Page 15 of Cry Baby
My fingers twitched at the sight of it. I wanted to play, and I needed to paint.
Paint.
Mistress gestured to Biggie.
“Hold his head down, please.”
I grabbed his hair and forced him straight without hesitation.
He started thrashing immediately, and I held him down harder, putting pressure on the most painful areas of his body until he stopped squirming and his sobs got even louder.
“No. No…no!”
Mistress grabbed my hand and pushed it inside the bag. When she pulled it out, the thick, dark mixture dripped between my fingers.
I counted the drips as they rolled down my wrist.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
“You failed tonight, Cry Baby. You failed me.”
My chest tightened at the anger and disappointment in her voice.
“I’ll do better, Mistress.”
“You will, yes. But you will also be punished for your failure.”
That word bounced in my head like a marble rolling down a stone wall, and I reached up and coated my neck with the mixture, letting it soak into my clothing and drip down my chest.
Cold.
Sticky.
Safe.
“Show me,” she said suddenly, studying my hand and me.
I froze my ritual and met her gaze. Biggie sobbed harder when she laughed and slammed her heel down on the concrete.
“Him. Show me. Not you.”
“Mistress?”
What is she asking of me?
“Use him.”
My pulse picked up, and I felt the cool liquid turn hot at my flush.
“You want…?”
“Paint,” she said simply. “He is a tool. Is he not such a beautiful canvas, Cry Baby? Use him. Make me a masterpiece.”
