The Rape of the Spiders
Iago likes to be fucked, quick and hard and dirty and always dry. He likes listening to men grunt and curse and moan and groan in his ear as they come undone with each thrust, every grunt stripping another layer away from a civilized exterior to the ravenous beast beneath. He closes his eyes and relishes in the feeling of fingers clenched so hard on him that they leave angry bruises in rings across his skin; in sweat, dripping into his eyes and stinging them, that he tastes drops of rolling down his face, salty and sour. He likes the feeling of someone else's skin trembling with passion and exertion while he crouches, bent naked on hands and knees, completely still with fists white and jaws clenched silent. Especially good is when he can feel someone's heartbeat as they fuck him, heavy and plodding at first but soon skittering, pounding forward, eager and frantic as the desperate convulsion of an insect's wings as a hand snatches it up and crushes them in its palm like the crumpling of dry paper. The veins in people's wrists, bluer or purpler at times more than others, and standing out sharply against pale skin, strain huge and painful as they slam him down. He likes it best when they backhand him across the face and spit on him and dig their fists into his neck until painfully blue and purple lights redden his vision and he almost loses consciousness. It's funny how even the ones who don't look or seem guilty after really are inside, horrified at all the dark ugliness they have holed up inside them, just waiting for the right person (Iago) to bring it screaming out. People are always surprised at the kind of things they'd actually like to do, deep down, if someone would let them.
It's Iago's own poetry, truer than word or thought, humming nonsense to himself as someone pushes him down and grinds his face into dirt. He can almost hear the panicked rush of their thoughts, of their lust and hate and greed and how each of them finally breaks down into the same primal urge to just forget himself and feast. Poetry is the features of Emilia's face as she touches a blue and yellow and purple bruise on the bones of his hip, stark against his pale taut skin, and opens her mouth and closes it without making a sound, eyes going opaque as though all the blood in her veins has shriveled and blackened and gone dry and she certainly cannot see any more than she wishes to without an ounce of warmth in her anymore. Iago likes Othello best when Othello is holding Iago's head underwater and screaming at him, though Iago can barely hear or understand over the roar of the waves and the blood in his ears fading away. Iago knows that to bruise the body is nothing is easy, a fleeting thing, but that it is really quite a triumph to bruise the heart, and is a victory etched in permanence. Iago pictures it as the raping of the spiders he used to torment when he was a child, eight thin black legs crumbling into remnants of organic dust. Iago knows his secret is that he already killed the spider in his heart long ago, and all by himself, and that this makes him a god. There is, after all, nothing better than the moment when a man has finished and slumped back down into mediocrity again, and Iago, leaving, can look over his shoulder and rent the man's soul clean in two with a single quiet word.