Pietà disappears as if the earth had split open and swallowed her whole. Then a week later — after Augusta jumps at every noise from her phone and endures gut-wrenching anxiety that Pietà’s shiny convertible will be in the parking lot after band practice — Pietà slams open the door to Augusta’s flat with a key that was duplicated without permission.
“Bambola, I have returned,” Pietà trills. She looks the same as ever with her round glasses, wavy white hair, and disgustingly tasteful clothes. Her eyes are bright and she holds a bag stuffed with gift paper, concealing whatever it holds. “I got you a present too.”
“Throw it away,” Augusta dismisses from her place on the couch as the blood drains from her face. She glares at Pietà, who casually shuts and locks the front door. Pietà beams at her like a beacon of innocence. Augusta wrinkles her nose and turns her eyes back to the television with a rattling heart. “I don’t want it.”
“But you’ll like it,” Pietà assures. She flounces over and snatches the television remote from Augusta’s limp grasp, then shuts it off. “It’s more interesting than whatever filth you’re watching.”
“Girls Gone Wild isn’t filth,” Augusta protests, but it is and she knows it. It’s about young women and some girls acting provocatively. Maybe there are a lot of girls. 17-year-olds who lie about their age to get wasted at bars and flash their tits at clubs.
Pietà scoffs. She shoves the bag under Augusta’s nose. Augusta pushes it away, but Pietà is insistent like a fly.
“If I look at it will you go away?” Augusta growls.
“No, but you’ll look at it anyway,” Pietà answers. She runs her eyes over Augusta’s form. She frowns. “You're pale. Are you sick?”
"Incredibly,” Augusta deadpans. “Which is why you should leave. So you don’t get sick.”
“Oh my, bambola. Are you worried for me?” Pietà fawns. She sets the bag on a couch cushion and presses the back of her hand against Augusta’s forehead. Augusta shivers; Pietà’s hand is frigid.
All at once, Augusta recalls the palms running down her sides, the fingers pinching her nipples, and the warm, wet tongue against her clit.
“You don’t feel feverish,” Pietà notes. She tucks a strand of Augusta’s hair behind her ears, careful not to entangle the hair in Augusta’s piercings. “But I know that looking at your gift will cheer you up.”
Augusta leans back and escapes Pietà’s touch, but the scent of her perfume lingers like the aftermath of a cigarette. “Fine. Whatever.”
Pietà plops the gift back on Augusta’s lap. Augusta parts the wrapping paper as if there was a bomb hidden within, then reaches into the bag. She curls her fingers around the object. It’s smooth and made out of silicone. It’s also phallic.
She yanks her hand out as if burned. “Oh fuck no.”
“You didn’t even need to open it to know what it was,” Pietà blinks, surprised. She narrows her eyes. “Are you a whore?”
“Of course, I know what it is. I’m not stupid,” Augusta snaps. She ignores Pietà’s question; her past is unrelated.
“I bought it after work,” Pietà says. “It’s your favorite color.”
“I don’t even have a favorite color,” Augustus complains, but she’s intrigued. She pulls it out and huffs. Her eyebrows twitch. “Baby pink.”
“You do like youth,” Pietà replies mildly. “There’s nothing more infantile than this shade.”
“Infantile?” Augusta sputters as she shoves the dildo back into the gift bag. The wrapper crunches — compressed. “You make me sound like a pedophile.”
“Teenagers are children,” Pietà retorts.
“Barely legal is still legal,” Augusta counters. Fe was 18 when they met and 19 when they began their relationship. The morals were dubious, but there was no fear of the police cracking down on them.
“Anyway,” Pietà continues. “This is your present. You’re welcome.”
Augusta summons the saccharine remnants of her waiter days. She shoves the gift bag into Pietà’s arms. “No, it’s okay. You can take it back.”
“No, I insist,” Pietà refuses. “It would be in your best interest to accept it and as you know, your welfare is always on my mind.”
“Bullshit,” Augusta snaps. Her knuckles throb as she recalls their last encounter and her stomach churns. The festering mold of resentment in her gut has bloomed further, spreading across her nervous system before curdling into anxiety.
Pietà clicks her tongue. “Doubting me is so rude,” she says as Augusta sets the gift bag on the coffee table. It burns like hot coals and Augusta wants as little to do with it as possible, but that’s impossible considering Pietà’s nature. “You’ll change your mind soon enough.”
She places a hand on Augusta’s bare knee. Augusta clenches her jaw. She wished she was in more than panties and a tank top, but she hadn’t predicted Pietà’s unfortunate return. She also hadn’t predicted Pietà’s disappearance, but hindsight is a bitch.
Pietà cups the side of Augusta’s face with her other hand. Augusta leans away. Pietà follows her. Pietà stares at her and Augusta wonders what she’s seeing, if she’s penetrating her skin to peer at her jittery heart, but then Pietà breaks into a smile that’s as free as the wind.
Pietà opens her mouth as if to speak, then slides their lips together instead. Relief flows through Augusta. She would explode and make things infinitely worse if Pietà tried to shove more bullshit down her throat.
Then Augusta’s stomach growls and Pietà startles; she withdraws.
“Food would be great,” Augusta says in her feeble attempt to postpone the inevitable. Augusta wipes away Pietà’s sticky gloss from her lips. “Give me your card so I can order pizza and cheesy bread.”
“You can eat after,” Pietà dismisses.
“I’ll be too tired,” Augusta protests. “It’ll be like fucking a dead fish.”
“You’ll be uncooperative either way,” Pietà says, clicking her tongue. “But your cowardice and attempt to manipulate me is cute.”
“It’s not cowardice. It’s self-preservation,” Augusta retorts. Further protests are cut short by Pietà grabbing the roots of her hair and yanking her forward to crush their lips together once more. Augusta’s stomach swirls with a pool of wretched heat. An itchy mix of arousal and shame — shame for being a masochist and shame for being a masochist for Pietà of all people.
Pietà scoffs when she pulls back. “You drink. You smoke. You eat fast food. You’re corroding your body yet you claim procrastinating on intimacy to be self-preservation.”
“It’s not intimacy. It’s rape,” Augusta snarls. If they had met under different circumstances and Pietà was younger, then maybe they could have had something — though intimacy was off the table considering their nature.
“Semantics,” Pietà brushes off as she rises to her feet. She plucks the gift bag off of the table and then grabs Augusta’s hand. “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”
Augusta’s lips press into a thin line. The bedroom door has been shut since Pietà last visited and raped her; Augusta can’t stand being in the same place she was abused. Pietà twists the knob open and the stale air washes over them both.
“Oh, my poor Bambola. Living in such conditions,” Pietà despairs as she inspects the rumpled bed and clothes that Augusta hasn’t had the strength to wash scattered on the floor. She releases August’s wrist and floats to the bed. She drags a finger over the metal frame and examines it. “So dusty.”
“Leave my room alone,” Augusta barks. She lingers in the doorway.
“Next time, we’ll do it at my place,” Pietà decides. “Beppe, Donatello, and Napoleon miss you.”
Augusta clicks her tongue. She’s about to retort when Pietà places the gift bag on the bed and begins to unbutton her blouse. Her collarbone spills free, jutting elegantly against her skin as more of her milky torso is revealed. Then her smooth, flat abdomen is freed. It’s toned. Augusta wonders how exactly Pietà exercises and if she should ask for tips. Then she banishes the thought. The less she is like Pietà the better.
Pietà kicks off her boots and then slides her blouse off of her torso. She folds it and then places it on the bedside table. Her white bra is lacy and her breasts, to Augusta’s dismay, are large. Her body is beautiful enough to make a traitorous pool of heat swirl in Augusta’s gut.
It’s natural to enjoy the sight of an attractive woman. It’s unnatural to enjoy the sight of a rapist.
“Do you like what you see?” Pietà asks as she swiftly unbuttons and unzips her slacks. They join the blouse on the bedside table. Her panties match her bra.
“Granny panties would suit you better,” Augusta answers bluntly. Augusta sheds her arousal to examine them. They’re clearly good quality, but Augusta’s experience with lace has always been that it’s itchy against her skin. The only exception is the time that Pietà made her dress in lingerie and that’s an experience Augusta would like to forget.
Pietà chortles. “You say the silliest things.”
She glides to Augusta, fully nude, and grabs her wrist. She drags Augusta to the bed and Augusta has to bite her tongue so she doesn’t comment on the fact that the carpets don’t match the drapes. She’s shoved onto the creaky mattress. Pietà configures Augusta to rest her head against the pillow and Augusta allows it to happen, boneless as her mind departs from her body.
She wonders if there’s a point to resisting; she wonders if she should even bother. Pietà’s slender, manicured hands have wrung out the last of her willpower like a damp towel.
But today, Pietà is gentle. She cups the side of Augusta’s face and strokes Augusta’s cheekbone with her thumb. It’s genuine in the way that Augusta never was toward Fe. Immediately, Augusta’s sanity returns.
Augusta twists her head to the side. She focuses on the wall — on the meager decorations she has, which are pin-ups of women she finds attractive.
Pietà wrenches her head by grabbing her jaw so that it’s facing her once more. A scowl tugs at her lips. “You’re not allowed to look at other women when you’re with me.”
“So I can think about them?” Augusta asks. The words are biting and she isn’t usually this aggressive, but Pietà wants her to shove a dildo inside of her vagina after disappearing for a week.
“Absolutely not,” Pietà snaps. Her voice is like the crack of a whip. Her eyes darken as she squeezes Augusta’s jaw.
“You’re gonna leave a bruise,” Augusta croaks, but pain is better than a gentle touch.
Pietà chuckles, unamused. “You wish I did, don’t you? So you could build a case against me. But worry not, I won’t allow anything to come in the way between us.”
She releases Augusta’s face and yanks off Augusta’s tank top. She struggles against Augusta’s shoulders as Augusta doesn’t raise her arms, but a glare quickly corrects Augusta’s behavior. She loses another layer of protection against Pietà’s predation, and then another one once Pietà slides Augusta’s panties down her legs.
Augusta wraps her arms around herself to conceal her breasts. She will never get used to being naked before Pietà.
Pietà pries Augusta’s arms apart and pins her wrists to the side. She examines Augusta’s body as if Augusta were a piece of meat before devouring her. She crushes their lips together and kisses her fiercely — sucking in Augusta’s lower lip just hard enough to be the right amount of hurt. To leave them swollen enough to show everyone what happened.
Pietà releases her grip on Augusta’s wrists once her lips leave Augusta’s. Augusta keeps them down, pinned by paralysis instead as Pietà leaves a series of open-mouthed kisses along Augusta’s jaw. Her teeth nip the sensitive skin. Augusta’s throat bobs when she swallows the thick ball of disgust clinging to her where her tonsils once were.
Pietà travels down her neck. Augusta clenched her jaw to suppress a moan. She succeeds until a particularly hard suck.
Augusta swears. “That’s gonna leave a fucking mark.”
“You don’t have rehearsal for two days. It will recede by the time you return,” Pietà answers. She buries her face in the junction between Augusta’s neck and shoulder. She inhales deeply before dragging her lips across Augusta’s sharp collarbone. Then she dips her head lower and lower until she’s aligned with Augusta’s breast. Her tongue swirls the edges of her areola before following a spiral motion to zone in on Augusa’s sensitive nipple.
Her tongue is soft, wet, and warm. She catches the bud between her teeth and bites down gently, just to hold it in place, and then hollows her cheek. She sucks, burning Augusta with a reluctant pleasure. Her clit throbs and she feels herself getting wet. She swallows down her moans and stares at the ceiling. She focuses on the strange, bumpy pattern that all of the walls in her apartment are wrought with.
Pietà’s pinches and tugs on Augusta’s other nipple. Her breasts are lavished with attention. Pietà has gotten better. She explored and experimented with Augusta’s body until she fine-tuned her touches. It’s better than any other person has been with and Augusta feels ruined.
Her head grows fuzzy. A hazy, slow pleasure that fills the tips of her fingers and toes with honey as Pietà continues to manipulate her body. It flows throughout her entire body, thick, and Augusta is almost disappointed when Pietà stops.
But Pietà doesn’t stop entirely. Her lips slither down Augusta’s sternum, down her abdomen, before stopping at the waistband of Augusta’s panties. She pauses and Augusta can almost hear the thoughts ricocheting in Pietà’s skull, but her awareness fades when Pietà mouths at her clothed cunt.
“You’re drenched,” Pietà comments with thinly veiled jubilation. Augusta refuses to peer down at her, mortified by her body’s reactions at having her clit stimulated even through the fabric, but she knows that Pietà is glowing with a satisfied smile curving her balmed lips. “Have you always been this easy?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Augusta grits. To her misery, Pietà strips the final barrier. She tosses the panties to the side and Augusta is fully exposed. She was too stressed to remember trimming, so now she flushes at her bush full of dark, wiry curls.
Pietà examines her cunt. She clicks her tongue. “I can’t eat you out. There’s too much fur.”
“Fur,” Augusta reels. “I’m not one of your stupid — oh!”
A slender finger slides into her. It pokes around like an alien probe before it locates Augusta’s G-spot. Augusta sucks in a sharp breath, then brings the hand that isn’t wounded to her mouth. She clamps her palm over his lips, suppressing her moans.
Pietà pumps her wrist, striking that sweet spot over and over again. Fast and hard enough to make Augusta’s thighs tremble. Sickening squelches cloud Augusta’s heavy breathing — a testament to her arousal.
It’s a nightmare how good it feels, but it’s a nightmare Augusta can’t wake up from no matter how hard she tries. She curls her toes as her pleasure crescendos. It’s fast because she was stimulated earlier from her breasts being played with, but before she can shatter just as she’s done several times, Pietà stops. Again.
Augusta continues to stare blankly at the ceiling until she hears the ruffling of paper. Her head jerks and she watches in sickening mortification as Pietà loops a harness over her hips and attaches the dildo.
“It’s not gonna fit,” Augusta says as reality crashes upon her further. The dildo was a distant concept before, but now it’s about to go inside her. It’s been too long since Augusta had anything but fingers inside of her.
“It won’t,” Pietà promises. “I’ve prepared you enough for it to only feel slightly uncomfortable, but you’ll accommodate it easily.”
Augusta narrows her eyes. “Are you implying I’m a slut?”
“No,” Pietà hums. Then adds, voice slippery with mischief: “But if the shoe fits then — “
“Let’s just get this over it,” Augusta huffs. “Doggy style so I don’t have to see your ugly face.”
“And deprive me of your beautiful one? So cruel,” Pietà whines, but she indulges Augusta and rolls her onto her stomach. She leans forward to grab a pillow and place it beneath Augusta’s hips, then pushes down slightly on Augusta’s back so that it’s arched.
Augusta feels like she’s in a bad porno. She’s on all fours with her spit drying on her tits and her stupid wet vagina facing her rapist. She wants to crawl away like an animal but Pietà grabs the roots of her hair and yanks her head up, forcing a moan past Augusta’s lips as mild pain courses through her scalp.
“Here it comes,” Pietà says as she presses the tip of the dildo against Augusta’s entrance. “Are you ready?”
“No,” Augusta croaks, trying to save face. But Pietà tightens her grip on the roots of Augusta’s hair and the subsequent moan that escapes shatters the illusion.
The dildo slides in slowly. Augusta feels herself stretching, unaccustomed to something of its girth, but it doesn’t hurt as Pietà said it wouldn’t. She wonders if it means that Pietà is experienced with dildos. She can’t imagine Pietà being with a man, but if she were to experiment, then it would make sense she knows what to do to make the intrusion painless.
Pietà’s hips are flush against Augusta’s ass and she feels full. Augusta doesn’t know if she likes it or not, but Pietà begins to rock her hips slowly, carefully, and the thoughts fly out of the window.
Even fucking her high school boyfriend didn’t feel this good and he had a real dick. It was cruel that the best sex of Augusta’s life came from her rapist. But at least she couldn’t smell Pietà’s sickening perfume — too lost in sensation to be aware of anything else.
Pietà speeds up. She fucks Augusta harder and faster, hammering her hips, and the squelches from earlier’s fingering could not compare to the noise they were making now. The slap of sweaty skin against skin cracks the air like a whip.
Pathetic noises dribble out of Augusta as her head grows cloudy. She isn’t sure of what she’s saying or if she's saying anything, but something in her monas must have indicated that she was going to orgasm because Pietà jerks Augusta’s head to the side by the hair with a particularly hard thrust. That prick of pain was enough to push her off the edge.
An orgasm wracked through Augusta like an earthquake. She curls her toes as wave after wave ruptures her and destroys what little cognizant thought she had. Pietà releases her head and Augusta falls forward — arms giving out. Her head crashes against the bedsheet and she swims in the aftermath.
She’s sticky and gross and wants to shower, but Pietà is already rocking her hips again.
“It’s too much — “
“This was expensive, bambola. I’m merely getting my money’s worth,” Pietà explains.
She grabs the roots of Augusta’s hair once more and Augusta can only stare at the bumpy wall as she somehow manages to prop herself back up with shaking arms.
It’s just sex, she reminds herself, stripping away the bestial nature of the act. It’s just an orgasm.
She can do it.