The Heart is Deceitful above All Things (24 page)

I nod my head.

‘But I have ID in case.'

‘In case of what? . . . Huh?!!'

I look up at him. His cheekbones are cut too sharply, his lips are small, tight, and curled up like old newspaper. His hair is black and slicked straight back. His eyes are the reddish brown of dried blood.

‘This is between you and me, got it?'

‘Mmm-huh.' I feel awkward and stupid. ‘I got your money!' I say too loudly, and start to reach back to my pocket with my beer hand but spill some. He laughs, shakes his head.

‘Sorry . . . shit!'

It takes me a few seconds to figure out how to maneuver my money out with only one free hand.

‘Blonds,' he sneers. ‘Fuckin' geniuses!'

He takes a big gulp of beer. I hand him $100.

‘So, how's it feel being on the other side?' He smiles, crooked little teeth.

‘Huh?'

He holds the money up and shakes it, eyebrows raised.

‘I had to borrow it.' I look away.

‘Jesus you're quick,' he snorts. ‘And stop rocking.'

I didn't know I was. I feel like my eyes are telescopes I'm peering through, somewhere far away.

‘Uhh, sorry.'

‘You will be.' He smiles sarcastically.

‘Huh? Oh.' I nod. ‘Yeah.' I feel my face getting hotter and hotter.

He nods, grins, and says, as if I don't speak English, ‘You are paying me . . . how does that make you feel?' He starts fanning the money.

‘I dunno . . .' I sigh. His foot taps.

‘Umm . . . weird.'

‘How?' He leans in.

‘Uh . . .' I rub my face, it feels red.

‘Embarrassed, I guess,' I mumble.

‘Would you be, humiliated, if your friends knew? . . . Hey, hey!!' He snaps his finger. I look up.

‘Stop rocking!' He puts his arm out and waves his hand like he's trying to move something aside to see me.

‘I dunno . . . yeah . . . I guess.'

I can't explain it. Paying for it does humiliate me, and I want that, I need that part, it calms me in some way. You can't trust people you don't pay.

He sighs loudly.

‘Just, just sit down.' He leans back. I look around me.

‘Right there.'

‘Yeah . . . sorry.' My left eyelid starts twitching. I sit on the cold concrete and chew on the inside of my cheek.

‘I've heard about you,' he says with a little laugh, and stuffs the money away.

‘Uh-huh.' I nod. My blood swirls around faster and faster.

‘No limits for you, right?' His beer clanks on the wooden chair arm. My eyes shift from side to side, back and forth.

‘No safe word, right?'

‘Mmm.'

‘You can take it all, huh?'

My head twitches in a nod.

‘Coz you'––he points at me and laughs––‘don't give a fucking shit, right?'

‘Well . . .' My voice sounds too high. ‘I'd like, umm, I'd like it if, uh . . . I'd like . . .'. I twist my mouth from side to side.

‘Sssay it,' he says, singsong.

‘Ummm . . . I'd like it if you would . . .' My head jerks.

‘Would what?' He leans forward again.

‘Um . . . give a shit, I mean, ya know . . .' I swallow hard. ‘Sorta like, care um, ya know.' My bottom lip starts to quiver.

‘Yeah.' He sighs. ‘You know I care . . . shall we get going?' He gets up. ‘I don't got all night.'

I take a few huge gulps of the beer and rise up like I'm pulling myself out of a pool and follow him to the exposed brick wall.

‘So what do you need?' He waves his arm like a model on a game show at the collection of belts, paddles, whips, and crops displayed on the wall. He smiles proudly.

‘I dunno,' I mumble.

There's a jungle gym–looking metal thing, with wrist restraints hanging down, in the middle of the wall.

‘Whatta ya think of this?' He reaches for a short whip and starts fondling it. I'm starting to feel nervous-sick.

‘It's cool, but uhh . . .'

‘Not into whips, right?' He replaces it gently. I shake my head. My eyelids twitch nonstop. ‘No cats?'

I shake my head again and notice that under the metal bars there's a drain.

‘Look, I know talking is a drag,' he says, like I won't eat broccoli or drink my milk or something. ‘But you'll be happy for it later.' He pats my shoulder.

‘I'm not a mind reader, you know. I haven't heard everything about you.' I want to ask him what he's heard, but I'm afraid it'll hurt too much.

‘C'mon.' His voice is soft. He moves over to me and places his hand on the back of my neck and massages it lightly.

‘Let me help you,' he whispers into my ear, and I feel it all start to melt. ‘Let me help.'

‘That one,' I say softly, and motion with my head.

‘That?' He points to it. I nod and stare at the drain.

‘Good boy!' he says enthusiastically, and I should be embarrassed, but I feel sort of proud. He goes over to it, I hear him take it down, and it's all starting.

‘Take your clothes off, you can put 'em on that chair.' A chill jerks my head, and I close my eyes. ‘Yes, sir,' I whisper, and start to undress quickly.

‘That's right, you call me sir,' he responds. I hear him moving things, setting things up. ‘Any other special words?'

‘I dunno.' I lean down to unlace my boots. He comes over to me and I feel his hands sliding along my naked back, down my open jeans and underwear.

‘You do take a lot, huh?' he says.

‘Fuckin' knot!' I pull and slap at the tight knot at the top of my boot.

‘Dad? . . . Stepfather, right?' He's running his hands across the little gullies and streams lining my back and ass.

‘Can't get this fuckin' knot!' I yell, and punch my boot top and stomp.

‘Hey!' He grabs my face between his hands and leans over me from behind. I keep stomping. ‘Hey, hey, hey, not yet, stay calm . . . its OK . . .' His voice is soothing. I hear a moan escape me. ‘It's OK, it's OK, it's OK.' Like a lullaby.

‘Please . . .' I half whisper, and reach one of my hands up to his holding on to my face.

‘Tell me,' he says into my ear. His breath smells like warm beer and saliva. I bring my other hand up around his other hand, cupping my face. I feel him leaning into me from behind, and I release into containment.

‘Tell me,' he whispers. We breathe together, him leaning over me, in-out-in-out.

‘Fix me,' I murmur. ‘Fix me.'

‘What's it say?' He points to the words cut on my stomach, ass, thighs.

‘Bad boy,' I pant, ‘evil . . .' I feel like I've hooked onto a train that's speeding away from me, or with me.

‘You are a bad boy, aren't you,' he says above me, squeezing my head.

I feel it loosening.

‘Sinner, aren't you.'

I close my eyes and my stomach cramps and a chill runs through me. He wraps his arms, crisscrossed, around me. I moan.

‘Tell me, now,' he says quietly.

‘Punish me,' I pant.

‘How hard?' His chin digs into my shoulder.

‘Till I learn . . . please? I need you to, please?' My body is shaking.

‘Safe word?' he whispers.

‘No, no, not till you're done, okay?' I pant. ‘Just, OK, please not my face, OK?'

‘It's a very pretty face.' He pats my cheek, and I try to lean my head into his touch.

‘Yeah, yeah, tell me that,' I gasp, and he rubs
against me through his jeans. ‘Tell me I'm beautiful . . . please . . .' I can't stop.

‘You are, and that's why I need to help you,' he whispers, like a kiss.

‘Save me,' I groan, and he squeezes his arms tightly around me, and I hope he'll never let go.

‘I will, you beautiful, conceited, bad evil bitch.'

‘Yes . . . please . . . yeah . . .'

He reaches down between my legs and grabs my thing. ‘Call me sir!' His voice becomes throaty and harsh. He twists me hard and fast. It's all coming back, like being lost in waves of wheat, just rolling by, rushing me, soothing me, caressing me.

‘Make me cry, I need to . . . cry . . .' He twists his hand, harder.

‘Sir!' he shouts in my ear.

‘Sir,' I whisper, and I feel the tears swelling in my gut. ‘Sir . . . hold me after, please, I'll pay extra, please, after hold me.' He says nothing. ‘I'll pay extra . . .' I sound pathetic, but I can't shut up. ‘Please.'

‘Let's go,' is all he says, and reaches behind to bring out a long switchblade. He flicks it open. I suck in air.

‘You like this?' He leans down, slices open my laces, then helps me kick off my boots and step out of my jeans. He presses the switchblade against my thing, and I'm spiraling away inside myself.

‘It's a dirty, evil thing,' I whisper. ‘And I hate it! I hate it!' The blade presses harder, I feel my skin ready
to slit gracefully, like a paper cut. ‘I hate it, I hate, I hate it!' I'm hyperventilating.

‘Well, we'll take care of it, don't you worry . . . C'mere.'

I feel suddenly embarrassed, exposed, stupid.

‘Get over here now, now!' He stands by the rack contraption. I walk as if in a dream and face the bricks. I hand him my arms and watch him Velcro the restraint cuffs around my wrists so they hang above me spread apart on the bar. I look down at my chest heaving up and down, too quickly from my heart or my breath, I don't know. He stands beside me, the thick black leather belt unfurled, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He steps close to me and raises the belt to my face. I panic.

‘Please not my face!' I plead. ‘Please!'

‘Shut up.' He brings the belt closer. ‘Kiss it.'

I look at him. He grabs a handful of my hair. ‘Kiss it!' He shoves the belt up to my mouth. It smells faintly of bleach. I begin to kiss it. I feel relief and excitement surge through me.

He knows. He understands.

‘You're a nasty cunt, aren't you?' He pulls my head back by my hair. The belt disappears.

‘Yes, sir.' My eyes roll up. He drops my head with a shove, and I hear him pacing an arc behind me. My body hangs limp likes a swing wanting to be pushed.

‘You're a very nasty, evil, bad, sinful boy, aren't you?!'

‘Yes . . . Yes, sir,' I correct myself and moan, my butt muscles flexing in anticipation.

‘Say it!' he orders loudly from behind me.

‘I'm a bad, disgusting, evil boy.' I hear him pace.

‘Again!'

‘I'm an evil faggot, sir!' I can hardly swallow. ‘Please punish me . . . severely . . . sir.' The heat spreads down my legs, into my toes. No sound, not even his breath. ‘Oh, God . . . please!' I yell.

‘You need it, don't you?' His voice is heightened and tight.

‘Yes, please.' I'm starving, ravenous.

‘You're a pig.' The word someone once carved on my stomach. I freeze and taste sour spitup. I nod my head. ‘Say it!' he screams in my ear.

‘I'm a greedy pig, sir!' I shout breathlessly. He laughs.

‘So beautiful,' he whispers, and caresses my face. ‘Beautiful.'

I gasp, it's perfect. He moves back behind me, and I watch the shadows. The strap is hurled back, like he's throwing a football, whole arm into it, and I hear the familiar sound of air being thrashed through and the cymbal-like crash across my ass. My body rocks.

‘Thank you, sir.' My mouth hardly moves.

‘I have to punish you, don't I?' I nod. It crashes down again. My body sways in disagreement, and my butt skin puckers. How can you crave something your whole body
rejects, and even increase the cravings the greater the protest from the body?

‘I bet you're a fucking cocktease, aren't you?' The strap slices into my ass.

‘Yeah.' My head rocks backs.

‘Sir!' he corrects. The strap lands on my upper thighs. I lift my head.

‘Punish me, sir . . . teach me.'

‘Beg.' He walks behind me.

‘Please, sir . . .' He laughs, I hear the belt drop.

‘You're not worth my fuckin' time.' I hear him walking away.

‘No! Please! God, please! Don't leave me, I can't take that, please, God!' I hear him open drawers. ‘Sir, punish me!' I howl, and shake my arms rattling the jungle gym thing.

‘You don't order me, spoiled cocktease brat!' He's next to me.

‘Yes, yes, yes.'

‘What?!'

‘Sir!'

He's jingling something in his hand. My stomach hardens.

‘Close your eyes, cunt.' I stare down at his closed hand. ‘Now, you bitch!' His open hand slaps hard at my thing. Air spits out of me, and I can't fold over. My eyes clamp shut. He laughs. ‘You're not too fuckin' bright, are you?' I sort of swing, letting my arms hold me. I feel something cold against my left nipple. I hold my breath.

‘You want me to fix you? Discipline you?' I hear it snap down around my right nipple, and it feels like a needle being driven in. ‘You have to learn obedience.'

‘Yes.' The heat rushes through me. ‘Please, sir, I want to be, yours . . .' My left nipple erects next to the open clamp. ‘Please. I'll do anything!' He snaps it shut on my tit. I grunt.

‘I know you will, you fucking nasty, spoiled brat, cocktease, bad, bad boy.' Cold heavy chains hang from the clamps, and he gives them sharp swift tugs as if in a bell tower. I feel his hand caressing my cheek, and I push my face into it like a dog searching for scraps. I kiss his palm, lick it.

‘Say it, beautiful.' I feel the cold metal by my thing. My mind swirls away, and I feel his hand slap hard across my cheek. My eyes jerk open at him, surprised. He's inches in front of me.

‘I won't scar your pretty face,' he says flatly. ‘. . . If you're lucky.' My face stings. He caresses the other cheek. ‘Close your eyes,' he whispers. I hear the metal chink-chink, and his other hand snaps a clamp on my thing. I jump and whimper.