Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Not Exactly a "What If - but maybe a treat for you?
I was just cleaning out my files - and found this. It's by Rosie - and I used to show it on my page, a long time ago - but I have lots of them. Thought I'd throw this one in for fun.
None of the following are complete – but simply reflect the ideas that a writer goes through before actually finishing a story. You'll probably get some kicks though. Enjoy!
She lurched at me like a lioness. I blocked her first blow, directed at my face, only to allow her the second one. She hit me in the stomach with her right hand as I was still pushing away her left one. With a desperate ‘ooph’ I bent at the waist and tried to protect my stomach with my hands. She struck my face, then held my shoulders. With a slithering sound, her tight skirt rode up and I felt her knee in my stomach. She straightened me up, slapped me and pushed me on the floor. Kicked me a few times with the sharp tip of her high heeled shoes.
“I don’t fucking care whose fucking turn it is!” she panted above me, “I’m not doing the dishes and that’s final. Get it?”
“Okay,” I squealed.
“God, what a fucking wimp I married,” she snarled.
She watched me get up and start washing the dishes for a while, then she left. That’s when I began to cry quietly.
“Get in here,” she growled from the bedroom.
Roughly, she pulled me in through the door, stripped my t-shirt off and pushed me on the bed.
“Now what, Nigel,” she shouted at me, “Going to run to your mummy like always?”
I stared at her silently as she pulled off my pants and underpants at the same time.
“You mustn’t be so rough on my darling son, Angela,” she imitated my mother, “He’s such a delicate boy. Get up.”
I started rising from bed, but not fast enough for her. She yanked me by the hand and tugged painfully at my hair so that I was looking up at her face.
“Well you know what? I’ve had just about enough with the two of you.”
She turned me around and pushed me back on the bed, this time face on.
“See these?” she said as she shoved a pile of clothes in my face.
“Good. Put them on.”
With tears in my eyes, I rummaged through the pile, discarding one item after another, until I found a pair of panties, pink satin ones.
“You must make yourself pretty for Nigel, Angela,” she started imitating my mother again, “after all, you are his wife.”
“Please, Angela,” I cried.
“Shut up and get dressed!” she yelled at me, then continued with her impersonation, “Don’t wear those horrid jeans, put on a pretty dress. And some high heels, they do shape your thighs nicely. Wear some naughty bits underneath, oh God,” she continued with her normal voice, “Even she couldn’t come up with such garbage. You put her up to it, didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer, just sniffled as the silky fabric of the slip slid down my body and stopped at my nylon shod knees.
“How do you like it now, honey?” she hissed, “That dress pretty enough for you? Maybe another petticoat, make it flouncier?”
Choking on my tears, I shook my head.
“Fine, get the shoes on. Let’s see you walk around in four inch heels. Go on, make a few steps.”
I did wobble on my high heels, but not half as much as I expected to. It must have surprised Angela as well.
“Well, well. Presentable, to say the least,” she said, then grabbed my hand.
I squealed in fright and try to pull it away but her grip was too strong. I minced behind her as she led me to the garage.
“Please, Angela,” I started to cry again.
“Get in the car,” she said icily, “Wanted to run to your mummy? Be my guest. I’ll drive you there. It’s about time she saw what a sissy she raised.”