[I need some help with the ending, I'm out of it... Though, I am feeling like a writer again.]
Disclaimer:
A woman and nudity and blood and bondage and a whip!
"Sunlight's vulgar. Burns that pretty lily powder from your skin. Cooks you."
Leather creaked with every swish of her form, reflecting the light in creases. She'd been called SodaSex, for her bubbling energy and sadism. Once, a john had called her a spy gipsy, kissing the wind before a firing squad. A woman referred fearless, styled to die.
"Now. Raise that leg."
Bare assed and random, a man laid prone in chains, the scarlet sheets hugging his skin but not covering it. A whip cracked.
Tassles hung from a black rod, shining and focused. She could imagine and savor timeless the impression such a toy could leave on chalk skin.
"I said raise it." She twirled the sex weapon with her wrist, smacked his rear with it. The man screamed and withdrew his testicles as if the toy had been barbed with chickenwire.
He raised his leg.
"Good boy." Dominance echoed at the edge of her covered smile.
Circling the bed, her hips rocked with pendulous grace, surety. The gasmask belied her face, concealing her eastern european features under its black facade. She preferred to hide her eyes. They'd seen too much, crawled over too much skin, eaten too many wasted people.
She wrapped the tail of the whip around the john's neck. His face was red as a virgin's blush, but his eyes were alive with sexual hatred. Brick hard and poised to stab, his member rode the air like a flag.
She released, allowed the man to recede from his state of excitement.
"Men. You can't take pain."
"What? I'm paying you to hurt me."
"You're paying me to get you off. You want me to hurt you, I can cut your dick in slices and feed it to you."
She'd played the schtick many times before. Nothing special, she watched pleasurably as the john took it in with fear, hesitation.
"What? I don't want that."
She was tempted to pout, plump her lips, but it would be a waste. The gasmask conveyed all the emotion needed. Her muffled voice all the tone.
"I'm an ebony queen. You're a housewife."
Power around her finger, moisture around her middle, puddling and ebbing. Her own lover, she was the best she'd ever had. The lone member of her century fuck gallery.
She walked to the wall opposite the bed, eyeing a rack of toys. Replacing the whip, she drew a nightstick.
The john's eyes snapped opened.
"Are you going to beat me?"
"Your money, honey. I'm an offer."
"Beat me."
"I'll do more than that. I earn my food."
She flicked a switch beside the rack, and blaring rave music began pulsing from unseen speakers, increasing in volume. The lights flickered, the vanity bulbs above the bed painting everything red and black.
"Dungeon music for the sugar daddy."
"Sounds like a cheap porno."
"You are a cheap porno, you fuck."
His penis towered once again.
She'd once thought a foolish dream, of being a teacher or a model. She had the looks to strut, the smarts to educate.
But such a timid life wouldn't be satisfying. She could give back to the people who took her childhood and'd raped it dry in ways sweeter than teaching.
"I'm going to kill you, sweet one."
"Yeah yeah. Do me."
"Call me a bitch, daddy."
The prisoner laughed. "Fuck me already. With that nigger stick."
She pressed the night stick into the man's belly, forcing his breath into curled volleys.
"Pity how my dick is bigger than yours, little man. Want me to drink your brine?"
"Bitch."
"Daddio." She smacked the club into his face with brutal force, knocking his head sideways and staining the pillows a twin shade of red. His teeth were hanging on his lip.
"Fuck. My arm hurts." She rolled her shoulders slowly.
He should have been screaming bloody murder, but she'd hit too hard. Either reaper unconscious or reaper dead, he wouldn't be waking up soon or without brain damage.
His face had been nothing to glare at before, but the force had pushed his nose inward, his cheeks askew. She'd read somewhere - back when she had cared abut life and future - that a hard blow to the nose would shatter the bones and send them into the brain.
'Do I give a fuck?'
She slammed the club into his middle, grunting a little at the sound of cracked ribs. If she hadn't seen it so much, heard that lobsterclaw break with every worldly cycle, she'd have filled her mask with vomit.
Sweating under leather and moist lather, she was feeling the stageplay was lacking. Sloppy.
'No emotion. Not from a cow.'
Starving a headache, she cut the music and erratic lights off, showing the room in sterile sodium light.
The curtains closed because she drew them together. She was the woman, after all.
'A performance wasted.'
if i was to make one more suggestion, it would be to read Milo's writing and see the way he conjures an image without fuss and simply. it's a case of mixing it up a bit, that's all. take one rose and lay it on the grass or take that same rose and throw it to the rose bush. which would you see?
