A quiet Sunday afternoon at Eroticon...
...consisted of a Rachel Kincaid taking me (and a room full of other attendees) into a world where the darker secrets live. Of the gory and stomach turning. And of any story for which a happy ever after does not look like Disney. And what fun it was. PD James has never actually murdered anyone, Stephen King never buried anyone alive (well, as far as we know!) and yet they write about these events as their bread and butter. "Go out and write," said Rachel.
Pondering this, I had a nice cup of chamomile tea and headed off to watch a brand being burnt into skin with a creme brulee torch and some surgical steel wire.
In this later workshop we were talking about limits. And up popped a mention of erotic amputation. Rachel asked what it was, but I have a thing for body mods (not on me...not suburban mummy enough yet) mainly I think because they are so forbidden and different, so I had heard of it, and talked to someone who was totally happy with their hand with finger ends missing from an accident that could never quite be explained....
The gauntlet was thrown down... "You'll have to write it then."
First I have to mention Malin James and her great tips on flash writing. This is a bit long, but I tried to use the techniques she suggested. Then Victoria Blisse, engaging all your senses. I was thinking of you, but taste...not in this story. This was a great writing exercise, out of my comfort zone in more ways than one, especially as I knew I would put it out for others to read from here. My first bit of fiction on the blog.
I have had a go. I have given you a massive hint as to what I have written. It is not my usual topic, so don't go and never come back if it is not your thing...but equally stop here if you faint at the thought of blood. Feedback on anything other than choice of subject matter please... which really is not my thing... well sort of not my thing...not how I've written it anyway.
Pin-pricks of sweat catch the light.
“Still ok?” I ask, my voice calmer than my heart.
His wry grin is pleasing, the corners of his eyes crinkling as though that idea was funny, and I guess it is. “Great. Better, probably.”
The violence of duct tape ripping from the roll answers for me.
“You’re not forcing me.” He seeks to reassure.
I know I’m not. Our dynamic, however temporary this meeting is, doesn’t work like that. Equal and opposite, we are drawn together.
He volunteers. Earlier, he pulled the worn leather belt from his belt loops and I fastened it around his chest and left arm, pinning his arm to his torso just above the elbow. Minor helpmeets aside, he wants to restrain himself and I trust him because he is trusting me. If he wants to swing for me or pull his arm away completely he can. But the involuntary, I control. The flinch will happen whether he wants it to or not.
He has prepared the board and knife as it is his infection risk. Brand new, the packaging still rustling as it unfurls in the paper bin. He hoped for passivity, to turn up then walk away when we were done. But that is not me and eventually we compromised. Joint enterprise.
Fingers flexed and knuckles cracked before their deliberate placement, their surrender, setting loose curls and spirals of excitement and a purr akin to arousal shivers through my pubis. Reality bites, a sweaty, heavy minute that drags like unconsciousness.
Tape across the back of his hand, I apologise without thought as I trap coarse dark hair. He huffs, excitement trapping his voice, but his amusement spreads and I nearly giggle. A quick glance at the knife soon squashes the need. I tiptoe closer to my boundaries and need a second to focus on the picture in my mind before concentrating again on his beautiful gift.
Three fingers pulled right. The rasp and slash as the tape rips punctuates our deliberately blown exhalations. Pinned together and fastened to the block: broad bands of black punctuating the tanned skin and meat. I can smell blood, but nothing is spilt. Not yet. The air I breathe is iron rich with want and sour with nausea.
Little finger, so naked and alone against the rough white board. Pressing the nail makes the nail bed whiten and the finger-tip flush. I pinch hard where finger meets hand and feel the movement of blood, not distinct enough for a heartbeat, but like a dam in a sluggish stream, the pressure slowly built until the flesh squirmed and hardened beneath my squeeze. And my body mimicked his, the rising awareness of blood and flesh and pumping energy. Of life.
I find the interphalangeal joint of the proximal phalanx, the text book words whispering from memory. Roll it between my fingers, feeling the end of the bone, the partition of the cartilage, that narrow seam waiting for steel. Press, allowing my nails to bruise the skin and force the joint until he hisses in discomfort.
“Still ready?” I have to ask. I am the one at risk here. Open. Exposed. I am doing what you want only if you still want it. I want it. I want it so the blood pulsates hazing my vision.
You growl, “Just do it,” your voice rough and resonant. I rush through the remaining preparations, tying a DIY tourniquet and stuffing cloth in your mouth.
The grip is rough in my fingers but the blade cuts as though I draw on your skin with wet red ink. The colours are vivid: white tendon and yellow fat bright against dull purple skin. I scrape and pull to move the skin into a wrinkled stocking around the base of your finger. Harsh breath rushes from your nose and I poke and prod some more, excited by your stillness and your pain. The flesh, trapped between life and death. Between part of you and belonging of mine.
I am more aware of you than of any donor previously. You are more real. Your flesh radiates heat. Your clothes rustle, grunts pushed through damp cloth. There is no resistance though, the cutting board still against the sheets, your body still, so still, so tense. Perfect.
I change tools, catch your eye and drown in pupils blown wide. I want to be there to. To be with you in rapture.
Sweat runs like tears, soaks from your skin. The fat blade nestles and tendon frays.
Hearts pumping, the blade solid between my hands and your bones. Pressure. Parting. A deep groan as your body is penetrated by merciless steel, nearly smothering the crunch of bone. A drag of blade to sever the final tendon and I let go.
Seconds, minutes, I don’t know and I don’t care. Your arm clamps me back to your heaving chest, the salt slick fabric leaching to mix with mine in an intimacy we didn’t expect. I didn’t expect. I came for bone. For flesh.
You came for me.