Touch me. Don't touch me. Touch me not. Don't not touch me.
I count them silently in my head.
I can feel the silkiness of his hair. Taste the fine stubble prickle under my tongue. Smell the musk of his cologne. Feel the loose, smooth fabric under the finger pads of my other hand. Hear his gasps against my lips. Feel his left hand draped calmly on my back, then moving south, defiantly ignoring the boundaries of demin.
I hold his skin with my teeth. I nip.
If I open my eyes I see crimson. The eyes are a more hazardous danger sign, because he might make me read what's there.
His hardness is pressing firmly against my thigh. Everything I shift my leg slightly he moans, tightens fingers on the back of my neck. It's not strangulation. It's tender. It's not a chokehold to squeeze the vestiges of guilt from my life. He is clinging onto my life. I cannot shake it off.
This is wrong.
He is very gentle.
I brush his hair back. This hair, it is a warning to me. Of my unpardonable sins. My penitence. It is very bloody. I mean, it is of the colour of blood. When I run my fingers through it looks like my blood-stained hands. The flowing of blood when he tosses his head. It is sin. Sins. My punishment is to live with it everyday. It is not because I love his hair. It is not a thing of beauty. It does not brighten my day, or the house. I do not desire to run my fingers through it, nor to bury my face in it and just inhale.
Gods, please help me.
No, of course you don't.
Please violate me then.
He is under me. Why is he so trusting? Does he not know what a thing is it to be trapped under the weight of guilt and sin? To have the life crushed out. All I need to…fingers and his windpipe. Or teeth. I close my teeth lightly on his Adam's apple. He arcs into my bite. I could tear his jugular out with my teeth. The red would complement his hair and eyes. I can almost taste his blood under human skin that is too thin. They call it a protective organ. They are wrong. It does not protect.
I make him moan with my incisors. He screws his eyes shut when I do that. It is better. I do not want to look into his eyes. They are dangerous pools. They tempt. To look is to fall in and drown in sin. Underneath it is something worse than that. I cannot bear to look at it directly.
I burn in that gaze.
That is why I must make him scream.
He does, my name. Like a creature dragged up from murky depths writhing under the light of day. It is raw and low and scrapes against my conscious. A sound of pleasure? A sound of pain? There could never be one without the other. What it is, a curse, or a name. A thing by any other name is still trapped by the weight of what it is. Still, a name has connotations too. What the name used to mean, does having a new one mean the old is killed off?
I lick his lips. This induces a smile from him. A natural, easy, real one. I must learn carefully. I have not yet mastered this art of deception. He smiles too much when there is no reason to. I smile too falsely because I do not wish to remember the things that make real smiles. I could wipe that smile off in a flash. Then kiss it and make it better. He'll still smile at me in the end. He tries to elicit real smiles from me. I rarely humour him. Smiles reveal too much.
I do not want him to look too deeply.
There is too much darkness in there, enough to drown another.
His breath is warm against my ears, my cold limiters. I catch drifts of promises. Try to set them loose immediately. It is not a broken thing if it was never made. I feel his words on my limiters, trying to break them down, eat through the metal, unleashing the monster inside. I feel the edge of a sharp knife tip.
Now he studies me as I have him. Instinctively the wall slides up effortlessly and soundlessly. This should deter him but it doesn't. He tosses me a look. Challenging me. With the knowledge of his knowledge.
It becomes blindingly clear he sees.
Beyond that haze of red.
I drown silently. Denial is the only victory.