Home » Classification » Bets and Dares » The Cocky Bitch (Part 1)

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You probably thought it was a good bet at first. You probably thought you wouldn’t lose.

Yeah. You were always a cocky bitch like that.

As long as I’ve known you, all through school, you’ve always been a prissy, shallow, know-it-all bitch, always self-absorbed and self-important. Squad leader of the JV cheerleaders, and head cheerleader your senior year; prom and homecoming queen. Always ahead of the fashionista curve, the ice queen paradigm of young adult style.

It was amazing how popular you were, amazing that you could be so popular and so callous at the same time. You were as catty with your cadre of yes-girls as you were with the rednecks, the geeks, the spooky kids. I remember hearing how you made some new girl cry in the middle of class once because she was still wearing a tapestry vest and a cold-shoulder bodysuit years after you’d decided they were “out.” I remember hearing about how she ran out of the room and cried in the bathroom. I remember a friend of mine telling me you laughed.

You probably don’t even remember what you did to me. Pity, too, because that’s ultimately what lead you to your fate. Funny how it always seems to be the little things we forget that come back to destroy us in the most painful ways. Well, I think it’s funny. I’m sure you’re not inclined to laugh just now.

I suppose it’s fair that you know, though. It wasn’t really any one specific thing; I heard all your snotty comments about my long hair and nails, my black clothes, that old Lincoln I drive instead of a more youthful sports car. Hell, that “corpsefucker” joke is even funny today. That’s some of it, sure. Some of it also had to do with you seducing and fucking that guy, as a reward for him beating my ass that day in the parking lot, all because I confessed that I had a crush on you. I bet you forgot about that, didn’t you?

I didn’t.

Really, though, it’s for me and all the other people you socially tortured, for as long as I’ve known you. Yeah, I had my own reasons, but every time I heard of you doing something new to someone else, some new cruelty, it just added more fuel to my fire, gave me more reasons to do this.

Yeah, I’ve been saving this up a long time. You should be flattered.

It took a long time to arrange things this way. Being a trust-fund kid helped, gave me money and connections. That was easy. But making you trust me, making you think I’d forgotten all those things you said, all those things you did, letting you use me for all those years and God knows how many homework assignments and term papers, that was difficult. I had to swallow a lot of gall and a lot of pride, and I had to put on my most convincing act, all to make you think I liked you. All to make you think that I was just another dumb, horny guy you could abuse and manipulate.

You stupid cunt. I can’t believe you fell for it. And I see by your freshened tears that you can’t believe it, either. I assure you, though, it’s quite true.

The party was just the stage, just another weapon to use against you, a location and an audience for my revenge. Being held back that one year meant I had this great loft all ready by graduation time, and having money and connections to throw around meant I could get all the alcohol and supplies a proper graduation party would need. And of course, keeping tabs on you had garnered me some friends who were happy to show up. I’m sure they were all fairly surprised when you showed up, too.

The champagne cost me a pretty penny. I figured it would; Cristal is expensive stuff, but it is the best. How better to seduce you, than by making you think I was indulging your vanity? How better to get you liquored up, to get you to the point when you’d make the bet in the first place? I knew your ego was your weakness. I figured I could make it your undoing.

You probably didn’t even notice when I started those silly bets and things. Had you studied your physics, you’d have known it doesn’t take much effort to hold a person down in a chair with one finger. It’s simply a function of leverage. And you were pretty surprised when I held Josh the Football Stud down in my Laz-e-Boy with nothing but one clawed finger. You were so drunk by that point you weren’t even paying attention. I even let you think you were secure by losing a few bets on purpose, just to make you think there wasn’t anything special going on.

But I’ve got all the leverage over you now, don’t I?

Who was it that made the stakes of that last bet, was it you? The Zippo lighter trick from “Four Rooms,” I remember that much. It was you, wasn’t it? Isn’t that nice that you offered yourself up as collateral for the bet? “You can do anything you want to me, and I’ll be your slave for a week, if you can light that lighter ten times in a row.” That’s what you said. I almost laughed out loud right then, but that would’ve scared you off.

Since you’ve lost, I can tell you how I did it. Did you know that the Zippo lighter, especially a freshly-filled one, has a gas-bubble in it that can prevent it from lighting on the first strike, and that if you shake it once before you strike it, that gas bubble pops? No, I can see that you don’t. If you had, you wouldn’t have put yourself on the line. If you had, you probably would’ve noticed me shaking it once each time I went to light it.

Clink, flick, flame, clink, flick, flame, over and over. Your eyes got bigger and bigger as I did it again, and again, and again. Five times, six, seven..I knew I had you then, and I even slowed down a bit, just to drive the message home. Eight. Nine. Ten.

You don’t know how priceless you looked standing there with your mouth open, eyes wide, staring at me. The realization slowly sinking in that I owned you now for 7 days, all because of a stupid bet. A stupid bet like a bad check your mouth had written, and now your ass would have to cash. You just stood there like a shell-shocked cow. I knew what I was going to do to you. I’ve known for years. I’ve been planning this very carefully. And I was so glad that your “friends” were there to witness it all. I’m sure they’ll remember it for years to come.

When was it that you were first afraid? Was it when you saw that last little flicker of flame, or was it when I ratcheted those handcuffs closed over your wrists behind you? I don’t suppose it matters now. I had you either way.

Your clothes had to go first. I saw the look in your eyes when I pulled out the scissors and started cutting through your halter top, that cold metal running up along your belly, up between your tits, slicing the material in slow, ragged chops. The skirt was easy, thin, and short. I remember how you jerked when I simply tore it in half from the back and let it fall. You wanted to run, I know you did. But somehow your pride held you there.either that, or you just knew there was no escape.

Your bra followed. Remember the care I took in slicing each bra strap, teasing the edge of the scissors along your shoulders before I cut, making you shudder? I’d always wanted to get a look at your tits, and I was enjoying the knowledge that you’d give me that pleasure, and more. It looked expensive too; Victoria’s Secret, perhaps? Had you been planning to give your boyfriend a little peepshow later on? I’d like to see you try that now. But I got my wish early as I slowly and deliberately cut each cup out of your bra, letting your tits hang out before shredding the garment away from you.

I remember some of your yes-girls shaking their heads, not sure of what was happening. But I also saw how they held their tongues. I guess they thought you deserved whatever was coming. Maybe that’s why they were so eager as things went on. Maybe that’s why they said all those horrible things to you as we went, later. I just remember them being as shell-shocked as you were when I yanked off that little thong and left you naked in my living room.

The guys, of course, loved it immediately. Guys are easy like that, as you well know. And here they were, getting an eyeful of one of the hottest,
but most unattainable bitches in school. Remember how they hooted and hollered at your helplessly naked flesh? They all got a good view when I made you get up on my coffee table and model your skin for us. I could see your skin crawling when I said they could touch you. I remember you closing your eyes when their fingers made contact, caressing you, fumbling at you, squeezing your ass, twisting your nipples, massaging your cunt. A piece of meat on display in a butcher shop window.

You didn’t know it then, but you certainly know it now. I didn’t just want to enjoy you. I didn’t just want to embarrass you. I wanted to humiliate and destroy you. First your clothes, then your identity, and then your humanity. I wanted to desecrate every inch of you. Which, of course, is what lead to your hair.

Ahh, yes, that wonderful hair of yours. Piles and piles of long red curls, the envy of every girl at school. Always so carefully styled, and always a symbol of your sexual and social strength and power, the way you’d toy with it when talking to a guy you could use, or would toss it proudly when you made some particularly scathing comment, the way it would fall down past your shoulders in ruddy waves as you laughed. Do you understand now why I did what I did?

I’d always loved your hair. It was one of the first things that drew me to you. And since that was in itself a symbol of your oppression, I had to destroy it to destroy you.

I think you about screamed when I cut off that first little curl from the end, letting it just fall down your exposed body and land on the table. I was in real danger of loosing the crowd, then. Some of the guys blinked quietly, and some of the girls protested that I’d gone too far. But I knew that they wanted this, wanted you to be degraded, and it was only their long-term fear of you, the loyalty you brainwashed into them despite your petty abuses, that made them ask me to stop. I silenced them with another snip, this time a little longer. Did that tendril of hair tickle as it fell down your back, or were you too wounded inside to speak?

If I was going to ruin it, I had to do it in stages. I couldn’t just lop it all off right away. I had to make you aware that I was hacking up each lock, then chopping it out, leaving uneven tufts here and there, bald patches and painfully lonely curls left untouched. And you were crying, and that was so precious! I think you knew then, in your mind, that I was out to ruin you.

But I think you felt some relief when I stopped for a moment, and made you turn around so the others could see the wreckage I’d made of the back of your head. You couldn’t see yet, sure, but you sure could feel the unfamiliar sensation of air on the back of your head. And you saw the looks on everyone’s faces when you turned back around, the shock and horror, and in some cases, the naked shadenfreude of it. That’s how I hooked the crowd.

That’s why the girls started up with their cackling, their cat-calls. It broke their silence. Mousy brunettes and dishwater blondes, thin hair, sometimes frizzy. They never felt like they could compete. Remember how Jean screamed in joy when she realized, out loud, that even her baby-shit brown, limp-noodle hair would attract men, now that yours was a wreck, and how everyone laughed out loud when Amber said that you wouldn’t have anything to pin your prom queen crown to now? Well, everyone laughed but you, of course. You looked down and saw the pile of pretty red curls scattered across the top of the coffee table. I heard your tear hit the table, too.

I made you kneel then, remember? So I could get the top. Snip snip, chop chop, cut cut. I was humming along with myself like the Marquis in “Quills” as I worked my torture on you. Those little tufts looked so pathetic sticking up at weirdly-hewn angles from the top of your head, and I told you so. Remember? That long, almost bare furrow gouged out of your scalp between the two unmolested sides, and framed by the front. I’m sure you haven’t seen “The Name of the Rose,” so you probably don’t get the historical significance of that particular humility. It was your pride that got you into this, you dumb whore, and now your pride is scattered all over my living room. HA HA HA!

I remember how you cried as I kept cutting, wrecking years of growth and beauty and attention. I loved it. I was in heaven as I made first bangs, then a bald spot at the crown of your head, how I chopped and hacked at your temples. Every whimper, every protest, every plea, every tear, I drank them all in. And so did everyone else. How the mighty were falling! And of course, it was only the beginning of the exquisite indignity.

I bet you thought you were prepared to face yourself in the mirror when I had it uncovered. You probably thought that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, and that you could salvage it, maybe have your stylist smooth it out a little and make it into a new fashion. Those hopes were sure dashed when you saw yourself in the mirror, your face framed by those absurd little cowlicks of hair, like a chemo victim. Your cry of anguish was priceless. I’m glad I recorded it for later. It certainly made us all laugh.

And yet, there was still much more to do. That’s when I went for the clippers.

When you saw them, do you even remember babbling, “Oh no, oh no, oh no” over and over again? Did you think I was just going to go straight to finishing your head off then? You certainly screamed loud enough when I grabbed your face and sheared your eyebrow off.

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