Raw Ginger. Poison Apple. Silver Scalpel. continued
I'm ready now. I open the door and your body greets me - naked and beautiful and intimidating. You want me on my knees on the floor. Your hands pin my hands to the ground and you growl that I'm not allowed to touch you. I love it when you growl into my ears. You bite my neck and thrust into me, hard. It hurts and I whimper as you growl. I want to touch you, but I'm not allowed. Your long hair is sweeping across my back and you're chewing on my neck as you fuck me. You're hurting me just enough. Then suddenly, you pause. You stop growling and hiss into my ear that we're going to move to the bed now. You slowly withdraw, help me to my feet, and lead me by the hand to the bed. You sit me down on the edge of it. My legs dangle down without touching the floor and I feel like a little girl. As a little girl, I stole a thick hardback book from the church library. It was a book about the lives of saints. A hard cover of pastel stripes in lavender and pink like Easter eggs. Inside, the lives and deaths of saints and martyrs. The female saints were almost always tortured. Explicit details of boiling cauldrons and floggings and draggings through the street naked. All she had to do was kiss his false idol but she kept refusing, resolute in her faith. She was tortured and she died and she came back to life just to be subjected to another bloody torture scene. She was drawn & quartered explicitly. All she had to do was worship his false god, but instead she kept bleeding. Stigmata, ecstatic nosebleed, the rapture. I absorbed myself in these scenes in private. I felt like I was reading a dirty novel. The musty smell of an old story. The yellowed and blood-drenched pages. If it ever had a Technicolour book jacket, someone had ripped it off long ago. But the text offered up enough imagery and I furtively digested each chapter again and again. Saint Lucy had no eyes. Served up on silver platters. Wondering what's steaming under those heavy lids. In her coffin, she could have been a fairy tale, if it wasn't for the silver mask. A sharp edge. A metallic taste in the back of my throat. Her sacrifice, her sockets, her gaping holes. You spread my legs apart. My eyes are closed. You felt
mean, almost bestial, when we were on the floor. When I was down on my hands & knees and couldn't see or touch you. My knees hurt like I've been doing too much kneeling in church. I hear organ music. I smell incense masking the scent of something taboo. When I think of a chalice, I think of a stain spreading. When I think of hosts, I think of parasites. I think of vampires who know just the right seductive words to transform the pain into euphoria. Until they're gone. Then I just feel drained. You're talking to me seductively and softly. You've always been able to talk me into anything. You're tenderly caressing my sore neck. You spead my legs apart a little farther and softly kiss me back into the bed.
"I liked what you were doing before," you whisper. "I really enjoyed watching you get yourself off in front of me. That excited me. But I think we both know I can do it better. I want to taste you. I want to feel you coming right against my lips. Then, right after you come for me, I'm going to make love to you and maybe you'll even be allowed to touch me." As you're talking to me, you're rubbing my feet. You pause to kiss each toe and then you slide your hands slowly up my legs. With your fingers pressing into my thighs, you again look into my eyes with your strangely hypnotic gaze. You continue talking to me. "Don't ask me to stop because I won't. Not even if you beg. I think you're really going to enjoy this, but I know how sometimes you get scared if something feels too good. You don't like to lose control, do you? But you're just going to have to surrender and trust me, because I'm not going to stop." One fingertip is gently massaging my clitoris and I feel like I'm sinking into something that has no top or bottom. "I might slow down if you ask me nicely. But you'd better say it sweetly because if you put up a fight, then I'll just have to tie you up. I'll just have to stick my tongue in your mouth to keep you quiet. Anyway, I know what you like, don't I? You like contrasts. You like it soft then hard. You like it gentle then you want me to fuck that tight pussy of yours until you can hardly stand it anymore and I still won't stop." I feel excited, yet vulnerable. I feel like you're a threat. Like you're a temptation I haven't been able to resist yet. I grasp one of your hands as your other hand's fingers and then your tongue probe expertly between my thighs. I close my eyes and hold onto your hand and sink back into the pillows, allowing myself to moan. Allowing myself to give in to the building sensation one more time. It's like waves when I come and you bite the inside of my thigh. You shift me onto the bed and position yourself above me, holding my arms down against the pillows. You slip into me easily, deeply. This time, you're moving slowly, sliding all the way into me. I know my cunt is hot and wet and throbbing and I want you inside me even deeper and I'm tilting my hips off the bed to get as close to you as I can. "Please let me touch you now," I whisper and you release my hands and slide your hands under my ass. I love the way your spine feels - the honed blades of your shoulders - your flat, smooth stomach - your delineated ribcage. Your long, wavy hair serpentine between my fingers. I grab handfuls and pull it until you gasp. I scratch my fingernails down your back. I suck on your tongue like it's my favourite flavour of candy. Raw ginger. Poison apple. Silver scalpel.
Now I want to be on top so I can look down at you - so I can kiss your lips as I slide down - so I can see your shiny hair all spread out across the pillows. Glimmering. Undulating. Throbbing. I want you to tell me when you're going to come so I can wrap my lips around your cock as you pulse into my mouth. I'll swallow every hot drop. I'm already licking the sweat off your chest in anticipation. And before I leave, I'm going to draw some fucking blood. Remember that table you left me on? In an abandoned warehouse setting. In your depraved fantasy that used to include me. The smell of rusty equipment permeated the air. You thought it would turn me on and you were right. I'd told you before I sometimes fantasized about the merciless rhythm of machinery. Circular saw blades, hot metal, gleaming edges, pistons pumping with assembly line precision. You positioned me on a table with a circular saw blade at the top of my peripheral vision. I reached up and grabbed the serrated points. Remember how the tips of my fingers bled and you smeared it all over your chest like a primal tattoo? But it washed off, didn't it? My imprint disappeared and left you clean and left you free and you escaped. Now it's just these hotel room liaisons. The cruel rhythm of time driving them farther and farther apart. I let you spread my legs farther and farther apart until I feel a ripping sensation. I let you tear me up, but this time I plan to leave a scar. A tattoo you can't forget. Every time you look at yourself naked in the mirror, you'll see my teeth above your heart.
Black angel wings lit up with blue flame. Binder clips. Messy maroon. My tongue tinged with repulsion like the flavour of my favourite poisonous candy. It's hard shards when it shatters. I swallow. You gasp. I'll turn you into an obscene saint, but first I have to torture you. At first, my aromatic, stained glass words will mask the pain. Eventually, the pane will break and we'll step through the warped frame. Eventually, just the faintest taste of rust will remain.