September 2, 2013


Posted in stories tagged , at 6:03 am by littlesubmissions

Sometimes she didn’t know what she wanted. There were just too many choices. Like his body was a menu with infinite options, written in a foreign language she couldn’t decipher. There were just pictures that gave her a general idea, but didn’t tell her how anything would taste. She had so many choices, but she could only experience a few, or one. And the hunger wouldn’t go away until she figured out what she craved, and consumed it.

Ink always aided the discovery.

She would strip him naked. It would be a rough, businesslike, curt removal of his clothes. They were in the way. She would put his hands on his head, make him hold his arms out of her way. She couldn’t write anywhere that wasn’t covered by a short sleeved shirt anyway, so his arms weren’t needed. Once he was naked, arms locked on top of his head, she would get out the ink pen and start writing.

She started where she wanted to start, scribbling ideas, suggestions, thoughts, notes to herself on his body. “Cane” written across his ass. “Zipper” across the soft skin of his stomach. “Single-tail” across his back. “Candle wax” across his chest. When she had a dozen or so ideas, or just couldn’t think of anymore, she would start erasing them. She would spit on her hand, and scrub away the ink. Sometimes she would punch him, distorting the flesh and warping the words, seeing how they looked before and after.

Seeing if they became clearer when he was gasping and in pain.

She would circle him, looking over her words, adding and subtracting options until there were only a few left. Until they formed a sentence in her head.

She would pause, put the pen down, and look him over carefully. “Read.”

She would close her eyes and he would read the words, twisting his neck to see them all and angling his body to see his back in the hall mirror. She would correct the order, the inflection, how loudly or softly he said each word. And when he got them all correct see would see if his words described what she wanted.

If they did, that was the scene.

If they didn’t she would tell him to stop, and pick the pen up again.

More ink.

It would tell her eventually.

Preview: “Oh my, you are one hell of an optimist.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

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