On getting away (and coming again and again): Part II

After we fuck, slow with sleep and creaking morning muscles, we fall apart and come back together, stronger than ever, and we eat breakfast and listen to NPR. I love it when my greatest desires dovetail so neatly- queers, brunch, talk radio, bathrobes and sunlight. It gives me cause for thought and pause for thanks to the lines of communication and ligatures spanning my muscles. And the ache doesn’t nearly match the wattage of my grin, smug incarnate and wholly deserving of the whole shebang.

After we are sated, we shower and wash off the smoke and dazzle of the club with each scrub. We entwine The Writer, kiss the droplets off her back, and move with her in the steam and heat. She tips my head back and I let the water course over my face and in my parted lips. I guzzle until the heat numbs my throat. In my mind, I am writing it all, and I’m halfway through yesterday.

The Photographer is packing, and I am sucking away, her cock fleshy and soft in my puckered lips. My mind is somewhere else, my animal instinct only to please and pleasure and give and give forever, because I know and trust that she will take of me. The brim of her hat almost touches the edges of her immense grin. “Faggot, do you know why you’re under arrest?”

I do not, and I vocalize this with as much muster and bluster as only an aspiring fag lawyer can have—“Fuck you, I’m a cop-suing lawyer, and all cops are pigs!” In no short order, I am cuffed with an elbow digging into the small of my back. I am gritting my teeth to negate the pain, just enough to spit out another epithet before my arms are wrenched high above my neck. The hot ache is only a piece of the puzzle, the rest is battling with my pussy, The Writer’s fingertips just exploring the inner folds, craning and wriggling to beg her with my body, please, please touch me.

She does, but only for a moment before the fingers retreat and a hand slaps across my face, catching my eyes as she shakes her head and purses her lips at me.

“What will you do to avoid arrest?”

What will I do to avoid arrest? What would I do? I offer to pay, preening my leverage and delighting in getting rebuffed. The officers demand one thing, that I fuck them. I defy them, they beat me down. Little by little, I am pushed. My girly panties are teased, their smiles get bigger, and I wrestle in futility, my breath heaving and hard. I can’t overpower them and my resistance is easily pushed. I am wrenched up by my shirt and pressed against a wall. The Writer nudges my legs open, smiling and pacing. She is taking her time. After all, I’m not going anywhere.

In quick, militaristic succession, one, two, three slaps across the face, and my eyes meet hers, dancing and locked on each other. They have the heartstopping stare of hunters, feeding on my shallow breath and futile attempts to escape. They plow deep into my mind, can see me working and failing to come up with the answers. There is no way to avoid it, they will take me and claim me, strike me with their words and plunge to the hilt, steeped in the tightness of my aching, thriving self. They take me, my mouth muffled but my mind electrified, stupefied with the beauty and cruelty filling me. I surface, and then I dip underneath again to depths unknown, but I’m not holding my breath for long before I gasp in greedy gulps of air. They are in and around all of me and I listen and thrive.

Wrenched up by my hair, The Writer shoves me against the wall. My reprieve from being wrestled and straddled is for naught, though, as she dons the hat and paces around me, a smile curls to her lips like smoke and she grabs me by the chin, contorts my lips into a snarl and forces me to look her in the eye.

“What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?”

Fuck, I don’t know. I do know—deep in the back of my skull, there’s a battle raging, because there’s nowhere I’d rather be and nowhere I can go. She kicks my legs apart and repeats her question and I sneer at her,

“Bitch!”

She lowers her eyes and laughs at me, all teeth, all smile, and slaps me across each cheek, three times so quickly I can barely blink away the tears

“That’s right, I’m a bitch. But here you are.” She turns away from me and The Photographer unsheathes a sword from the corner of the room. She presses it against my neck, harder until my tongue is sticking out involuntarily, my eyes are watering and I am painfully, pleasantly aware of the irony of being choked with a large, phallic symbol, the cold steel thick against my throat. She traces the tip against my thighs and for a moment, her eyes are all I see, following my every twitch. Her power stops me in my tracks. I’m brave, I’m standing my ground, and my knees are shaking.

They grab me by the hair and push me to my knees in The Writer’s room, and handcuff me to the radiator. Gaff tape is slapped over my mouth, thick and stark against my skin. Candles are lit, four of them blowing smoke patterns on the wall, storm candles for shaky nights of indeterminate darkness. Here, it is light and the spring breeze is blowing in. The wicks and I shudder.

My eyes flutter shut and I begin to see with my skin, physiological reactions bubbling up with each brush against the hair on my arms, the puckering of goosebumps on my stomach and thighs exposed to the wind. I blink, once, long and slow, and when I look up again, they are standing above me, candles in hand.

“Do you want to watch?”

I do, it’s like watching a needle sink into skin, metal scrape against metal, teeth chipping, a slow microviolence slowed down by gravity and time. I blink at the last minute. Inevitably, my bravery fades at the eleventh hour. Candle wax in patterns mathmatical mapping starbursts across the veins of my hands, speckling my nose. My rough seaglass edges are rubbed smooth with each stroke and drip. It descends down my skin in rainbows, dragging into curves and stretches in my skin. I yelp with each pool, and as quickly as the pain comes, it ebbs.

Each grabs an arm and hauls me to my feet. I am shaking and cannot stand, but the smile cannot be erased from my face. We walk out into the sun, wax chipping off my fingers and forearms and pooling in the toes of my socks. I am content, awash in the glow of satisfaction, resilience, the sheer throbbing I get from my head to my feet and the spring in my step. I feel close, and I hold tighter, lock eyes with emotion and connection. I melt into myself, into them, into the snow at my feet and leap into the sun.

-C.

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