Note: Since I am too tired to think, here is another work of fiction I wrote a long time ago. Enjoy. Please do not copy it.
I wanted him to make me scream.
Not in pain though, in pleasure. I should really learn to spell things out instead of leaving them open to interpretation. He “interprets” them the way he wants to, and it’s usually to my detriment. He has me tied up, face down, to the bed, the rope biting into my skin. Duct tape over my mouth so I can’t protest. I still do, grunting and groaning. My eyes are huge, and I think I’m going to start crying, because I’m so afraid. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he laguidly puts the scalpel blade into the handle. He’s in no rush to mar my skin.
He watches me struggle for a bit. He lets me whip myself into a frenzy, wondering what he’s going to do to me. The ideas are too scary to contemplate, and the first tears spill from my eyes, unbidden.
“I haven’t even done anything to you yet. Why are you crying?” He asks in mock concern.
I grunt something that resembles I’m afraid. He pretends he doesn’t hear me or understand me. He holds the scalpel inches from my face. The blade is large and shiny and menacing. I struggle even harder against the rope, but the more I try to get away, the tighter it gets. He did it that way on purpose.
He shoves my head down to the bed, brushing my hair away from my skin. The scalpel barely touches my skin, but it feels as if my back is on fire. I scream as he drags it down my shoulder blade.
“I thought you liked knives, my love,” he says, disapprovingly. I glower at the matress beneath me, because I can’t move my head. He has it pinned with one hand so I don’t move. So, I don’t cause any permanent damage. The tears are flowing freely down my cheeks as the fire in my back receeds a fraction. He waits, letting me absorb the pain. Then he touches the scalpel to my skin, gingerly, and the fire roars anew. My fingers are digging into the sheets, and I scream again. I wonder absently if this scalpel was extra sharp just for me. The third time he drags it across my back, my eyes roll back in my head, and I am afraid I am going to pass out. The fourth time, my entire back goes numb from the pain. But the fear of dying keeps my senses in overload, and even though I can’t feel it anymore, I still flinch each time the scalpel touches me. I lose track of how many times he’s cut me, I can’t tell what he is doing.
After what seems like forever, he puts the scalpel down. I can smell the blood, the coppery scent and I almost moan in wanting. He tastes me, cautiously at first. I know why he is so gentle with me. The smell has gotten into his head, and he is holding back so he doesn’t rip me to shreds.
I brace myself for more pain as he cleans my wounds with his tongue. But he doesn’t bite me. After he’s had his fill of my blood, he cleans the rest of it up with an alcohol swab.
“So pretty,” he murmurs. He unties me, and with a hand over my eyes, leads me to the bathroom. Then he tells me to look in the mirror. I am facing away from it, so I crane my neck around to see my back. My back is still dripping blood, but I see the pattern. It’s a hibiscus flower, carved into my skin. My own tattoo that will never go away. Colored in my blood. I am moved beyond words. It is beautiful.