Melissa dragged the scope from between her clinging clam lips. Born anew; lustful tears gushing from her abused sex; it arose glistening into the light. A penile projection of black plastic-coated metal, her lover, the pleasure provider. Its surface slick with her cream, fingers glittering pearlescent as they clung to its slippery mass. 

Upwards it travelled; away from the hips that still thrust ineffectual at nothingness, beyond the flat prairie of her stomach rippling with seismic aftershocks, over the twin mounds of her heaving breasts, until it reached her whimpering, blood swollen lips. 

Entranced, I viewed its purposeful ascent gorging on each detail of its scenic journey until I too reached her waiting visage. Her previously lust-muddied eyes stared back, no longer clouded but bright and penetrative, fixing me. Her tongue reached out, lapping and swirling, feasting on cunt nectar, traversing the length of the abusive scope, suckling its essence, coating it with saliva. Opening wider to reveal her wet waiting warmth before pressing it between her lips and slurping it clean of her self-abasement. Fingers followed, singularly, one by one, popped between her receptive lips, sucked lasciviously, brought forth once more gleaming to sparkle cleansed before my intent gaze. 

Dizzy, eyes red-rimmed, my ears resounding to the echo of my own rasping breath, I watched as she brought her planed fingers back to her lips, rewarded them with a loving kiss, placed her hand flat, palm upward before her, and blew. 

Blew it into the darkness between us. Blew it with her gaze staring deep into my indigo soul. Blew it so that I might have no doubt. Blew it so I might feel it slap against the sopping mess of my desperate, expectant cunt. 

Her light went out. 

I escaped to my bed but not to sleep. There was to be no escape from her there; her eyes boring into my soul, her fluttered kiss ablaze in my sex. My fingers embedding themselves within my tropics; all heat and humidity and wetness; relentless in their desire to purge me of every last droplet of lust. Mouth an open wound gasping wordlessly into the wetted fabric of my pillows, eyes refusing to shutter themselves staring unseeing into the darkness, body twisted amongst the bedding, skin sweat sheened, bud breasts rubbing themselves painfully on Egyptian cotton as my fingers pummelled my orgasming cunt. 

Remorseless and insistent, driving me again and again beyond the peak to cascade helter-skelter into moaning, whimpering release. Release without satisfaction. Release without resolution. No sooner has one departed than my digits redoubled their efforts; rubbing, pinching, flicking, scratching, fucking; insatiable in their demands as they drive me whimpering helpless as a newborn calf to yet another sobbing crescendo.

Yet still, she comes and still I cum. Unbidden; cavorting behind sightless eyes. Hips humping in wild abandonment as she abases herself for my pleasure. Pleasure turning to suffering as she rips another orgasm from my battered cunt; thighs quivering, wrist strained, stomach muscles rippling with the endlessly repeated clenching. Saliva spots splashed across my skin, hair-dampened tendrils sticking to my flesh all sense of styling long since lost. 

Eventually; as the night sky's hues lightened, as a Robin trilled its greeting to the possibility of a new day; the spectre of her subsided, my weary eyelids fluttered shut, my limbs ceased their spasmic jerking and I slept. 

I woke clear-headed. I woke to an epiphany of understanding. I woke furious. Fucking prying bitch, staring through my window panes, tracking my every movement, ogling my flesh. Depraved slut stealing my precious privacy as she flaunted her own degraded, disgusting immorality. Exhibiting herself. Taunting. Provoking. Fucking her sloppy, well-used cunt like some rabid, overheated slattern. Well, I wouldn't stand for it. She wasn't going to be blowing me any more cum juice kisses. It needed to stop. 

I went shopping. 

I love shopping; makeup fixed, hair straightened and tonged into place, perfumed wrists, perfumed neck, perfumed cleavage, the click of hangars as I rummage through my wardrobes, the discarded outfits, the regimented ranks of shoes all screaming 'choose me, choose me', the streets, the shops, the hum of humanity, the wares all titivated for my delight, to touch, to fondle, to caress, and yes, when all is done, to have goodies secreted in an anonymous brown paper bag for me to carry home. I remember it all so well. 

I traipsed downstairs, made myself a giant mug of tea, cut myself a slice of cake, grabbed my laptop, curled up in my favourite armchair and did my best not to give Jeff Bezos any more of the world's money. Two hours later, I was done, the baskets had been emptied and my credit card debts were a little bit larger than they had been at daybreak. Delivery expected in three to five days. I hate lockdown shopping. 

Text messages, emails and delivery drivers came and went and soon I was able to welcome three new items to feather my nest. A quite wonderful spotting scope that nestled light and comfortable in my hand, a tripod floor lamp to sit alongside my Lloyd Loom chair and a 100 Stars kimono jacket in dusty grey. It wasn't quite the same as hers, but it was the closest I could find. 

See, if that copycat slut was going to appropriate bits of me; well two can do that and she holds no copyright over slouching splayed and displayed bathed in lamplight, I can do that too, I'm quite practised, quite proficient. Let's see how much the back alley whore likes that. Now all I need to do is wait for dusk to fall and for darkness to lay its smothering blanket across my tiny, unimportant, bucolic life. 

I arranged and plumped the cushions, secreted the scope amongst them, switched on the telltale lamp to invite her curiosity, and then retreated to the hidden sanctuary of my living room. Two episodes of Parks and Recreation later, (forty-five minutes of trying to absorb Leslie Knope's perky, never say no, eager to please attitude into my darkened soul) I stripped off my clothing, shrugged on the kimono, popped via the kitchen to collect a wooden spatula, a rolling pin and two clothes pegs, and headed upstairs to see if I'd captured any flies in my carefully spun web. 

She was waiting for me, light on, reclining in her chair, feet stretched inconceivably wide, the journey from her ankles to her glistening cunt an eternity of perfect flesh. I sashayed to the chair, a peasant's imitation of her regal progress, and plopped myself down gracelessly before waving my kitchen accoutrements before her staring eyes. I held them aloft individually for her to view more in hope than expectation that she would divine my intent. Maybe she is a mind reader, maybe alongside stunning beauty and a winning personality she also possesses ESP, besides, if she hadn't understood, the plotting of this whole segment would have proved even more difficult and would have necessitated some form of show and tell demonstration and I feel I've already stretched reasonable credibility to its limit. 

Stepping away, she disappeared into the unviewable reaches of her apartment. Patiently, I waited, scope to eye, scanning through the visible paraphernalia of her life as I absent-mindedly caressed a hidden nipple and waited for her to return with her assortment of household goodies. They weren't quite the same as mine, similar and appropriate for the purpose I had in mind but not identical. How could they be? That would be mad. She'd of had to have broken into my house, rifled through all my belongings, gone out and purchased exact copies. Behaviour which would not only have been a completely inappropriate invasion of my privacy but would have been a total contravention of Twat Wankcock's Covid Rules and Regulations for staying alive. 

Shrugging the kimono from my shoulders I allow it to drape itself across the woven willow exposing myself to her attentive gaze. Exposing myself in all my imperfections; the tiger stripes about my hips, my birdcage ribcage, my unrisen souffle breasts all displayed for her to sneer and mock. 

"Bitch." 

Softly at first, the word extended as it creeps through my mind. 

"Bitch." 

Like mist swirling about an Avalon landscape. 

"Bitch." 

Resonating forth and echoing back on itself as my fingers grasp a single clothes peg. 

"Bitch." 

Closing it haphazardly on my left nipple. Rotating it in my fingers. Squeezing at the tip. Tugging. Dragging at the flesh. Releasing and reattaching. Pain splinters slashing through my flesh as I pull at the grasping clamp bringing my sagged flesh taut. 

"Bitch." 

Sobbing it now. Exhaling in ragged pants. A second peg descending onto my untroubled nipple. 

"Bitch." 

Pain sparks flying across my chest my flat palm striking freely across the peg ends making them dance, each blow a further degradation, a further affirmation, worthless, insignificant, unloving, unloved. 

"Bitch." 

Rigid fingers slap hard across my cheek, backhand its counterpart. Relentless and insistent head jerking with each blow, the stinging pain rising to become a throbbing in my temples. No remorse. No regrets. The taste of blood in my mouth as my teeth sunder the softness of my bottom lip. Nipple pegs dancing with each slap across my unpretty face. 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." 

Grabbing at the pegs. Rough. Uncaring. Pulling them from my flesh in single rabid movements the pain an explosion of deserved self-abuse. Flinging them at the vision before me only to have them bounce ineffectually off the thick glass sheets that trap us, separate us. 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." 

No longer just a thought; a screamed exhalation filling the air, invading my ears, caressing my trembling, twitching flesh. I wish for variety, to find other words; slut and whore, slag and cunt and cow and; but they won't come. I grab at my breasts, fingernails digging deep, try to pluck the words from my being, twisting, gouging, scraping, skin trapped beneath my nails, glorious red furrows brilliant on my flesh. 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." 

Railway tracks dragged across my heaving stomach, reaching for the spatula. Glorious firm unforgiving wood to caress my flesh, to swat, to shape, to punish, to bruise. Pathetic breasts, that slight wibble of stomach flesh, too prominent hip bones, the slight stubbling of my pubis not razor perfected, the mole hiding near the top of my inner thigh, my constantly pouting sex dribbling its ache and want regardless of my better intentions. 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." 

Are you happy? Happy in your perfect body? Happy to see me abased before you? Happy in your sovereignty over us lesser beings? Happy to watch each swat of wood onto my alabaster flesh? Happy to see it burning brightly beneath each attention; reddened and stinging. Happy to view my body twitching unwillingly beneath each stroke? Happy as I twist and writhe agony gripping my deforming skin? 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch."

Traversing my inner thighs, cascading ever inward, sucked inexorably to the black hole at the core of my being. 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." 

Each hate-filled scream a blow to my blood-engorged sex. Swollen vulva. Throbbing clitoris. Labia spread and inviting. The ridiculous, bubbling mass of wetness squelching beneath each touch of my wooden tormentor. Smashing hard again and again and again, hips thrusting up to meet each blow, knees twitching closed before dragging themselves wide once more, arse cheeks dragging themselves raw on willow spikes. Yet still, I want more. Need more. Demand more. Still, the hurt, the pain, the suffering, the red welts and brilliant bruises are not enough. Never enough. Never enough to fill the gnawing self-loathing that possesses my soul. 

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." 

Rolling pin slammed into my cunt. Through wetness. Through dryness. Hammering at my cervix. Tearing at my inner walls. Stretching me. Filling me. Fucking me. Relentless. Mirthless. Driving again and again into my inner softness. Uncaring in its demands. Uncaring of the tears that decorate my bruised and glowing face. Uncaring of the ragdoll shaking of my shoulders, the forced gasping breaths, my bouncing breasts, the heaving of my stomach, the twisted writhing of my entirety. Uncaring, my fingers clinging to its rough smooth surface as it jackhammers. 

"Bitch." 

Just flesh. Trembling and pathetic. Just blood and muscle and sinew. Worthless. Recyclable. Fleeting in existence. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Worm food. Soon forgotten. Soon nothing. A pinprick in the eternal star chart. The rolling pin drives deep in one last final surge and I slump to my conclusion around its machine-crafted form. 

"Bitch." 

I woke regretful. I woke ashamed. I woke aghast at the madness that had consumed me. Every tiny movement was painful, even breathing seemed to send slithers of hurt racing from my chest to my sleep-thick brain. I squirmed, regretting it instantly. Attempted to lift my head but my neck seemed fixed in position. Gradually, I inched my body over onto my side, grasping at the bedding with taloned fingers as I swung my feet onto the floor and levered myself into an upright position. 

I shuffled to the toilet, seated myself with difficulty, and peed. There was no blood. I was thankful. My body was a mess; gouged scratches covering my thighs, my stomach, my pubic mons, all of them stinging, some weeping. Beneath them the skin was an expressionist palate, vivid purples and yellows intermingling above an indigo and vermilion base, my natural alabaster hues lost in a see of aching, hurting bruises. My cunt was deformed; labia, vulva, clitoris now engorged burning lumps of flesh a cacophony of screamed complaints; no longer a pretty flower now more cathedral gargoyle. My ribs splintered with each breath. My breasts, oh God my breasts. Beaten flesh bags striated with welts topped off with merino cherries. Nipples sensitive to every stray waft of air, a pair of bulbous tit-handles humiliated, hurt, and horrified. 

For five minutes chilled, sobbing and shaking I stayed there viewing and touching the abuse I had unleashed on my own delicate, precious body until only one part of me remained unexplored.  Quakingly upright, I staggered to the mirror to confront my Dorian Gray portrait.  It might have been worse. Honestly, it might. Barely any of my deadly sins were on display.  My lip was split. My left eye was half shut due to the bruised swelling atop my cheekbone.  My nose seemed fine.  All my teeth were intact.  I seemed to have gained a bit of colour on my cheeks, which was quite pleasing if you ignored the raking nail scratches that decorated them both.  Really not too bad. No permanent damage.  I sighed in relief and set about fixing myself up to face the day ahead.

I managed to creak myself out onto a park bench in time for elevenses. Encased in my all-weather coat, hood pulled up, a flask of coffee under my arm, and enough cigarettes in my pocket to allow me to chain smoke myself to a well-deserved early grave. I chose the bench most obviously visible from Melissa's apartment, scrunched myself down on the wooden planks, poured a coffee, and with trembling fingers, lit my first cigarette. If necessary, I would wait all day.

It wasn't necessary, though I had finished the coffee by the time I spied her coming towards me on unsteady steps.  She plonked herself down on the far end of the bench, easily complying with the government's two-metre rule, like me, a hood mostly concealing all but the hatred burning in her eyes.

"What do you want?"

I don't know.  What did I want?  Forgiveness?  Understanding?  I pulled down my hood.  Revealed my battered hideousness. Jyestha before her Aphrodite.

She lowered her hood.  Forced me to feast on her defiled beauty.  Demanded I inspect all that I had wrought.  Made me stare deep into the mirror of me reflected in her beaten and abused face.

"You will never hate me as much as I can hate myself."

I nodded dumb. Sobbing at the destruction my jealous, fragile ego had wrought.  Where once had been a glittering bauble now only glass fragments remained, her brittle exterior ruptured to expose the seeping insidious self-doubt that oozed even from her core. I had taken beauty, taken perfection, and ground it beneath my well-shod foot, sacrificed her to my own self-absorption, my own self-obsession. 

I blubbed. Endlessly repeated sorries. The only word my mind could form. My disgrace flowing from my eyes to sting my battered cheeks. And then, before she could respond, I did the one thing that after twelve long painful months I ached to do more than anything. I scooted down that bench. Wrapped my arms around her. Held her, sobbing into her hair as I tried to hug all the pain and suffering out of her, out of me, out of the whole hurting, scared, lonely, pandemic weary world. 

"Fuck you, Matt Hancock."

And after all that ... 

I still despise beautiful women but I just make an exception for Melissa.