Hi all, this is my first story here! All participants are 18+. Trigger warnings: non-consensual public groping, possession and cruelty, the implication that the speaker is trying and failing to escape an abusive relationship, and being perceived as being ill (not covid-related).
I take a seat on the red vinyl bench, trying to focus on the new scents in the air: grease, a faint bleach and floral cleaning chemical, searing onions, and burnt coffee. And if those were the only scents surrounding me, I would surrender to them.
But they're not.
Plastered to the inside of my nose is a scent so sickly sweet and persistent that I know that to some extent, it's in my mind. It couldn't possibly be this strong, not this many hours later.
A waiter stops at my table and takes my order. I wish I was the type of person who could drink coffee at 2 AM, especially after the night I've had. I ask for water.
When the water arrives, I order toast, because that's all I think my body can handle, and as the waiter heads over to place the order, I dig in my pocket to see if I can afford it. Six dollars. That's enough for toast at least.
When someone sits beside me in the booth, I flinch.
"Easy there," says a dark and careful voice.
My entire body tenses. No. It can't be him. I ran so fast. I broke out of that dark room, raced a dozen blocks, and came into a brightly lit diner with six other patrons scattered through the eating area. There's no way he followed me here. And yet.
"Speechless, I see," he says, settling into place beside me.
I slide all the way into the booth, but unless I want to stand up and crawl over the booth, I'm trapped. Even the thought of attempting something so acrobatic seems impossible, let alone the utter embarrassment of it.
"That's alright," he says, "I like to do all the talking, as you're well aware."
I risk a glance at him. He's exactly as I remember him. His clothes are dark. A black button-down shirt and dark jeans, a big brown hoodie tied around his waist, and a black beanie that keeps his brown hair pressed against his head. And his eyes. Fuck. I shouldn't have looked.
There's something possessive there. And not just that. Victorious, too. The back of my neck heats up, and I feel a sweat break out on my skin.
He chuckles.
"You knew it was a mistake the moment you left," he says. He leans one elbow on the table and twists to face me. "Why don't you come on home."
He doesn't say it like a question. He says it like a challenge, as if daring me to refuse.
I don't say anything, but I don't move either. He stares at me. Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds. I feel like I'm about to shatter.
"Sure," he says agreeably, and he rotates to face forward again. "You want to go out more. I get it. You want to travel. But the world is dangerous, my dear. You shouldn't wander out here all alone. Who knows what terrible people could find you?"
His hand slips under the table and grips my leg just above the knee. He digs his fingers in, just in case I had any thought of pulling away. The thin fabric of my yoga pants do little to shield me from it, and the bite of his nails makes me take a sharp breath.
"Sh sh sh," he says gently, staring ahead at the TV across the diner which is on some random soap opera, scrolling illegible subtitles as the colors flash.
He digs his fingers against my leg harder and harder, moving them around as if he's massaging my leg, but it hurts. I shift slightly to pull away, but I'm already in the corner and can't go farther. As I move, he pulls my leg sharply, and my whole body slides a couple inches in his direction. Just as fast, his hand moves up to my mid-thigh.
Now, with a better grip, he pulls my body even closer. His hand leaves my body for a moment, and I take a shuddering breath inward. Then his hand moves higher, pressing against the crotch of my pants.
I close my eyes for a moment in shame and let out a small whimper.
"Now, now," he chastises. "You know how I feel about that."
Without really thinking, I open my eyes and take a second to force my face into a passive expression, fixing my gaze on the small tray of single-serving coffee creamers.
We sit for a moment. Me, staring at the table accoutrements. Him, massaging against the center of my pants.
Then his hand disappears for another moment, but then it grabs harshly onto the low waist of my pants. He tugs forward, and my whole body slides to the edge of my street, and before I can even react, his hand is down my pants. Then it's under my panties, and his hot hand cupped over my pussy. I'm suddenly overly aware of the rough texture of his hand, and I hate it. I hate every inch of it.
I open my mouth to ask him not to, but I stammer and barely any syllables leave my lips at all.
I glimpse his face, and he raises an eyebrow at me. Then, without any warning, he shoves a dry, rough finger into me.
"You were saying?" he says.
I bite my lip and say nothing.
"Mhmm," he says, and he starts grinding his thumb on my clit while his finger just sits inside of me. "I know what you need."
The waiter chooses this moment to return to the table with a small dish that holds two pieces of buttered toast. The plate looks small and sad, and he sets it in front of me. My hands are gripping the edge of the table, but I force them to let go as I grab and slide the dish closer to me.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" the waiter asks, directing his question to the new customer who has joined my table.
"Coffee," he says. "And a plate of eggs and hash browns."
"Can do," says the waiter. I feel the waiter's eyes on me. "You okay?"
I try to offer a half-smile to reassure him that I'm alright.
The finger digs into me as deep as it can go, and then all at once, it pulls out and the hand grabs onto my pubic hair and pulls hard. I let out an involuntary small gasp.
"Aww, baby," he says, reaching his other hand across his body to push the hair out of my face. "Are you still not feeling good?" He twists his grip on my hair and pulls harder and steadier.
I wince, leaning over the table.
"Do you want some ginger ale, dear?" the waiter asks me.
I can't bear to look up and make eye contact and so I simply nod.
As the waiter leaves our table and heads toward the drink station, the hand on my pubic hairs lets go, and then suddenly his finger is shoved into me once more, thumb grinding circles against my clit. I feel myself getting wet, and the finger slides around inside of me.
I do my best to keep my face passive.
"I can make you feel so good," he says with a kind-looking but malicious smile. "You just have to do what I fucking say and don't try to walk out on me." He presses harder, too hard, against my clit. "You don't like the anesthetic, sure. That's fair. I can take constructive criticism. Chloroform is so cliche. But you do. Not. Leave. Me."
The waiter is at our table once again, and slides me the ginger ale.
The hand leaves me once again, and this time it doesn't come back.
"Baby, you look cold," he says. "Why don't you take my hoodie, okay?" He unties the oversized brown hoodie and hands it to me expectantly.
There's a sheen of sweat on my skin, I'm sure. I probably look feverish or nauseous. To be fair, I absolutely do feel nauseous. Being here, trapped here, I feel sick.
He stares at me expectantly, and I pull the hoodie on over my head. It's way too big for me, and it would probably reach to my mid-thigh if I was standing. I have to push the sleeves up to my elbows so I can keep my hands free.
The waiter watches us, gaze shifting between concern for me and appreciation at what he thinks is a kind gesture from my significant other.
He pulls me closer as if to give me a comforting, putting his hand up and under the back of the hoodie where he starts rubbing my back in a consoling, comforting way.
The waiter smiles. "You feel better, alright? And give me a holler if you need anything else." Then he leaves.
The hand rubbing at my back suddenly curls around my body and grasps viciously at my tit. There's some vigorous squeezing and pawing and it isn't long until his hand has pulled down my tank top to get better access. Then his other hand is back in my lap, pressing against my pussy from the outside of my pants again.
He keeps me close, barely letting me move as he mauls my tit.
I keep my winces to a minimum, but I feel my eyes welling up with tears.
"Eat some toast, baby," he says, nodding toward the small plate in front of me. He grins, and I can see straight past the pretend kindness in his face. He watches with a hungry glint in his eye as I lift my hand and grab a piece of toast.
He pinches my nipple as I pick it up, and I bite back a yelp. My grip falters and the toast falls back to my plate. His dark glare tells me to try again. I pick it up once more, and he pinches even harder, twisting this time.
My hand shakes and I take the bread to my lips and take a bite.
Now his other hand is in my pants once again, and he's rubbing my clit ferociously. My body is at war with itself. My pussy is wet and being forced farther and farther into pleasure. My tit is aching as he twists and pinches and now starts clawing at it.
I chew the bread, not tasting it.
I hear him chuckle.
He wraps his hand around the curve of my tit and squeezes the whole thing. Fuck. FUCK.
Every second I think his grip can't get harder or stronger, but it does. I know he's leaving bruises. Worse, I know he'd look at those bruises with pride.
I feel a tear on my cheek, and I wipe it away as fast as it falls.
He leans close, whispering in my ear, "Crying and cumming. My favorite." Then he licks and bites my ear, grinding even harder on my clit.
I fold my arms on the table leaning over and pressing my forehead into my forearms. My tits hang beneath me as he continues to claw and maul the one in his grasp. My eyes burn. My clit is pulsing and my body is starting to heave, which I desperately fight to keep in check. Everything in the diner falls away. The scents, the sounds, the people, they all fade into the background.
Anyone looking, one of the six patrons or the waiter who is tending another table, would just see a girl who feels sick putting her head down on the table.
He leans close again as he gropes me viciously while he rubs my clit frenetically. He whispers again, "This is why you don't leave me."
He digs his nails sharply into my tit, twisting and pinching and having as much fucking fun as he wants.
I fight the building sensation within me, keeping my body as still and tense as possible. Harder and harder against my clit. The skin and flesh of my tit on fire. Blood pumping through me.
He whispers again, "This is my fucking body, and you move and breathe and cum when I say, you filthy cunt. So when I say to fucking cum," he grins wickedly, grinds fast and hard on my clit to the point where my whole body is ready to explode, and he practically closes his fist on my tit, "you fucking DO it."
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