stairs and not make clunk-clunk-clunking noises like I do? She's a cheerleader, for God's sake! She's supposed to make a ton of noise, right? Not fucking sneak up on you like a ninja or something.
And that's when the world went WHAM! ... again.
Okay, I'm renaming myself to Bella, the rag-doll, for God's sake. I just decided that.
Rosalie had slammed me up against the wall, her hand around my neck.
Fuck, she saw the numbers. Fuck, I'm so dead.
She regarded me with cold, calculating eyes.
"Kiss me," she said softly.
Uh, okay ... um, ... what?
She leaned in and kissed me ... gently.
I sighed. I almost peed with relief. She wasn't killing me.
Not just yet.
She opened my mouth with hers, and her tongue went in, exploring.
And her other hand, her left hand went down and in between us, and started gently massaging the outer lips of my cunt.
I moaned into her mouth.
She pulled back slightly. "Kiss me," she commanded softly.
"Yes," I sighed, and she kissed me, gently rubbing my cunt.
She kissed my cheeks with soft, hungry, open-mouthed kisses, and I kissed back.
And that's when I tasted myself on her cheeks.
And she kept kissing me, and she was licking my face, so I had to lick her back, I had to! And my whole body was taut with need, kissing her back, licking myself off her face, wanting her so badly.
I whimpered as I kissed her, so totally attuned to wanting her.
She pulled back, looking into my hooded eyes with her smoldering ones, and stated the obvious.
"You want me," she growled possessively.
"Yes," I whimpered.
Then I whined desperately. Her middle finger had started sliding up and down my entrance, and my cunt was making wet, wanting sounds as her finger teased but did not please.
She brought her hand away from my now poor, lonely cunt to my face, and she put her finger into my mouth.
I sucked. I sucked me on her finger back into me. I sucked her finger like it was the only thing I could do, and she watched me the whole time, glaring, staring, glowering and wanton.
She pulled her finger out and pulled back, her hand, firmly on my neck.
"Slut," she smoldered.
My knees got weak, and I would have collapsed if she weren't holding me up against the wall.
"Listen to me now," she ordered. "I want you to go to my bed, right now, and lie on it, prone, and wait for me to ... take care of you, Bella. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," I whimpered, but inside, I was thinking: oh, shit: 'prone'! and I'm so dead.
She didn't let me go. Her left hand returned to my cunt.
"Oh, and Bella?" she said.
"Yes?" I answered, looking into her smoldering eyes, feeling her hand lightly brush my cunt.
"Put a pillow under your cunt. I want that ass raised and ready for me, you understand?"
I said, "yes," quietly, but I nearly fainted with gratitude.
Rosalie was giving me the answer with her command. Cunt down, ass high. Prone: face down, on my tummy.
She let me go, and I ran on wobbly legs toward her room.
Rosalie silently came around me and faced me again, looking like God, herself: imposing and terrifying.
She put her hand on my cunt again, lightly.
"I like your honey, and I'm going to suck every drop of it out of your sweet little honey pot, so don't be rubbing on my God-damn pillow, dripping your cunt juice all over it, you horny slut. I put my head on my pillow to sleep, so I don't need it soggy and squish-squishing tonight, and I most definitely do not need my hair all skanky with your slutty cunt drool in the morning, you got me?"
"Yes," I whimpered.
Okay, but ... Rosalie Hale ... 'taking care of me' with my cunt on her pillow and me not ... you know ...
Okay, let me tell you something about me: when I let go, I don't know about you, but when I let go, I let go, and it's like the dam breaking.
I guess I really am a dyke ... you know? Holding back all that water until it all bursts out?
And her pillow sponging all that up?
I'm so dead.
She grabbed my neck, smiling evilly at my predicament, and threw me into her room. I landed on her bed in a heap, and grabbed her big, fluffy pillow, well, one of them, anyway, and quickly put it under ... me.
I was already dripping. Rosalie had made quite sure of that, hadn't she.
Rosalie walked right past me into her private bath. I heard the tap going and water splashing. I looked. She was washing her face.
Fuck. That turned me on more. I just knew she was washing her face of my dirty leavings so she could ...
Put her face right back into my 'honey pot,' and get her face all messy again licking up that honey ... from me.
Fuck. I'm leaking.
"Here I come, little girl."
She didn't have to announce that. She had washed herself with her soap, and her rose scent permeated the room as she entered. I would've have known, even if I didn't hear her. I could feel her presence. I could smell her, and it wasn't sickly sweet or cloying. It was a subtle rose scent. But ...
It was like I was one of Pavlov's dogs. The scent preceded her, but my body became attuned and ready for her, for whatever she wanted to do to me, my muscles tensed up, contracting, preparing my body to be fucked ...
And my cunt sent out its own scent to her, sending her a very clear message for my whole body: fucking take me. Please!
I couldn't help it. It was her scent and her commanding presence, and my body submitted itself to her whims and her desires. My body was a flower to her Sun, and it opened itself to her and leaned toward whichever direction she lay. I mean, was. I mean, is. I mean, being. I mean what-fucking-ever I mean! Jeez!
But ... 'Here I come,' she said. Ha-ha, so funny! You get the joke? Here she comes, and here I'll cum, too... if she'll let me.
Oh, God, please let her let me! Please!
She came into the room, glowering and hungry, a lioness ready to eat a little lamb.
I whimpered, a little lamb, about to be eaten by the sleek, powerful lioness, ... no: wanting to be eaten by her! And I drooled a little bit more. And not just from my mouth.
Her pillow got wet. No: wetter.
I'm so dead.
A/N: Ugh! Or should I say, 'Yay!' So, yeah: prone. Did any of you notice that the word 'p-r-o-n-e' (with the silent-'e') spells a very different ... well, actually, in this case, very similar word? Like 'p-r-0-n'? Did you notice that? Not that there's any similarity here in this chapter, amirite? It's just a little anecdote of a lioness in her den with a wee little lamb, that's all, right? The lion(ess) lying down with the lamb, and all that sweet and innocent imagery I've tapped into now in my writing. Innocuous stuff like that.
So. Yah. That. Anyway. So now that little fly Bella is in kiss-of-the-spyder-Rosalie's web (wait, is that how you spell 'bed'? Me confused) ... wazza gonna happen next?
I'm thinking, ... idk ...
Eh, never mind! I'll stop the teasing and channel my creative juicing ... sh!t-o-darn! I meant to write 'juices!' 'Creative juices!' ... into the next chap, and then the next, and ... you know: et cetera.
But, you know, I did write this chap as soon as I published the last one (so that's why it's a 'chapter "epilogue"' at the beginning, and not the usual 'chapter summary'), 'cause I just couldn't ... I just couldn't ... the tension was too much for me (I do have a serious headache right now: four ibuprofen today so far, sad-face!) So I tacked it on as an epilogue, but then I thought, hey, no fair to Bella who has to guess, to die guessing this, so I let her stew until Rosalie, of all people, came and rescued her ... but rescued her in the Rosalie-way, of course.
Rosalie Hale doesn't do handouts, in case you didn't know.
Anyway. Tired. Dead tired, so idk what and when I'll be able to do the next chap, so enjoy these three, reread'm and analyze them with your mom's book club (I would so love to hear their discussion around these chaps, eheh-eheh-eheh. Hey, Mom, why are your ears burning, huh? `phfina snickers). (uh, don't show my mom this, plz, huh? I would be so grounded for the next, idk, long time). Nighty-nighties!
`phfina goes zzzzzzs!