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15/10/2009

Day three, Chelsea, London

Standing over the mattress, he took a leisurely sip of wine and stared down at her beautiful naked body, pinned out, star shaped, waiting his attention. The delicious vulnerability made his cock hard. He smiled; she was ready to be cut.

As she slept through the drugs, he had stretched her out on thick plastic sheeting and staked her limbs to the bedposts. He set up two spotlights; one at each end of the bed, their harsh light burnt directly onto her tanned skin, blanching it ethereal white. He gently stroked the length of her body with a wet cloth, bathing away the musky sweat of their sex. Her body glistened, she was beautiful, it was a shame, he would miss her.

He painstakingly applied makeup to her sleeping face; the finishing touch, a slash of whore-red lipstick dragged across her mouth. He stroked the blonde fringe from her forehead and fanned her soft tresses out onto the plastic sheet, gently combing through the tangles, trying not to pull on her scalp. The long blonde hair formed a golden halo around her head. She was his angel… fallen, but his.

The preparation complete, he fist-whipped her face.  Knuckles smashed backwards and forwards until a snap of bone cracked the air; she gave a low moan through the drugged coma. Red welts crept across her skin, lipstick smudged her cheeks. It was time to wake up, time for penance; he had waited nearly twenty years.

Standing over her, he picked up the bottle of red wine and stretched his arm out high over her head, ready to pour. He waited patiently as she regained consciousness. The drugs were wearing off.

She woke to the heat of the spotlights burning her skin; their harsh light piercing her eyelids. Why was it so hot? She tried to move away from the source, but her heavy limbs barely moved. What was happening?  Her mouth was parched, her throat locked tight, a searing pain ran through her jaw as she tried to swallow… what the fuck!

She rocked her head backwards and forwards, groaning with the waves of pain, trying to clear her mind. Where was she? Memories began to tumble back into place… fuck! Where was he?  She knew he was somewhere near; she could smell his expensive cologne, could hear his agitated breathing; he was aroused.

She squinted through the light, her darting eyes anxiously trying to find him. On a bedside table, a few feet from her head, something glistened.  She strained towards it, pulling the glint into focus. Her heart stopped. A neat row of surgical instruments lay on a silver tray, his tools of torture set out in an orderly fashion, soldiers ready for duty, their polished blades shimmering in the light.

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