Smudging My Lipstick WednesdayEleven

“Put it on.”

His hand was balled in my hair, his fingers interwoven with fistful of my curls as he forced me to look at myself in the mirror. It was a beautiful statement piece in the hallway of my apartment, a metre-wide circular mirror with a walnut wood frame shaped into a curved shelf at its base. On that shelf stood a lipstick, a garnet shade entombed in a mirrored gold tube with square edges. I keep it there along with a lip balm and liner pencil; my final task before leaving the house. I never leave without a red lip, always the same shade: YSL Rouge Libre. It’s not that I don’t enjoy experimenting with makeup, or occasionally feel tempted to change my look, but that the razor sharp eyeliner wing and deep red lip that I perfected whilst at university all those years ago are now inherently part of my identity.

I allowed my gaze to move up from the lipstick on the shelf to meet the reflection of his eyes. They gave nothing away. His body was pressed against mine, as he spat his command into my ear. He held eye contact and tightened his grip on my hair, forcing me to wobble slightly. To my shame, hot tears prickled within me and threatened to spill out. My nostrils flared as I tried to stop my chin from wobbling and giving me away. As if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing to me, but I like to cling onto my dignity for as long as I can.

“Put. It. On.”

The deep fury was written across his face. His jaw flexed and he continued to squeeze my hair, ensuring that my scalp felt like it was on fire.

The night had started like so many others. Both of us with our own work commitments taking us into the early evening, he had invited me to meet him as he finished up drinking with his colleagues in the wine bar just along from his office. I was late, having ducked into the train station bathroom to tidy myself up, including a fresh application of lipstick from the tube I always keep on me. I’d been around his colleagues on several occasions but he’d never introduced me, instead leaving me standing quietly and waiting for the moment he would decide to leave, pulling me away by my elbow. I often wondered what they thought of me, and if they had any idea of the proclivities of the man they worked with every day.

“No! You’ll smudge my lips!” I laughed as he leaned in for a kiss hello. He pulled back from me. His eyebrows flashed upwards momentarily and my stomach knotted. I’d made a mistake.

I never say no to him; that’s the rule. Well, there’s a few rules. We meet once a fortnight, always at a place of his choosing and then he takes me back to my apartment, does whatever he likes with me, and leaves. I am to follow every instruction, ask no questions and tell no lies. I can call ‘red’ and end it at any point. I never have. I call him Sir and he calls me darling. He knows I hate that name, and he knows that I love every fucked up minute of being under his control.

He dropped my arm and pulled on his suit jacket. As always, he looked so put together. The tailoring of his suit accentuated his shoulders and I wondered whether I’d be allowed to run my hands over them tonight.

“Right then everyone, it’s time for me to escort this young lady to her train. See you after the pitch tomorrow.” He hurried me out of the bar into the night and I had to quicken my pace to keep up with him as he walked me over to the train station. There was no train, we both knew that. Instead, he walked to the car parked all the way at the other end of the lot. He usually opened the door for me, but this time he pressed me backwards against the body of the car and held my jaw. He wasn’t trying to hide his disappointment, and I could feel the rage seethe through him as his fingers pressed into my skin.

He held me still for what felt like minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. His cold glare moved from my chest, to my throat, to my eyes and I was powerless to do anything other than lower my gaze. I had fucked up. He let me go and reached into his jacket inner pocket, pulling out a pale pink pocket square. It was pristine, silk perhaps.

His body was still holding me against the car as he pressed the square into my left hand.

“Take off that lipstick.”

“Sir, I’m really sorry.” I cleared my throat, trying to convince myself of confidence I didn’t possess in that moment. I forced my eyes to meet his. “I was thoughtless. I didn’t intend to say no to you, it was just a reflex.” The wobble in my voice on those last few words made me cringe.

His lips pressed into a thin line and he brought his hand back up to my face, his thumb resting on my perfect red lips. He pressed into my skin and dragged across them. I felt the sensation of cream smearing up onto my cheek.

“You look a fucking mess, darling. Clean yourself up.” He strolled around to the driver’s side of the car, unlocked the door and got in. I heard the click of electronics starting, but he hadn’t started the ignition.

He always toed the line expertly, knowing my soft limits and nudging me oh-so slightly towards them. I hated negative comments about my body or appearance. He could say the dirtiest, cruellest things to me about all manner of things, but talking down my looks always made me bristle. I swallowed again to steady myself, took three cleansing breaths and wiped the smear of lipstick off my cheek. I wrapped the pocket square neatly around my index finger and did my best to remove the redness from my lips. They felt raw.

The drive to my apartment was fifteen minutes of silence. The car radio had started with the ignition, but he muted it immediately. He rarely punished me; there was hardly ever a need to do so. I enjoy following his rules. We waited at a red light and I found the courage to look over at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

He walked slightly ahead of me from the car to my front door, holding back on the doorstep to allow me to unlock. My stomach ached and my pussy was hot as I fumbled the keys. I’d barely crossed the threshold as he was on me, his hand grabbing my hair at the neck and the other clasped around my waist. I didn’t fight as he pulled me to the floor. I was no match for him, physically. He dragged me along the hallway as I desperately tried to kick my heels off as I crawled, not wanting to ruin my shoes or the floorboards. By the time he lifted me back up to stand in front of the mirror a few seconds later, my face and thighs were both wet with shame and arousal.

_____

“Go on then, put it on. You don’t want to look ridiculous, after all.”

I avoided acknowledging myself in the mirror. My hands shook as I forced myself not to rush, but the deep breaths I was trying to take had little effect on my nerves. They jangled, excited and terrified about what might happen next. A slick of balm, and then I slowly removed the lid from the liner pencil. My shaking hands betrayed me. Tracing the contour of my lips was impossible to do neatly with the adrenaline coursing through me, the pencil smudging slightly. He tutted as I hastily tidied the slip I had just made, using my fingernail to neaten the line. The lipstick tube felt wet in my hands as I let the red wash over my lips.

The moment I had replaced the tube on the shelf, he forced me back to my knees by kicking my ankles apart and pulling downwards sharply with the fist still enmeshed in my hair. I fell awkwardly, trying to soften the blow with my hands, inadvertently placing myself on all fours.

Within seconds, my pantyhose was ripped away from my body. His fingers – still icy from the winter air we’d been in – were on my pussy, toying with the folds as I winced away from the cold. This only encouraged him. There was no tenderness as he roughly moved his fingers from my clit, pushing two fingers in me without warning. I gasped, stifling the urge to ask him to stop. He wouldn’t have done so. His skin felt so dry against my wetness. He moved his other arm to my neck, gripping me beneath my chin to hold me still and he fucked me with his hand. His other fingers rested on my ass cheeks as he lazily toyed with me, warming me up for what only he knew would happen for the rest of the evening. My breaths became quiet moans as I met his rhythm and pushed back against those fingers. He adjusted his left hand, moving from my neck to my chin and hooking his thumb into my mouth. I could taste the powdery rose of my lipstick mingling with the alcohol gel he must have used on his hands at some point today. Moans turned to breathy gargles, drool beginning to pool under my tongue.

“You’re wet for me already. That’s sensible of you.”

He withdrew his fingers from my cunt and my mouth, and used my hair to guide me, still on all fours, to the living room. My knees were loud on the floor and he held my neck at an awkward angle. My cheeks burned hot as I thought about how I must look, still dressed for work with my skirt bunched around my waist and ripped pantyhose exposing my dripping pussy. In the living room he let his grip on me fall but I held my posture, waiting for the next instruction.

“I’m going to leave the room now. When I come back, I will find you waiting for me, facing the window. You’ll be naked, kneeling, legs spread. Hair up. Hands on your head. Eyes closed.”

“Yes, Sir. How long will you be?”

He chuckled. “As long as I want to be, darling. Be ready.”

He’d left me waiting like this on many occasions. I was grateful that he rarely made me undress in front of him, which always felt so undignified. Funny that I was remotely concerned about dignity considering that I let him degrade me for fun, but there was something about awkwardly unzipping my clothes for an audience that made me flush with embarrassment. I moved quickly once he’d left the room, not wanting to risk not being ready for his return.

I’d got complacent once, opting to sit and scroll on my phone whilst he showered. I’d become distracted by a news story and when he returned to the room I wasn’t in the position he’d told me to be, instead lounging on the armchair. He used his belt on me; thirty-one strokes all falling in the same line across the back of my thighs. One for each year of my life, and he made count every lash aloud, thank him for correcting me and ask for the next stroke after each one. By stroke ten my eyes were watering, and not soon after my tears flowed freely. I struggled to make myself heard as I said “Twenty, Sir. Thank you. Pl… please can I have another?”, choking back the bile rising in my throat and trying to ignore the screaming-hot line on my thighs. Every stroke felt like a fresh cut. I sobbed loudly for the final few, any attempt at stoicism long-evaporated. He ran his fingers over the welt he had created and shushed me as I cried at his feet. “You’re better than this, darling. Don’t disappoint me again.” I promised that I wouldn’t, and he wiped my tears with his thumbs.