Saturday, December 3, 2011

Someone Interesting


Someone interesting walked by.

I could tell they were interesting not by their gait; it was average enough. And it wasn't what they carried; a briefcase was pretty normal in the middle of downtown. Their clothes were business and their air was hurried, all average. But it was something in his eyes, a cold steely resolve, that shook me, that made me wonder who that stare was meant for. Somewhere, in the far recesses of mind my, I wanted those eyes on me.

I imagined his leather gloved hands caressing cold against my hot skin. His teeth scraping against my flesh, tracing lines down my back. His tongue tickling my nipples. His lips on my neck.

I imagined his briefcase full of implements to use on my body. His shot gloves to pound into my frame, rocking me with each blow. A silk kerchief, soft against my body, but merciless when wound around my neck, forbidding my air. Plastic chopsticks, decorative, pretty. He'd wind them in my hair before releasing my locks so he could mark my skin with their stingy blows. And, both his favorite and mine, his knives, a twin set, with intricate patterns inlaid in the metal, foreshadowing the art he'd draw over my body.

I imagined the places he'd steal me away to, secretive hideaways only he knew about. His favorite would be the abandoned club in a seedy neighborhood, where no one dared to venture unless they had more than one gun. Dirty floors, once stained with booze, now christened with dust and age. The back room that used to be the owner's office, with a few old papers strewn here and there, and a broken chair left behind because who gave a fuck in the end.

He'd cuff me to that chair, and stand and wait. Wait for me to react. Wait for me to do something, say something. He loved my reactions when he stole me away, randomly, never when I yearned to feel his hands.

And I'd wait, wait til I could take it no longer. Wait til I had to say something, do something, because I wanted his hands on me, whether in kindness or in spite. I wanted his breath on my skin, his scent about me, his...his... I just wanted him, needed him, now.

And he'd smile when I finally broke. Smile because he knew he'd already won. Smile because that was the start of the real fun: the screams, the pain, the panting, and the eventual fucking.

God, the fucking. Dirty, rough, closer to animal savagery than love making. Often, he ripped off my clothes, threw me about, and thrust with the same passion as his previous punches. I always, always screamed. And I always, always came. Multiple times. He'd pull my hair, scratch my back, wrench my breasts, and choke me, his lips next to my ear. I'd hear him breathing heavy as I patiently waited for him to return my air.

We'd be dusty, sweaty, scraped up messes after. He'd always pack a change of clothes so I could go back to work. Or continue my errands. Or go visit my friends.

And I'd go back to waiting til the next time he'd grab me. The next time I'd be caught in his stare. The next time we'd be sweaty, on the floor, panting from exhaustion.

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