Beautiful

[Published in Unsane]

With a reddened face Ingrid continued to squeeze as hard as she could, gripping the cheese wire tightly, and all the while he attempted to emit a scream from behind that pony bit gag. He was bucking and kicking frenziedly, his eyes wild and glaring, and she was so pleased that the ankle and wrist cuffs bound him. She was totally aware of her nakedness, of his nakedness, and the fact that moments earlier his expectations had been of a completely different nature. His pleasure had transformed into terror -- she almost chuckled at that.
Her breasts were shamelessly exposed, her beautiful breasts, still quite sore from the uncomfortable nibbling he had given them, the crushing and manhandling, as if they were fruit in a supermarket. Suddenly she ceased her squeezing, and surveyed her handiwork. His penis lay within an inch of detachment, shrivelled when moments ago it had been so lively and rampant. His prized manhood was bleeding intensely, a crimson stream mingling into the dark hair, and she slowly unravelled the wire to take away with her. He was breathing heavily due to his suffering, but she didn't care, as she climbed from off the bed and dressed.
Before she departed she gazed once more into his frightened eyes. "I suppose I don't need to tell you it's all over between us?"

"Morning, beautiful," said Terry.
Ingrid didn't smile.
It was a frosty morning, with the early sunshine trying to burst its way through those winter clouds. They made love -- yet it wasn't making love, it was merely sex, devoid of any passion from either of them. It was just going through the motions.
Ingrid reckoned he only did it because she was beautiful.
Terry went downstairs to prepare coffee and breakfast, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her appealing looks attracted many admirers, and not always male. She attempted to imagine what it would be like to be hideous -- perhaps she would lead a normal life, or a lonely one. Either would suffice.
Memories of her misdeed entered her mind. It hadn't been the first time, neither would it be the last, she was more than certain of that. It would be so easy to find another suitor, another unfortunate and unthinking male with an itchy libido and nothing much else. Another one who regarded her as beautiful.
She sat up and glanced into the dressing table mirror. As gorgeous as ever, she thought. Her dark Italian features, high Slavic cheekbones, full sensuous lips, exotic blue eyes -- who could resist such a charming belle? Nobody, as far as she was concerned. Yet she didn't know whether to be pleased about that.
"You're quiet. Is something the matter?" said Terry upon returning with coffee and toast, plus a single red rose -- plastic. Always the romantic, thought Ingrid, or at least he thinks he is.
"No," she replied sternly.
Terry appeared different that morning, as if something was on his mind. If her guess was right he was having yet another affair. He seemed nervously on edge, a fact that had been evident in their love making. She wanted him to spit it out, to reveal all, to confess before her, and then she would disappear in tears to the bathroom and have a good old jolly laugh to herself. As if she really cared!
"Ingrid?"
Here we go, she muttered mentally.
"I was just wondering..."
"What is it, Terry?" she mumbled with a mouthful of toast, secretly anxious to discover who he had been grinding this time.
"I don't know how to put this..."
"Just spit it out, for God's sake!"
He sighed before drawing in his breath and exhaling deeply, as though attempting to breathe out all his troubles and worries. "Do you fancy taking part in a threesome?"
Ingrid almost choked on the toast, scattering crumbs all over the duvet, obviously shaken by her husband's words. That she had not expected, it was something he had never mentioned before, and indeed she had no inkling of his confessed desire. She became of a confused mind, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to react. A threesome?
"Terry!" she cried, the only thing she could think of to utter, and she looked into his sheepish eyes, endeavouring to discover what other secret penchants he might be hiding inside that brain of his.
Calming herself, she began to consider the suggestion. What attractive male did he have in mind for such an event? She knew that Barry at the health club fancied her, a fact made apparent by his constant creeping around her and the surreptitious way he watched her swimming and working out, and she was certain that somehow he was spying on her in the showers. He would do nicely, she conjectured. And at that moment she reckoned Terry's proposal had not been a bad one after all.
"I expect you have someone in mind," she said finally, taking another bite of toast, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole thing. "What's he like?"
Terry laughed suddenly and unexpectedly, his jovial outburst surprising Ingrid somewhat. "He? It's not a he, it's a she!"
She was confounded again. Her partner was certainly full of shocks that morning. Of course, she had not realised he meant a threesome involving another woman. Filled with a further bewilderment she was compelled to consider this fresh suggestion. She stalled her reply by engulfing a mouthful of coffee, a plethora of thoughts and images dancing around in her head. Another woman? She wondered whether this female would be as pretty as her, and that strangely caused her to shudder. A menage a trois with someone as alluring as she was, someone with identical good looks and an equally fabulous body, someone who was conscious of exactly how she felt about herself. Yes! I must do this, she thought, if it's the last thing I do.

The evening in question arrived sooner than Ingrid had anticipated, but she felt she was as prepared as she could ever have been, as she admired her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She had chosen the scarlet lace chemise, the one that Ralph, the lingerie store manager, had enthused over once he saw her wearing it. She recalled the awful expression on his face and the way he had begged and pleaded with her not to go through with her cheese wire torture. He deserved his just desserts for that cowardly performance alone.
She splashed on some exotic perfume, spreading the aromatic liquid over her breasts and around her neck, sniffing the scent as she did so. That too possessed memories, in particular of her not-to-be-forgotten encounter with David, the bodybuilding neighbour from across the street. She smiled as she remembered the sight of blood trickling over his testicles and down his hairy inner thighs, mere minutes after he had licked almost every contour of her adorable body. Such incidents she would cherish forever.
"She's here!" yelled Terry from downstairs, and Ingrid froze.
It was time -- the moment had arrived. She tried to imagine the three of them upon that very bed, a trio of naked forms entwined and uttering warm gasps of pleasure, the weird concoction of positions that were possible, and indeed impossible. She began to picture the exciting image of some elegant enchantress, someone just as gorgeous as she was. She always thought there was no such female, no-one could truly be as beautiful as her. Or could they?
She quickly tidied her raven-coloured hair as she listened to footsteps ascending the stairs. Terry didn't wish to bandy about, she thought; straight to the bedroom and the job in hand. Spirits and glasses were lined up on the dressing table -- whisky, brandy, vodka. She reckoned she would require a shot before the night was through.
The door opened, and in stepped Terry accompanied by his chosen participant.
"This is Violet," he said in an ecstatic tone, his eyes alive with desire.
Ingrid shrank back on to the bed, and gulped. The woman called Violet stood beside her husband in the doorway -- and she was hideous. Downright, bloody ugly. Repulsive and ghastly. She must have been in her forties, and was wearing a long frock coat and a repugnant smile, her features contorted and twisted, with a dreadful amount of make-up and gruesome wiry hair which resembled weeds around a grave.
"Hello, Ingrid," she said, the words exploding from her mouth and her rouged lips creating an unintentional snarl.
She was too shocked to answer. Violet removed the coat to reveal a further atrocity in the shape of her appallingly thin figure, the veins in her neck standing out sickeningly and her emaciated legs like tall sticks. She was all in black, with stockings and suspenders and high heels and an excuse of a bra that eleven-year-olds would wear for training. The stockings themselves did not fit properly, instead hanging loosely and wrinkled from her blue-veined lower appendages. Ingrid wanted to scream to the heavens, but remained numb. It was indeed a nightmare as far as she was concerned. How could Terry do such a thing?
He swiftly stripped off his clothes and then proceeded to take off Violet's underwear. Ingrid observed morbidly, horrified that he could even be remotely interested in such an awful creature. Worse was to follow, for she then realised that she was expected to partake in and actually enjoy the experience, when all the time she wanted to stick her head down the toilet and throw up. The quandary she found herself in was definitely of a horrendous nature.
As the evening proceeded she watched rather than joined in, instead preferring to indulge in destroying her senses by way of the demon drink, succeeding in demolishing half a bottle of Bells, as Terry and Violet performed lasciviously and passionately in her presence. She was disgusted that he could lavish his attentions on such a horrible woman and not her, and she noticed the expression of delight upon his face as he revelled in the pleasures he was receiving and delivering. It's unnatural, she thought; how can he do such things to her? How can he enjoy performing with a repugnant witch like Violet?
She wanted the earth to open up and swallow her, the clouds to reach down and abduct her, anything to escape from the sight of the two bodies before her on that bed, writhing like entangled snakes and with perspiration streaming and shining on their naked skin. At one point Violet glanced her way and smiled, revealing a heinous collection of blackened teeth, and Ingrid wanted to die.

"You weren't very responsive," said Terry as they lay in the darkness.
It was silent, and well into the early hours of the morning. His voice, although soft, startled her in that quietness. She struggled for a reply.
"Perhaps not," she said.
"That's okay, you were probably nervous. It'll be better next time."
Ingrid was astounded. "Next time?"
Terry turned her way and studied her, although in the blackness he could hardly make her out. "Well... why not?"
Violet had left less than an hour previously, and Ingrid had felt a vast wave of relief sweep over her. She could still smell her presence, her ugly presence, and the memory of her grotesque figure underneath, astride, and in front of her husband would forever be etched upon her brain like the most dreadful of nightmares. And he wanted a repeat of the evening's entertainment! She felt that she could never in her lifetime dare to deliver oral pleasures to Terry in the knowledge that Violet had wrapped her scabby lips around his girth. There was no way in the world...
"I don't think so, Terry," she said, turning her back on him and burying the side of her face in the scented pillow.
"Don't be like that, Ingrid. You'll learn to like it, I'm sure you will."
His pleas disgusted her. "No, I won't, Terry. Not with someone like her. You should have seen your face. What a sight!"
"What do you mean?"
An anger began to rage within her, an ire stirring in her soul, threatening to surface and to transform into a violent fury. She was not prepared to hold back.
"How could you do it with someone as ugly as she is? How can you prefer her to me? Look at me, Terry. Am I not beautiful? Come on -- you know I'm beautiful!"
Terry reached across and switched on the bedside lamp, causing the both of them to squint and rub their eyes at first. There was fury in his face as well.
"Yes, you're beautiful. And don't I know it! The way you flaunt yourself. It's no wonder I've got to like ugly women."
Ingrid felt suddenly trapped. She had not been expecting such a revelation, such a confession from her spouse. She had always been conscious of his philanderous ways, and although not condoning them she had become accustomed to his behaviour, and indeed she herself had not been innocent over the years, not by far, a string of handsome men being proof of that. However, she then started to realise the true implications of his adultery, his unnerving search for not-so-beautiful females, his desire for frightful and revolting bed partners. For the first time in her life she was unsure of how to react to a situation, feeling as if she were not in control. There was one way to gain the initiative.
She sprang from the bed and rushed into the bathroom, seconds later returning with Terry's razor. His eyes widened upon seeing the object, and he watched in trepidation as she carefully extracted the blade. Then she waved it in front of his eyes, herself bearing an expression of pure devilment, her eyebrows raised and her eyes gleaming in the lamplight.
"Cut me!" she demanded, handing him the razor blade. "Come on, Terry. Do it! Make me ugly. Cut my face!"
"Ingrid! Don't be bloody stupid!"
Following a short struggle he managed to wrestle the blade away from her, and returned the shaving implement to the bathroom, with Ingrid shoving her face into the pillow to hide the flow of tears from her eyes.

"Let's go to bed," Ingrid had whispered, practically breathing the words upon his neck, all sexy and seductive -- and Terry had succumbed.
"You're beautiful," he told her as he watched her disrobe, but she was reluctant to believe him any more.
The bedroom was in semi-darkness, the curtains closed to obscure the late afternoon sunlight. Terry was already unclothed and spreadeagled on the bed, forming a star of flesh and bone, his wrists and ankles firmly secured. She had been pleasantly surprised by his initial reaction to the cuffs, thinking that maybe he would object, disgusted by her perversion. Then she wondered what he would make of the ball gag.
Her splendid figure stood naked before him, her skin luscious and lickable and as smooth as silky chiffon. She was more than conscious of her attraction to the opposite sex, but had become repelled by the unwanted attentions. The pinching of her bottom, the stroking of her breasts, the disgraceful and ambiguous remarks, the constant innuendo, the suggestions of secretive liaisons. Now the final blow -- her own husband preferred ugly women to her. What a shocking revelation!
It had been a simple task, accepting all the invitations, indulging in philanderous behaviour with those scheming males who were only after one thing. Punishment had become her forte. This Terry was about to discover as she produced the cheese wire and approached him, fondling him to erection. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry; and neither did she. She observed the fear in his eyes and the splutter of saliva that escaped from his gagged mouth.
"I may be beautiful on the outside," she said as she began to twist the wire, "but on the inside..."