Chalk White [7/7]
anonymous
February 3 2010, 19:06:51 UTC
“Suck,” he told her in neither monotone nor mockery. “No teeth.” But he couldn’t resist a brilliantly white grin.
She swallowed for a moment, looking away. Then her hands rested upon his thighs and she proceeded to do so.
Her mouth was as hot as he remembered. Maybe more because she was older now. He vaguely wondered what she had learned over the years, who else she’d serviced, whether willingly or not. His hand rested on her head and stroked the barely tamed hair slowly. She could take in the entire length of his cock now with no visible signs of a struggle, and her lips tightened.
His fingers traced around the pins that held her bun in place, finding each one. Methodically, he began to pull each pin out and dropped them on the floor, taking out the last, large pin that held it all together. Her hair didn’t fall luxuriously; it was too short and too coated with gel and other things to do that. But the slowly curling strands hung about her face and softened it. It was odd how such a little thing could change a woman so much but it would take a lot of mead and mushrooms to even consider superimposing the androgynous face of a child over England’s more feminine visage. Denmark tangled his fingers into her newly freed hair and grunted as her tongue swiped along the underside of his cock.
She had closed her eyes by this time. The sight made him growl, “Look at me.”
He had to pull her hair rather sharply but her gasp of pain only sent a pleasurable vibration down his cock as her eyes flew open. His smile for her did not offer any sort of comfort but she did not tear her gaze away from him the entire time. Grunting, he let his hips buck upwards, making her choke as her fingers dug into his thighs. Even as he came, he could only think about the blankness in her eyes and that soured what should have been something too sweet to contemplate.
But he stayed, on principle, fucking her on the bed as she stared at him glassily. He groped her breasts, left bite marks upon her throat and shoulders, as he thrust relentlessly into her. The bites stayed livid and red against her sallow skin. He even cleaned her up once he was finished, something she almost meekly allowed before curling up on her side, back to him, wrapping an unstained part of the top blanket around her. Denmark reached out to touch her hair then but she sharply jerked her head away from his hand, seeming to know just when his fingers would brush against her skin.
England had been wrong.
She had been an Ugly Duckling. And she had turned to a swan, vicious and powerful and magnificent, arrogant and regal, chalk white and ever so slightly unreal. That was her story, not America’s. Denmark had watched her at both start and ending, from fortune’s abused toy to the hidden beauty and he could not deny the wonder of transformation, even as he hated it, feared it, denigrated it. But yet- and yet-
Her eerie silence, her glassy eyes, they unnerved him than all the tears (and women’s tears never ceased to make him that bit uncomfortable) and sobs and begging words. He may as well have been hacking away at the white chalk cliffs and watching them crumble apart with no effort at all. But what if she had opened her arms to him and smiled sweetly, had twisted under his touch like a purring cat? Denmark shook his head, clearing away the strange, nonsense thoughts that led to nowhere.
“Get out,” England rasped tonelessly at last. And that was all she said, never turning her head to look at him.
Without protest, without jeer, Denmark left the room silently, feeling something cold gnawing at his innards.
A few weeks later, England received a small package in the post. When she opened it, she found an ancient gold torque, just big enough to go about a child’s neck.
She locked it in her safe and never looked at it again.
She swallowed for a moment, looking away. Then her hands rested upon his thighs and she proceeded to do so.
Her mouth was as hot as he remembered. Maybe more because she was older now. He vaguely wondered what she had learned over the years, who else she’d serviced, whether willingly or not. His hand rested on her head and stroked the barely tamed hair slowly. She could take in the entire length of his cock now with no visible signs of a struggle, and her lips tightened.
His fingers traced around the pins that held her bun in place, finding each one. Methodically, he began to pull each pin out and dropped them on the floor, taking out the last, large pin that held it all together. Her hair didn’t fall luxuriously; it was too short and too coated with gel and other things to do that. But the slowly curling strands hung about her face and softened it. It was odd how such a little thing could change a woman so much but it would take a lot of mead and mushrooms to even consider superimposing the androgynous face of a child over England’s more feminine visage. Denmark tangled his fingers into her newly freed hair and grunted as her tongue swiped along the underside of his cock.
She had closed her eyes by this time. The sight made him growl, “Look at me.”
He had to pull her hair rather sharply but her gasp of pain only sent a pleasurable vibration down his cock as her eyes flew open. His smile for her did not offer any sort of comfort but she did not tear her gaze away from him the entire time. Grunting, he let his hips buck upwards, making her choke as her fingers dug into his thighs. Even as he came, he could only think about the blankness in her eyes and that soured what should have been something too sweet to contemplate.
But he stayed, on principle, fucking her on the bed as she stared at him glassily. He groped her breasts, left bite marks upon her throat and shoulders, as he thrust relentlessly into her. The bites stayed livid and red against her sallow skin. He even cleaned her up once he was finished, something she almost meekly allowed before curling up on her side, back to him, wrapping an unstained part of the top blanket around her. Denmark reached out to touch her hair then but she sharply jerked her head away from his hand, seeming to know just when his fingers would brush against her skin.
England had been wrong.
She had been an Ugly Duckling. And she had turned to a swan, vicious and powerful and magnificent, arrogant and regal, chalk white and ever so slightly unreal. That was her story, not America’s. Denmark had watched her at both start and ending, from fortune’s abused toy to the hidden beauty and he could not deny the wonder of transformation, even as he hated it, feared it, denigrated it. But yet- and yet-
Her eerie silence, her glassy eyes, they unnerved him than all the tears (and women’s tears never ceased to make him that bit uncomfortable) and sobs and begging words. He may as well have been hacking away at the white chalk cliffs and watching them crumble apart with no effort at all. But what if she had opened her arms to him and smiled sweetly, had twisted under his touch like a purring cat? Denmark shook his head, clearing away the strange, nonsense thoughts that led to nowhere.
“Get out,” England rasped tonelessly at last. And that was all she said, never turning her head to look at him.
Without protest, without jeer, Denmark left the room silently, feeling something cold gnawing at his innards.
A few weeks later, England received a small package in the post. When she opened it, she found an ancient gold torque, just big enough to go about a child’s neck.
She locked it in her safe and never looked at it again.
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