100 different people have requested stories. Some have requested more than one. Some keep requesting. But 100 of them have asked me to write for them. I've tailored fantasies to 100 people. When I realized that last night, it blew my mind.
Today's story isn't about sex. It's about the tease, the dare, the desire. It's an experiment in a lot of ways, and hopefully is interesting, sexy, and mildly disturbing all at the same time.
On the paper
“Do
you know why I prefer knives?” He licks his lips again and brushes the stringy
hair out of his eyes. Those dark pits never leave Diane as she moved around the
paper, snapping pictures whenever the right shot showed itself.
“Because
they’re more up close and personal?” she asked, watching him through her lens,
taking in the lines of his body, the strange angles of his body language. He
has a frantic energy about him, making him look like he was moving even when he
holds perfectly still. It was infectious.
He
smiles, tonguing the scars at either side of his face. “No, no, that’s not it.
Not all of it. You can get up close with a gun.” He steps to the edge of the
paper and makes a gun with his fingers. “You can press it right up against the
forehead, watch that look in their eyes. Get at the truth of them, at who they
really are as people. You don’t need
a knife for that.”
“Then
why?” she asked, dancing back away from his reach, stepping carefully around
the lighting stands and the wires taped to the floor.
“A
knife leaves scars,” he says, caressing the scar on his cheek. “It’s hard to
kill someone with a knife.” He giggles. “Harder than with a gun, anyway.
“But
a knife leaves its mark behind. It stays there forever, a nice reminder of that
time. Of that brush you had with death. Of the intimacy. The sex.”
“Sex?”
She lowered the camera a little bit, confusion writ large on her face. “You
mean rape?”
He
shakes his head, the shaggy hair flowing back and forth. He steps back from the
edge of the paper, puts his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels a
little bit. “No, no, no,” he says, his smile disarming in its charm. “I don’t
like that word.” He licks at his lips, as if tasting something foul. “It
implies a lack of consent.”
“That’s
not an implication,” she reminded him. “It’s the definition.”
“That’s
why I don’t like it,” he says. “Too,” he tastes the air, as if looking for the
right word, “constricting. I don’t like being bound by semantics.” He looks at
her, staring deep into her soul. “You don’t like bondage either, do you?”
“Stay
on the paper,” she said, frowning at him and pointing at his feet.
“I
know the deal,” he says. “I won’t step off the paper. You have to come to me.”
“That’s
not going to happen,” she said. “Not ever.”
“There
you go, making binding statements again,” he claps his hands in front of him,
making her jump. “I thought you didn’t like bondage?”
She
gave him a withering look and then snapped another shot, the camera following
the line down his hands, along his arms, and to the shoulders framing that pale
face.
Then
he smiles and tilts his head to the side, flicks his neck to make the greasy
hair flop out of his vision. “Using a knife is like sex,” he says. “You get to
know each other so well, so close, so tightly.” He inhales sharply, sucking on
his cheeks. “There are a bunch of thrusts, and then the one final push, the one
that makes one of you burst.” A slow blink and another lick of his lips draws
her into the hypnotic tone of his voice. “There’s even bodily fluid. You float
on the chemicals, your body falls away, and you get to see the real person
behind the masks.”
“You
want to talk about masks?” she asked.
He
shakes his head. “Masks show us who we really are. The more you try to hide,
the more I can see you. The camera’s not going to stop me.”
She
looked at his feet, the toes once again just up to the line of the paper, but
still on it. Never crossing the border, never coming close enough to actually
touch her. “It’s the things that keep you safe that make you the most
vulnerable, you know.”
“What
keeps you safe?” she asked.
He
laughs. It’s a high pitched laugh, somehow rippling out of the depths of that
mind, tinting the eyes and baring the teeth of a predator in a human body. “Why
would I want to be safe?” he asks. “Safe is boring.” He shivers at the thought,
and Diane found herself shivering along with him. “Safe is what everyone thinks
they want. But it’s just another form of bondage. You get all tied up in safe,
and you don’t even notice that you aren’t free.”
He
rolls his shoulders and takes a staggered step backwards. She almost followed
him, but stopped herself before hitting the paper. “You don’t want to be bound,
do you?” he asks. “You don’t like bondage.”
“It’s
not the same.”
He
smirks at her, shakes his head a little. “It’s holding you back,” he says. “The
camera. The paper, all of it. Holds you back from what you want.”
“The
paper holds you back,” she said.
He
chuckles. “That’s what I said.”
“But
you’re bound to the paper.”
“Only
by my word,” he says. “Which is as strong as I want it to be.”
“Are
you going to break it?” She took a step back towards the door, ready to dart
away if he made a move.
He
shrugs. “I’m only held here as long as I want to be,” he says. “Only until you
step on to the paper yourself.”
“I’m
not going to do that,” she said, still nervous.
He
laughs and rolls his head, letting his neck crack audibly. “If that were true,”
he says, “we wouldn’t be talking. You’d be gone already.”
“I’m
getting my shots,” she said, lifting the camera again, watching him through the
lens.
“And
yet we keep talking.”
“I
like talking to the people I shoot.”
He
smirks. “So do I,” he says. “It’s about intimacy.”
She
stepped to the side and took a shot pulled tight to his face, along the
jawline. His eyes are turned towards her, still tracking her movement.
“Yeah,”
she said. “I can see the intimacy in this. I’m looking for the inner you, the
real person behind the posturing.”
“That’s
what I do too,” he says, a knife suddenly in his hand. He tosses it back and
forth, letting the lights shine on the blade. “Looking for the innards, the heart
of a person.”
Diane
tried not to follow the knife, not to let him know that he was getting to her
or that she was afraid. But she couldn’t help step a little further away from
the paper.
“Do
you want to know how I got these scars?” he asks, tapping either side of his
lips with the knife. “It’s really a very sweet story.”
“Sure.”
He
stands up a little straighter, adjusts his tie, and rolls up his sleeves. She
took a shot of the corded muscle of his forearms, not even asking where the knife
went.
“It
was when I lost my virginity,” he says. “When I first stained my soul.” He
laughs at that idea. “I had an orgasm like you wouldn’t believe.” He takes a
deep breath, as if pulling all the air out of the room. Diane gasped.
“My
mouth,” he points, “was open so wide, screaming out in pleasure. It was ecstasy
that I can’t quite describe.” He pushes his hair back behind his ears, tucking
it away as his eyes cast back to the memory. “It was like every part of me was
suddenly lashed into harmony, like every broken shard was fit into place so
smoothly,” another deep breath, his voice turning into almost a growl, “so
perfectly that you couldn’t even see where it was broken. You couldn’t see the
flaws. Couldn’t see” he smiles “the scars.
“I
wanted to scream. Wanted to howl at the moon, to yell louder than anyone had
ever yelled before. I wanted to shout my perfection so loud that the gods
themselves would look down to see what all the,” he caresses the word, “ruckus
was about.
“But
I couldn’t scream that loud. Couldn’t get the yell I wanted. I was frustrated.
I lashed out, breaking a mirror.”
“That’s
bad luck,” she said.
“Luck
is chaos,” he says. “It’s not good or bad. It just is.” He stares at her, arms at his sides, fingers twitching like a
gunfighter. “Do you want to hear the end of the story or not?”
“Sorry,”
she says. “Go ahead.
“I
wanted to scream, but couldn’t be loud enough. So I picked up a piece of
mirror,” he mimes the movement, as if clutching the shattered glass in his
hands. Diane could almost smell the blood. “And I cut myself a wider mouth.” He
licks his lips. “The better to scream with, my dear.”
She
found herself licking her own lips, rubbing her cheeks and wondering about what
that must have felt like.
“Have
you ever felt that way?” he asks. “Have you ever wanted to scream so badly,
with so much pleasure, that you were willing to cut your own mouth open to do
it?”
Diane
shook her head.
He
smiles. “Then there’s still something for you to experience,” he says. “There
are still heights of pleasure, depths of passion, that you’ve never even
considered. You haven’t considered it, have you?”
She
shook her head again, the camera lowering, her finger away from the trigger.
He
took a deep breath, ran his hands down his vest, down his legs. He traced his
way back up with agonizing slowness, a gentle caress with so much power in it
that it made Diane’s knees weak.
“There’s
nothing quite like it,” he says. “You have to be free. Completely free. Nothing
hidden, nothing binding. You don’t want to be bound, do you?”
He
steps back, farther from the edge of the paper than he had been since getting
on it. Somehow, while the world framing him disappears into the white of the
paper, he seems to get bigger. “Imagine it,” he says. “That freedom. That
pleasure. Those things to see. Those experiences to have. The things you’ve
never even imagined. Things you couldn’t
imagine.”
“I
can imagine a lot,” she says.
He
smiles again, stretching the scar tissue. “I know,” he says. “And yet there’s
still something holding you back.” He glances down at the edge of the paper. “You
can imagine so much, you can do so much. But there’s more.” He rubs his hands
together, almost greedy. “And there’s only one way to find it. One way to
experience it. One way to completely escape the bondage.”
He
gestures to the edge of the paper.
“You
don’t like bondage, do you?” he says, his voice beckoning.
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