The only items in your basket are a few microwave dinners and a half liter of soda. It would take seconds to process through an express lane, or simply scan them yourself, but there’s only one checkout line staffed at this hour. Begrudgingly, you queue up behind an elderly man with a full cart of preserves and bagged vegetables, the latter all without barcodes. It always takes him a minute or two to notice the person in front of him has moved forward.
When the lines empties you in front of the woman working the register, you no longer have the wherewithal for a courtesy smile, but, fittingly, neither does she.
You pull out your wallet and a sharp pain stabs through your gut. The shock forces a small wheeze from your mouth and drops your wallet to the floor, spewing loose change from the leather folds across the yellowing tile. A white-haired girl with curious diamond-molded hair clips frees her fist from your stomach and silently slides in front of you, a hum on her lips.
Did she just…punch you? It’s difficult to associate such an act with someone so demure in appearance, but you see no other explanation.
You lean down to pick up your scattered belongings, grunting and cursing under your breath, and address her directly on the way up. A heavy soak of anger carries your tone as you tell her to get to the back of the line.
Instantly, as though artificially produced, tears roll down her cheeks and seep into the sleeves of her cherry red hoodie. “M-mister? I’m just here to buy my snacks…” The quivering in her soft voice is an expertly tuned touch.
Hushed, chiding murmurs bubble up from behind you. You look back into a sea of judging eyes from all ages, some angry, some disgusted, most simply impatient. The cashier crosses her arms.
You shrink back and lower your head, mumbling something to the effect of “My mistake” or “It’s been a long day”. You glimpse your assailant slip into a wide, mocking grin, and she flips you off below the counter. She brings her haul to the counter.
The girl’s grocery list is a hedonistic pile of sweets and salt: chocolate bars, potato chips of seven different varieties, and piles of colorful dessert cakes. You quickly find yourself less annoyed with her sucker punch and more so with the fact that you have to wait for another person to checkout before you can finally head home and eat dinner. Certain circumstances kept you from breakfast and lunch today, so your stomach is excruciatingly empty.
The girl packs up her goods and points back at you, exclaiming “Oh yeah, that mister is paying for my snacks!” before rushing out the door. The sharp bell of the glass door sliding shut leaves you befuddled and frozen in place. It’s clear the cashier isn’t interested in whatever rebuttal you had planned.
You eye the sum on the register and silently meter out crinkled bills and handfuls of change from your pocket. The stranger’s debt is covered, but she’s left you unable to pay for anything over twenty cents. With a pained smile, you leave your items on the counter, apologize, and walk away.
Shortly after leaving the store, you begin trailing the girl outside and maintain a reasonable distance. It's easy to keep up with her short legs and the weather of early spring is well suited for a walk, if a bit warm with no clouds to dampen the heat. The tight clusters of apartments and convenience stores soon give way to lonely wind-swept fields as the two of you venture into the city's outskirts. She settles down in a grassy patch beneath an overpass, grasshoppers and cicadas scattering from her intrusion, and takes out her haul, gleefully unwrapping the first of many candy bars. She’s mid bite when she notices your hulking form, sweaty and disheveled, approaching from the brush.
Surprise flashes across her face for a moment, but she quickly composes herself. That familiar self-assured smirk spreads across her lips. “Oh, hey, gramps. Did you really follow me all the way out here? That’s so creepy~!” She jumps to her feet and saunters over to you, tail swishing back and forth beneath her oversized hoodie like a playful cat. “What? Nothin’ to say? You walked across town just to stare at me?”
Admittedly, it’s not like you have a speech prepared for this or anything. Further, you weren’t even sure what you wanted from her at this juncture. The money she indirectly stole from you, you suppose. Or at least an apology. You dab your slick forehead with a handkerchief and explain, perhaps with too much intimacy, your recent financial troubles and budgeting problems. How, just hours prior, your boss called you into his office and fired you on the spot for poor performance. How your bank account was so wanting that her little trick had left you near penniless and, at least for tonight, dinnerless.
The girl brings a hand to her mouth, as if stifling a cough, before doubling over in laughter. “Are you serious? That’s so lame! What kind of adult can’t even afford a couple candy bars?” She points at your face and loses herself in another laughing fit. “Y’know, I was wondering why you didn’t just ask your girlfriend for a few bucks, but that’s a stupid question, right? You look like the kind of guy that hasn’t talked to a girl since grade school! At least you spared them from looking at that disgusting pig face!”
Your throat hitches. Mockery wasn’t especially novel to you, not at any point in your life, but this was coming from someone far younger than you. And a stranger at that!
Well, almost a stranger. You had seen her zipping around your complex before, though never with enough interaction to galvanize any kind of rapport. “Gawr” was her name, if you recall correctly, an obnoxious runt that resided two floors down and churned out noise complaints in the gray hours of the morning with almost professional consistency. For lack of a more nuanced label, she was a brat, and hopelessly immature for an adult woman. You’re not sure what incredible financial or social support network enabled Gawr to avoid acting her age, but the answer was never that consequential to your daily life.
You straighten your tie and insist, sternly, that she return what was stolen, alongside an apology. The building adrenaline from this confrontation cracks your voice and removes any semblance of authority.
Gawr just sneers. She tilts her head back and hocks a splatter of salvia and masticated chocolate on the breast pocket of your button down.
More work for the dry cleaners.
More money you didn’t have.
Something akin to fury is clouding your vision now and pulling your fingers into a tight fist. You never understood how easy it was to find yourself in these scenarios, bullied and lambasted as though your existence was the most immediate joke in the room. All you ever wanted was a stable job and a few hours to yourself on nights and weekends– why did everyone around you insist on antagonizing you? Why did the last few decades bring nothing but stress and misery?
A long buried well of emotional trauma had been dredged up and poured over your being. You slam your briefcase to the ground, the dull silver locks popping open and spilling sheets of useless client-facing garbage to the ground. Raising your voice to a volume unused since early adolescence, you shout and demand she pays you back, the tendons in your neck straining from the effort. Confrontation on this level is completely alien to you, and your heaving chest combined with your wild stare looks more frazzled than intimidating.
A warm breeze funnels through the overpass. Gawr measures your words and her smug grin grows even larger. She spins on her heels and bends over, proudly displaying her tight, bubbly backside covered in the thinnest pair of spats you’d ever seen. The contours of her plump cheeks and sex are laid explicitly bare, as though she was wearing body paint. Wagging her tail to the side, she lays three quick slaps on her right butt cheek and calls your bluff. “Or what, loser? You want an apology so bad, then come and get it!”
Whatever threads of self-control were governing your body snaps. You stride forward, eyes fixated on the precocious, teasing brat, and loosen your tie. Your broad shadow soon eclipses hers, spanning twice the width, and the difference in size between the two of you is ominously clear now that you’re so close; she barely comes up to your sternum.
“W-what? Get away from me, freak!” For the first time, Gawr’s voice is shaken, gripped with the understanding that she’s pushed her target too far. “We both know you’re not gonna do anything, so just shuffle back to your mom’s basement and jack off in the cor-”
Your fist explodes into Gawr’s stomach, right above the navel. She was completely unprepared for physical assault, her abdominals relaxed and soft, allowing your opening strike to bury a good inch into her supple flesh before meeting resistance and lifting her sneakers off the ground. She hacks clear bile onto your sleeve and doubles over in teary-eyed agony. You grasp the top of her skull, tufts of red-streaked hair sticking out between your fingers like sidewalk-sprouting weeds, and violently jerk her head back. Her gaze meets yours. Finally, the condescending luster in those scarlet eyes is gone, replaced by frantic, primal fear. She’s terrified, and with good reason.
Her hands slowly rise, palms facing you, in an unmistakable display of surrender. Gawr’s lips tremble and attempt to eke out an apology with the same grating, saccharine tone she used to humiliate you earlier. “I-I’m sowwy, mister, I was just joking!”
Still holding her hair, you reel back and deliver another heavy body blow to the same patch of skin, twisting your fist on impact to further ravage her poorly unguarded viscera. She retches again and mewls in pain– soft, squeaky noises like a wounded field mouse. Over and over, you tenderize her stomach with your fists, gaining speed and power and terrible aggression, feeding all the misery she forced upon you into crafting an even stronger blow. The sound of flesh impacting flesh soon drowns out the chirping ambiance of the natural world.
The final two strikes are especially brutal, and Gawr loses control of her lower body’s autonomy as warm spots of piss bloom within her spats and trickle down her inner thighs. The physical trauma overloads her pain receptors and her legs give out completely, dropping Gawr to her knees. For a moment, she simply kneels there, suspended largely by the roots of her hair entangled in your fist, her shellshocked lungs failing to process anything more than shallow wheezing gasps of air.
Dismissively, you toss her to the ground. Sprawled on her back, still struggling to breathe, Gawr attempts to scutter away from your advance. The clink of your belt buckle draws her attention, and she shakes her head from side to side as your pants and underwear fall to your ankles.
“S-stop!” she cries, her eyes wild and intensely afraid. “I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!”
You kneel down and loom over her small body. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and her soiled undergarments. Your hand reaches down below her hoodie and roughly yanks down her spats, the seams almost tearing apart from your impatience.
Gawr’s sobbing now, her hands beating pointlessly against the broad mass of your chest. “Wait! Wait! Please don’t d-”
Her pleas come to an abrupt end as your meaty hands clamp down around her throat. Her mouth is still moving, still trying to vocalize her suffering, but no sound escapes past her lips save for a muted whine that barely vibrates your wrists. Knowing how frail she is only emboldens your aggression. Your hands grip tighter, then tighter still, and push into her neck until your knuckles bleed white and cool blades of grass press against your fingers from below. Her face is losing its color as small bubbles of spit foam over the edges of her noiseless mouth. Twin streams of hot tears run down the back of your hands.
The head of your painfully erect cock presses against her tiny slit, teasing, prodding, and twitching with slippery layers of pre cum. Without warning or hesitation, you ram forward, splitting her plump outer lips and barreling through her core with a single, savage thrust. Gawr’s eyes strain in their sockets and she finds new strength to beat and claw at the corded muscles of your forearms. Your grip never falters. Your hips pull back, Gawr’s tight, wet pussy seemingly loath to let you go, before plunging back in and shunting her entire frame backward with your body weight. Despite the warm sopping ecstasy smothering your lower half, most of your attention remains focused on Gawr’s face, watching each layer of abrasive haughtiness peel away and shatter beneath your brutal thrusts. By the end of this, the brat that assaulted and extorted you earlier today would no longer exist.
In due time, you feel the climax approaching. Leaning forward, you redouble your efforts, rutting her like an animal in heat, and squeeze Gawr’s throat until you can feel her jugular thumping powerfully in the crook of your hands. Right as her eyes roll back into ghostly white orbs, your heavy balls clench up and pump rope after rope of grotesquely thick cum into Gawr’s abused cunt. Her small body twitches and flails against yours, trying to physically reject your load, but you remain firmly hilted to the base until the end. Excess amounts spurt out from her overstuffed sex and onto your thighs in warm, sticky pools.
You retain your grip on Gawr’s neck for a while longer, drinking in her anguish, and rhythmically tensing your digits to further wring her throat. The gurgling noises she’s making are hard to identify as human. When you finally let go, deep purple bruises contorted to the shape of your palms and fingers remain plastered to her pale skin like a washed out tattoo. You pull out of her leaking sex, spilling more creamy loads into the grass, and stand over her broken, convulsing form.
Her eyes then flutter to life, blinking into the sun while her internal systems reboot. She slowly flips to her stomach and begins, pathetically, crawling away from you while phlegmy groans of agony trail out of her mouth. There’s barely any strength left in her limbs, so most of her progress is made by wriggling her torso through the dirt like a trampled snake.
No, you think, not yet.
You bend down and clutch the rough girth of Gawr’s tail just below the second dorsal fin. With excruciating slowness, you drag her back, one step at a time, back below the shadowed overpass.
“N-no! No! Help! Somebody, p-please help me!” Her sneakers drag and kick into the loamy earth, jiggling her soft, bare cheeks and pelting you with small clods of grass-topped soil. You barely notice.
Whatever your intentions were when you first approached her were irrelevant now. Gawr was, in your eyes, nothing more than an outlet for your anger, and there remained many decades of frustration to work through.