Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
FallingForTheMoirai
Moon
- Joined
- Aug 13, 2020
- Location
- West Coast
“I wanted to hear him scream. There was no other question, never any doubt, just that need. I just wanted to hear what it sounded like from him. He looked like he’d be good at it. I don’t need to justify it.”
That’s what he said when I was losing my mind, yelling incoherently asking him why, my body fighting shock. Before he slapped me, anyhow, for being so insubordinate. He always knows exactly what I need. With the sudden abuse catching me off guard in my anxiety, I was called back to my amity and devotion to the man before me. The mutilated man tied to the chair behind me no longer existed. The bodily excrement reeked, but I was calm, and finally dropped my briefcase. That was for another time, and had no place here in this house that looked normal on the outside to fit into the modern day society, and was a different universe inside.
He smirked at me. His deep, silken voice said “Better.” with dead eyes. Being reassured is nice. Honestly, are you going to refute that?
I inhaled deeply, and fought the urge to kiss him, saying hello instead. Let me translate; saying ‘hello’ is essentially the act of kissing his feet. Coming home rituals, kind of like dogs and cats brushing your leg, happy that you’re home, and happy to be home. Today was a funk, I wanted to be wanted, and find solace in his need. A gross admittance, and certainly not the proper time to be asking for favours with a corpse in the house, albeit, this was rare of him to do, but it certainly wasn’t an open invitation to act selfishly.
I turned back to the cadaver, and sighed. Mao was put out. He hated sighs, little nuances of disappointment and disapproval. Don’t take this is a way that he felt like he was being judged, he doesn’t give a damn about that, all he needs to justify his actions and thoughts is the fact that they are his. What’s abrasive to him about the little body language hints is the fact that people aren’t strong enough to speak their mind, and instead pull a sugar coated Tylenol about it. Despite my sigh and his annoyance, he was vibrating with glee. Why do I keep forgetting that he’s never happier in situations like this? Well, he could be happier.
And while looking at the handy-work, something about seeing this man, who was probably on his way to work, early 40’s because of faint crow’s feet, delighted me too. As if at a private viewing in an art gallery, the world slowed to one of those moments James Joyce would call “epiphany”. I started leaning in and examining the artistry that took to create this and the decadence of the body. My hands were idle, and were working at the buttons of my white collared shirt, my eyes stitched to the bruises on the neck; I know those fingers well. Grin. Then swallowed the feelings of jealousy. What? I can be jealous of a corpse. It clearly was attractive enough for my lover’s attention. That’s not okay. I was now of the mindset to compete with this dead, yet beautiful sack of meat. My fingers worked on the last button of my work shirt, and whilst bending over the man, I discarded it.
I felt Mao’s eyes on me. This is probably what the sick fuck had in mind all along. It wasn’t even about the guy waiting on the sidewalk for the light to change, about to take on the day at work and try and climb the social ladder, it was about making me face my sick pleasures, which he openly indulged in, and I hid. Of course, being a sick fuck, he was going to tease me, and make me wait for him. Time to continue undressing in front of Mr. Cold & Amputated. Oh? Had I mentioned that yet? Yeah, he didn’t have his hands. Bloody, supple stumps. In comparison to the man’s face, his wrists looked loved. They weren’t hacked off, and done away with like some mindless animal attack. They were removed precisely. I can picture it now. Skin slowly pulled back, and cutting each vein and tendon, like delicately pruning a beloved rose bush. Poor guy must have been screaming his head off. Mao liked his meat fresh. It was probably being kept kosher and waiting for me to marinate it for tomorrow’s dinner. Damn fingers have a nice crunch. A quick moment for hope; no fingernails. I hate removing those.
Something in me breathed in the feces, and cold skin. He had been dead for at least a couple of hours. Somehow that was good news, as if I would be intruding too quickly on his kill and overstepping my boundaries. I almost instinctively looked back at Mao and asked permission with my eyes, but I wanted to savour this moment, and not let him have anything to do with it. I had done away with my belt, and gently let it coil on the ground next to my feet. Undoing my pants, I descended the zipper slowly. I love that sound, and who doesn’t? It’s a prelude and ode to sex. That sound is almost vital to me as breathing. Something about it is so commanding, and even though it’s my zipper I hear, I imagine that it’s Mao’s, and I feel my cock shiver to life.
The pants unhinged, and I grasp them doing that move that every girl dreaming she’s a stripper does, which is disjoint my ass to the side, put it out and slip the pants off as seductively as this action is possible when not wearing any enhancement of kinky lingerie and lacking in the stiletto department. I meekly step out of the now crumpled fabric, and catch myself climbing onto the corpse, straddling him as if we’ll reach rigor mortis together, because let’s face it, this guy was starting to already. My lips were almost touching his neck. If he wasn’t a greyish white, and disturbingly waxy I’d almost think Mr. Cold would be enjoying this. He wasn’t too cold, there was still a residue of the life that flowed through him, and almost comforting that I could try and warm him up a little. I almost lost myself in trying to carry a conversation with him, that was a close one. As if I wasn’t odd enough.
It was then that I rested my head on one of his shoulders, and closed my eyes. Why is it so rare and difficult to get this close to someone? It’s a shame that we need to kill to get this close to allow ourselves to be loved. The question of whether Mr. Cold has a family fluttered across my mind, but soon was answered that he had us now. Don’t judge me, it’s true. This train of thought makes sense. If you’re trying to deny it, it’s because you can’t accept it. I would hate to see what Mao would do to you. Scratch that, I’d like it.
Completely forgetting about him, Mao was able to sneak up on me and startled me with his fingers running through my hair, tracing my spine in a way that told me he was hungry. He had let me have my moment and now he wanted his.. moments. This particular moment mimicked the circumstance of being woken up from a gentle encompassing dream. But being a little bitch about it wasn’t going to win me any points, and even more farfetched; sympathy.
Now that I was in some love affair with this masterpiece my man had made me, he wanted my attention too. I would like to think that it was him suffering through a bit of spite and jealousy like I had earlier, but I’m probably not that lucky.
Before I knew it, still trying to rest my head on Mr. Cold’s broken collarbones close to his neck, that was somewhat scalded. Mao probably made him drink boiling water, and it splattered and tarnished the canvas a bit. My wrists were being confined behind my back. I didn’t even realise that he was taking my limbs and controlling them already. Being that relaxed is such a treat and I knew it was only going to get better upon deducing what Mao was doing.
Silk nylon rope isn’t the only rope out there, but I prefer it. Mao not so much, but I guess he was up for being extra nice after all. Silk nylon rope has this beautiful feel. Go down to the hardware store and touch it. Just grab it high, and let your hands squeeze it on the way down to get a good feel of it. After that you may understand why it’s up there with unicorns, and lollipops; the things good dreams are made of. If not, get someone to tie you, but since you’re a beginner, don’t go looking for Mao.
While wrapping the rope around my shoulders and chest, Mao pressed his body against mine. I wasn’t prepared for that warm intimacy, and it made me all the more vulnerable. He pulled away, giving me less than 5 full seconds to breathe, regain composure before he leaned in again to finish with the tie there.
“Now I went through so much pains for you, you should be compensating me for my efforts.”
Mao’s voice was frigid, yet sensually milky, washing over my flesh. I leaned back into him. My wrists shifted in the bonds, making my arousal shake a moan loose from my vocal chords. Every time he does something like this, I melt. If I wasn’t straddling Mr. Cold my knees would most likely be shaking and going weak. It’s like falling desperately in love over and over again. Sappy bullshit aside, it’s true. I don’t know any other way to explain it.
I still, disgracefully, had socks, shoes and underwear on. Mao took care of those, and I knew I would have to go to the store to replace them. The man likes shears, and I like cold metal. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. It’s a thrill, infinitesimal, but nevertheless a delight. Besides, I can imagine what a normal person would do, knowing they have something sharp and potentially deadly as an instrument of undress. I was still melting, delirious and riding a generous high. The endorphins were starting early. It was good and bad, however. I still needed my head in the game, because after all, this is what this was. Mr Cold or no Mr. Cold, this was a game. Sexual connotations aside, I’m sure kids would love to play.
I nodded in response to Mao’s words. Probably not the most brilliant plan. I didn’t even notice that he was finished with the box tie, (for beginners, this is the kinbaku tie– okay, more beginner. This is a basic Japanese bondage tie, and as beautiful an art form that it is, it’s utilitarian as well. And that’s why he could rip me back, nearly giving me whiplash with how easy he could move me, slamming me down so hard on the concrete floor, my legs couldn’t even think of bending, they gave out. My knees, I swear, I heard a cracking sound, I winced, and breathed heavy, eyes tearing. I could feel my heartbeat pulsate like a thrumming Indian drum in my knee caps. Jesus, just shoot them out, why don’t you? I don’t know how my toes made it out alive, but I wriggled them. Not broken. My knees, severely bruised. Please don’t make me go to work tomorrow. But I was still hard despite it all because my brain had an ice-pick lobotomy at some point, and pain always crosses that threshold of pleasure. I have a chemical imbalance, according to some psychiatrist I met. Mind you, he was a client. He liked boys dressed up like little lolita girls. Personally, I like lacy panties, but I’m digressing.
I didn’t whimper, thank goodness. Mao was probably expecting a quick kill today, but we would both be upset if I gave up so easily. It’s boring. He leaned over me, his hair draping against my cheek.
“Come again? I didn’t quite hear that.” If Méxican hot chocolate had a voice, it would be Mao’s.
My teeth were still grinding. I inhaled, and I don’t know why but this always seems to enhance the pain, as if I needed kneecaps to breathe.
“You’re too kind.” I smiled. The words came out, and I was the Cheshire Cat grinning like an asshole provoking an AK47 drive-by. “You are correct. I am in your debt.” God, I’m so fucking hard right now.
One of Mao’s hands dug through my hair and yanked my head back. Smile be gone. Safest expression is grimace, grit the teeth, and ignore that there’s a raging erection screaming “Hi” to the wind. He smiled at me all lascivious, and sin-lined glory. “You know what I miss?” This was a rhetorical question. “Human sacrifice.” Now I’m feeling a lurch. Stinging knee caps, possible nerve damage, and my brain chooses now to fire the flare gun and put up the red flags. I hope he’s not talking about me, but I’m thinking I’ve got a good chance despite my current position. Why? I put up with his bullshit without his insistence. Sucker for punishment, sheep, call me whatever, at least I’m getting laid.
I’m trying not to let the waves of building ecstasy show on my face. If I was a woman, Mao could probably smell my sopping desire of a discharge. I’m worried that precum is starting to bubble like glue hitting air for the first time out in the open, but for all my need and want to check myself, I can’t. I can feel each and every hair in his grasp. Some are softly pulled that I want him to just rip out, and others too tight, resembling a needle in the arm, but in my skull giving me the false impression of a headache. But it’s not. I know it’s not. This is passion, freedom, and self-actualization in a single embrace. Why do I go to work when I could do this all day? Someone hit me.
And he did.
That’s what he said when I was losing my mind, yelling incoherently asking him why, my body fighting shock. Before he slapped me, anyhow, for being so insubordinate. He always knows exactly what I need. With the sudden abuse catching me off guard in my anxiety, I was called back to my amity and devotion to the man before me. The mutilated man tied to the chair behind me no longer existed. The bodily excrement reeked, but I was calm, and finally dropped my briefcase. That was for another time, and had no place here in this house that looked normal on the outside to fit into the modern day society, and was a different universe inside.
He smirked at me. His deep, silken voice said “Better.” with dead eyes. Being reassured is nice. Honestly, are you going to refute that?
I inhaled deeply, and fought the urge to kiss him, saying hello instead. Let me translate; saying ‘hello’ is essentially the act of kissing his feet. Coming home rituals, kind of like dogs and cats brushing your leg, happy that you’re home, and happy to be home. Today was a funk, I wanted to be wanted, and find solace in his need. A gross admittance, and certainly not the proper time to be asking for favours with a corpse in the house, albeit, this was rare of him to do, but it certainly wasn’t an open invitation to act selfishly.
I turned back to the cadaver, and sighed. Mao was put out. He hated sighs, little nuances of disappointment and disapproval. Don’t take this is a way that he felt like he was being judged, he doesn’t give a damn about that, all he needs to justify his actions and thoughts is the fact that they are his. What’s abrasive to him about the little body language hints is the fact that people aren’t strong enough to speak their mind, and instead pull a sugar coated Tylenol about it. Despite my sigh and his annoyance, he was vibrating with glee. Why do I keep forgetting that he’s never happier in situations like this? Well, he could be happier.
And while looking at the handy-work, something about seeing this man, who was probably on his way to work, early 40’s because of faint crow’s feet, delighted me too. As if at a private viewing in an art gallery, the world slowed to one of those moments James Joyce would call “epiphany”. I started leaning in and examining the artistry that took to create this and the decadence of the body. My hands were idle, and were working at the buttons of my white collared shirt, my eyes stitched to the bruises on the neck; I know those fingers well. Grin. Then swallowed the feelings of jealousy. What? I can be jealous of a corpse. It clearly was attractive enough for my lover’s attention. That’s not okay. I was now of the mindset to compete with this dead, yet beautiful sack of meat. My fingers worked on the last button of my work shirt, and whilst bending over the man, I discarded it.
I felt Mao’s eyes on me. This is probably what the sick fuck had in mind all along. It wasn’t even about the guy waiting on the sidewalk for the light to change, about to take on the day at work and try and climb the social ladder, it was about making me face my sick pleasures, which he openly indulged in, and I hid. Of course, being a sick fuck, he was going to tease me, and make me wait for him. Time to continue undressing in front of Mr. Cold & Amputated. Oh? Had I mentioned that yet? Yeah, he didn’t have his hands. Bloody, supple stumps. In comparison to the man’s face, his wrists looked loved. They weren’t hacked off, and done away with like some mindless animal attack. They were removed precisely. I can picture it now. Skin slowly pulled back, and cutting each vein and tendon, like delicately pruning a beloved rose bush. Poor guy must have been screaming his head off. Mao liked his meat fresh. It was probably being kept kosher and waiting for me to marinate it for tomorrow’s dinner. Damn fingers have a nice crunch. A quick moment for hope; no fingernails. I hate removing those.
Something in me breathed in the feces, and cold skin. He had been dead for at least a couple of hours. Somehow that was good news, as if I would be intruding too quickly on his kill and overstepping my boundaries. I almost instinctively looked back at Mao and asked permission with my eyes, but I wanted to savour this moment, and not let him have anything to do with it. I had done away with my belt, and gently let it coil on the ground next to my feet. Undoing my pants, I descended the zipper slowly. I love that sound, and who doesn’t? It’s a prelude and ode to sex. That sound is almost vital to me as breathing. Something about it is so commanding, and even though it’s my zipper I hear, I imagine that it’s Mao’s, and I feel my cock shiver to life.
The pants unhinged, and I grasp them doing that move that every girl dreaming she’s a stripper does, which is disjoint my ass to the side, put it out and slip the pants off as seductively as this action is possible when not wearing any enhancement of kinky lingerie and lacking in the stiletto department. I meekly step out of the now crumpled fabric, and catch myself climbing onto the corpse, straddling him as if we’ll reach rigor mortis together, because let’s face it, this guy was starting to already. My lips were almost touching his neck. If he wasn’t a greyish white, and disturbingly waxy I’d almost think Mr. Cold would be enjoying this. He wasn’t too cold, there was still a residue of the life that flowed through him, and almost comforting that I could try and warm him up a little. I almost lost myself in trying to carry a conversation with him, that was a close one. As if I wasn’t odd enough.
It was then that I rested my head on one of his shoulders, and closed my eyes. Why is it so rare and difficult to get this close to someone? It’s a shame that we need to kill to get this close to allow ourselves to be loved. The question of whether Mr. Cold has a family fluttered across my mind, but soon was answered that he had us now. Don’t judge me, it’s true. This train of thought makes sense. If you’re trying to deny it, it’s because you can’t accept it. I would hate to see what Mao would do to you. Scratch that, I’d like it.
Completely forgetting about him, Mao was able to sneak up on me and startled me with his fingers running through my hair, tracing my spine in a way that told me he was hungry. He had let me have my moment and now he wanted his.. moments. This particular moment mimicked the circumstance of being woken up from a gentle encompassing dream. But being a little bitch about it wasn’t going to win me any points, and even more farfetched; sympathy.
Now that I was in some love affair with this masterpiece my man had made me, he wanted my attention too. I would like to think that it was him suffering through a bit of spite and jealousy like I had earlier, but I’m probably not that lucky.
Before I knew it, still trying to rest my head on Mr. Cold’s broken collarbones close to his neck, that was somewhat scalded. Mao probably made him drink boiling water, and it splattered and tarnished the canvas a bit. My wrists were being confined behind my back. I didn’t even realise that he was taking my limbs and controlling them already. Being that relaxed is such a treat and I knew it was only going to get better upon deducing what Mao was doing.
Silk nylon rope isn’t the only rope out there, but I prefer it. Mao not so much, but I guess he was up for being extra nice after all. Silk nylon rope has this beautiful feel. Go down to the hardware store and touch it. Just grab it high, and let your hands squeeze it on the way down to get a good feel of it. After that you may understand why it’s up there with unicorns, and lollipops; the things good dreams are made of. If not, get someone to tie you, but since you’re a beginner, don’t go looking for Mao.
While wrapping the rope around my shoulders and chest, Mao pressed his body against mine. I wasn’t prepared for that warm intimacy, and it made me all the more vulnerable. He pulled away, giving me less than 5 full seconds to breathe, regain composure before he leaned in again to finish with the tie there.
“Now I went through so much pains for you, you should be compensating me for my efforts.”
Mao’s voice was frigid, yet sensually milky, washing over my flesh. I leaned back into him. My wrists shifted in the bonds, making my arousal shake a moan loose from my vocal chords. Every time he does something like this, I melt. If I wasn’t straddling Mr. Cold my knees would most likely be shaking and going weak. It’s like falling desperately in love over and over again. Sappy bullshit aside, it’s true. I don’t know any other way to explain it.
I still, disgracefully, had socks, shoes and underwear on. Mao took care of those, and I knew I would have to go to the store to replace them. The man likes shears, and I like cold metal. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. It’s a thrill, infinitesimal, but nevertheless a delight. Besides, I can imagine what a normal person would do, knowing they have something sharp and potentially deadly as an instrument of undress. I was still melting, delirious and riding a generous high. The endorphins were starting early. It was good and bad, however. I still needed my head in the game, because after all, this is what this was. Mr Cold or no Mr. Cold, this was a game. Sexual connotations aside, I’m sure kids would love to play.
I nodded in response to Mao’s words. Probably not the most brilliant plan. I didn’t even notice that he was finished with the box tie, (for beginners, this is the kinbaku tie– okay, more beginner. This is a basic Japanese bondage tie, and as beautiful an art form that it is, it’s utilitarian as well. And that’s why he could rip me back, nearly giving me whiplash with how easy he could move me, slamming me down so hard on the concrete floor, my legs couldn’t even think of bending, they gave out. My knees, I swear, I heard a cracking sound, I winced, and breathed heavy, eyes tearing. I could feel my heartbeat pulsate like a thrumming Indian drum in my knee caps. Jesus, just shoot them out, why don’t you? I don’t know how my toes made it out alive, but I wriggled them. Not broken. My knees, severely bruised. Please don’t make me go to work tomorrow. But I was still hard despite it all because my brain had an ice-pick lobotomy at some point, and pain always crosses that threshold of pleasure. I have a chemical imbalance, according to some psychiatrist I met. Mind you, he was a client. He liked boys dressed up like little lolita girls. Personally, I like lacy panties, but I’m digressing.
I didn’t whimper, thank goodness. Mao was probably expecting a quick kill today, but we would both be upset if I gave up so easily. It’s boring. He leaned over me, his hair draping against my cheek.
“Come again? I didn’t quite hear that.” If Méxican hot chocolate had a voice, it would be Mao’s.
My teeth were still grinding. I inhaled, and I don’t know why but this always seems to enhance the pain, as if I needed kneecaps to breathe.
“You’re too kind.” I smiled. The words came out, and I was the Cheshire Cat grinning like an asshole provoking an AK47 drive-by. “You are correct. I am in your debt.” God, I’m so fucking hard right now.
One of Mao’s hands dug through my hair and yanked my head back. Smile be gone. Safest expression is grimace, grit the teeth, and ignore that there’s a raging erection screaming “Hi” to the wind. He smiled at me all lascivious, and sin-lined glory. “You know what I miss?” This was a rhetorical question. “Human sacrifice.” Now I’m feeling a lurch. Stinging knee caps, possible nerve damage, and my brain chooses now to fire the flare gun and put up the red flags. I hope he’s not talking about me, but I’m thinking I’ve got a good chance despite my current position. Why? I put up with his bullshit without his insistence. Sucker for punishment, sheep, call me whatever, at least I’m getting laid.
I’m trying not to let the waves of building ecstasy show on my face. If I was a woman, Mao could probably smell my sopping desire of a discharge. I’m worried that precum is starting to bubble like glue hitting air for the first time out in the open, but for all my need and want to check myself, I can’t. I can feel each and every hair in his grasp. Some are softly pulled that I want him to just rip out, and others too tight, resembling a needle in the arm, but in my skull giving me the false impression of a headache. But it’s not. I know it’s not. This is passion, freedom, and self-actualization in a single embrace. Why do I go to work when I could do this all day? Someone hit me.
And he did.