Thursday, July 06, 2006

A short, dark story

Well, I haven't worked out how to make a button that will neatly pull up the story in another window. Sometime. Til then, here's a short piece that I haven't found a home for. Probably suitable for 18 and above. A little brutal. Perhaps.

*Cuts both ways*

A froth of tissue paper when I lift the lid, a smell of luxurious and expensive cruelty rising from inside the box. Polished to a mirror finish; sharp, exquisitely pointed. Lying like a deadly snake between us, and across from me, your face wax coloured, taut with patience.
Only the light tap of your fingernail on the tabletop betrays a tremor of intent, a curl of the lip that makes me want to dart from the room or kick nervously like a trapped animal.

Just like you to wrap something so carefully, so skilfully. You’d tied the ribbon perfectly tight, splayed the ends at exactly the right angle. Not a trace of disorder, not a whisper of hurry or frustration in those precise fingers.

I watch your hands. The long-boned menace of them.

Still, I want to play the game. Knowing what it entails, shivering with nerves, I allow you to stand and approach me. Fold your arms. Let the silent force of your expectation amass beside me till I am almost sickened.

I acquiesce to your unspoken demand - undo the buttons of my shirt and let it fall. Naked underneath, I tip my head back, bare my body to you. My heart. It beats fervent and weightless in my chest, and I feel I am exposing the most tender of weaknesses to the light. Shame rushes to my face like a slowly spreading stain. I am prickly with cold, awkward with longing.

This show of willing could be enough, I pray, to prove my soft body and broken soul are surrendered, in your possession.

I should know better.

Leaning over me you place a hand on each knee. Your palms are warm and dry. Implacable.

Without a sound you pull them apart, make me spread my legs for you. Beyond the point of pain, to a splitting moment where I nearly cry out. Hold them forcibly at the wide-open angle that leaves me obscene and desperate. Under the pressure of your hands my flesh is turning red – the scalded flush of a Chinese burn as you wait for me to beg.

Biting my lip, I resist for as long as I can, hoping the signs of my arousal will draw, at last, a reaction from you. A soft kiss, a little lick of the tongue. A pinch.

Beside us, the open box on the table holds what will finish this. Give me release. Though it terrifies me I throw a glance at it, giving you the signal you need to let go.

I release the tension in my legs a little, allowing the smallest of moans to escape from my mouth. There’s a shakiness in my breath that belies all the longing and fear of a supplicant.

‘Every gift is a double-edged sword’, you say.

You lift my gift from the box.

I am ready. I rise and walk straight into the beautiful trap you’ve set, hungry to suffer.

© Nikki Magennis 2006

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