November 23, 2009

The Explanation

Posted in Uncategorized at 11:22 pm by littlesubmissions

“You hate classical music.”

“Yeah, but I like the symphony.”

“OK, I am so not following you here…”

“Well, come here, sit down, I’ll explain. See, it’s like this. I don’t like classical music. But I like the symphony. All those people with their instruments, but all under the control of the one conductor, it’s like he’s topping them all at once, controlling them all individually but making them into something so much bigger and more elaborate.”

He shrugged and pushed himself up off the couch with his hands. “OK. I guess if you really want to go, I’ll check tickets.”

“Hey, I’m not done telling my story yet.” She wrapped her legs around him and frowned.

He fell back down with an oomph, leaning back to look up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Oh. Please, continue.” He rearranged himself, dangling his feet over the edge of the couch and lining his body up to lay in her lap.

Hands came down and settled on his shoulders, pinning him next to her. “It’s not just the conductor. I can sit there, and have this fantasy about being in one of those concert halls that are just ancient, like in Britain or Vienna. Of walking out on stage in a little black dress, dragging you behind me in a tux with a leash around your neck.” She shifted her hips a little, and moaned. “Fuck, the thought of making your knees hit a two-hundred year old wooden stage is just so damned exquisite.”

Her arms tightened, pulling him closer and he could feel her warm breath on his neck and ear. “I pretty much ignore the music when I’m at the symphony to tell the truth, but the audience makes such lovely sounds. I can hear the rustle as they shift in their seats, the hiss of air as people hold their breath a little, stifle their coughs and sighs when the conductor walks out. It seems like it goes from front to back, this little wave of anticipation. You can really hear it if you pay attention.”

“Then there’s this exhalation, when everyone starts to breathe again, when the conductor turns around and lifts that baton up. That’d be when I’m imagining pulling a straight razor out of my boot, flipping it open and holding it up for the audience to see. I like string pieces best actually, or they fit into my favorite fantasy better anyway. There’s this sound below the note they’re playing, if you know what to listen for. It’s just the sound of two strings being dragged across one another, a little hiss like the sharpest piece of steel you can imagine cutting through fine silk. The sound of two beautiful, perfect things being brought together, but in my fantasy one of them gets destroyed. Forever.”

“I’m slicing the jacket of the tux apart with the straight razor, and you’re up there on your knees trying so hard not to flinch. All the people in the audience are watching, trying to make sense of this. It looks messy and imprecise, like I’m just making random strokes, way too many cuts if I just want to get the jacket off of you. But that’s not the point.”

“I want to ruin it forever. I want to make sure it can never be anything beautiful again. Maybe carry around scraps to wipe lipstick off with, or use as a napkin during dinner. The audience doesn’t realize this, they think I’m just cutting your jacket off, until I stand up and kick you between the shoulder blades and you fall forward on your hands and this elegant jacket is just a pile of carved up ribbons on the stage all around you.”

“It’s around when the brass and drums kick in that I start to imagine dragging you to your feet and cutting off the rest of your clothes. Those long, slow notes from the big brass instruments are me slicing the legs of the trousers apart. Every time there’s a drumbeat I can see that straight razor working under the buttons under the shirt, the flat edge levering into your skin as I pop them off with a twist and they go bouncing across the stage. Those high notes from the flutes are you trembling, trying to hold still so I don’t slice you open. Fuck, I can just imagine all those well dressed people lifting up opera glasses to check for scars on your legs when I saw through the waistband and jerk your trousers off.”

Her hands cinched down around his belt and she leaned back, feeling it tighten, relishing the tension in her arms. “I wonder if they’d gasp? If maybe a few didn’t bother to read the program, had no idea what they were in for? The bohemian crowd pretending to be jaded and disinterested. The well dressed society people wondering if they should get up and leave in disgust? Wondering what their blue blood old money parents would say is the proper response to going to the symphony and finding some deranged cunt who drives a blue hatchback with a dent in the door stripping some guy and getting off on his humiliation. I wonder if they’d realize that was just the overture?”

“Because I really do want to hurt you in a place just like that. I want to make your screams bounce off those hand carved wooden rafters. When you’re naked, and shaking from the cold and humiliation of all those people seeing you up there, able to walk away at any time but you don’t. You’re getting just the slightest bit hard, showing me the places where you want to be hurt. Turning your back to me, which means you’re facing them, wondering if they realize this is just you being a slut and flaunting your goods at me, asking me to put welts and bruises on your back. Begging me to tie you down and shove all sorts of rude things up your ass, dripping blood and lube on that pretty wooden stage.”

She relaxed her thighs then cinched them down tighter, breathing hard and mumbling, oblivious to everything but her fantasy and the feel of his flesh under her skin. “I really want to make you scream. I want to use the cane on your back, your ass, your thighs. Every time they hit one of those big monster drums, I want to see if I can make you scream louder, drown out that deep note with a wail of pain from having your balls stepped on. When those fast string sections start I want to hammer a switch down your shoulder as fast as I can, driving you down until you sag, then forcing the other shoulder down, one side then the other while the violinists saw frantically, until you are flattened on the floor, drooling on that antique hardwood, trying not to piss yourself from the pain. I want to hear shocked gasps as blood starts to mist off your body, little flecks of red life spattering all around across the stage.”

“I just want to feel all that beauty around me, and make a room full of people realize how disgusted they are that some part of them thinks what we’re doing is beautiful too. That they could have walked out, or demanded we stop. But they sat there, watching me strip someone naked and beat them, someone who wanted it, and they got off on it just a little bit too. I want to shock, and disgust, and make them envy us because they’ll never have this.”

“I want them to beg for an encore, and feel disgusted with themselves for it. And I want to drop the curtain, and do more horrible, disgusting, degrading things to you behind it, where they can’t see. Just the two of us in some old theater, after everyone else is gone. Me beating the crap out of you.”

She trailed off, looking into the distance.

He blinked. “That was really hot.”

“Thanks.”

“I think I’ll go look for those tickets.” He started to lean forward.

She grinned and pulled him back. “Nah, screw it. I decided I want to stay in tonight.”

-Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

2 Comments »

  1. Naamah said,

    I’m just delurking to say that this is my favorite thing of yours I’ve read yet, and one of the hottest things I’ve read ever. Well done. Or, I should say, “Bravo, encore!”

    • littlesubmissions said,

      Thanks, I’d been trying to figure out how to write this one for awhile, so I’m glad it worked for you.


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