beat me
A short story where a cat pays an opossum to beat him up.
I'll start with generic, vaguely accurate stereotypes to give you some broad sense of who we are. I doubt you care for specifics. If you do, you'll have to figure it out on your own.
I'm an opossum. I'm a girl. As you'd expect of an opossum girl, I'm a complete bitch. I wear denim, I've punched my fair share of faces and had the favour returned whenever I didn't hit hard enough. My hobbies consist of fucking and hurting people.
Standing in front of me is a cat, a boy--and I mean that in opposition to man, in spite of the fact that he's gotta be in his early twenties. He's five-foot-ten, just about as tall as me, but the way he stands all tense and stiff aside from the thrashing of his tail makes him seem like a small, nervous child.
The white-orange of his fur is complemented nicely by a burgundy sweater and corduroys. He looks well groomed. He is, to put it bluntly, one of the most nauseatingly wimpy people I've ever had the chance to meet.
I stare at him, and he stares back for only a second before redirecting his gaze to the side of my head, unwilling or unable to look me in the eyes. I'm the one who knocked, so he's waiting for me to take the initiative and greet him. I don't offer him the pleasure.
He was polite enough to welcome me inside with the same marked lack of eye contact as his introduction. He's only got socks on; presumably, this is a shoes-off house. I don't take off mine.
According to his email, his name is Kris. Gathered from the address itself, not anything he's told me; he hasn't volunteered any information beyond the bare minimum and what little I've managed to drag out of him. Myself, I've been signing my emails with Victoria--but that isn't my name, obviously. I don't trust random creeps online.
I can't tell if that distrust is abated or strengthened by the way this guy acts. Even just leading me to the kitchen in his own house, he moves in a kind of awkward, hurried shuffle that just radiates discomfort, like he can't even stand being in his own skin.
The kitchen's nice, nicer than I'd expect from someone his age. I figure he's got to have inherited it from someone or other--can't figure he's bought it with his own money, if he's putting out Craigslist ads. The dining area's conjoined with the kitchen; he lowers himself into a seat at one end of the table there and sort of points with his eyes towards another on the far end. I take it.
After that, there's silence, somehow even more stiflingly awkward than before. Now, there's no introductions or walking to distract from the topic at hand; there's just the two of us sitting there, waiting to discuss what needs to be discussed.
The way he's sitting bolt upright, you'd figure he was on trial. I'm deriving surprisingly little satisfaction from making him this uncomfortable. I figured if he was asking for this kind of thing, he was gonna be some kind of creep--and he is, but he's not the kind I'd expected. He's just kinda sad, almost pitiable, like some sorta wounded animal. How do people become like that?
I start to drum my fingers on the table, and Kris takes this as a sign that he needs to move things along before I get bored. "So, uh, I--"
"Safe word?"
Kris is caught off-guard by that one, and he splutters for a few seconds before replying. "Safe word?"
He's hardly even gotten the words out of his mouth before I'm rolling my eyes. I do it often enough that it's a wonder they stay in my sockets. "Something for you to say so I know when to stop beating the piss out of you. I doubt you'll want me to stop just 'cause you start crying."
Kris wasn't spluttering before,now he's spluttering. Sounds like a goddamn car failing to start. It'd be funny if it weren't actually kind of irritating. I let my face slip into a mild scowl while he collects himself.
"Yeah, uhh, yes, that's... right. I wouldn't. But I don't, didn't think about any sort of specific kind of word--"
"Holy shit, don't think about it so much. Literally just pick a word."
"...stop?"
I reach up, pinch the bridge of my muzzle, and let out a long sigh. "Well, you're certainly making me want to hit you."
For someone so eager to get hit, saying that actually seems to get him even more anxious. He actually_cringes_, starts shifting and squirming in his seat, and I can hear him breathing faster. "Uh, sorry, haha. I'm just, not really knowing how to, like, go about this. Um, how about..."
His eyes shoot around the room for a few seconds before coming to settle on himself. "Corduroy?"
"I've heard worse choices." I straighten up in my chair and look him right in the eyes for the few seconds I'm able to before he looks down at the table. "Cash?"
Kris doesn't look nervous at that one--any more nervous than usual, anyway. He just dips his hand into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and starts rifling through his bills. Guess he can handle forking over money better than he can handle basic conversation. He finds a twenty and slides it across the table to me. "There."
I take it, jerk it taut between two fingers a couple times, hold it up to the light. I'm not actually looking for anything; I couldn't tell a counterfeit bill apart from a real one if I tried, and I couldn't care less if it were one so long as I could pawn it off on someone else. But it felt appropriate. Guess I'm playing into my role a little bit, trying to make him squirm.
Does he even want that? He wants to be beaten up, and he doesn't get off on it. What_does_ he want it for, then? God, what a fucking weirdo. But twenty bucks is twenty bucks.
I stick the bill into my pocket and slide my chair back, standing up with a stretch. "Alright, were are we doing this?"
Kris stands up as well, and while he has the same undercurrent of nervousness that I detected from the moment I laid eyes on him, it's less pronounced than I'd expect from someone about to get their teeth kicked in. Certainly less than when we were talking about safe words.
That tickles me. He's fine with rushing headfirst towards a beating--he just can't stand talking to the one that's gonna be doing it.
"The living room." Kris says, moving towards the hallway with a quick glance behind to make sure I'm following. "It's got space, and a carpet."
A carpet. A carpet? A carpet. He's gotta see something on my face, because when he looks at me, he's quick to elaborate. "So I don't, uh, fall. On the tile."
Of course. Wouldn't want to get hurt while getting the shit kicked out of him, now would he. I shrug and say nothing.
It's not a long walk; he doesn't live in a mansion or anything, though the living room is a decent size, even more so with the way he's shifted all the furniture to the sides of the room to leave a wide open space in the middle. Certainly came prepared. Even has all the curtains drawn, presumably so he doesn't have the neighbours seeing anything and making any assumptions that might necessitate calling the police.
I follow right on his heels as he moves to the centre of the room, and once he gets there, he turns back towards me. His lips are moving, no doubt trying to form some stumbling, dragging string of words.
I don't give him the chance. Before he's gotten a single syllable out, I hook my fist into his face.
He isn't expecting it in the slightest. Direct connection with the left size of his muzzle, just an inch or so back from his nose. Not full force; if I swung as hard as I could, I'd fracture his jaw.
It's definitely enough to knock him on his ass, though. He gasps and drops instantly, down onto one knee with both hands moving up to shield his face. If I had a mind to, this'd be the ideal position for me to drive my knee forward and invert his snout. But, again, I'm not looking to main the guy. He didn't come off as being interested in having his face rearranged into a Picasso, just being roughed up a bit.
So I still knee him in the face, but not quite as hard as I could. Just a good love tap, right on the nose. It's still enough to send him sprawling onto his back, hands shifting from his cheek to encompass his nose. He rolls onto his side and curls up into a ball, and I can see blood starting to seep through the cracks in his fingers, rolling down the back of his hand.
Let me state right now that I am no stranger to beating people up. I think that if you try to throw on a cool jacket and act punk but you haven't actually thrown a punch to save your life, you're a fucking joke. But I don't just go beating up random people for no reason, either; I'm not an asshole, however much of a bitch I may be.
And I'm not being one here. He's literally asked me for it, which is a first, in spite of how many people I've said were doing just that in the past. But it still feels weird to have this dude curled up at my feet, leaking all manner of fluids out of his face, when he hasn't fucked with me at all.
Not weird enough to stop me from doing what I got paid twenty bucks to do, though, particularly when I haven't heard him say his safe word. So I step forward with one foot before bringing the other forward in a sharp kick.
My sneaker slams into the small of his back--the top of it rather than the toe, so that I'm not putting the whole force of my kick into his spine or kidney, more smacking him with the flat of my foot. It drives the wind out of him in a wheeze, quickly followed by a noise that sounds like he's trying to gasp and cough at the same time.
And then I stop for a second, because I'm standing over this guy shuddering and curled up on himself in a little ball, and he's still not even_saying anything_. It's just so fucking strange. I get people who get off on getting hurt, masochists or whatever, but this isn't even that. This isn't a hot thing that makes his cock hard or whatever, this is... I don't even know what this is.
And he still hasn't said the safe word yet.
"Fucking hell," I mutter under my breath, then I kick him again right between the shoulder blades. He gags, weirdly enough. I can feel his muscles spasm as my foot connects, something that gets worse while I'm drawing my foot back until I can see it even with the thick sweater he's bundled up in.
My head is throbbing and my thoughts are racing and flipping back and forth between an odd clarity and pure animal pain so fast they seem to blend together into a single state
This is what I wanted and asked for, the feeling of rubber slamming into the flesh_bone_ fur of my back and sending a shock wave of feeling through my body barely pain because there's so much adrenaline pumping through my veins just shock waves reverberating through me
Hitting_physical_ animal present not being trapped and suppressed in my own mind everything being drawn out of me by the force of those kicks
She hooks a foot around my chest and rolls me onto my back
I'm curled up on myself like a dying insect but I feel like so much more
even being beaten like this I feel more alive than dead
She stomps down on my chest but my arms are in the way, but it still squeezes the life out of me I still feel the weight of her against my bones compressing me I scream a little but it's all strangled and hoarse but it's still more, enough, sound
My face is wet cheek fur, some tears, rest must be blood
I can see where it's dripped onto my sweater darker, deeper shade of red than the rest of the fabric
Everything stinks tastes copper would be overpowering if I could focus on it at all
I feel weak and pitiful and completely fucking impotent but I always feel weak and pitiful and completely fucking impotent but the difference i s
I don't know? It's not mental anymore it's physical I'm being_beaten like an animal_ I don't care anymore I care so much I scream. Tough because I'm a living contradiction all I know if pain that I only half feel, just react to
Foot slams into face cheek flesh mashed into teeth, more blood floods into mouth I whine I yip I scream I cry my body is being ripped apart not like I do to it someone else is doing it I can't I don't I need to have some_control_ I did this so I wouldn't, I control everything avoid whatever I can't but this I just why why _why why why _
"Corduroy."
It's the first word I've heard him say since I threw that first punch, and he says it so soft and meek that I almost miss it. But this isn't the first time I've had to do this kind of thing--maybe not_this_ specifically, but having to listen for a safe word, I mean.They don't always scream 'em.
So I plant my foot back on the ground, aborting the kick I was about to hook into Kris' ribs, and take a step back. Then, I just wait, watching him. See how it is he's reacting.
He stays curled up into a ball for a little while longer, shaking like he's freezing in spite of his thick sweater. His breathing is fast and ragged, hitching with sobs.
He doesn't say anything else, doesn't move at all, and my perception of this guy as a creep is warring with a slight sense of pity. The ad mentioned comforting him afterwards. God. Aftercare is a thing, I've done it plenty of times before. But aftercare implies it's a sex thing, and this isn't. I still have no idea what this is.
While I'm thinking about that, he takes the initiative for once. With a stretch of an arm that quakes under its own weight, he reaches out towards my ankle, fingers splayed wide. He grabs and clutches it with a grip that's surprisingly strong, given what he's just gone through.
He stares up at me silently for a second, eyes bleary with the same steady stream of tears that have soaked his cheeks. Then, he starts letting out the longest, most pitiful wail I've ever heard.
I've beaten up strangers. I've fucked strangers. I've never had to let a stranger cry on my shoulder and give them a pep talk--or cry on my ankle, I guess. It's uncomfortable. But I already took the money.
I lower myself down to my knees next to him, and his fingers stay clamped around my ankle until the moment I touch down onto the floor. Then, he's on me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his face into the side of my jacket like I'm a trusted friend he's known his whole life instead of someone he's known for all of half an hour.
He's still not forming words, but the volume of his now open sobbing reverberates through the material of my jacket and vibrates against my fur. I can feel moisture where his face presses against my body. I hope that it doesn't stain my clothes.
"There there," I mumble, gingerly placing a hand between his shoulder blades--ginger not because I'm worried about aggravating any bruising I might've caused, more because I don't want to touch him, especially not in such a caring, gentle way.
But regardless of my distaste, Kris throws himself into my touch, arching his back so that my hand presses harder against him while simultaneously tightening the grip of his arms around me. If he hadn't already ended things, I'd smack him in the face and pry him off by force. First time I wish that he hadn't said something. Not the last, though, because his crying gives way to coherent speech once again.
"Oh my God, help me. Please, fucking help me. I don't even feel like I'm a person anymore. I talk to people and I can't say anything, the words just won't come out. I'm so fucking inhibited and anxious and hesitant and terrified of interacting with other people that I barely leave my house. The only way I can get any sort of relief is by paying strangers to beat me up, because that pain and adrenaline is the only way for me to get the courage to do literally fucking anything. I can't live like this and I don't want to die alone. Please, God, do something."
Then he just starts wailing again, and I well and truly have no idea what to say to all that. So I just sit there and let him hold me while he cries, caught somewhere between pity and disgust at how cripplingly, painfully awkward this guy is. I wonder how he's managed to live like this, and the answer I come to is that he hasn't; he's just survived.
Kris doesn't say much after that. I don't know what else he_could_ say; he spilled his guts pretty effectively in that one burst. He cries pretty violently for a few more minutes, using me as a snot rag in a way that only the twenty bucks in my pocket allows me to tolerate, and I sit there and offer what little consolation I can stomach giving.
I'm not even that cold a person, this guy is just so out there that I can barely bring myself to comfort him in any way. Everyone's got different problems, and to me, his problems are fucking stupid. As are the way he deals with them. Ever heard of a fucking psychologist, bud? They take your money and listen to your problems, too, only difference being they don't punch you in the face. Or are you too anxious for that, too?
I don't say any of that, though. Just simmer in distaste until his crying dies down to the occasional hiccuping sob, though his arms stay as tight around my waist as ever, like he's afraid I'm gonna leave. Rightfully so, because Jesus, I wanna leave. Go get a drink or have a smoke or do literally anything but sit here with this guy and play amateur therapist.
"I've gotta go in, like, thirty minutes," I say, taking a pointed glance at my watch. Ugh, thirty. Coulda gone lower. Hopefully he gets the gist regardless.
He doesn't do anything at first, and the thought that he might try to take advantage of the full thirty minutes crosses my mind and instantly starts to sour my mood even worse than it already is. Thankfully, he does start moving after a little over a minute, peeling away from me and pushing himself up into a sitting position.
I look down at the side of my jacket. The denim is wet, stained red in some places, slimy with mucus in others. Ugh. It's seen worse, but it's definitely going to need a wash.
Kris is kind of staring off at the wall, legs pulled up close to his chest, not saying anything. I guess he's still trying to deal with stuff. I hope that this means I'll be able to just slip out real easy, but unfortunately, when I push myself up to my feet, he follows suit with a small grunt of either pain or effort. Doesn't say anything, though. Whatever. I turn to the hall and start making my way back over to the front door, and Kris follows behind silently, creepy as ever.
We get there, I open it, I step outside. Before I can shut it behind myself, Kris speaks up again, this time in a surprisingly calm and measured voice. "Bye."
I turn to look at him over my shoulder. The front of his muzzle is caked with dried blood and snot. There's a bit of swelling starting to form on the right side of his face, right under his eye. The fur on his cheeks is spiky where his tears have partially dried into it. Put short, he's a mess.
I can't quite bring myself to scoff. I just shut the door and walk away.