when i was 15, i used to write really wierd porn.

It's dark in this room. Leather smells and sweat smells. Clean though, pure and real. Nothing of depravity, surely? I'm sure he can smell it. Smell that tingle, that, visceral itch that needs to be scratched...rubbed red and raw.

He stands in the half light I've allowed to be cast here, in this room. His face half shadow, half light. Strange nose shape and lip shape. Shadow playing along the line of his lower lip. Somwhere inside me, i want to bite it. Hard. Enough to see blood, his life on my mouth. In my mouth.

But my eyes are drawn instead to the doorway, where another man stands. This one taller, less sure of himself. Not sure why he agreed to come. Wondering what is wrong with his friend, standing here in my room. His hair is long, falling over his thin frame. He has thoght about this for a long while, but never thought he'd be here. I find nothing in his nervousness. He feels skittish and frightened. He doesn't know me. I will therefore allow him to watch.

I gesture to the couch, for this thin, frightened man. He will not feel me tonight. I imagine he likes the idea more than the reality anyway. I watch him take a seat, long limbs folding beneath him. His hands fidget, and I imagine he would like a cigarette. He will not be allowed one.

Eyes back now to this strange man. Strange feelings and strange beatuy from him. Mix of torrents of rages and emotions. I could sift through them, pick him to the bone. Crawl inside his body and know him from the inside.

But not tonight.

I know what he wants. He knows I can give it to him. His eyes flicker over to the chair. He's heard of this, undoubtedly from many hushed whispers, word of mouth, urban legend perhaps. I tell him to sit. I do not tell him to get comfortable.

He is sitting now. In the chair that leans back far enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Far enough to put him on edge, make him balance himself, tense and rigid. His legs slightly splayed, feet pushing at the floor. I tell him to close his eyes. He is not to open them. He obliges.

My fingers trail over the metal lying on the table, close to the chair. He can hear my fingernails clicking softly over each blade. I can see he is getting hard now. I'll soon fix that.

I take the blindfold, and wrap it tightly around his eyes. His head is fixed to the head of the chair now. Neck tilted upwards, his adams apple jutting out and deliciously exposed.

My hand moves to his shirt buttons now. I go to undo them, but no...a better idea. Click, click again as hand and nails reach for the ornate knife. A present from a travelling lover. Carved handle and razorblade. Swift movement, and the blde remove the unsightly plastic buttons. My hand rests on his chest now. A slight scar runs just under my thumb. I wonder who gave it to him. Perhaps the thin man? I look over to him, but his expression is frozen.

Seeing him there, neck pushed unnaturaly up to the celing, hands gripping the armrests hard enough to let me know he's nervous as fuck..something about it makes me want to touch him. Feel his body with my body. Before I know it, I am on top of him. Legs either side of his prostrate body. I feel his hard on strain tighter against his pants as I brush against him. He knows how close he is to my pussy. He knows how close and how fucking far.

He is even more beautiful from here. I look again at the thin man. Wonder what he thinks of me, in this new position. I wonder if he's ever watched his friend fuck a girl. I wonder if he's ever fucked this strange man. I'm sure he'd want to.

I lean forward, watching this man's chest rise and fall. Shallow breath. Nervous breath. I lay my head against his chest. Face sideways against skin. Hush...strange beauty. I hold you like a bird in my hand. I want him to be calm before I start.

Click clicking of my nails again on these blades. He hears it. The thin man hears it. Back and forth. Deciding....

First tho...I want to hear him. Hear his raspy voice come from that distended neck. Want to hear him tell me that he wants it. I know he does. I just need to hear the words.

I've chosen now. Razorblade. Simplicity and beauty. Bent handle, jacknife almost. Cold metal.

I lay in on his chest. Skin prickling at the sensation...cold again against warm flesh. He knows what it is. That is why he is here. I lean forward again. This time I am close to his ear. My lips brush against the soft pink as I whisper to him

-Tell me what you want.

He falters, he is unsure at the sound of my voice. Unsure what to say.

- Tell me you want it.

Another beat before, quietly, a small noise from somewhere deep in the back of his throat.

- I want it.

It's not good enough. I want him to fucking scream it. I look over again to his friend. His face betrays his arousal, his darkened eyes, tense body. Maybe he would like to be in this chair? Maybe next time he will be.

My hands work into the hair at the back of his head. I turn him to face his friend. Lips on his ear again. My eyes locked on the thin man. I see eyeliner rings his eyes. My eyes are like the steel of the blade as I say

- Say it loud enough for your friend to hear.

My free hand picks up the blade, pressing it lightly into the skin of his chest.

- Say it.

Again, that quite faltered voice from him.

- I want it.

Still no good. Pressure on the blade now. A bead of blood on its sharpest point.

- I want it.

His voice cracks a little this time. Harder on the blade. Another bead joins the first. Not quite a pool...but we shall see. I lean even closer now. I can see the tiny hairs inside the pink shell of his ear. I hiss into him:

- I want him to hear you.

I punctuate the "hear" with the movement of the blade. Downwards just enough to cut him. Open him a little.

He cries out. That's more like it. Scratchy smoking voice, breaking a little. I sit back, watch the blood from the shallow cut run off the left side of his chest.

The thin man is still watching us. His eyes flitting from the blade in my hand, down to his friends chest, back to my eyes. His same cold eyes. Filled with denial of pleasure. Filled with lust and sex and death and art. I will see him again, I imagine.

Lean forward again. I like to feel the heat from my breath reflected back onto me by his skin. I like being close to him as I open him, scratch by scratch. I like to hear him tell me, again and again.

- Do you want it?

Again my voice. Syrupy and thick, cigarettes and alcohol, my voice screams, cigarettes and alcohol and tortured men in my room...

He nods. But he knows I like to hear his voice. His voice, his scream, echoes around the insides of my head, reverberates against my teeth when I'm alone..

Again the blade presses into his skin. This time just at the base of his neck. Right at the front, in that little hollow. I'd like to see his blood pool in that hollow. He knows I'd never hurt him that much tho. He knows I love him. It's just all fucked up. That's all.

His voice comes loud now. Sure.

-Yes

He hisses out the ssssss....I'm pressing into him as he says it. This will be a big cut now. I'm drawing down to his navel in me head....shallow and painful and beautiful.

I'm watching the thin man now, as I'm drawing this blade over the skin. He cries out again, as I don't give up. My other hand moves down ahead of the blade, down past his navel, over the belt, down to brush his hard on. He shivers as I simultaneously rub and draw the blade down, down, further.

I reach his navel. That little line of hair running down to his groin. Paralelled by the line I've just created....I've heard it, that line, called the "lovers trail", but that doesn't some close to describing the eroticism of it. I want to lick it...run my tounge along its length...but that would reveal more of me than I desire. I bend, back arching, ass thrusting into the air..I never bend for anyone like this. I am to open...down there before him. I kiss him.