“I kissed her. Kissing is more intimate than fucking. That’s why I never liked my girlfriends to go around kissing men. I’d rather they fucked them.” – Charles Bukowski, Women.
grab
Last night, as a means of procrastinating, I opened up a tinychat to procrastinate work and try to answer questions live instead of in the cold, cruel inbox format.
What I thought would be a little thing quickly mushroomed into a very busy, very lively meeting of the minds – so to speak. Equal parts weird and fun, the tinychat added a dimension to some people who had, up until this time, been simply stories I read and enjoyed.
Things got a little nuts when Craftsmate came over, got out his computer, and joined in. And then when Penthouse hopped online, noticed the post, and joined in on the chat as well. I was blushing the entire time as worlds collided.
And thanks to you all, I went to bed with a red little bum.
Hmph.
(Blah blah my queue spat this out too early blah blah I guess I can start this story.)
Penthouse and I share an interrogation fantasy. I had articulated it to him for a while and had shared that the only time I had tried it, the guy was really half-hearted and was basically like, “one question now blowjob.” Which, I’m sorry, I love sucking dick but that killed it.
We were hanging around and I was messing with Penthouse’s wallet. “What are you doing?” He asked.
I smirked, “oh, I was thinking of hiding it when you weren’t looking so you’d have to ask me where it was.”
“Oh,” he replied, “I suddenly have something to do…elsewhere.” We both laughed and he got up and went to the other room.
Practically giddy with the fact that this was going to happen, I hid the wallet and waited for him to come back. When Penthouse returned, he feigned surprise at his wallet being gone.
“Sweetheart,” he asked in that Daddy-type voice that makes me blush. “Have you seen my wallet?" I just smirked and shrugged. He grabbed my arm, "did you hide it?” I shrugged again and he pushed me up against the wall. “Where is it?” I shook my head.
Suddenly, I felt him pull the ballgag between my teeth and buckle it at the back of my head. “Fine, when you’re really to tell me, I’ll take this off.” He shoved me towards the bed.
See those two quick little breaths she sucks in right as he’s pulling her top down?
Yeah.
Those just about make this whole thing.
“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness,“ Allen Ginsberg, in Michael Schumacher’s On Being a Writer.
TISSUE Magazine N°2.
With the rope marks on her breasts implying she’s probably been tied up in another position recently, coupled with the growing fear in her eyes and the way he’s grabbing her, I’d have to say this is just the right amount of scary.
I’d like to imagine that if he weren’t holding her that way, I imagine she’d just fall right into the mirror he’s holding her in front of. And that would be no good at all, it would just get her off the hook from having to watch those little faces she makes until she can finally appreciate them.
I love that feeling when that very last piece of clothing is cut from your body and it flutters to the ground. There’s such brutal finality to it, it’s almost poetic. It’s the point of no return, the crossing of the Rubicon, a thousand different clichés of that nature rolled into one experience.
Because, of course, the only reason a cliché is a cliché is for the harsh obviousness of its truth.
Game over? Really now? Are you sure?
Because, in my house, this is just about when the games begin.