If you haven't already bopped over to MicroHorror to check out the annual Halloween story contest, then here's some additional incentive; when the contest is over, I plan to feature the winner(s) here at Hermitosis. In the meantime here's a wicked little number by Alice Evil to stave off the cold weather; the title itself would make an excellent "safe word," in my unprofessional opinion...
by Alice Evil
"Are you ready?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, waiting with anticipation. I smile at her, loving the outfit she’s wearing–a black lace corset with garters and fishnet stockings, topped off with a pair of stiletto boots.
“Do you remember the safety signal?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, naked, tied up.
“I love you,” she says as she leans in for a kiss on the lips. Before I can say anything else, she slips a clear, plastic bag on my head. She tightens the bottom around my neck and ties a knot at the back.
She gets on the bed, kneeling between my legs. She strokes my chest as she runs her tongue down my stomach–all the way down. My breath fogs up the bag. My hands are tingling from the lack of blood circulation. I lift my head a little to watch. Her head bobs up and down, slowly. She looks up at me. Her face is a blur. Everything is. I can feel her tongue flick every time she comes up. Her grip tightens. I’m throbbing, pulsing. I yank the scarves in two distinct pulls. She keeps bobbing up and down. She’s going faster, deeper. I yank harder, twice. The headboard rattles.
I breathe faster and harder, tossing the plastic bag in and out of my mouth. She’s not stopping. I squirm all over the bed, wrinkling the red bed sheet, 150-count Egyptian cotton, in every direction. I’m pulsing harder in her mouth, her saliva dribbling down, her hand moving smoothly with the rhythm of her head. I yank twice again, almost taking the headboard off the bed. I throw my head back. My back arches. The soft silk around my wrists feels rough from the friction. The plastic bag is practically in the back of my throat every time I breathe in. My knees press against the sides of her head. She pries them apart. She keeps them there, not missing a beat with her head, her tongue swirling around.
My knees press hard against the palms of her hands, but she still manages to keep them apart despite all my strength. She gets the message. There’s no way she hasn’t. I wrap my hands around the scarves and hold on tightly. I pull on them as hard as I can. This time, there is no count. I try to slow my breathing to save oxygen, to prevent carbon monoxide emissions from my lungs. My mind races with thoughts–what could I have done–what did I say to her this morning–is it because I left the toilet seat up again? I come up with nothing.
My head swirls. I’m coming in and out of consciousness. I don’t even know what she’s doing. It’s hard to pay attention. My head is tossing left and right, digging deep into the mattress. My legs are spastically moving in opposite directions of my head. My back is arching up higher. There’s nothing left to breathe in. I let go of the scarves. My body slowly slumps. My legs stop moving–knees bent outward. I get one last, blurry look at her through my fogged-up bag. She’s wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She runs her tongue around her gums and smacks her lips, coated with red lipstick, twice.
I can barely keep my eyes open, desperately trying to breathe in. All I do is choke on nothing, on wasted breath. She walks up. She leans in by my ear.
“I saw the e-mail.” She strokes my head, her hand squeaking against the plastic bag. “I love you. I can’t bear the thought of you with another woman.” Her arm is around my shoulder, her body curled up next to mine. She lays her head down on my chest. “I want my last memories of you loving me and no one else.”
I take one more futile breath. Everything goes black.