Heaven Can't Be Sweeter Than This Chapter 6
Hey friends! Here's the next chapter in our adventure! I've kind of lost track of the taglist because it's been a while, so if you want to be tagged in future chapters, leave a comment :-)
Now here we have 15k words of the real beginning of our story... I've been so ready to finally share this! Things always take longer than I think they will, but thanks for being here anyway! Rest assured, this is just the beginning.🖤🤍🔪
I'm dedicating this chapter, with love, to all the baddies who like being choked...💕😈
Today is the day you meet Art. You can’t believe it. It’s the first thought to greet you upon waking, and the immediate reality wraps around you insistently, pressing uncomfortably close. As you stand in the kitchen waiting for your coffee to brew, your stomach churns with anxious butterflies.
They still don’t abate while you’re out on your jog, and you quickly realize you’ll have to walk instead. Getting your heart rate up is doing nothing to help the state you're in. Not to mention, your legs ache terribly. Even the smallest movements are abrasive, but you indulge the pain gladly, keeping it close like good company. With long strides and deep breaths you ground yourself and enjoy the excitement you feel living beneath your skin.
Back inside the coffee smells delicious, but you skip it and head straight for the shower. You’re already wide awake. Miraculously, you were able to sleep, though you’re not sure how. When the high from your phone call with Art wore off, you dropped into a blissful slumber of which you have no memory. Not even a dream of him, which disappoints you a little.
Thinking about last night now makes you shiver despite the warm water.
Cautiously, you wash your sore legs, appreciating the care you have to take. With a featherlight touch, you smooth soap and water over the tender burns, welcoming the sharp sting that colors your senses. The deliberate carefulness required by the process awakens a sense of compassion you often forget to extend to yourself. An easy smile finds its way across your lips as you rinse away the soft lather of foam.
Your inner thighs have turned a much deeper shade of red overnight. Small white blisters cover the seared skin. You admire the damage and find it strangely beautiful. The clusters of blistered tissue are like alien fauna thriving in a harsh environment. Your body is a landscape that can endure even the most unforgiving conditions, terrain you’re eager to explore. The idea of discovering your limits and pushing past them to marvel at the twisted aftermath is exhilarating.
You only want more.
Under the streams of running water, the events of last night loop on repeat through your mind. Being on the phone with Art was equal parts elating and eerie. The silence on the other end of the line drove you crazy in the moment, but now the memory unsettles you a bit. It's hard to know how to feel, being given so little information.
You still can't paint a picture for yourself of the man you spoke to last night, and admittedly, that bothers you. It was comforting to actually talk to Art finally, but you worry you've piled too much of a fantasy onto him before you've even met him. What if he's not how he seems at all?
You're not sure how you would deal with the disappointment of learning that Art wouldn't deliver what he's promised. He could just be all talk. He could be putting on a show to get you excited, just to have you worked up, talking dirty to him on the phone, never intending to follow through on anything. It’s a painful thought, but there’s plenty of guys out there who use slimy tactics to get what they want.
Even though everything with Art has felt so real, you know you have to be prepared to be let down.
Despite the possibility for disappointment, it's undeniable the effect he’s had on you. The way you were clambering to the bathroom like a lunatic for your curling iron left you in disbelief. Recalling it now nearly makes your mouth water. That was a level no one has driven you to before, and with just words on a screen. You can’t imagine what meeting Art will be like if he’s really everything he says.
Telling him how ready you were to do anything he asked was intoxicating. It felt easy, it felt right… and just a little dangerous, a rush you'd love to experience again. Even now, you’re aching for him just thinking about it.
Stepping out of the shower and gently patting dry your thighs, you realize just how difficult it will be to focus on anything other than your upcoming plans for this evening. Taming your nervous energy seems to be an impossible task. Work will inevitably be a disaster, and you realize that you should probably just take a sick day.
The idea brings a wry smile to your face, and without a second thought you're sitting at your computer still wrapped in a towel, logging PTO for the day. You feel so delinquent, and it delights you. A giddy recklessness creeps into your bones, and you feel yourself becoming the version of yourself that you always wish you could be. You embrace her with open arms.
Once you’re off the hook from work, you throw on your bathrobe before making your way back to the kitchen to pour yourself a mug of coffee. You don't want to waste it, and now you have all day to work out your nerves. You take a small sip. It's delicious, undeniably your favorite part of every morning. A feeling of freedom blossoms in your chest, and you set your mug down, unable to stop yourself from spinning in a circle with your arms wide, making your robe flare out dramatically around you. You have to laugh at yourself. You feel unstoppable, buzzing and alive.
With the whole morning to yourself now, you decide to try and relax while you have the opportunity. Sprawling out on the couch, not bothering to get dressed, you rub your favorite lotion all over your body, taking in the comforting scent while you flip channels. Thankfully, you're able to disconnect a bit and let your mind drift. Before you know it half the coffee's gone, and you've been watching courtroom trash TV for over an hour.
An obnoxious commercial interrupts your state of mild dissociation, causing you to dial back into your own thoughts, and all you want is to talk to Art. Laying on the couch in nothing but your robe is giving you ideas…
You haven't sent him any pictures of your newest injuries.
A quick, frantic search for your phone, buried somewhere in the cushions disturbs Mia sleeping next to you. She squints at you, and you pet her head in apology, then get right to work.
Phone in hand, you shift and pose, feeling sexy, experimenting with angles. Mia blinks at you with judgemental confusion. You snap more pictures than necessary, of more than just the burns on your legs. Apparently, a little lewd photoshoot was exactly the distraction you needed. Once you start, you find you're having too much fun to stop.
You're completely wrapped up in the fantasy of putting on a show for Art, and time passes without your notice. Instead of a stretch of 5 or 10 minutes, the hour is divided into body parts -- ass, then thighs, then back to ass, pussy with your fingers, then without -- until you run out of ways to spread your legs and press your tits together and arch your back with your fingers in your mouth.
With your camera roll full of brazen nudity in a variety of creative positions, it's just a matter of deciding which one Art should see first. You try to bite back your smile as you scroll through them all to pick the standouts.
Satisfied with your selection, you type out a flirty text to open the conversation, pressing send without a second thought. But your message appears with an undelivered error.
In confusion, you redial the number that Art called you from last night. Instead of ringing, a robotic voice tells you that it’s disconnected. Reflexively, you dial again only to be met with the same result.
Your heart sinks, and a new wave of nervous energy surfaces. You’ll just have to message him on the forum like always.
The irritation you feel escapes your lungs as a deep sigh, and you stand up, feeling a need to take action of some kind. In a flurry of haste, you throw on some comfortable clothes and toss your laptop into a tote bag. Not knowing the plan for tonight is starting to get to you.
All of this built up energy needs somewhere to go, and in a moment you're out the door, doing only the bare minimum to get ready. You just have to move, go somewhere, do something, get out of your apartment for a bit. Anything that will help you find some semblance of control.
You walk for longer than you normally would. Staying in motion feels like the only way to outpace your thoughts. Eventually, you end up across the street from a cute coffee shop you've never ventured into before, and you figure today's as good a day as any to finally check it out. You need to get out of the sun and start making a game plan. The second the crosswalk sign changes, you stride across the street and through the spotless, glass door.
The soft jingling of the bell above the door seems to transport you into another world. Crisp AC smacks you in the face, along with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground espresso. The coffee shop is bathed in pale sunlight that runs through large, south facing windows and rests on every woodgrain and stainless steel surface serenely. It's quiet for early afternoon and you're grateful.
The barista behind the espresso machine slouches lackadaisically, and just two other tables in the spacious lobby are occupied by likely-work-from-homers’ quietly busy with their laptops and headphones.
This place feels like the perfect yin to balance the frenetic yang of your racing mind, and you find yourself a corner to hide away in amongst the thriving house plants decorating the interior, placing your bag at a table beneath the speaker that seeps out soft jazz at an inoffensive volume.
After you set down your things, you approach the counter with a spring in your step. The pastries in the case all look immaculately perfect, and your stomach growls.
“Hey, what can I get you?” the bored looking barista asks with disinterest as he approaches you.
When he leans against the counter at the register, soft friendliness surfaces in his tired hazel eyes though he can't manage a smile. You wonder if these kinds of coffee places give special workshops to their employees on artful aloofness. His hair hangs in his face like he can't be bothered to brush it out of the way.
“I’ll take that chocolate croissant,” you tell him with a smile, “It looks incredible.”
“They're good,” he agrees, almost through a yawn, as he reaches into the case with a sheet of wax paper to retrieve it for you.
“Do you want it warmed?” he asks, and it catches you off guard.
“Yeah, actually,” you chirp, “That would be amazing.”
“Amazing,” he repeats as he turns on his heel towards the oven, drawing it out a bit, and you can't tell if he's mocking you.
“Anything else?” he asks, barely looking over his shoulder while he leans against the oven.
“Maybe just an herbal tea,” you venture, scanning the menu, “Do you have something that's, like, calming? I have a first date today, and I'm honestly really nervous.”
The words leave your lips in a nonstop stream before you can filter them, but you suppose you did need to tell someone. The information has been eating away at you, and it’s a relief to let it out.
The barista gives you a closer look now and quirks a half smile at your confession.
“Sure, do you like chamomile?” he asks, and you nod in response to avoid saying more than you mean to again.
He plates your croissant and sets it on the counter. The smell wafts up to you with comforting warmth while you watch him prepare your tea.
“I hope you're not going to a trivia night,” he says as he opens the sachet, and you’re grateful he’s filling the awkward silence. “My last date was a stupid trivia night,” he continues with a groan. “It was awful. I didn’t know any of the answers, and I swear she just brought me there to laugh at me.”
You giggle in sympathy as he brings the steaming mug of tea over to you.
“I’m serious,” he says, his personality breaking through as he smiles with playful conviction. “Only sick freaks go to trivia nights. They just want to see you suffer.”
“I don't think it will be like that,” you tell him with a laugh.
You pay for your order, appreciating the sense of normalcy the conversation allows for a moment. If only this cute, disheveled barista knew what kind of real, sick freak he was talking to, you think as you thank him and turn away.
Balancing the cup of hot tea and your croissant, you settle back down at your table and get comfortable, neglecting both in favor of your laptop which you power on hastily. The forum messages are still up on the screen and you blush a little when you see them. Self consciously you look up, scanning the room, but no one is paying attention to you. Without giving yourself a chance to overthink it, you type a simple message to Art.
Ready for tonight :-)
Nothing but an address appears as his reply.
Immediately you copy paste and search it, finding that Art is inviting you to what looks to be a warehouse forty minutes away in the derelict but expansive industrial district of a neighboring town. Unfamiliar territory to you personally, but you've seen stories in the paper -- you know this is the part of town where dead bodies turn up, tucked away like secrets no one ever bothered to know.
You bite your lip, the croissant next to you suddenly less appetizing, as you zoom in and scroll. Buried recognition stirs. Street names pop up that you've seen used as taglines and pieces of code-phrases. Aside from its reputation as a dumping ground for murder victims, the abandoned warehouses there also double as a favored haunt for an underground rave scene which you learned of during your weekends at goth and leather nights with Liz. You always supposed the air of death added to the ambiance for many of them rather than being a detractor. Those invitations never interested you, but now you're wishing you were a little more savvy.
You continue to scroll the map, committing details to memory, making notes and just generally trying to warm up to the idea of trekking out there to meet a stranger in the night. You know this isn't a decision you should make lightly.
What time should I meet you?
Art: 8:00
Art: Can you do that?
Sure, can't wait!
You hope he will say more, but he doesn't. You don't want to pry about the disconnected phone, but it's bothering you.
As you begin picking at your croissant, your phone lights up, startling you out of your rumination. Of course, against all logic, you hope that it’s Art, but instead you see Nic’s name displayed on the screen. You let it ring a few times before picking up.
“Hey,” you answer, forcing a casual delivery.
“Hey!” Nic’s voice comes through the receiver, and by the wind tunnel sound in the background you can tell that he’s driving. “I didn’t think you’d be able to answer.”
“Oh, yeah,” you fumble for a moment, “I took a sick day. I’ve got bad cramps.”
“Oh, gross. That sucks,” Nic sympathizes.
“Yeah, I’m just resting as much as I can,” you continue. You weren’t prepared to talk about your potential plans for the evening, and the reflexive lie proves easier to cling to than you’d expected.
“Anyway, what’s up? Why’d you call?” You question, eager to shift the focus of the conversation.
“Oh, yeah,” he shifts tone, jumping into his explanation. “So, I know you have that conference that you don’t wanna go to…” He pauses for effect, though you aren’t sure where he’s headed with this, “And I was actually able to cash in a little favor from another sales lead. So, I can travel out of district to check in on her stores that week, get a nice hotel comped, and visit while you’re in town for the weekend!”
Before you can reply, he continues enthusiastically, “We can get drinks, and give you at least a little escape from the never ending, corporate, ice-breaker, team-building nightmare,” he draws the sentence out and punctuates it with a groan. “I know it’s last minute, but I was probably gonna take her up on it anyway, and this works out perfectly!”
The news is exciting, but it’s also a lot to process given everything else on your mind right now. You let a pause linger in the air a little too long.
“What’s the matter?” Nic asks. “Are you not up for it? It’s been so long since we’ve caught up in person.”
“No, no,” you assure him. “That sounds great. I’m just distracted.”
“What, are you watching stupid dating shows?” He asks with mock derision.
“Guilty,” you lie with a laugh. “I’ve been stuck on the couch all day.”
Your stomach flutters with nerves. The desire to keep your perfect stranger and your questionable plans with him a secret clamps your throat like a vice. You know Nic will just talk you out of it.
“Well, I hope you feel better, and I hope you’re ready to close down the hotel bar like last time,” Nic declares mischievously.
“Oh, I will be,” you agree. “Thanks for making the effort. It will be great to see you.”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, “I think we both could use it.”
You know he’s right, and you’re filled with warm appreciation for his friendship. The two of you chat for a bit longer, but a guilty tug persists at your inability to be more present in the conversation. Abruptly, you wrap up the call, feigning and migraine, and pray he’s not upset you’re blowing him off. You make a mental note to call him back tomorrow.
Too many thoughts swirl inside your head as you sit in the quiet cafe. They feel loud enough to be broadcast to anyone in your vicinity. Still, the three other people in the room remain oblivious to your inner turmoil, each minding their own business, going through their own motions. You wish you could participate in their easy normalcy, but you’ve abandoned that well-worn nook of comfortable predictability in favor of the dark promise of something more.
Art’s messages glare back at you from your laptop screen, emanating heat, forcing your heart to beat faster, and with them a familiar sense of certainty takes hold inside your chest.
***
A mess of discarded clothing surrounds you as you stand in your bedroom trying not to break a sweat. The efforts you’ve gone through to choose an outfit for tonight wore thin long ago. Outside the sun is beginning to set, and it slants through your half-shut blinds, throwing stripes of vivid orange across the disarray and clutter.
The state of your room absolutely matches how you feel inside, but you're trying your best to keep calm. After considerable effort, you've settled on something to wear. It was a challenging series of decisions, and doubt still threatens to climb up from the depths and erase all your progress, but as you look in the mirror you're more satisfied than expected with what you see.
Many much bolder options were up for consideration, but tonight’s element of uncertainty -- of real-life stranger danger, you thought to yourself at one point, conjuring the image of your sweetly maternal fourth grade teacher now sorely disappointed in you -- meant practicality had to be factored in. You stand with your hands on your hips and assess the result.
Dark wash, straight leg jeans sit snug on your hips. They’re your go-to, fitting your silhouette close without being skin tight, with holes in the knees and enough stretch to move comfortably in. The top was a trickier choice. You settled on a charcoal grey, knit, wrap top that hugs your waist and falls loose in the shoulders, draping into short sleeves that cross in a deep v-neck and gather in the tight seam cinching down one side.
Underneath you’ve got on a tight tank top in a steely, grey-blue that’s a shade off from navy. You always get compliments when you wear it, and someone told you once, you think, that it’s in your season. It feels somewhat embarrassing to resort to using seasonal color palettes to impress someone, but you couldn’t restrain yourself from putting it on anyway.
All in all, the ensemble is giving “trustworthy babysitter”, or something adjacently palatable and benign. You look like you could be going to a trivia night, you think with a laugh. Pedestrian, tasteful, largely unremarkable. But you’re happy with the way the outfit flatters your curves, and even more so, that you can throw a high kick in it. You're trying your best to be ready for anything.
What’s more important is what’s underneath anyway, you figure. The items in question being red, silky, lacey, strappy… all the best descriptors for undergarments…
No garters or corsets or anything fancy, though you'd love to be wearing something more daring. You also want to hold back a bit. After all, Art has to impress you too, doesn't he?
Really it’s just a matching bra and panty, but with some extra criss-crossing straps that run gracefully across your curves, and more padding than empty space in the bra cups to push your tits up like they're on a display shelf. There’s even tiny, round sequins stitched carefully into the lace. Who isn’t a fan of red lace? It felt like an obvious choice. The set was actually a Valentine's present from Liz, and you're glad to erode their association with her, so it’s an all around win.
Hopefully, you’ll get the opportunity to show off the rest of your closet soon enough.
You feel like a gift covered in misleading wrapping, an under-sell, concealing more than the packaging suggests. You wouldn't have guessed that being dressed so simply could be a turn on, but you love the thought of being “unwrapped” to reveal bold, red straps that hug your curves in sensual lines to match the marks that wrap obscenely around your thighs. Twisted eroticism beneath an unassuming, vanilla exterior. The combination is divine.
As you stare at yourself in the mirror, you think about undressing for Art.
About Art undressing you.
How will it happen? What will his reaction be?
All at once, the silence in the room becomes a heavy presence with you, and it's like he's already there, standing next to you. He won't have any words to say, you remember, and the thought intimidates you.
You're afraid of what he might think, nervous about whether he'll still like you in person. Afraid that any chemistry you had might fall flat, drowned and dissolved in the depths of the unavoidable silence once you’re actually face to face.
You sit down at your vanity and put on some music to distract yourself. Indecisive and impatient, you shuffle your phone’s saved catalog. With a steady hand you channel your nerves into your movements, letting a familiar melody guide you as you paint fine, shimmering glitter and jet black mascara onto your eyes in balanced strokes. A little sparkle. A little drama. But simple. You want less to be more. The process comforts you and grants you respite from your worries.
Without your permission, your mind wanders to your first date with Liz.
She took you to a nice restaurant, nicer than any you’d ever been to for a date, especially a first date. You were impressed and out of your depth, feeling underdressed and self conscious, but excited and charmed all at once.
She ordered for you without it being condescending. Instead you felt taken care of, considered. Never once did she seem like she was trying too hard. She made jokes you genuinely laughed at and ordered brandy on the rocks -- an endearing, distinct choice that became the drink you've favored ever since -- with confidence that fit her easily. Nothing forced, no pretending.
When you got up to go to the bathroom before dessert, you didn’t notice her follow just a moment later. You didn't hear her footsteps on the sparkling tile floor, or see her shadow beneath the privacy gap in the luxury-fitted stall. You didn't know she was there until you swung open the door, and your hair was snagged in a rough fistful as she steered you into the corner, pushing up your skirt with urgency.
She kicked your feet apart and bent you over the sink, yanking your head back with force so you had to look at yourself in the mirror while she teased you through your underwear. With clenched teeth she whispered filthy insults in your ear, then continued to deride you further for liking it so much. You don’t remember a word of it anymore, only your body’s irrepressible response.
When she finally let you go, after you were worked up and embarrassed and starting to worry that someone could walk in at any moment, she politely smoothed down your skirt and told you not to forget to wash your hands as she walked out.
Back at the table, it was like it hadn’t happened at all. She made chaste small talk and didn’t even brush against your foot when you stretched deliberately into her space. It drove you crazy, and she didn’t bat an eye. When the waiter brought dessert, you were already melting like the chocolate lava cake in front of you.
That was the lightbulb moment. The first experience you’d ever had with anything like that, being dominated for real, and maybe it should have been a red flag, the way Liz liked to push without asking, but it wasn’t. You learned that you like being pushed.
The memory is sour now, hard to think about, containing too many hazardous emotions that reek like toxic waste. You push it aside and call your Uber.
***
Standing in front of the warehouse, you're unsure how to proceed. The only door you can see is boarded up from top to bottom. So are the large windows that face the street.
Nervously, you pull out your phone to double check the time and see that you've gotten a text from another unsaved number.
Use the back entrance down the alley to the left.
Right on time. Maybe he can see you standing on the sidewalk looking lost. You give the graffiti covered facade of the building another once-over and try to imagine your stranger on the other side of the defaced, inhospitable walls. The night air feels colder, presses in closer.
It's deathly quiet, you realize. Not a passing car, or barking dog, or distant conversation carried by the breeze intrudes to break the silence. No surrounding signs of life dare to challenge your solitude, save for the chirping crickets nestled in the weeds pushing through the cracks in the sidewalk.
You drag a pebble beneath your shoe as you linger uncomfortably, then give it a kick, watching it skip across the cement. The emptiness of the night smothers the sound as it bounces away. You know you can’t just keep standing out here.
Carefully, you make your way around the large building via the narrow, unlit alley. As you side step crates and boxes left heaped around a rusty dumpster, your heart rate picks up.
It's clear to you that Art chose this place to scare you, and it's working. Your refusal to tell anyone else where you'd be tonight seems ridiculously stupid to you now, and you consider backing out as real fear begins to build in the primal part of your brain. Another text from the same number lights up your phone.
The door is open.
I'm down the hall to the left waiting for you.
You reach the back of the building and find the entrance to the loading dock unlocked just like Art said you would. Once inside, you adjust to the dim lighting and try to make sense of his other instructions in relation to your current surroundings.
The large open space is decrepit and dust covered from years of vacancy. In fact, you think to yourself, this building may very well be condemned and slated for demolition. Being in here at all is probably more dangerous than you realize.
The place is illuminated only by the emergency lights near the exits and doorways, making it hard to see what could be lurking in the surrounding shadows. You remain tense, braced for anything, flipping on your cellphone flashlight to cast a small circle of visibility at your feet.
Straight ahead is a large doorway leading into a hall that continues further than you can see, the path abruptly swallowed by darkness. To your left is another hallway, not as wide, and lit all the way down. You know that's where he wants you to go.
You wring your hands nervously and shift your weight from foot to foot. Your breathing is shallow, and you're starting to lose your nerve now that you're here. Internally, you grapple with your apprehension as you stand in the center of the dark warehouse.
You're closer to Art than ever now, and you're seriously thinking of backing out? No way.
With determination you take a deep breath and will yourself towards the narrow hallway.
Every step feels like an eternity. Your heart lurches with anticipation, and the danger of the situation remains present in your mind. Whatever is waiting for you lies only a few steps away, and you’re not willing to pass up the chance to find out who Art really is.
You can see a doorway at the end of the hall. A dim glow fills the room. You can make out shadows, maybe movement, but nothing discernable. Continuing forward with your heart in your throat, your steps land as softly as possible on the dusty concrete floor. The tension of the situation implores you to move with careful stealth. You're not sure why, but you want to try catching him by surprise.
Once you reach the threshold, you have an unobstructed view of the small room. The first thing you see is a figure with his back to you.
It's him. He's real. Undeniably real. Your heart leaps.
He doesn't turn to face you, and you think he might not know you're standing there. It looks like he could be holding something in his hands. Maybe you can sneak up on him, you think with glee. In your excitement, you step into the room without planning your next move.
Before you can think, you hit the ground hard, both feet yanked out from under you. Your purse and phone clatter to the ground. Somehow you catch yourself, breaking your fall painfully with your wrists and elbows. Quicker than you can process what happened or even try to stand, you slide over the dirty floor, dragged by what feels like rope pulled tight around your ankles. Gravity shifts, and you cry out. The rope pulls somehow tighter, and then you're hanging upside down a few feet off the floor.
The room spins and your pulse pounds, all your blood now rushing to your head. Art hasn't moved, his back still turned to you. He appears as a hazy figure in black and white, an image out of focus. You struggle to make sense of the scene before you.
The room is drenched in sallow light by the grimy incandescent bulb overhead. Cobwebs hanging from the fixture cast shadows on the deteriorating brick walls. Art is standing behind a long table that nearly takes up the length of the back wall. You can see now that he's holding the other end of the rope that's wrapped around your ankles. With deft, fluid motions he secures his end of the rope to something on the wall. You try to watch him, but you can't see clearly. Between the two of you, pushed off to the side, stands a prominent detail you didn't immediately register: a larger rectangular table that sits on a forty-five degree slant, looking awfully medieval.
Your mouth goes dry as you take everything in. Your brain tries to catch up, frantic to grab some foothold in reality after the shock of panic that's flooded your nervous system. Art seems to be working deliberately slowly with the rope, taking his time to make sure everything’s secure. You try to find your voice, but it's gone. Your arms hang limp at your sides, the weight of them putting strain on your shoulders. Instinctively, you try to move, to somehow struggle free of the rope.
You've quite literally been snared. You weren't sure what to expect coming here tonight, but it definitely wasn't this.
You were never certain how much you could trust the stranger on the other side of those messages, and now you're even less sure of your judgement. To your surprise, you feel as though you could cry. You were so careless, so reckless, so ready to abandon all the comfort and safety you took for granted in order to fill the void inside you, and now you're truly at the mercy of someone you know nothing about. It's exactly what you asked for, and you realize you're hopelessly in over your head.
The regret, the grief, and the fear flood your vision with tears. Desperation is all you have left, and you act on it.
As you fling yourself about uselessly, Art finally turns around to acknowledge you. Nothing could have prepared you for the face you're met with. Garish black and white paint covers his features, making a monstrous impression that only increases your panic. Even through your blurred vision, his snarl is unmistakable. The look in his eyes makes you freeze.
He notices your reaction and leans back in silent laughter, pointing at you and heaving with pantomimed hysterics. He carries on with this for a moment, and you try to understand what you’re seeing -- a monster, a creature, a nightmare come alive before you.
Then at once, his face turns cold again as he drops the act he was performing solely for his own amusement. Art turns his attention to the table, making a quick selection before turning back to you with that predatory stare. In his hand is a power drill. He holds it up for you to see, smiling menacingly.
Reality sets in, and your blood runs cold as he steps closer.
You give a ragged scream and swing your arms in his direction as though that will somehow stop him approaching.
Fear has you throwing your arms blindly and wildly.
Your sobs and screams are drowned by the grating squeal of the drill getting closer.
You’re scared, really fucking scared, and Art openly delights in your terror as he walks over to you, almost jauntily, with another length of rope in his other hand.
You keep swinging, your self defense drive taking over in a way you didn't expect. Art stands before you, just out of reach. He lets you dangle there, grunting and flailing, exhausting yourself, before bending down and getting in your face with the whirring drillbit.
You still can't make sense of what you're seeing -- glinting eyes, bared teeth, it's like your fear is making you hallucinate. The drill inches closer with his distorted smile behind it, and you're able to connect a lucky swing with enough force to knock the power tool from his hand. Art watches it skid across the floor with mild disappointment.
Then he stands back up, appraising you with a frown and batting at your flailing arms as though they're a petty annoyance to him. He catches your wrists with a gentleness that shocks you, causing all of your attempts to fight to dissolve in his grasp. Your movements still under his touch as Art places your arms against your sides and begins winding more rope around your body. As he does this he crouches down to shush you like you're a petulant child.
You still don't feel able to say anything. With effort, you attempt to catch your breath and stop your crying. Now that he's so close, the energy in the room has shifted.
You can't ignore how careful he's being. The rope moves like a serpent over your skin, giving you goosebumps. Again, Art moves slowly and fluidly, tying your arms with delicate ease, but despite his gentleness you feel how sturdy the knots are. You watch him while he works, looking up at him, trying to get a better look at his face. The movement of his arms obscures your view, but you can see intense focus in his expression. Now that he's so close, all you want is to see his face again. You want to decipher just who you're dealing with.
In a matter of moments, your arms are wound snugly to your sides from the elbows down. The feeling is not unpleasant, you note, as you manage another shaky breath and blink the tears from your eyes. Art takes a step back and assesses his work.
He gives you a look of measured concern when his gaze falls on your face, like he's thinking something over, but not sure you should be privy to it just yet. You meet his eyes, unsure what your own expression gives away.
Being upside down makes for a difficult vantage point, but you take in everything you can now that you're able to get a better look. It's a lot to digest. He's dressed like a black and white circus clown, down to the shoes and tiny tophat. It's bizarre and jarring and you really aren’t sure what to make of it. But, you suppose, that's probably the idea.
His features are dramatic, a face that would be distinctly memorable even without the terrifying makeup. He furrows his painted brows at you and places a gloved hand under his chin.
“A-Art?” you manage hoarsely. Your voice feels far away, like it belongs to someone else.
He nods with a small smile, crouching down to your level. His eyes shine with intensity and are as white as the rest of him, you realize with surprise.
You hold his gaze, searching for a flicker of humanity, for some sense of commonality in his colorless stare, and you find yourself unable to look away. He grins wider, showing off appalling teeth that make you recoil.
“Fuck,” you breathe out in a startled whisper, “Fuck, this is intense…”
Art drops his smile and looks around the room in confusion like he's not sure what you could mean. Then he turns his attention back to you. Your mind is still reeling. The exhaustion from your struggling catches up to you, weighing you down. Your head aches terribly. Art just watches you patiently, and you have no idea what he could be thinking. Your worries about whether he would like you or not feel laughably distant, replaced by a new set of concerns. He commands an unsettling presence, even just sitting there calmly, and you’re not sure at all what he’s capable of, but you’ve jumped in at the deep end, so now you have to swim.
“I- I didn't picture meeting you to go like this…” you say nervously.
He stands and throws out his hands in a “ta-da” motion. The absurdity of the gesture forces a laugh from the back of your throat. He’s really committed to the clown thing, and you’re not sure how to play ball with it. You laugh again. Your immediate fear begins to subside, but you're still dizzy with adrenaline, balanced on a razor’s edge as you hang helplessly.
“This is fucking crazy…” you state in awe as you look around incredulously like there could be hidden cameras somewhere, and you're about to get a prank show reveal.
“This is actually fucking crazy.”
Art shrugs noncommittally, unwilling to endorse your assessment of the situation.
“I mean really,” you continue with some accusation, “This is your idea of taking things slow?”
Art opens his mouth like he could try to argue, then puts a hand on his chin, considering your words. To your surprise, he seems open to hearing you out.
“Do you think you could --?” you begin, but falter.
“I don't know what your plan is,” you try again with more confidence, “But I'd love to not be upside down for much longer. I'm getting a headache.”
Art waves a hand at your remark and shakes his head, laughing a bit, like he didn't realize he was being a bad host. He holds up a finger for you to wait a moment before he turns towards the table at the back of the room. He takes his time, hamming it up acting like he can't find what he's looking for, throwing you apologetic glances over his shoulder. It occurs to you his only aim is likely to prolong your discomfort, just because he can.
Even though he’s listening to you, the gravity of the situation, quite literally, is not lost on you.
Art strides back towards you with a well-sharpened hunting knife and a smile. Without missing a beat, he begins to cut through the rope that suspends you off the floor.
As the tension starts to give, you're afraid you'll hit the ground. You flinch as you’re pulled downward, but then Art’s free arm catches you at the shoulder and he picks you up bridal style for a moment while yanking the rope loose the rest of the way. You try to look up at him, but the moment is too brief. The rope drops to the floor as he tosses you roughly over his shoulder.
You're speechless again.
Being handled like you weigh nothing, like you're of no consequence or concern, is new for you, and it's making you blush. The ease in his movements is impressive. His strength surprises you. You can’t help but notice how tall he is, how high off the ground you are, and you feel dizzy again.
His shoulder digs into your lower abdomen, just below your ribs, and his grip on you is firm. The position is uncomfortable, but unexpectedly intimate. You’re completely flustered as Art carries you across the room, and you fight to keep your wits about you.
As you could have predicted, he sets you down on the medieval torture table, but you feel no concern over this. All you can focus on is the relief you feel as your blood flow returns to normal. Being even just semi-upright on the slanted table is a huge improvement.
Your heels catch on a ledge at the bottom of the table, and you feel some kind of shackles close around each ankle once Art lets you go. After he’s secured you to the table, he pops back up with a smile, looking both genuinely delighted and intently inquisitive when he meets your eyes.
Already, you're getting used to looking at him.
Given the circumstances, it's hard to look anywhere else, but you feel a curiosity that runs deeper than whatever game he’s playing that pulls your attention like a magnet.
His face is expressive, but still indecipherable somehow. Like the treacherous planes and angles of an iceberg in the unforgiving sea, there’s more beneath the surface than you can guess, and not accounting for it would be dangerous. His eyes draw you in, shining and cold, lined in black, set deep in the intense, almost impossible contours of his face. The notion occurs to you that staring into the void allows the void to stare back at you.
With a shiver, you tear your gaze away and look around the room. From here you have a better view of the long table near the wall, and can see that there’s no shortage of potential weapons strewn across its surface. What’s visible to you -- saws, knives, rusted pliers (you cringe internally at those) -- spill out of a black trashbag, the greater contents of which you can only dare to guess.
This situation is so beyond anything you could have expected. It's like a fever dream. You shift in your restraints, the expertly tied knots offering little give.
“I guess this is what I told you I wanted, isn't it?” you admit. It really is, and in a way you're extremely impressed.
Art grins at you and nods, raising his hands in a shrug to convey his supposed secondary role in everything that's unfolded.
“Do you do this kind of thing a lot?” you ask.
He wobbles his hand in a so-so gesture, beginning to pace the room, circling the table. His face doesn't give much away, and as he continues his deliberate strides you feel uneasy when he disappears behind you.
“This table is…” you begin, not sure where your thought is going, but feeling compelled to keep talking, “Well, it's pretty crazy.”
You lean forward the little bit that you can to take a better look at it, careful not to slip too far and risk losing your balance as only your ankles are secured to the table directly.
“Did you build it?” you ask him.
You're genuinely curious, but you realize you still sound nervous. Art’s not bothering to answer you anyway. He's watching you as he re-emerges from behind the table, but with a pointed air of detachment.
“It's cool,” you continue, “It's really cool. I- uh, I’ve never done anything like this before.”
Still no reaction shows on his face, but he meets your eyes again. His expression is closed and flat as he considers you. There's a persistence in his stare that you feel is intending to will something out of you. You're not sure what he's fishing for, but you keep your eyes locked on his as he takes another step towards you.
“I'm sure you could teach me a few things,” you try shyly.
Art does smile at this, a smile that spreads more naturally than any you've seen from him so far, along with a quick ghost of a laugh. It's brief, but genuine, though you see no warmth in his eyes before he turns away from you.
“Really,” you assert, feeling bolder now, wanting to push him. “I'd love to learn what you do, Art.”
You’re eager for him to give some kind of reaction, but he keeps his back to you. He seems to be considering his options. Given what you’ve seen on the table, maybe you should be worried, but instead you feel playful. You keep studying him, trying to reconcile this sinister individual with the stranger you’ve been sending steamy messages to.
“What are you going to show me?” you question in a wheedling pout.
Art looks over his shoulder and smiles at you devilishly, and to your surprise heat rises to your cheeks. Maybe he can see that you're blushing because he raises his eyebrows suggestively before turning back around to rummage through the large trashbag. A small thrill runs through your body, and you’re eager to find out what he’s searching for.
When he turns to you again, he's no longer smiling. In his hands he holds an ax. A big one, heavy duty, the kind a fireman would use to break down a door. Definitely not what you had in mind. Your heart lurches against your ribcage.
His eyes match the shine of the pristine-looking blade as he narrows them at you, fixing you once again with a look that makes you feel like easy prey.
Now you feel yourself smiling instead, or maybe it's more of a grimace. Nervous laughter fills the room, brittle and strained. You struggle to suppress the defensive response.
At your uneasiness, Art looks at the brutal weapon in his hands then back to you a couple of times with a puzzled expression. He drops his shoulders and leans back in mock laughter, pointing again from you to the ax. He nearly doubles over, continuing to laugh and pretending to wipe tears from his eyes, looking at you like, ‘What? You thought I was going to hit you with this? That’s ridiculous!’
You relax a bit, trying to follow along. But just as quickly, he drops the bit he was doing and lunges at you with the ax above his head. You have no control of the sound that escapes as you flinch hard and squeeze your eyes shut, only to open them a second later and find that Art's somehow stopped a few inches short from making contact with the top of your skull.
He doesn't drop his intensity at all, and you can tell how much he's feeding off your reactions.
His eyes bore into you, and you squirm in your restraints as genuine unease resurfaces in the wake of the startle. Art pulls the ax back again causing you to reflexively tense your body once more. He's watching you with hunger and ferocity. Testing you. You can't ignore the feeling that he really does want to hack you to pieces.
Your heart is racing again, and you make a deliberate effort to calm your breathing as Art steps closer. He lowers the ax, instead turning his attention to the ropes that tightly bind your arms. He makes quick work of loosening them.
Your brain turns over scrambled fight or flight signals, aware that this could be an opportunity of leverage. With your arms free, you could make a move of some kind, but you’re still shackled in place by your ankles with no real ability to overpower your captor without some kind of weapon. Your mind grapples with the puzzle pieces of the situation as the instinct to escape thrums through your being.
You haven’t been able to parse the danger of the situation since you walked in here. Art is making it impossible to guess what’s real. He continues to untie your arms casually, clearly unconcerned by any possibility that you might try to fight back. You scan the room, desperate for anything that could potentially help you.
As he frees your arms and pulls them straight, repositioning you carefully, your eyes find an ominous stain on the floor. An area across from you, void of the pervasive grime present everywhere else, highlighting a semi-scrubbed-but-still-visible rust colored shadow, makes your heart skip a beat. You don’t have to guess, you know what it is without a doubt, and you know it’s real. It's a pool spread wide enough to strike sobering fear in your heart, telling a grisly story not intended for your discovery. You shudder.
In panic, you look over to Art tying your wrist down to the table, searching his face for any indication that this is all a game -- just pretend, haha, I scared you, now here’s two more for flinching.
But you don’t see anything like that.
He meets your eyes, and his smile is a vicious warning. He leans closer, looking down at you, just inches from your face, and for the first time you notice the smell, the edge of decay that clings to him. Your senses aren’t lying to you. You’re looking death in the face.
You don’t feel brave enough to say anything. All you can do is look up at him in fear, taking in the monstrous, startling picture of his face once more. A knowing smile curves his black painted lips.
With your arms pulled out straight to either side, you feel much more vulnerable. Art steps back to pick up the ax again and keeps grinning at you, shifting his weight from foot to foot with excitement as he raises his weapon. He takes a moment to look you over, deciding where he wants to begin, and you can only guess how you must appear to him -- arms spread wide, petrified, defenseless. Gleeful malice dances in his eyes.
After a moment of drawing out the decision, he lines up the ax to take a swing at the center of your bare forearm like it’s a stump waiting to be split, letting the blade make light contact with your skin -- a cold kiss -- before pulling back to deliver the blow. He watches you watch him the whole time, smiling wildly, hungry for a reaction. Somehow you find your voice.
“You don't have to keep going with this -- ” you stammer. “You scared me -- I'm scared, okay?”
Your words do nothing to change his course of action, and Art brings the ax down fast causing you to shriek and jerk away as wood splinters into shrapnel where he makes contact with the table just an inch above your arm. You stare in shock at the ax blade buried in the wooden surface on which you're helplessly bound.
There's no space for comfort between your limb and its resting place. It feels lucky that he managed to miss, even with that being his intention.
Art yanks the ax from the table, looking especially pleased with himself and showing no signs of stopping.
“Okay, okay,” you plead, trying to remain calm. “This is enough, MORE than enough.”
As you hear yourself speak, the messages you've exchanged play through your mind in haunting, bitter realizations of hindsight that wash over you like a bucket of ice water.
“Okay I'm crying, I'm begging you to stop…”
“I might like it too much to stop.”
Panic bubbles in your chest, and you push down the tears that threaten to surface.
“Art…” you try to reason with him, to get him to meet your eyes, but he's circling the table, already planning his next move.
“Art, please,” you repeat, as he stops next to you. You hate how desperate you sound. You turn your head, straining your neck to look at him, and he just smiles at you with condescension, like it's cute that you're trying.
Next he positions the ax against your knee, right at the bottom of the joint like a depraved reflex test, and the pain you imagine makes you feel sick. A wave of nausea rises. You feel yourself begin to sweat as all the nerves in your leg twinge in response to the threat posed.
This time Art doesn't fake you out with a swing, he just lowers the weapon after a moment like he's changed his mind. Like he's gotten bored with the idea. You feel queasy as he steps around you to stand on your other side.
With a sudden move the ax is pressed to your stomach, and you gasp. Again, your mind creates a phantom sensation of being hacked into that hits you like a punch. You imagine how easily your insides would yield under the force and splatter grotesquely.
You hope for mercy, for rapid blood loss, for your spine to sever quickly, bits of marrow embedded in the wood beneath you. The room spins with visceral imagery. You feel it’s inevitable that you’re about to become another gruesome stain on the dirty concrete beneath you.
Art watches your discomfort with invasive interest, pressing for more. He drags the ax lower so it catches the hem of your shirt, lifting the fabric as he slides it back up, making contact with your bare skin. The metal sends a chill through your body. You feel so exposed, nothing between your vital organs and the unforgiving heft of sharpened steel. You feel your pulse deep in your guts, and you watch the frantic cadence of it dance under the blade pressed into your flesh.
Art leers at you, studying your face closely as you look down at the weapon you're powerless against, and the way he's lingering gives you butterflies. The feeling of his eyes on you is suddenly too much to bear. You look up at his fearsome snarl and see desire that can't be disguised. He's practically panting. The heat of his breath warms your face, and with it you feel the dark, sick wanting that hangs on every putrid exhale.
He steps away abruptly, and you're left dizzy from the intensity of the moment. Your skin tingles where the blade was, burning white hot in its absence.
Before you can anticipate his next move, the ax is hurling towards you again, straight at your face. You don't even have time to scream, you just shut your eyes and brace yourself.
The sound of the table splintering inches from your head is near deafening. The cold rush of air against your face forces your eyes to flutter open. In an instant, Art is looming over you again, his arms braced on either side of you as he rips the ax from the table with ease, keeping his eyes locked on you.
Your mind reels with whiplash.
He looks angry, snarling menacingly, showing all his ugly teeth, but you try to decipher the layers beneath the seething surface of mean-spirited rage. Your own feelings interlace and contradict each other, fear and confusion overlay inexplicable attraction, that magnetic pull ever present even amidst the danger you're in. There’s an undeniable, dread-fueled chemistry between you and this monster of a man that stirs awake your deepest, most indefensible desires.
Whatever he's going to do to you, you want from him, unapologetically.
As Art bares down on you, the vitriol in his shining, white eyes steals your breath.
Like he can sense this, he puts the ax to your throat forcefully. In his eyes you see satisfaction, wrath bubbling over into dark gratification. He steps to the side, holding the weapon in place, angling himself next to you so he can pull the ax toward himself rather than pushing it against you.
The cold, metal edge presses into the soft flesh under your chin. You feel sharp pressure where the blade meets your jawbone. There's just enough force behind it that swallowing and breathing are uncomfortable. Your pulse jumps in your throat. You can literally feel the surges of your blood forcing the ax to jerk almost imperceptibly against your neck with each frantic beat of your heart. Every nerve is alive with tension.
Art is close to you again, so close that you can't look at him with the way he's pinned you to the table, but you can feel him right next to your face.
He presses down harder, and the blade threatens to break your skin. You can't draw a full breath at all now. Art leans in, listening to your strained breathing, adding more pressure slowly until your airway is fully constricted. The obscene wet sounds of cartilage shifting and your throat struggling to open fill your ears. The lack of oxygen heightens everything in an instant.
It's a sensation you've played with extensively, and you can't deny the almost pavlovian reaction your body is having to it now. Your entire body relaxes under the pressure, welcoming more, and you wish you could look Art in the eyes and will him silently not to stop.
The adrenaline has you high, and the way you're pinned to the table by your throat is turning you on like nothing else, cutting through the fear with an edge as sharp as the blade that immobilizes you.
You wiggle your arm in your restraints and try to stretch, leaning towards Art as much as you can, in hopes you can reach out and touch him somehow. You manage to shift your weight, arching your back, subtly contorting beneath the press of the weapon on your throat, to painfully stretch your fingertips just far enough…
You brush against the fabric of his costume first, not making enough contact for him to notice. Your second attempt is more desperate, and your labored straining makes Art pause to realize that you're reaching for his thigh.
He shifts to look at you, leaning in and meeting your eyes without letting up the pressure on the ax. You can grab onto him now that he's stepped closer, and you do just that, running your hand across his thigh with the small range of motion you have and grabbing onto the back of his leg, pulling him towards you reflexively.
At this, Art does let go some of the force he's holding you in place with, slightly unbalanced and caught off guard by your advance. Air fills your lungs, and you look up at him, pleading in a different way now, urging him to press down again.
You're sure he can read the bare desire in your expression. Recognition flickers in his eyes, but he hesitates. You could speak, but you don’t want to. You know he understands, and you want to will him without words, afraid that any sound spoken aloud would break the spell of this moment. The fullest possible embodiment of the word ‘please’ burns behind your eyes as you look up at him. Your fingers curl around his leg desperately. You never knew you could like begging this much, in fact you hate how much you like it, but you don’t have time to interrogate the thought further.
Art obliges your plea and presses the ax into your throat again, this time with reserved enthusiasm. He’s watching you skeptically now, taking in your reaction and weighing it against something unknown to you. Still, the feeling is exactly what you wanted. Your jaw goes slack and your eyes glaze over as you allow the sensation, the absence of vital breath in your body, to become your sole focus.
Again, you feel the smooth tissue inside your throat fold against itself deliciously.
The blade that pins you becomes the only tangible anchor you can cling to. Sharp steel pressed forcefully into cartilage, muscle and pliant tissue, sealing your airway and trapping you in place becomes a visceral clamp on your hammering pulse while the rest of your body threatens to evaporate into the heady rush of asphyxiation.
Already you feel your cells burning and screaming in protest, but you know you can take more. Between your parted lips stale air hangs stagnant. You relish the way Art is watching you as you feel yourself begin to dissolve beneath the force of his will.
The two of you hang suspended in a moment of beautiful eternity as your vision begins to darken at the edges. You feel serene, like you're right where you're supposed to be.
He looks into your eyes, searching for panic and resistance, but instead you meet him with heavy-lidded ecstasy. Your lips curl into a smile. You’d laugh if you could. To Art’s confusion, and your amusement, he doesn’t find what he was looking for. He pulls back again, and you clutch him tighter in response.
“Please,” comes your strained whisper, “More.”
He narrows his eyes at you, trying to gauge the situation and maintain control. You aren't afraid at all anymore. You want him closer. You want him to use his hands.
The cold metal brings a sharp, intense danger, a thrill you can't deny, but you want Art’s hands around your throat more than anything. You want to truly struggle under his grip and question whether he will let you draw another breath -- to feel the tension in each of his fingers increasing, wrapping around you completely.
When you first laid eyes on him your immediate shock and repulsion were overwhelming, but now those feelings are nowhere to be found. You only want him closer, but he's giving you nothing.
“Please, Art,” you beg seductively, your voice rough. You’re trying to leverage whatever you can, and you know full well he likes you saying his name.
Something shifts in his expression. You see him separate himself, turning cold and distant. Your heart falls, and you rush to hold onto the moment.
Desperate to keep him close, you run your hand up his leg the small amount you can, but he steps out of reach.
Your frustration is palpable in the dank room, and Art eyes you with calculation, reading you like a book. He sets the ax down with a smirk and keeps his distance, content to leave you wanting.
You huff out a breath, irritated that he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
He's good at being mean, but this only inspires you to work harder to win him over.
“I never got to show you what I did for you…”
Your voice comes out raspy and heated. You lean into it, hoping to close the gap that Art has left between you with sheer seduction, but he remains maddeningly unreachable on the other side of the room.
“The burns,” you explain with a wry smile, when he doesn’t seem to understand.
“I took pictures for you,” you continue, watching a look of interest cross his face, “But I couldn't send them to you.”
“Do you want to see?” you ask teasingly.
Art doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, but he steps towards you with that same calculated look in his eyes, appraising you with a slight scowl. You keep watching him just as intently, meeting his stare, willing him closer.
You look down at your thighs, the top button of your jeans visible, but out of reach, then back to him. Despite his guarded approach, you see desire in his expression.
“Go ahead,” you tell him.
With that, Art reaches out a hand and carefully unfastens the button of your jeans. He keeps a straight face, looking up at you and raising an eyebrow, and you bite your lip. With a small nod you urge him to continue. Slowly he slides your zipper down, and with both hands he begins pulling your form fitting jeans down your hips. You shift as much as you can to help him, wincing as the denim slides over your sensitive inner thighs.
Your jeans sit bunched below your knees, and the cool air in the room raises goosebumps on your thighs, only increased by Art’s intense interest in the wounds that cover your flesh.
With curiosity, he surveys the damage you’ve done to your legs. He doesn't touch you, but you can feel his gaze crawl across your skin. He seems pleased, maybe even impressed.
“Can you see them all?” you ask, hoping he will get closer, urging him to touch you. You push your hips forward and spread your thighs as much as you can, feeling obscene and needy, but not letting it stop you.
To your surprise, Art follows your silent instruction. Gloved hands brush the backs of your thighs. With his touch, the butterflies you felt earlier return full force.
His hands hold you firmly just above your knees, supporting you and allowing you to spread your legs as much as possible while still restrained at the ankles. With your knees slightly bent and lifted, you're sure he can see the full length of the blistered burns that wrap your inner thighs.
The way he's looking at them is making you wet, like he could devour you. It kills you not to know what he's thinking.
Time feels as though it's slowed again, and you're afraid to speak. Instead, you watch him seem to salivate over the visual you've provided.
Art's demeanor has shifted in an instant, completely different from the sadistic tormentor who ensnared you. Though you know that individual still stands before you and will ultimately decide your fate, in this moment it's easy to forget who he's shown himself to be. Now he's the one who's been captured, standing between your spread legs completely entranced and suddenly pliable.
“Touch them,” you invite. Your voice is heavy. Your words feel like an invocation of delicious deviance. It doesn't cross your mind for a moment to question the forces you're calling upon.
Art looks up, your words having broken the seductive trance of your barely healed injuries. His eyes flicker wickedly when they meet yours before he looks down again with renewed focus.
You can't tear your gaze away from his face, studying his stark profile cast in dramatic relief by the sparse light in the room as he looks down at your bare flesh with an intensity you can hardly stomach.
His hand slides from its place behind your knee, and the other grips you tighter to compensate. Cold, calloused fingers graze over the seared stripes on your skin one by one. Even the light brush of a touch over the raw tissue sends a hyper sensitive pulse of electricity through your body. Your toes curl and your breath hitches.
Slowly and methodically, Art traces the lines of each burn on your leg as if he's verifying that they're real, marveling at their very existence. You can't help but hold your breath, afraid to disrupt his movements. Your heart races and you fight to hold yourself perfectly still as your instincts beg you to arch your back and whine for more.
He shifts his hands and begins to do the same to your other leg, only this time you can tell he's working to show restraint. You thrust your hips forward, calling out his impatience, and Art looks up, raising his eyebrows in a kind of challenge to your forwardness.
Without dropping eye contact, he curls his fingers firmly into your inner thigh, pressing down hard on your exposed burns. He breaks into a grin when you flinch at the sudden pain, but it's a welcome sting that you refuse to shy away from.
You lean into the pressure of his grip, and Art keeps pressing down while he holds your gaze, waiting for you to break.
He twists his hand, making you whimper and try to pull away, but he holds you firmly in place with a glint of pleasure in his eyes as he watches you squirm.
After another agonizing moment, he lets go, and you fall back onto the table, catching your breath.
You can tell this exchange is having an effect on him, but he's still annoyingly calm and collected compared to what you're experiencing. You're trying not to pant, but Art's effortless control of your movements has you worked up. Letting go when he chooses, deciding what you'll endure, you're hot all over because of it. You need his hands on you again.
More than anything, you want your legs out of the restraints so you can throw them over his shoulders, giving him access from every angle.
Your mind is racing with the things you want, everything heightened by the intensity of the situation, the uncertainty of it all.
Art can tell, you're sure, that at this point he's dealing with the very same desperate mess of an intimacy-starved masochist who talked to him on the phone last night. It's obvious on your face, in the way you're offering yourself to him. He knows exactly what you want, but to your dismay you're still not sure what he's going to do with that fact.
Right now he's looking at you with mild amusement, taking in the picture before him like he could just savor the vision of you tied there, helplessly desperate for him, and be satisfied. You can’t have that.
A smile crosses your face, and Art looks back at you, curious. All you can do is continue appealing to what you know he wants just as badly as you do.
“Can you take these off?” you ask sweetly, shifting your ankles in their heavy restraints, the sound of metal clunking filling the room.
Art tilts his head with a teasing smile, showing you he's not convinced.
“You could do so much more if I could move my legs,” you continue.
He stays still, just a few inches away. You itch to be able to reach him, to wrap your legs around him. Anything.
“I've already shown you what I'll do,” the words fall from your mouth, and you're back in your bed on the phone with him, aching to be touched. Only now he's standing in front of you, and you have to make it real.
“What do you want, Art?” you pry with a half smile. You have to believe the pull that you're feeling doesn’t just go one way.
“Don't you want more?”
The look in his eyes tells you that he does.
As he drops down to reach your ankles he holds your gaze, looking up at you with a thinly veiled threat in his eyes.
You meet him with a look that says ‘I dare you. Show me’.
That's all it takes, and your ankles are free from their metal bonds in an instant.
In one smooth motion Art pulls your legs up and rests them on his shoulders as he stands. You let out a laugh of disbelief, not entirely convinced that he can't read your mind.
Then he’s leaning over you again, and this time he doesn't wait to grip your inner thighs forcefully and drag his fingers over the burns there. You moan like he's got his hand under your soaked panties, and truthfully, it's just as good. He draws it out of you, pushing until there's nowhere left to go, and your voice breaks off in a ragged gasp.
Before you can get another breath, he’s clawing into your raw flesh again with even more force than before. You grimace and whine and let him press your thighs to your chest, crushing into you with his full weight.
Again, you’re confronted with the fact of how easily, how completely, he can overpower you.
Art stands over you, an unmovable presence, grinning wide with a crazed expression that dares you to ask for more. Barely closed blisters reopen in a flash of searing pain that hurts worse than the initial burns did. Your reflex is to push and kick him off of you, but you can't.
You strain and fight underneath him uselessly, and Art simply enjoys your struggling, doing everything he can to make you cry out again. He turns his ear to you theatrically, encouraging the sounds you’re giving him.
You grit your teeth as tears run down your cheeks, and your voice becomes warped by the pain into something you don’t recognize as your own. Art is laughing, digging his fingers in deeper, literally tearing into you and pulling the pained cries from your throat like your vocal chords are merely an instrument that he can play, and he’s determined to hear their full range.
A strangled groan. A choked sob. Sounds that shock you. Sounds you’ve never heard yourself make before.
You’re desperate for him to stop, but you also hope he never does. The pain builds to envelop you completely, becoming larger than your body. Transcendent.
Art’s hands shake with the force of his grip. Your flesh burns, every nerve punished by the merciless twist and pull of his impossible strength. You see delight in his cold, inhuman eyes, and you feel it living inside your body as well. Your desire mirrored and fulfilled.
Of course it has to end. Art lets go, but not before jerking your legs back impossibly further one last time, making you yelp out a kind of fucked up climax as your body screams for mercy.
He looks so very pleased with himself as he watches you recover.
“Fuck,” The explitive drops from your mouth like a bodily reflex. Your head rolls to the side as you un-tense and catch your breath.
You’re drunk on endorphins, stupid with them.
The room is filled with a pleasant glow, a hospitable warmth that wasn’t there before. It seems Art is everything you wanted after all.
“I like that,” you tell him, looking up, unable to lift your head from the table. “I really like that.”
Art still holds your legs at the knee while your calves rest on his shoulders, and you like the way they seem to fit there so easily. You're staring up at him, turned on beyond belief, certain you're noticeably wet through your red silk underwear at this point, when you see him falter a moment, cautiously unsure.
“It's so good,” you tell him in earnest bliss, “The way you do that.”
You slide your legs off his shoulders, and Art lets them go. Eager to encourage him, you boldly grab him by the hips with your feet, feeling wildly flirtatious.
Giggling and swiveling your hips seductively, you try to nudge him to sway with you, pressing your toes into his prominent hipbones. You can’t help but think about what his body might be like beneath the costume, and a fresh blush rises to your cheeks.
Art doesn’t seem amused, however, and he returns his hands to your ankles to stop your playful pushing, giving you a measured side eye. This doesn’t deter you at all.
You laugh as you keep trying to twist your legs and sway your hips, only causing his grip on you to tighten in response.
“Art…” you pout, almost accusingly, like he’s being unreasonable.
He quirks an eyebrow and pulls you towards him, causing you to shift uncomfortably, your arms stretched too far.
You're flustered by the position you're in; arms straining, half undressed, and unbearably needy as this intense stranger, possibly your every fantasy in the flesh, stands between your legs, unyielding and unreadable.
Art’s eyes move to your thighs again, and it's like he's somewhere else.
Vivid, red blood has surfaced in the tears in your skin, pooling over and beginning to drip in rivulets. Art watches with longing on his face that captivates you. He looks almost pained, shockingly picturesque, his stoney features softened for a moment by the sight of your bleeding flesh. His face is slack, relaxed, his lips slightly parted, and you see his top row of jagged teeth. His breathing is noticeably shallow as he attempts to contain his bloodlust like a worst-kept secret.
You can only guess what he’s thinking. He’s got a thing for blood, you know that much, and seeing him like this is really doing something for you.
It should repulse you, the thought of his mouth on your skin, but you find it sinfully tantalizing. There's something so deeply wrong about it that thrills you. Complete depravity and abandon.
You can already feel him tasting your blood, tasting everything, and taking his time with it. You know he would indulge it slowly, albeit definitely not gently. Your stomach somersaults.
It's a delicious mental image, but you’re tired of being toyed with. This encounter has been a lot more than you bargained for, and you want this clown to give you the main event.
You let out a breathy sigh and shift in Art’s grip as he moves his hands back behind your bent knees.
“I have, uh,” you stumble, suddenly embarrassed like a middle schooler in health class, “You know, protection… in my purse…”
You throw a self conscious glance in the direction of the doorway where your bag still lies abandoned on the floor, finding yourself completely unable to look him in the face.
Art looks up from the tempting scene spreading across your thighs, but you still can’t meet his eyes. You doubt his expression would tell you much anyway. He drags his pointer finger over a running rivulet of your blood, unable to stop himself, before he drops your legs, letting them thud awkwardly against the table, and turns to retrieve your purse.
With some effort, you push yourself up with your feet so your arms aren’t straining against gravity. You see him hunch over your bag and rifle through its contents. A tingle of anticipation shimmies through your body, and you chew your lip while you watch him.
When he walks back over, all you see in his hand is the multitool you keep in your purse with the small pocket knife extended. You furrow your brow, but Art offers no explanation.
Maybe he’s going to slice through your underwear, you speculate with excitement. The pair you’re wearing is nice, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make you decide quickly.
As Art reaches you, you’re already making peace with the loss mentally, but he comes to a stop next to your outstretched right arm instead.
Again you look up at him with confusion. He smiles a small, closed mouth smile back at you, and you feel looked down on in more ways than one. Suddenly, it’s like you’re missing something.
“What are you doing?” you laugh.
Art places the multitool in your palm, positioning the blade facing up, tucked beneath the edge of rope around your wrist. He curls your hand inward, ensuring your fingers can grasp the handle where he's placed it, which does nothing to answer your question.
Frustration surfaces again at his deliberate avoidance. It's becoming more and more apparent that nothing is going to come easy with him.
He looks down at you with a smile that’s both gracious and sarcastic at once, and wraps his hands around your fist now clutching the tool, giving it a squeeze and bending at the knees for emphasis.
You look back at him incredulously.
Art drops your hand and turns his back to you, seemingly satisfied with this exchange, and begins shoving items across the long table haphazardly, gathering them back into the trash bag.
“What are you doing?” you repeat, more seriously this time.
Art ignores you in favor of continuing to throw things carelessly into the bag.
“Hey!” you shout impatiently. Art turns around dramatically with a hand on his hip and his mouth hanging open, theatrically appalled by your outburst.
“What the fuck?” you spit, the only valid question you can come up with. He just squints at you, annoyed, before turning back around.
“What? Are you leaving?” you ask in disbelief.
Art shrugs you off and gathers up the bulky trash bag.
“What the fuck?” you repeat. He hefts the bag over his shoulder and begins heading for the door without so much as a glance in your direction. Suddenly, you’re angrier than you’ve ever been in your life.
“Hey! I’m serious!” you yell, intent on stopping him.
Art pauses and turns to you, tilting his head and giving you another condescending smile that only serves to piss you off further.
He walks over to you, and you’re hoping for some kind of explanation, some indication as to why everything has come to a screeching halt. Nothing is making sense. Moments ago you were genuinely scared for your life, and now you’ll do anything to stop him from leaving.
“What’s the matter?” you ask him. “What did I do?”
Art doesn’t entertain your question. Instead, he reaches out and boops you on the nose playfully -- a gesture that’s so wildly out of place compared to the position he just had you in that you don’t know what to say.
You look up at him, stunned and dismayed.
Art pouts his bottom lip at you and reaches out like he might touch you again, but can’t quite bring himself to do it. He clasps his hands together and shrugs in halfhearted apology. These things can’t be helped, apparently.
He turns away, walking out without a care, and you're left alone in the dusty room.
A moment passes while you struggle to process everything that’s just happened. You wait, listening into the silence for his footsteps to return. Maybe he’s faking you out again. Maybe he’s got something more for you. But the silence only drags on, and it becomes clear that you’re going to have to get yourself out of this place.
With considerable effort and patience, you're able to cut through the rope around your wrist with the multitool gripped awkwardly in your fingers. From there the rest is easy. You free yourself from the table and fix your clothes, hiking up your jeans and brushing off dust and splintered wood.
You can’t help but feel a little humiliated.
What the fuck was that? And more concerningly, why do you only want more?
Running on endorphins, adrenaline, arousal and indignant rage, the potent combination compels you to scour the room. Art didn’t leave much behind, and you’re not sure what kind of clues you're looking for anyway. Still, you search for anything that might offer a glimpse of insight into the enigmatic, clown-costumed man you just encountered.
A closer look at the stain on the floor offers no peace of mind. It looks damningly close to dried blood, and it’s clear that someone made the effort to scrub it away. But why bother? The question nags you.
The surface of the long table has been cleared completely, everything toted out in the trashbag. You examine the table you were tied down to, sturdy and well-made, not anything you’d likely be able to purchase. Art had to have built it himself. How did he get it in here though? And what kind of over-the-top, fear-play, S&M nonsense does this guy get up to anyway? It perplexes and worries you in equal measure.
Dissatisfied with your investigation, you leave the same way you came in. There’s no sign of Art anywhere, not that you expect there to be.
Once outside, you’re alone in the same still, silent darkness that made you so uneasy just hours ago. Less time has passed than you would have guessed, you find when you check your phone. No texts or missed calls either. No one in the world knows a thing about this yet.
Just you and Art.
Still needing to process the rollercoaster of fresh emotions, you choose the questionable coping strategy of walking alone through the sketchy area to the nearest liquor store.
The map you pull up tells you it’s just a few blocks, and at this point you don’t think anything else could scare you if it tried. You light a cigarette while you walk, thankful you threw them in your bag before you left.
Your thighs ache with every step. Your body is exhausted. The night air has only grown colder in the time since you ventured out here, and you hunch against it, goosebumps dotting your exposed arms. The nicotine fills your lungs and fuels your strides, driving you to chainsmoke until you reach your destination.
Soon enough, the promise of the dingy, white cinderblock building appears before you. It looks completely deserted, the sign outside not even lit, but luckily the door swings open when you push.
The harsh fluorescent lights inside make you squint, but you feel immediate comfort when you wrap your fingers around the cheapest bottle of brandy on the shelf. The cashier eyes you with concern when you reach the counter, and you realize you hadn’t even thought about how you might look right now. Immensely self conscious, you fumble through your purse for your wallet, anxious to leave the store as fast as possible.
You hand the guy a twenty dollar bill without making eye contact, and when he asks for your ID you find, to your horror, that it’s gone.
Your blood freezes in your veins, and your purse nearly slips from your hands as you make the realization, but you snap your attention back to the cashier and try to recover, stammering that you don’t have it on you. It’s obvious to him that something is off, and you can see him internally weighing out consequences while you stand there trying to play it cool.
“It’s been a rough night,” you tell him sheepishly, attempting self-effacing honesty, trying to seem charming instead of just pathetic.
You just want to get out of here without him calling the cops, but with the bottle would be even better.
Something tips the karmic scales in your favor, and he passes the bottle back to you with a sigh, taking the liberty to tuck it into a brown paper bag first. He knows his clientele. You smile and tell him to keep the change, then head for the door.
The bottle twists open with a satisfying snap in your palm, and you throw your head back to gulp the bitter booze, looking up at the cloudless sky. The moon is a waning fingernail crescent above you which only makes the night seem darker.
You swallow mouthfuls of the sickeningly floral alcohol until your tongue feels foreign in your mouth and cheeks go numb. It happens quickly. Then you light another cigarette. The chemicals flooding your bloodstream grant you safe separation from the events of the evening, if only for a moment.
You can’t think about your missing ID right now. You feel so stupid. Another gulp of brandy. Another burning drag on your cigarette. You know you need to get home. It’s late, and you can’t stay out here on the sidewalk.
Swaying where you stand, you fumble with your phone and manage to order a ride for yourself.
In the time it takes for the car to arrive you finish your cigarette and automatically go to light another, but stop yourself short. Instead, you fish around for the compact mirror stashed in your purse.
One look at your reflection takes you aback. Your makeup is a mess akin to an expressionist watercolor painting. Your cheeks have become a canvas for melted clumps of black mascara embellished by bits of stubborn glitter that pool, diluted around your redrimmed eyes, making them appear startlingly raw and bloodshot. A starkly dramatic framing.
The faded streaks run all the way down to your neck, adhered to your skin by the salt of your tears. There's more grime than you realized still clinging to you as well, dust in your hair, grit settling in your pores. You're a complete, wild-eyed, mess, and you're shocked you managed to finesse the liquor store clerk at all given your alarming appearance.
Seeing yourself like this, disheveled and ruined, stirs that same feeling you’ve been chasing since your first visit to the kink forum.
Boredom annihilated.
You chew your chapped bottom lip, now cracked and nearly bleeding, as you drink in your reflection in the mirror. The picture staring back at you from the smooth glass fills you with a sense of aliveness too potent to turn away from. It's cool, pristine water after a lifetime in the barren desert.
Intently, you crane your neck to examine it, but don't find any visible evidence left behind where the ax blade crushed your throat, though you still feel the sharp kiss in vivid detail when you hold your breath. The memory renders you weightless, and you float in the dream of your imagined oblivion once more, counting out the seconds in your head as you keep oxygen trapped in your lungs.
You’re interrupted when your ride pulls up to the curb, and you stumble hurriedly into the car, snapping the mirror shut and tossing it back in your bag.
The driver is an older woman, which surprises you a bit. Her long, silvery hair is french braided and a rosary dangles stoically from her rearview mirror. A faint, powdery scent drifts from the front seat when she turns towards you. She eyes you sympathetically, but doesn’t say anything.
You appreciate her for it.
You can’t assure, or defend, or explain yourself to anyone right now, least of all yourself.
The city passes by in a dizzy haze, and the brandy in the paper bag thuds against your foot with every lurch of the car, sloshing with the voice of a heavy conscience as you stare out the window. You think you might hear gospel music fuzzing through the radio, but the hymns of grace and redemption don't reach you. You're a thousand miles away.
The drive is a blur as you sit dazed in the quiet car, unable to get Art’s face out of your mind.
Now that you’ve seen him, you know you won’t be able to forget him, and once again, you're reminded that there are no steps backwards on this path you've started.
As the car pulls to a stop in front of the familiar comfort of your apartment complex, the feeling of being followed by something inescapable sinks in your gut like an anchor.
