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‘FIGHT LIKE A GIRL’ – ZOLITA
KOOKABURRA
It takes well over a fortnight for me to fully heal, though there’s nothing to be done about the burn scar on my arm. The wordslutis still ugly and purple and raised and angry. Almost as angry as I am about it. I guess I can forgive myself for not realising what Snow was doing when he took that blowtorch to my flesh at the time, but I feel sick every time I catch sight of it. Mostly with myself for not doing something to stop him.
Thankfully the weather has turned, and I can wear long sleeves now.
Aside from the hideous burn, I’ve spent the best part of the last two weeks horny as fuck and masterbating furiously. If it were an Olympic sport, I’d have more gold medals than Michael Phelps.
Those piercings have done something to me. It’s like they’ve pierced my skin and injected a drug into my bloodstream, rather than just marring me with beautiful bolts of metal. I’ve always been autosexual, but now it’s like that’s increased a hundredfold. I’ve looked at my swollen clit, pierced through with the matte black ring, so many times in the past two weeks that I’ve lost count. I’m perversely proud of how it looks and feels. The ball on the ring adds a delicious weight that keeps me in a constant state of arousal. I’ve prodded it while masturbating, once even turning the toy inside me to hit the ring. I can’t stop watching myself in the mirror, touching myself in the shower, stretching my pussy with every household object I can get my damn hands on. I’m like a woman possessed. I don’t know how I still have the energy.
Each morning my pussy is even more sensitive than the previous day. I even think my clit is bigger and more pronounced. Like a cat, I have to spend at least half an hour purring on my vibrator just to be able to function.
But with no one coming to collect me for therapy sessions, and having my meals suddenly delivered to my room, there’s little else to do but play with myself to alleviate the boredom. There’s been occasional knocks on my door, but I’ve ignored them and they’ve soon gone away and given up. Which suits me just fine.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened. About what they did to me. And about what I did with Honey. The burn aside, it was all fucking hot and I’ve never masturbated this much in my life. My actions are completely involuntary; I’m a slave to my own body.
My pussy throbs and pulses on my toy, then flames white-hot. My vision seizes and I see spots. The stimulation must be too much for my brain to handle. I’m deaf and mute and blind. I forget to breathe. For a moment, it feels like I’m dying. I’m going crazy.
Well, crazier than I already am.
In an instant I regain my senses and collapse on the bed. It’s like my body has been slammed into a brick wall. I roll over, panting, and realise that something has to give.
I need to get laid.
And the only way that’s going to happen is if I stop licking my wounds and face the music. It’s time to rejoin the others out in the real world of the facility, and hopefully then I can tempt them back into bed with me.
I manage to keep my hands to myself long enough to take a shower, get dressed, and change my bed. It fucking stank.
My whole room is a shithole, and white-hot anger surges through me when I remember that it’s not just in this state because I’ve done nothing but continuously orgasm for the last fourteen days, but because some fucker trashed it while I was being tortured at the hands of six psychopaths.
Satan.
I fucking hate the bitch. How dare she send me on a mission, blind, and not inform me of the expectations. She set me up to fail, probably so that she could both use the shock chip and punish me afterwards. I don’t care what Night said about there being bigger forces at play – that bitch has it in for me, and she did this on purpose.
Using my fury as fortifying armour, I pull my shoulders back, lift my head up high, and storm out of my room like I’m heading into battle.
I bypass the dining room and various therapy rooms I’m still yet to explore, becoming more and more frustrated as I stomp my way through the winding corridors, unable to find my target: Satan’s office.
By the time Idofind it – having passed it twice already – I’m a hot, sweaty ball of rage. I raise my hand and hammer on the door with force, all whilst wishing it was my fist slamming into Satan’s face.
“Enter.”
Even her voice grates on me. It’s like nails scraping down a blackboard. I shove the door open and march into her office. She doesn’t look surprised to see me, glancing up from her computer to stare at me over the top of her winged spectacles. She raises a brow at me before sitting up straight and clasping her hands together on the desktop.
Everything about her, from her body language, to her chintzy clothes and her smug, insufferable expression, is fuel to the flames of my temper.
“Ah, Miss Kingfisher, you’ve finally found your way out of your room, I see.”
I ignore her sarcastic jibe, even though her words curl my fingers into fists, the nails digging into my palms.
“What the fuck is going on?” I spit.
Her expression is falsely sympathetic. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Kingfisher.”
“Yes. You. Do.” I force the words through my gritted teeth as I take a step closer to her desk with each one. “Why are we chipped like fucking dogs?”
“Well, we couldn’t have you running around in public without reassurances and safety measures in place now, could we?”
