Blinded

And you can use my skin

To bury secrets in

And I will settle you down,

And at my own suggestion,

I will ask no questions



I Know – Fiona Apple

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It is amazing what some people will do for love… or at least the kind of love analogous to artificial sweetener – although that odd flavor is always present, you get used to it and eventually you don’t even notice that’s it’s not the real thing.

I watch Marcus as he eats the special dinner I’ve prepared for him. He’s waffling on about some pathetic assignment. Why on earth would he think I would ever want to hear about this tripe? I see his mouth move but I don’t really hear anything – I just eat my dinner and respond with the occasional ‘yeah’. Having to feign interest constantly is the worst part of this pseudo-relationship. My friends tell me they don’t know what I see in him, which is to wrongly presuppose that I do indeed see ‘something’ in this simpleton. They know the real reason why I’m with Marc and it has nothing to do with the contents of his head and everything to do with his appearance. He’s very attractive – I’ll give him that – a combination of wonderful chemical accidents. I almost feel bad for taking advantage of him. Almost. The poor sap actually believes I love him.

It’s drugged by the way. His dinner, I mean. It really shouldn’t taste any different than my meal, the stuff I got from this new guy is supposed to be tasteless and odorless, despite being quite potent. Sometimes, there are unconventional benefits to having friends in higher academia. I eat slowly, my eyes periodically scanning his body movements – difficulty focusing, slow reactions and all that. I know he’s getting dizzy by the way his fork keeps missing bits of food. It’s quite funny actually; I really want to laugh, but I have to restrain myself.

“You okay Marc?”

He doesn’t respond. It’s probably like hearing underwater sounds for him. Before he falls face first on his food and I completely lose composure, I go over to him and hold his pretty little head. He narrows his eyes – no doubt in an effort to focus his gaze – before closing them completely and collapsing onto me, limp and unconscious. I set his body down on the floor and resume eating, turning on the television and watching the evening news. Looks like another rainy week.     

I carry him to my bed and just stare at him for a minute. I have this strong urge to hit him in the face but I refrain from hurting him for now. Instead, I wipe the bit of food off the side of his mouth before kissing him. I start to undress him. His skin is so soft, hairless to boot, except for the usual places – he probably does some landscaping now that he’s got a boyfriend. He’s toned, but it’s probably the result of working on a hillbilly farm all day. I run my hand up and down his torso. It’s funny though, Marc doesn’t act like a redneck – he’s surprisingly refined for someone from the country.

I put a couple towels under his backside before I lube up his hole. I’ve noticed he’s healed quite nicely since last time – he’s still tight, not quite use to a rough fucking yet. I position myself and put all my weight on him, stabbing my cock into his entrance. There’s some initial resistance, but soon I’m surrounded in snug warmth. By the way his face is scrunching up I can tell he really feels it inside, even in an induced stupor. Unfortunately, Marc looks too serene like this – too corpse-like – not at all like the first time I raped him. I took a chance then, but it was worthwhile; the power I had over him was as intoxicating as it was erotic. It was all so exquisite: the way his tears formed nearly-identical rivers from the sides of his eyes only to dampen the sheets underneath, the doleful attempt at retaliation and then failed avoidance and finally the quiet submission that comes with realizing defeat. I say I was taking a chance, but in reality there was very little risk. I know people like Marc. Never having had much of it, they crave attention, of any kind. Bad attention is still, after all, attention. I knew there was a high probability he’d forget all about what happened if I just uttered the correct combination of words in the appropriate tone.

My thrusts are full and forceful, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. I have his legs pushed towards him – that way he can take my entire length. Marc’s bleeding – crimson drops daubing the fabric underneath. But this is to be expected. I kiss those comatose lips roughly, but not enough to bruise them. He skin smells rather good, like citrus and nutmeg, fresh but warm and inviting. As my body is pressed on top of his I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head to the side so I can grate my teeth across that neck. The little moan he unknowingly makes sends me over the edge and I come hard. He feels so good. I kiss him again.

I’m marking some papers now, while enjoying my weekly cigarette. I look over to Marc on the bed – he’s still out – and his image is obscured by wispy smoke. There is something about him that holds my gaze for much longer than it ought to. But what? … Ah, nevermind. It’s nothing. He’s just a toy, another toy I’m going to dispose of when I’m finished playing with it. That’s all.