poeticdesires

Category: Gen Fiction

  • Anniversary

    She wore it under her jacket. It was cinched tight. The strands laid above and below, as well as between her breasts. She choose soft poly nylon rope, though she would not feel the texture through her clothes.

    She flung on a jacket and buttoned it up. No one would notice; no one would’ve cared, but she didn’t feel like exampling it. She just wanted to be in rope.

    The binding was like a constant hug. With each breath she felt the tight chest harness she’d placed around herself.

    She wore it because she wanted to, because she needed to. She wore it to hold in her emotions, to comfort and quiet her thoughts, to feel free as she bound off this part of herself.

    As she walked, as her body moved, she felt it. As she sat, stood, laughed, talked, she felt it. It was what her body desired, what she desired. It made her think of him.

    It made her think of their weekend together on the beach. Of their cup of coffee on that cold January day. Of meeting, falling for, and saying goodbye to him.

    It was January again, cold again, and she thought of him again. So she wore it.

    She remembered the way he liked to tie it, remembered each bend, each knot. She copied his form because she could not copy the moments. The rope hugged her, loved and caressed her when he couldn’t.

    And as she played the young kinkster, the care free girl, the solo poly lover of life and fun, chatting with people who didn’t know and would never know him, her thoughts drifted to that beach, to that weekend. To eyes meetings, lips brushing, and lives forever altered.

    When she came home, she took off the jacket. She slipped into bed. And, though she knew she must remove it in the morning, she wore his harness all night to remember him.

  • A Nightmare

    I was in my home, but it wasn’t my home. I was living with roommates, but they weren’t my roommates. There were six of us, to start, but I can only remember three: myself, the other who escaped, and him.

    He was beautiful, almost hauntingly so. Dark eyes that captured you. If he had ever smiled, it would have been warm. But he never smiled. Just a blank beautiful face that inhabited a room on the second floor.

    There was no warning, no way for any of us to know.

    He was a Sadist, in the not sexy way.

    And then, one day, I was in a cage. I think I wore my night clothes, so I suppose he drugged us in our sleep. I had a pillow. That was it.

    I was beyond scared. I spent my time in my confines curled up in a ball, rocking myself, trying not to go insane.

    We heard their screams, heard as he did things to him, heard as they begged to die. He never stopped, not until they stopped breathing.

    One by one, they were gone, until it was just two of us left. And I wondered, was it my time? Would I die that day? What would he do to me before I was blessed with my final breath?

    Oddly, on that day, he unlocked both our cages. He turned on the television in the living room and told us to watch it while he cooked breakfast. The other roommate and I, a man I can only barely see now, didn’t understand, but we were to fearful to question.

    I remember the sounds of his frying something on the stove. I remember smelling the food, and realizing I was hungry, but was too frightened to care.

    And then we saw it, people walking around outside our house. The front door was wide open. If we just ran, ran for our lives, maybe we could make it. Maybe neither of us would die that day.

    I looked into my roommate’s eyes, he into mine, and we knew without speaking. We jumped up and ran. We stumbled through the front door. And even as I plowed through a large crowd of people, I couldn’t stop running.

    But then, I did. I sat with a friend, in their car, who asked me how I was doing after I’d moved. Because that’s what I told everyone. I told them I just moved out of the house.

    I said I was fine, though I had vacated so quickly I left behind some furniture.

    She asked me what was still there. My bed. My dresser. My desk. Some clothes. She found this ridiculous. I needed to go back for my things.

    But I didn’t really need them. And I couldn’t carry it all. No matter, she had a few guy friends who would help.

    A few guys. Okay.

    We all walked into my house. There was no activity.

    I climbed the stairs, followed the path my other roommates took to their deaths. And with each step, it soon dawned on me why he let us live. Someone had to remember. Someone had to tell his story. Someone had to keep suffering.

    At the top of the stairs, two cops crouched on the floor, looking at all the dried blood.

    “Get out,” they ordered. “This is a crime scene!”

    “I’m a victim!” I screamed back. I finally screamed.

    I turned around, ran down the stairs again, out the door again, and would never return again.

  • Red

    She looked like she was on fire.

    “Call me Red.” Red hair, red lips, red thigh high stiletto boots; the name was more than appropriate.

    “You are here because?”

    “I think… I think my…”

    “You think your husband is cheating on you?” Red uncrossed her legs, set them down off her desk, and stood. Even without the boots, I could tell she was a tall woman. But the stilettos, they gave her power.

    “Yes.” She sauntered to the front of the desk, sat on a corner, crossed her arms, and stared me down.

    “Why?” I couldn’t meet her gaze. I bowed my head and focused on those boots. A part of me wished I were the type of woman who could wear them.

    “He… I…”

    “Stop. Calm down. Now, tell me why.”

    “I let him… When we have, when we had sex, I do, did, whatever he wanted. I’d lie there and just… And he seems, seemed, to enjoy it. My body was… his. But we haven’t had sex in… a while. So I know.”

    “How long is a while?”

    “Three months.”

    “Oh.” Her mouth formed the letter, accentuating her crimson lips even more.

    “I don’t know what I did wrong. I cooked, I cleaned, I ran errands, while still working myself. I made him a home. And whatever he wanted, whatever he wanted, I did for him. So, why?” I was finally able to meet her stare. I hoped she had the answer, knew how to fix me, to fix my marriage.

    “He doesn’t want you. You’re just convient.” And there it was, what I never wanted to awknowledge, what I never wanted to say. “In you he has a maid, a secretary, and a sex slave, but not a wife.”  Nothing she said rang false; it hurt to hear the truth. I dropped my head again, the despair of reality setting in.

    “What do I do?”

    “I’m not your therapist. That shit’s up to you.” She got up again, and this time stood right in front of me. I found my eyes locked on her boots once more. “What you first have to determine is what you want?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Yes you do.” Her hand grabbed my chin and raised my head. As I looked up, I saw the devilish glee in her gaze. “Tell me what you want.”

    “I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to be like this. I want… I want…”

    “You. Want.”

    “I want to hurt him.  I want him to be in pain.”

    “Now, that I can help you with.”