I’ll never forget that review of one of my stories that claimed that my use of the second-person perspective was discriminatory. Like, has this person ever played a video game? Or a RPG? Are they completely unable to inhabit another POV? I am baffled as to that level of empathetic disconnect. Sure, if you don’t like what I’ve written, leave a one star review. Or if it’s not to your taste, just don’t read it. But to claim an entire writing technique is morally objectionable - without any kind of explanation or references - is unhelpful to say the least.
Honestly, dude, like why the fuck,
Are you telling me all about your dumb cybertruck?
Oh, you wanna get head while it's on full self drive?
M'kay, thanks, but I think I'd rather stay alive,
‘Cause really that's not the way I want to go out,
Dead in a wreck with a tech bro's dick in my mouth,
The morbid punchline to a transphobe's joke,
Can't see the dumpster fire but I can sure smell the smoke,
So many red flags you'd run a bull ragged,
Your rizz is no show and your chat is kinda vapid,
And I don't care about the looks-maxxers you think are your friends,
So take your braggadociousness and slide back out of my DMs.
His voice was rich, with an easy warmth and timbre that made me think of a cello. When he spoke it was like each vowel was dipped in honey. And I was hungry for them.
"Pay attention now:
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails –"
"God," he paused and peered over the top of the book. "Isn't that just delicious? 'The pale stones of your fingernails'. So evocative."
He grinned, lifting the book towards his face once more and continued reading:
"I want to eat your skin like a whole almond."
He paused again, softly chuckling to himself. "What do you think of that, hmm?"
It was challenging to respond with two of his fingers idly exploring the wetness of my mouth. He withdrew them, a string of saliva snapping against my chin. I murmured a series of wet vowels, my mouth stretched wide by the medical-grade jaw spreader inserted between my teeth.
"Cat got your tongue?" he teased, as he deftly adjusted two small brass fingerscrews set into, and i felt the device expand incrementally. The corners of my lips felt taut as a drum skin, and I licked at them. He stood, and continued to read from the book, his voice sonorous.
"I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,"
Saliva was pooling around my tongue, spilling out of my open mouth, rivulets trickling down my chin and neck.
"the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,"
He paced around me, his steps a slow rhythm that matched his recitation, stepping in between each word.
"I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,"
He was behind me now, and I would have turned towards the sound of his voice were it not for the fact that I was bound to the chair.
"and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,"
The silk rope was tight against my wrists, my shoulders reverberating with tension. I was accutely aware of toes pressed against the floor, the arch of my feet, the press of the chair legs against my ankles.
"hunting for you, for your hot heart,"
My thighs trembled and quaked from the effort of keeping my pelvis raised, as I tried to reduce the pressure on the hitachi wand which had been zip tied to the seat, it's thrumming head positioned exactly against my perineum.
"like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."
Everything from my navel to my knees was subsumed in waves of radiating warmth. I had lost track of time, lost track of the extent of my own body. My limbs, my bones, my skin, they were like a prison, and in being restrained to the chair it was as if my prison was being sweetly unravelled. I was a pulsating field of energy, a reverie, that existed for his words; each line wrapped around me like the horizon, each verb sang in my ear like a hymn.
He snapped the book shut near my ear, loud as a gunshot. The shock of it made me moan, more saliva spilling out of me and trickling down my front, adding to the pool already between my thighs. I squirmed against my bonds.
"Oh dear me, you are a messy little thing," he chided. Perching himself on the desk in front of me, he set the book down. Turning towards me, he laced his fingers together and placed them in his lap.
"Now then," he began as he undid the top button of his shirt. I whimpered in anticipation, for I knew what was going to occur next. If my answers pleased him he would release me from the chair and fuck me slowly on the desk, revelling in the desperate way I would cling to him and taking great pleasure from my breathless responses as he pressed me for more details. If I failed to impress him, he would leave me bound and fuck my mouth until he came on my tongue, supplanting my disappointing words with his seed.
He leaned forward, loosening the jaw spreader, his breath hot on my face.
"Let's find out how well you were paying attention."
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