Yaoi, sex, noncon, rape, guro, evisceration, torture, drugs. Snuff. Other warnings I probably forgot. Yes. Yes, really. Also, long and probably not well suited to the stupid or to anyone who has ever typed TL: DR! or any form of “too slow!”
This is roughly fourteen thousand words long: some “novels” are shorter based on the bitch-ass requirements held by bitch-ass publishers.
© 19, XIX and a few other names. Don’t steal. Don’t repost without the courtesy of giving me an ask. Support the scene and it will support you and WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER THINK??? and all that cal. I spent months on this alone and it’s a piece of a 215000 (you read that right) word novel. I want feedback and also to have a few dozen people jerking off to what I’ve done because my ego is starving and lonely and sad and wants pet. PET!
It is also a rough draft. I found that the doing on paper tends to work like I imagine the doing in the flesh would—you forget things and you get things wrong. I’m working on it. So sue me. Also, I can’t do formatting and shite here, and that utterly sucks based on my style. Deal with it or go jerk off to something else.
In other
news: thank you all for what you’ve posted for me, pics and text. I really appreciate it. It’s very comforting not to be alone in your tastes, even marginally. thenineteen@hotmail.com I promise despite what you’d think here that I’m mostly a nice and reasonable guy. Drop me a line if you’re so inclined. MSN messaging is ok if you are polite or you will discover the joys of being blocked.
Enjoy. That’s the most important part—enjoy.
Well? Scroll down. Unless you’re under 21 or some kind of psycho (cough) who doesn’t know you can’t (snort) do this in real life. Because that would be bad and it would lead to cops which are the worst thing ever, including food poisoning, stepping in warm cat shit and being unemployed and out of weed. Worst thing ever. Don’t do it and I don’t advise it. It’s fiction. Yes, that’s what it is, fiction. Fiction. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. Mess. Cops. Grok?
Are you even still reading this? For the love of Hell, scroll down.
And don’t steal this or my harpies will come and eat you over and over and over. And no, you will not like it. I promise.
Lady Stardust and the Spider From Mars (excerpt from Psychomotor Agitation: A Vivisection)
MOUTH
I paid too much at the door because there was some kind of unforeseen live band. Maybe good, maybe the ruining factor of the night. Depends on the band. As an added drag on my mood the middle room is curtained off and guarded by large thugs, meaning it is the band’s dressing room, meaning we are confined to the tiny dance-floor. Meaning the Camel Wides I am carrying packed with weed are unusable. Damn it.
I crowd myself into a niche down front, off to one side. Smoke and wait. This band that is ruining my night is called Mourning Glory, I gather from various posters. Bitches. The name is really pretty and it would’ve been easier to be mad at them if it was something ridiculous.
I’m expecting very little until the lights go down and the noise begins.
I’ve named this one Lady Stardust. He isn’t in bright blue jeans. Black vinyl. Fishnet shirt with the little electrical-tape crosses over his nipples, universally scorned by all three self-titled “real” goths in Florida. I wonder how long the tape would stretch if I bit and pulled before it came off before my thoughts dissolve into ngggh. That’s the closest I can come to spelling the consonants-only exhalation of pure fucking lust.
He’s taller than my usual—say, chin-height to me instead of sternum-height. Spiky, gleaming black hair, fine aristocratic lines, eyes the color of the swimming-pool I still dream about. No lipstick, black eyeliner. He moves like a cat. He takes the microphone and nods and waits—I can’t remember a thing about his band, I don’t think I spared them a glance.
I’m so up front.
There are probably less than a hundred people at this show. The stage is a grand total of about a foot and a half high. So he’s right, fucking, there. Any minute now I’ll catch his scent.
Lady Stardust sings his song, and yes, it’s probably of darkness and disgrace. I’m not able to notice. He’s so good you can feel the silence fall, so good he is suddenly literally the only sound in the building. His voice moves like a bird in flight. It rolls out of him in one effortless sine-wave. He’s fearless.
There’s something of Robert Smith in the anguished falsetto, something of Murphy in the soaring crystalline tenor. He’s singing so hard he shouldn’t be pretty anymore, but oh, how he is. I want to bite the end of that voice and chew until I reach the mouth that made it.
My mind is hissing a sly running tirade of i need him i’ll have this one all fucking week i put up with and waited for and all my life and it went so badly last time and i. will. have. this one.
And then his monitor goes out.
I’m close enough to see him glance down at the equipment, to hear that something is gone but not talented enough to know exactly what. He does a feeble kick at it, still singing. After a minute or so he just stops and addresses someone at the back of the room. “It’s completely gone, you have to do something about it.” He tries to drop back into the song, flustered and.....blushing, for a line or two, before he gestures for the band to just, stop.
My nails are digging into my palm like they talk about in horror novels. Ha, I mean in other horror novels.
In the real world I’d have rushed the stage, snatched him, dragged him back to my Lair and eaten him very slowly.
Well, all right, that IS pretty much what happened, except I didn’t really eat any, and I managed a tiny bit more tact than that.
“You sound great,” I tell him—loud enough for him and everyone else to hear me in the music-free air. I’m not particularly eloquent on such short notice. I feel the brain threatening to feel stupid and I tell it to go fuck itself.
He laughs. He looks, defused. It helps that there are whistles and a brief staccato of applause from people agreeing with me. He has a beautiful motherfucking collarbone All angle and hollow.
“I know, but I can’t hear myself and then I can’t do...what I do....”
So there, insecurity. It seems to be, working. Whatever the fuck I’m trying to do.
“Watch our faces. You’re doing it. Trust me.”
Nobody laughs that time. Though some do clap.
Lady Stardust is doomed. It’s much too late for anything else.
Anything I want that much must be rightfully mine. If it weren’t meant for me it wouldn’t PUSH those buttons.
Never mind. Anyone not nodding yet will never know what I mean.
This is probably the only situation on Earth where you’re allowed to stare at a real live boy in this particular way. He spends a few minutes of the next hour or so staring back at me. Sometimes he gives me the ghost of a smile. He has the sort of teeth you want to grind your own teeth against. He keeps catching my eye, as if he’s in on the....joke. He’s unspeakably touchable, like his sculptor kept a wall covered with photos of tomcats leaping, sprawled, hunting, to keep those lines of force in his mind. When he turns at the waist the flesh of his stomach does something that makes my tongue cramp.
It’s over, much too soon, much too late. The predictable close-out chaos of noise.
(i will i have to i will i can’t just once and it went so quickly last time and just, this, once)
He stands with his shoulders heaving, catching his breath, holding the mic in a way that is so Bowie I have to knot my toes in my boots to keep from literally jumping him. Hip cocked, smirk, poise. Fucking Hell.
I keep thinking for a love, I could not obey.
By any standards except mine Lady Stardust is far more valuable a catch than the boy who haunts me. He’s flawlessly, magazine-beautiful, and a higher rank in the bedpost-notch sense. Meaning, it’s way cooler to run down the lead singer of a really good band than a pretty college student and sandwich shop employee. But I’m not the least bit nervous. Because I don’t love this one at all.
We’re both backstage. He’s standing at what used to be a restaurant table, doing makeup repair in one of those mirrors that plugs in and has little banks of lights up each side. It’s the only light in this curtained-tent of a room. He nudges the mirror with a fingertip so we can see one another in it. “I don’t know what the word for heckling somebody in a helpful way is, but you were great at it. Thanks.”
“…cheerleading?”
He laughs. So do I. I can smell him. Push the advantage. “You guys were lucky. Last band they couldn’t get the sound and the lights on at the same time.” This is a lie.
He lifts one shoulder in something too cool to be a shrug, re-drawing a black line under one American-blue eye. “I’m—“
“Lady Stardust. I know. I’m Erik.”
He doesn’t correct me, which is good, because by any other name he’d become—normal, or something Contaminated. “Holy shit. Half the kindergoths here wouldn’t know Bowie if he walked up and set them on fire.”
“Most of what I heard in the audience was Peter Murphy. About you, I mean.”
“If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working.” Eye number two. Then powder with delicate little pressing motions. I close my trenchcoat, hoping either he doesn’t notice or it looks casual, because my cock is so hard I’m afraid he will see it even in this utter lack of light. He has to lean over too much table to get at the mirror, elbow pushing a wake in a chaos of clattering makeup. His fishnet shirt has ridden up, and there’s an ellipse of bare skin at the small of his back. I’m going to fucking tear out my laboriously-inserted lip ring if he doesn’t straighten up in the next four seconds.
“So what’re you guys doing after this?” A gesture encompassing the club that he doesn’t see, and his band, which I don’t see.
He does that one-shoulder shrug again. More teeth-flickers. “Karl always fucking wants to drive back. They’re probably already gone. I’ll hide out here till the crowd wanders off and get a room.”
“We could sneak off and smoke, if you wanted.”
A wistful sigh. “I don’t smoke anymore. Voice.”
“But I have opium.”
This may possibly be a lie. I can’t remember if I smoked it all or not. Whatever works. No gothboi ever could resist the quintessentially goth nature of opium.
He tilts his head without doing the shrug, and I know I’ve got him.
There will be candy. Just get in the car.
I leave the way I came, through the curtain. Buy and fucking inhale a rum and coke. Itty out to my car. He’s already outside through Hell knows which fire exit, huge plastic suitcase dragging one arm down. The plan is almost derailed once we get out into the parking lot; he wants to take his car, an amusingly huge Buick LeSabre painted spray-can black and absolutely covered with a treasure-trove of oldschool capital-G Goth stickers.
I persuade him it’s easier if he just rides with me and I run him back. This is another lie. Once he sees my El Camino, he’s enchanted enough to agree. She looks damn good with this spider from Mars slouched in her passenger seat with one delicate boot out the window.
Once we’ve gotten to my Lair I get him settled with rum and coke and dig through my stashes. I have a pipe I use for only opium; I scrape the Hell out of it and roll the result in a lot of very good weed. I pick up two Klonopin on the way, and once I get back to the counter I use for a bar I make him a Screaming Nazi shot to which I add the pills and a dropper full of GHB.
I make my own shot with slightly fewer ingredients. He can’t resist the name, and we do them in near-unison. Once it’s in my mouth I become convinced I’ve given him the clean one, but once I swallow I know I didn’t.
He laughs, coughs, waxes poetic about just how awful his drink is, daubs at his watering eyes with one long black fingernail, declares it the worst drink ever invented. It’s so awful you can’t taste anything in it. It’s Jagermeister and fucking Rumpleminze, for the love of Hell. The weirdness of the GHB is unnoticeable, and even if you chew Klonopin they taste like diluted sugar. I forget what I was supposed to take them for, but they render you tranquil and extremely unable to do complicated shit like walk around.
I stole this trick from Dahmer, if you hadn’t already guessed. The pills in a drink, I mean. How amusing that they give angry psychotics such pills to keep us calm. I think Jeff was using Xanax. I forget.
The drugs are because of the fucking issues with dragging, carrying, and tying people, without them managing to kick me in the nose, teeth, or balls, or making enough noise to summon cops.
I’m getting better at this with practice. That’s the plan, anyway.
I’m not wasting this one the way I did Jamie.
We’re talking through most of this. I spare you because most of what I’m saying is, fake, and because you're skimming this anyway to get to the good part.
We talk about makeup and drugs and how truly fucking awesome his band is. That last part isn’t fake. I’m having some small guilt, here, because I’m getting ready to deprive the world of this band. It’s that good, if you like lush heartbroken goth, and I do. But what better end for the lead singer? It’ll make him vaguely famous, complete the tragic-deliciousness of his music. That’s so circular and perfect that I know I have to do this. He’s FOR me.
Lady Stardust settles with his knees bent and his bootheels on the edge of the couch. It does extremely slutty things to his crotch. I remind myself to thank Lucifer for those pants, because they have to be His doing Hell. Fire. And a lot of damnation. I sit cornered to him, replace his beer with a rum and coke. We smoke the semi-opium, so I can watch his eyes drifting closed with pleasure and chemistry. Smudge of eyelashes clotted with mascara.
“So you knew about Bowie being, like, bi, right?”
I’m nodding at this. I’m on my second rum and diet Coke and I realize I’m in the buzzy-pleasant state of drunk that is so hard to maintain. I’m forgetting not to enjoy myself. “Married to Claire-something before Iman.”
“For a long time. Both of them fucking whoever they wanted. I always thought that made so much sense.”
I’m still nodding. Shut up. I’m dense, and I don’t think of myself as marketable.
“See, I totally, get that. My ex-girlfriend thought it was hot for me to fuck around with other boys, but she was, such a fucking bitch, otherwise…”
That’s when I realize this is a come-on.
The beast is crawling in my hands and my teeth and my cock and my mouth. I grab his head and kiss him, kiss him, and the beast is swarming into his throat like a hive of bees. He tastes of rum, of smoke, and if I kiss deeper still I can still taste the licorice-death of the Rumpleminze. I can’t stop replaying that thought from the show; the wish to crawl inside him, and I’m trying to lick his tonsils, I swear, trying to tear up the tip of my tongue on his teeth, trying to split both our lips.
His knees come up and he hugs me tighter than tight with legs and arms and does something like a little I-win purr. It makes me open my eyes for a second, in something like wonder I can smell the powder he’s wearing. And then he bites my tongue, just hard enough to hurt, sort of dragging his teeth along and nipping into the very tip hard enough to make me yelp and slap him. I don’t manage to do it very hard or very well. We stare at one another. He makes some noise, and it is not a quit-it sort of noise. Then he kisses me, with a lot of suction and a lot of pulling with his legs, arching with his back. Like he’s trying to, climb me. Like he’s trying to eat me, or trying to help me eat him.
Then we’re on the floor. I’m on top of him. He’s extremely happy about this fact. So am I. Having my cock suddenly and without fucking warning crammed against his cock—still in those oilspill pants—is an extremely fucking nice surprise. I need to do this a lot more, often. And harder. I can taste his breath, taste the lungs behind it, taste the voicebox that made that motherfucking music.
I say you little bitch and he says yes and I say I’ll fucking kill you and he says yes, yes, yes.
The edges are blurring. I hold him down with my hips and drag up his shirt in gestures that make our shadows look like we’re fighting. Part of me is standing back in my head, waiting, for, something. The pants squeak under my hands like a raincoat. Synthetic. I get the bastard fly unbuttoned and he’s moaning long spools of that voice into my mouth. I can’t swallow fast enough. His pants hang unstoppably at the knee, caught by those eyelet-riddled boots. A lot of teeth-drag when I predator my mouth away from his. A lunge that stops at his stomach to leave bite after bite, almost too hard and definitely too fast, and another pull-drag that has him laughing a little and screaming under his breath. I’m a rollercoaster he’s riding.
He hisses careful at me, raises himself up on one elbow. I slam him back down with one hand to his chest and it feels incredibly, leonine. It drives a tiny sound out of him. He stays. Good boy. I struggle to play nice, drawing long lazy licks across his stomach and up his thighs. Apparently he shaves everything, and apparently he’s done so very recently. If I lick hard enough in some places I can just get a rasp in return, but only just.
Must, not, eat.
He’s hard against my cheek, cock dragging through my hair. The smell of him is making me, drool, and the motherfucking effort not to, turn, into a werewolf, is, making me shudder like I’m cold. I shove his thighs apart hard and do digging, pulling little pinches with my nails, restraining myself back into a soothing pet I don’t mean just when his wails really start to delight me. The kicking is awful cute. And it’s getting weaker, and, weaker.
I didn’t give him enough to knock him out, but he’s going to be non-functionally fucked up right, about, now.
He’s not going to miss anything, but all he can do is squirm in that darling way, like he’s trapped in quicksand. It’s gotten to his mind and not just his body. The moans are liquid and edgeless, noise feathering into anguished little arpeggios. It’s like I’m, playing him.
I bury my face against his cock, i n h a l e, and he feels my fingernails and my fingertips much too close to the cheek of his ass and he says don’t. It confuses me. He hasn’t made any words in awhile. He says no without much, enthusiasm. I put my fingers in my mouth and then shove two inside him without asking.
Whatever he’s trying to say climbs through his teeth like a bonesaw hitting a screw. His hands smack into my head, and then knot in my hair. He tries to close his legs and it sort of pins my hand, and it’s delicious. He’s not trying very hard to push me off. I think he’s too, stunned, to. Oh, and much, much too high. I pull his dick into my mouth with tongue and lips and teeth and hook my fingers in his ass and sort of yank him towards my face by his pelvic bone.
He’s still making various subnotes of distress but that long liquid moan is taking the lead. I mouth that he’s such a good boy, but I don’t think he can hear me. He’s pulling my hair like he wants to get me away from him, but it isn’t very sincere. It’s increasingly difficult to be this, nice. I settle in on the head of his dick and use too much teeth, hold him with too much thumbnail. It’s the thumbnail that does it, I think, because he slams against my face and wails and wails, coming and coming and almost-crying.
Swallowing is the best part. It’s like...hmm...irreversible. And unless you’re playing some weird game with it or you miss, it never was in the, outside world. Just inside him, and then inside me. It’s, magick. It’s pure.
He laughs again, when he can get his breath. It’s feeble.
“So, fucked up...”
“Yes, you are, “ I tell him
“...bleeding?”
“Not yet.” This is a lie, I discover while licking my fingers. Un-translatable all-consonant noise from me .
“...cool...”
I come up for air and meth. I bring him some on a Deathstyle CD case, just a taste, not even a line. “Lick it.”
“Crazy fuck.” He’s grinning. He crooks his head, darts out a perfect pink triangle of tongue, draws it in again with a little white fast-fading smudge on the tip. Swallows, grimacing. It’s mostly to keep him being too sedated. I lick the CD case after he does. It’s not because I am worried about wasting the meth.
“Can you sit up?”
He’s still lying on the carpet, crumpled, sweating, with his shirt up around his chest and his pants around his knees. He manages to kind of squirm into a zigzag. The little ridge of spine jutting up is so reptilian and so dear that it really is hurting my jaw just to look at it without licking it.
I can’t express to you how motherfucking pretty this is. You’d have to have been there. I regret the fuck out of not filming these. Why I didn’t get a shitty video camera from a pawn shop is beyond me.
He kind of swings his feet till he flops over on his back with his legs still all crooked and splayed. He raises his arms and does something very funny that looks like a both-hands sieg heil a few times. Then he announces, “Nope,” and giggles about this for a minute. So do I, because I can’t help it.
“What did you give me?
“All sorts of shit.” I light a cigarette. Sit in my desk chair, turned around away from The Novel for once so I can watch the show.
He stops sieging Heil and ponders this. One hand flops at his pants, drags them up a useless four inches or so, not even clearing his thighs, subsides. I don’t even think he knew he was doing it. A subconscious little flicker of feeling, unsafe. So good. His cock is still wet, and still twitching idly now and then.
“I meant, just now.”
“Oh. Meth.”
That’s still not adding up for him. It’s like a guessing game. I draw blood from my own lip again, but it’s still a grin. My cigarette needs flicking too badly for me to make it to the ashtray, so I flick it and rub it into the carpet with my boot without looking .
“Did you give me something else I forgot?”
Aw. How diplomatic of him. He’s getting more slurred by the minute, but still somehow clearer than before because he’s trying harder. He knows something important is wrong. There’s no fear-scent yet, but he’s definitely on yellow alert. Lord, no wonder Dahmer used this. It’s like bondage you don’t have to keep fucking with.
“Opium, and some weed in that, and tranquilizers and G in your drink. I’m pretty sure that’s it so far.”
He raises a foot that time. Heelthud into carpet. This time he manages to pull his pants up, too, but not exactly fasten them. He rolls over to one side, little hairsprayed-messes in his eyes. Mumbles, ”That’s really fucking cute of you, have to...gonna call a cab and get a room because at this hour...” Quiet. He has no idea how long he’s been here. “Checkout before I can fucking...sleep...”
too late to back out, you’re in
“No. You’re staying here.”
“...really, rather...” He’s sitting up, but he’s listing sharply to fucking port, and wobbling in every direction at once somehow, like the spine I was just admiring is no longer strong enough to hold up his lovely head. His arms are sort of out, which is very LeClaire of him, like he’s trying to balance with them, or they’re broken. “...get, going, I’m used to hotels....”
“You’re not going anywhere. Ever again. I’ve decided to keep you.” His rum and coke is half-untouched on the coffee table. I help myself to it.
He gives up the sitting thing, and kind of flips back down again like a rocking chair falling over. His pants are still mostly down, just framing half a bitemark I left low on the white plane of his stomach. He stares up at the ceiling, panting a little still. I wonder if he’s realized nobody knows where he is. Drugs still nowhere near done with him.
He thinks awhile longer and concludes, “Hot.”
I agree with him completely.
Then, I swear to you, he goes, “I could crash on your couch, I guess.” As if we’re negotiating. I’m this close to rum and coke in my nose. I mean it. It’s stoner-funny. Another set of invisible ropes that he’s kind of tentatively starting to struggle against.
“Wherever you end up.”
That’s perfect. That lets him continue to pretend that he maybe he’s wrong. Maybe I’m teasing. Maybe it’s a form of “Stay for dinner, I insist.” or the struggle to pick up the tab somewhere.
What a lovely joke. I’m thinking of Jamie relaxing when I told him he had a concussion. Delicious.
I wonder how long I can sustain it.
And my, the ramifications of THAT terrible idea.
He’s considering. I go and stand over him and stare down into his puzzled eyes. “Do you want some water?”
A frown. A nod . I bring him an opened bottle of it, cold from the fridge, with more G in it. He’s still too able to move.
Apparently I’ve hit on a good balance, because while he can still squirm, just enough, and moan plenty, his troublesome ability to almost sit up is utterly gone. I have to half-carry and half drag him to the bathroom. He makes little sex-or-ow noises at things that I wouldn’t have called particularly stimulating. Drugs. Thank Hell for drugs. I lay him on the rug with a folded towel under his head and wet a washcloth and wipe his face, his chest. He makes a grateful noise that is priceless in its sincerity. I switch to colder water and it seems to increase his joy.
I pull his shirt and sort of hook it behind his head, so it’s just fishnet-arms, and I finally, finally get to bite that motherfucking electrical tape. It’s gotten semi-sticky-slidy if you know what happens when you wear the shit. Gums up my lips and his chest and we stick to each other like my mouth is trying to grow into his nipple. I don’t bite, but I threaten to until he’s whining in a way that makes me think again of dogs. I stroke his head to soothe him, and he shudders, and the whine gets softer. Looser. I stroke him until he believes me, and then I bite him.
He crescendos immediately to the best he can do for a scream, which is quiet enough that I doubt anyone could hear it over the faucet in the hallway. It’s like his lungs are as.....limp, as sedated...as the rest of him. He can’t push the music out past his ribcage, but I hear him. No one else in the world can hear it. Maybe I don’t regret not making tapes, after all.
“Hush. Beautiful boy. I’m not going to bite it off.” Joke just for me. I kneel up, grab Vaseline and dip the washrag in it, rub it into these tape-sticky poor wounded nipples with businesslike little scrubs. He whimpers and arches at me, and circles make him sustain-moan and hold himself arched. Pretty, pretty fucking boy. I drag his pants back down just enough and turn him over on his face and spread his ass open with one hand, and stroke him into a series of wails that are such perfection I keep doing it long, long after the really minimal blood is gone. Such drama, this one. It makes me want to give him something to really cry about.
I grope above my head on the counter until I find the Vaseline again, and I use much too much and push one finger inside him over and over again, all the way out, all the way in, just to hear his increasingly frustrated little protest-noises. Whenever he summons up the flail to approach rolling over I push it in hard and deep and hold him, still, that way, and he wails like I’ve killed him and immediately stops squirming. I rock my hand into him, to hear him try to get louder. Mine, mine, mine. I pull my finger out and forget about the Vaseline until I’ve already put it in my mouth. Chin and tongue slicked with that bacon-grease texture and inexplicably vivid taste.
I sort of crawl, up him, hands slipping in grease and on tile and making a mess of the rug. He feels me come up over him and rears up under me, trying to throw me off and only succeeding into thumping into me in a series of sticky skin-impacts. I put one knee on the back of his thigh, leaving a trail of Vaseline on my shirt and my waist and my zipper.
“...don’t...” That laugh. Kind of a toddler-style, all the limbs at once, kick. A pretend temper tantrum. “I don’t do this.” That was very clear, and probably took a lot of effort, considering he’s facefirst in the towel and still giggling.
“It doesn’t work that way anymore.” Dreamy. Spreading him open with my thumbs, just to scare him. Getting my pants down and my cock arranged and knee-ing his legs together and sitting on his thighs. I keep thinking, look what I found. To think I was pissed off about the cover charge. That makes me laugh, and he laughs too, because it’s contagious. I spread him again and kneel forward and thump at him with my erection, and he does a long wail that’s artfully petulant and ends in another giggle. “You can’t tell anyone...”
I’m going to fall off him if he makes me laugh any harder. Something has to be an unprecedented kind of wrong with this if we’re both still having this much fun. Give me a minute, here. “Oh, I won’t.”
“And you have to use a condom—“
Darling. A condom. If you knew the bodily fluids we’re going to share.
“I don’t have to do anything, anymore.”
“What are you—“
This Peter Murphy boy, this David Bowie boy. This Velvet Goldmine boy. I’ve wanted to make this archetype scream since I was about thirteen years old, and I think it’s going to be awhile before I’m tired of it. I slam inside him and feel him go, still, and he knows, he knows and I can almost, hear, his pupils dilate. I get all the scream I ever could have asked for. He runs out of breath, shaking under me, a r o u n d me. I turn his head and do something too mean to be kissing and fuck him, fuck him. I feel the inhale lock inside him and I pull at his mouth with my lips and my lungs, until I feel the triumph of his breath whistling past this knot in his throat.
Am I his shock, this shock, this loud, this irreversible, this important in the universe of a creature this unspeakably...
I push his squirming hands up over his head like I’m making him make a snow, angel. All my weight is on him and my cock is much too deep and he’s sobbing, trying to spread his knees, choking stop, stop. He’s so, easy, to hold down. I pin his legs tighter together. I’m snarling. I used to dream of being some kind of...pterodactyl....of dropping that shadow across a crowd of humans and plummeting down at them like an arrow, catching up a squirming crunchy screaming red mouthful. Did I ever tell you that?
There’s one fast thud that I particularly like that he seems to find particularly agonizing. Perfect. Faster. Faster.
His wrists in my hands. My fingers in his mouth. Dragging at an earring my teeth found. He’s crying against my palm. Mine, mine, mine.
“Now, you’re bleeding.”
He can’t move but I can see this information make him want to. Or maybe I’m reading his mind. I spread his ass with my hands and lick from the base of his balls to his tailbone, tasting us both. He’s silent, quivering. I wonder if it’s embarrassment or fury or arousal.
I start on the top of his bootlaces. It frustrates me into using scissors pretty quickly. He insists on turning his face and manages “...drive...”
“You’d never make it to the driveway. Quit flexing your toes.”
He watches me take off his pants. Sighs in serious relief at the drop in temperature. It upsets him that he’s not getting his way. Or that I’ve ruined his boots. Flicker that he ought to be grateful. Instead, it makes him cry harder for some reason for me to throw his fishnet-shirt over onto the laundry pile.
I take off my clothes, run a bath. climb in with him and wash him, or something like it.
He keeps expecting me to hurt him again; I can feel him, cringe, when I move too quickly. He doesn’t smell like actual fear. He’s still hard.
I wash his hair, with extreme care not to get soap in his eyes, and I drain the water around us and get both of us out of the tub without anyone falling into any porcelain. I clean off his ruined makeup with remover that won’t sting even if he does squirm like a kid getting eyedrops and wreck my aim from time to time. There.
“Do you want me to draw it on again?”
He won’t answer me. He’s not exactly crying, now. Unresponsive. Internal negations. Dear God, if you get me out of this, I will never, ever let anyone fuck me in the ass again. Please oh please. It’s a dream. It’s a little like teasing. A joke. I’ve just been raped. Hazy impossible plan of flagging down a car in the middle of Nowhere, Florida at this hour of the night.
Without makeup, he’s, unearthly. Childlike. It’s too Man Who Fell to Earth. Wrong kind of hot.
I find waterproof eyeliner and put it on him. He holds his eyes/face exactly the way I tell him to. He’s earned an intermission. I let him have this Gethsemane. I let him lie there while I take down the shower curtain.
A tarp would be better but the only one I have is blinding blue. Pretty as lipstick, ugly as fuck for a serial murder backdrop. The shower curtain is black. Much better.
I tested this already.
I clip the edges up on three sides with those weird black-and-silver clips for too much paper, leave the bottom unclipped and bunched up into a black five-gallon bucket weighted with a brick at the foot of the bed. Scraps of wood are under the legs at the head of the bed. Just an inch or three of tilt, not enough to really feel when lying on it, but when I poured a cup of water onto the final result, it pooled on the shower curtain and more or less wound up in the bucket. I had to pick up the top to sort of pour in the last bit. Good enough.
He makes happy noises when I finally manage to get him in bed. The crackle confuses him, but the pillow I slide under his head convinces him. I’ve tied both of his hands Jesus-spread before he really understands what I’m doing. The rope is over, under, around, and fucking through the box springs, and though I can’t pull them off, holding the loose ends in my hands, it’s never really been tested. Here goes.
I shush him and he subsides again, and I add “It’s a game,” and he does that one, shoulder, shrug. Sighs. The blindfold does beautiful things to his face. I miss the eyeliner, but the trick I have in mind requires the blindfold, and the, removal, will be worth the loss of eye contact.
I stand back and squint at this. Black ropes, which were hard as fuck to find (home decor store) and the shower curtain is straight and it looks, lovely. All right. Ready as I’ll ever be.
I get things, watching him squirm and tilt his head and worry about each little noise. I’m sure the drugs aren’t doing much to clarify any data. So good.
I plug in my old hair clipper and hold it beside his face. “Do you know what this is?”
He doesn’t feel like guessing. Click. Something is terribly wrong with it that I can’t fix, and it goes CRACKZZZZzzzz like it’s been struck by lightning when you turn it on. And then it does nothing but hum. He scrunches his face and his shoulder and his body away from this terrifying cattle-prod noise, mouth twisting into another don’t.
“It’s a violet wand.” I click it off, put it in the chair by my bed in a pile of laundry, so that he can’t hear that I no longer have it.
He’s panting again. That anticipation of pain is so da Vinci to watch. It’s a fairy tale.
I pick up an X-acto knife with a carefully not-quite-new blade. Brand new ones are too sharp, much too easy to cut too deep, and much too painless. It’s clean, though probably not officially sterile.
“Supposedly it feels exactly like a razor.”
“Please—“
That was the very first please. It does something to the pit of my stomach, something irreversible. I watch him shake, bracing himself. I draw a very careful line, just a scratch, really, about as long as my hand, on his stomach just in the concave V of his ribcage. Arch. He grits his teeth; does that locomotive breathing I’ve gotten to know and love. Exhales.
Relaxes. Mouths god. I wonder which god he means.
“Does it?” He slow-motion nods and slow-motion squirms like a snake drawing a useless S. Rolls towards my hand and the blade without meaning to. Mouths fuck at me, and that’s exactly what we’re doing,.
I wonder how long I can make him like this. Days, probably, if I manage a successful drug run. If anything was ever worth risking a sick day for three days of evil, it’s this.
A red line gets darker across his hips, not even really bleeding enough to trickle. I straighten him up and hold one hip down and draw another line just beside it, much faster. He howls out an anguished something that’s wordlike enough to make me curious. “What?”
“.....slower...please...”
I can’t get enough of that breathing. It’s like he’s been running. I put my cheek on his chest to appreciate it better, adding a snatch of surprisingly fast heartbeat.
“Slower?” I slide up so I’m curled up on his chest like he’s a pillow, holding the blade like I’m going to write something on his stomach, his thighs. I don’t think I will, though. Draw, maybe, but not write.
I’m going for a lot of symmetry, and the occasional repeated pattern. Like jewelry.
He’s too pretty to just mangle. I want to decorate him.
Oh, never mind. Just watch.
“Slower will take longer.”
“....too fucking much, that fast. Please....”
I lean over letting my weight keep him still. Draw over each of my scratches again, until they end neatly at each hipbone and are uniformly deep enough to just bead up with blood. I do it slowly, because that’s really not much for him to ask. And he asks, so, pretty. Such manners.
He isn’t new to pain. I remind myself to check him for old scars. The thought that this boy would’ve wanted to cut himself up, alone in the dark, is terribly sad. I’m going to make it up to him right now.
He draws in a breath when he feels me choose where to lay the blade and exhales long and slow and with a minimum of noise. He makes all the noise after the cut, like something that’s about to become crying again, but softer, like half the upsetness is that he’s so tired. I draw horizontal stripes down his thighs that I’ll bring all the way around when I finally turn him over, and tiny Vs nestled in his hips.
I have to lift the blade fast, sometimes, but having him pressed so close gives me kind of a kinetic warning before the pain makes him draw up a knee or slam up against me in protest. I really should tie his feet, but I’m enjoying how much wriggle he can manage with this much slack.
So far there’s only been a place or two where the knife slipped, and I don’t suppose it’ll really detract all that much when I’m finished. Sometimes I just kind of drag the tip along, here and there, not really meant to make a mark, or poke at him with the very point just to encourage this useless struggle. He’s not being very sincere—not flailing with all of his strength the way he’d be doing without the violet wand myth.
It amuses me that he’s....playing along...
He’s webbed with sort of freeform-straight lines, from about mid-thigh to waist. I’m saving the pink bits. Foreplay is important. I slide back closer to his head, still lying on him, still turned with my back to him and that long white skein of boy spread out under me.
There’s an increasingly large lot of red, but still not enough for there to be an actual pool of blood. If he feels the trickles despite the din of such hurt, I suppose he thinks it’s sweat. Though I wonder why he can’t smell it; it’s driving me increasingly mad. That pennies-in-hand, old key, raw meat scent.
I cut a careful free-hand ellipse around his navel, holding the skin taut with my hand, holding him down with an elbow. I’m getting a lot of please now, and a lot of noise before, during, and after each cut. And his dick is still hard. I put the scalpel in my teeth for a second and stroke one hand up his bleeding thigh and into a hairpin turn down around his cock, slicking him red. He gasps, key-changing immediately, and plants his feet on the bed and pushes into my hand.
This is not what I expected.
