Page 8 of The Last Feast
There, on the screen of my phone, is a video I thought I deleted, one I never should have made in the first place. My disinterest in humanity never stops me from needing to come, but I dislike their touch. I never trust it, and I spiral into thoughts about how the other person feels, whether they know I hate them. Anything. Everything other than being present in the moment.
When I found the fetish site, it felt like it was safer for me to explore without the restricting band of other people’s thoughts. Well, I initially thought it was a fetish site. It’s not—it’s gore.
Genital mutilation specifically.
And there I am, stroking my dick, spitting into my fist, fucking it harder as I watch the clip of someone bound to a metal slab like those found in the morgue while another person in black leather overalls grabs their dick. The scalpel smoothly parts their skin, the blade thicker than the standard issue medical equipment. Sharper too, because the white flesh in the cut doesn’t turn red straight away, not until they effortlessly glide the scalpel around their length. Then crimson liquid fills the cut like a Rutschbahn that the church would have at their funfairs in the summer.
And there I am, grunting louder, my fist moving faster at the sight of it.
“It was a mistake,” I mumble.
She tuts and drags her foot down my cheek before pressing her foot flat to my chest. Gravity pulls me forward, making it easier for her to leave an imprint of the diamond-patterned sole on my skin as she taunts, “That wasn’t my question, was it?” She clicks the screen, and the arrow to share the video with my entire contact list is right in front of her finger.
“No,” I rush out in a panic. “They don’t know. No one does. Only you.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Only me?” She cocks her head to the side. “Like I’m all-seeing so you can’t hide anything from me?”
I nod—or try to, despite the way my neck aches.
She lowers to her haunches and sets my phone aside without unveiling my shame. There’s wonder in her emerald eyes as she gently traces the shoe print she left on my chest.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Make me feel alive again, and I’ll think about telling you.” She straightens then follows the snaking wires around my arm to my hand, where they’re weaved through my fingers. “Or don’t,and I’ll send that video to everyone so they know just how much of a filthy little deviant you are, sweet thief.”
“I can’t fuck you if I’m tied up.” I shake my arms in the restraints, demonstrating I can barely move.
Her laugh is the softest thing I’ve ever heard. It lights up her eyes more than the large workers’ lights warming my side, shining directly on the angled mirror to illuminate the space. A shiver works up my spine as she lifts the hunting knife from the floor then traces a zig-zag pattern on my hand.
I lift my head, silently begging her to move closer.
The cool metal slowly moves over my wrist then my forearm as she softly says, “I don’t need you to fuckme.”
My heart sinks to my stomach.
“What I need, sweet thief,” she says slowly, matching the cadence of her voice to the swirls she traces over my elbow, “is to fuck you. We’re all going to watch you break.”
That haunting face paint becomes even more sinister as she looks up then around the space.
“In the mirrors?” I moan as she increases the pressure of the knife.
“Hmm, at first.”
“Why me?” I ask, genuinely curious. It’s a question I’ve had about a lot of things in my life, but with this woman, there’s no bitterness coating my tongue. I want to know why someone who is clearly powerful enough to take what she wants has decided I’m worthy of her time.
It makes her still with the knife on my bicep, ready to part the muscle. There’s a small crease between her brows, revealing pink-tinged skin in the cracking paint.
“Why have you chosen me?” I repeat.
“I didn’t.” She begins moving again. “You did because you stole from me, and I really dislike people touching what belongs to me.”
“You took my phone, so we’re even.”
“Nope.” She slowly shakes her head then focuses on my naked body.
A lump builds in my throat the longer she stares at me. I’m exposed again, all of me on display with no power to stop her from doing whatever she wants. There aren’t any thoughts regarding my harrowing childhood memories; instead, I want her to like what she sees.
