masochism

Thirteen Idolized Man

The lights, the lights, like mother’s love burn through retina and numb the brain. Drink them in, precious boy. Screams of adoration oppress and uplift, confusing like family’s comforting reassurance. Float, young man.

Man drops his key card on the table inside the door of his hotel suite, his music echoes in his ears. He turns to his chosen one and bends to press his mouth against hers. His desire radiates heat through his body. His chosen leaps up, legs around his waist, her sweet scent reaches his taste buds. Man carries her to the bed. She knows what he wants. She has been his before.

“The sword is beside the bed,” man says.

Man lays back and his chosen slides from his lap to retrieve the katana he occasionally uses, like a benediction, to shave his face. She hands it to him and with a smile and a shink! he unsheathes the weapon. He drops the scabbard to the floor and rests the sword on the bed above his head while she undresses him.

“Do you love me as I love you?” man asks.

“More,” his chosen whispers.

She crawls up his body to take the weapon.

Man closes his eyes. The lights and the roar of the crowd pierce his memory as he hungrily anticipates the inspiration of a fresh scar.

For part fourteen, click here.

Ten Grown Boy

Screaming neon bathes the room in hues of blue, but red abducts the breath. Lay down, young man. Torturous pleasure soothes Ego where she hides. Take it, tempered boy.

Man stands at the end of the bed, contemplating the sensuous mound beneath the white cotton sheet and draws with finality on his cigarette. He watches as she rolls over through the cloud of his exhalation. He readies silken crimson scarves, tying one to each of the four posts.

“What do you do for a living?” man asks unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

She laughs a dark, wicked divulgence and rises to her knees, facing him.

“I’m a nurse,” she says. “I help people to heal.”

Man grunts, deep in his throat. He inhales her naked refinement with his eyes.

“What happened here?” she asks, placing her fingertips delicately upon the hollow where his collarbone should be.

“It doesn’t matter,” man says.

He strips his shirt from each of his wrists and goes next for the buttons of his fly. He watches her watch him, her gaze steady, unfaltering, settled solely on his flesh.

When he reclines, bereft of his clothing, he surrenders his limbs.

“Do you trust me?” she asks as she ties him, wrists and ankles, like a martyr, to the bed.

“No,” man shivers.

She smiles as she slips one last scarf around his neck, tugging gently.

An exalted master in his own right, man succumbs.

For part eleven, click here.

Slip

If I can just get it straight.. he thought, slurping back the drool that had pooled again in the corner of his mouth.

The slip was fine, cut thin sliced nicely into her flesh. Her gag a prop – it made her feel better, as though she was a victim instead of a willing participant.

“Almost finished my love,” he said. Hard as a rock, he throbbed with longing. It had been at least fifty minutes since he began.

As the blade reached the point of the pentagram she let out a whine. He glanced at her.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

She nodded emphatically.

“Good girl,” he smiled.

He placed the sharp tip of the knife at the point and lifted the flesh. She whined louder and he licked his lips in anticipation.

“May I?” he asked. He wasn’t sure now. He’d never taken this final step with her. She was scarred from collarbone to feet, but never like this.

Her eyes pleaded with him but told him nothing. He wouldn’t take it off without her consent. He waited, pulsating with the beat of his heart.

Even as the tears streamed down her flushed cheeks she nodded. It wasn’t good enough. He pulled on the fabric of her gag and she closed her mouth and swallowed.

“Say it,” he whispered.

Her smile was grateful, her voice raspy with need. “Flay me.”

He replaced the gag and stood. He straddled her body and bent at the waist. He leaned over her, the light still shining directly on her skin, her blood glistening.

He placed his blade flat against her shoulder and began the slip.

Time stood still when he performed this way. Slowly at first until he found his depth, his art smelled like copper and screamed of molten pleasure both for himself and his subject. Closer and closer he came with each tip, until all five were begun. By the time he reached the centre of the star he could all but taste it. The five points lifted, curled back, he stepped away and admired his work.

He bent down to gaze into her glazed over eyes, knowing that the adrenaline did the same to his.

“Are you ready, my love?”

She smiled past her gag and nodded. He placed the blade at her cheek and she pushed against it, cutting herself a fine line. A single drop of blood hung, suspended from the bottom of the slice.

All at once he stood he lifted he slipped she screamed he roared he came she came it was done.

He loved his job.

Beauty my Beauty

Beauty tore down all the sheets that hung around the room. It was Beauty’s darling Step-mother who requested they be hung in the first place. Beauty didn’t think anything of it at the time, the sheets needed to dry. But five years later, when they had begun to fade in the sun, Beauty knew it was time for them to be taken down. Flowery sheets weren’t Beauty’s idea of beauty. He liked plain white ones.

“Oh Beauty!” It was Step-mother calling. She waltzed into his room as though she belonged there.

“Step-mother, I told you before that I don’t like you coming into my room without knocking first,” Beauty whined.

“Oh nonsense!” Step-mother cried. “Now where are the sheets I asked you to hang up?”

“That was so long ago, I took them down,” Beauty confessed.

“Alright then, get on your knees. Where is the whip?”

“Step-mother,” Beauty sighed. “I’m four and twenty years old. Aren’t we a little past this?”

“Well who else am I going to beat now that your father is gone?” Step-mother exclaimed.

“Alright then,” Beauty conceded. “But just this once.”

Beauty took the barbed whip from the wardrobe and handed it to Step-mother. He fell to his knees before her, his long brown hair hiding his face as he removed his shirt. Step-mother hissed when she saw the scars on his back.

“Who did this to you?” Step-mother questioned.

“You did, Step-mother. Last week. And the week before. And every week for the last five years,” Beauty counted.

“Liar!” Step-mother screeched and the whip came down upon Beauty’s back.

Beauty felt the sting of the whip cutting into his flesh, removing the few scabs from the last time. Within three lashes the blood was flowing freely.

“Oh!” Step-mother gasped. She stepped back and Beauty looked up at her, a grin on his face.

“What happened?” Step-mother asked.

“Nothing at all Step-mother,” Beauty chided.

“Then hang up the sheets!” Step-mother demanded, dropping the whip and leaving the room.

“Right away Step-mother,” Beauty submitted.

As soon as the door to Beauty’s bedroom closed he lay upon his white sheets and graced them with roses and adonis.

Beauty