A flat surface was pressing hard against my back. My limbs were leaden and wouldn’t obey. They were pulled into strange positions and I couldn’t compel them back: my arms were spread out on either side, bent at the elbow with my hands above my head, causing my pectorals to be stretched taut. My legs were pulled straight, connected at the ankle and wouldn’t separate.
All my clothes had been removed since I last remembered: I was naked except for a pair of briefs. In retrospect, even the allowance of that tiny modesty was generous.
Something soft but thick clogged up my mouth, keeping my incisors separated and I couldn’t spit it out. It felt like a wad of cloth and was stuffed in deep; any further and it would have been gagging my throat. In fact, it was; rammed against my tonsils, I just didn’t realize it: hadn’t yet passed my eight minute breath limit.
Apart from the dizziness of intoxication, making my limbs heavy and limp, and itching my eyes with fatigue, the weirdest sensation was the anomalous tingling numbness radiating out from my left pectoral, like a cold pack had been left there too long. So cold that it made the rest of my body feel clammy and hot by comparison.
“Ahhhhrrrgghh!” I cried into the gag.
Because that’s what it was, I now realized. A gag. Not like it had ended up there by accident.
There was an electric pain and coppery tang on one side of my mouth; I must have accidentally bit my tongue, and hard. It must have been before the gag was put in, maybe while I was hanging upside down, unconscious. Tears sprung into my eyes and I shut them.
When I opened them again and my mind was a little clearer, I made out the kitchen ceiling expanding out far above my head, lighting up the bizarre scene.
I was stretched out on my back on the dining table, lying on thick white napkins placed over the table surface. The things pulling my arms out were binds of thick cotton twine, like rope, and the spool was across the table; the same spool that had once been used to string me up to her hand like a human puppet. The ends of the pieces of string tying each of my limbs were weighed down by heavy books to keep them taut.
Only now it became apparent there was an ice cube sitting on my left pectoral, just beginning to melt. It occurred to me: below the left pectoral was the heart.
Oh God what was this.
The wine may have relaxed my body, but not my insides, which were writhing in mounting dread and nausea. The whole scene being put together before me had my hair beginning to stand on end: the way my limbs were pulled out in the cold with my belly exposed, almost like the fucking Vitruvian Man, didn’t so much strike me as sexual, but surgical – or like a frog about to be turned into a biology class lesson. A vision flashed in my head: having my heart cut out and eaten.
Had I bet on the wrong horse all this time? If she was crazy, why was it only coming out now? I’d known her for years, and I mean, yeah, she acted ‘crazy’ sometimes – how you’d offhand describe someone who was weird or extreme – but not a literal institution-escapee kind of way.
My thoughts were racing ahead of themselves in panic.
No, I decided. She wasn’t crazy like that. I would know. Jesus, I’d known her long enough. Did people really just snap, go psychotic, from the sheer excitation of a marriage proposal? Had that ever happened in history, like even once?
But the logic did not cut it for my instincts. There was always that first time. Sweat was spilling down my temples, and down my armpits, mixing with the melting ice, and pooling beneath my back, making the napkins itch. I shifted my shoulders up and down rapidly, trying to scratch my back against the table, and the napkins made a plastic rustling sound.
They weren’t napkins. It was a big, thick medical absorbent pad, the upside cotton, the downside plastic – the kind of thing you’d throw down in a hospital to catch body fluid spills. At this recognition, my gut pulled tighter than the string binds restraining my wrists and ankles.
The tumbler of rum, now drained, stood at the other end of the table, along with a wine glass, the bottom stained with deep blood red, the Zinfandel. She didn’t get drunk easily. But when she did, she got reckless and delirious. How many previous drinks had been poured into those glasses up until now?
The chilled tingling started up in my chest again. I wrenched against the binds, trying to shift my chest enough to jar the ice cube until it slipped off my chest onto the sheeting. But this seemed to make me even colder.
Actually, the cause was a cool draught sweeping in from an opening doorway across the room. There was a muted padding across the floor and then it stopped nearby, leaving the sense of unseen presence hovering over me, like an episode of sleep paralysis – the kind that spawned myths of succubae visitations – not to mention I was paralyzed by the string binds.
Small, panicked moans escaped my throat before I could stop them.
"JERRY, DON'T STRUGGLE,” came Jennifer’s low voice. “YOU'RE TIED UP FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. WHAT I'M ABOUT TO DO, IF YOU MOVE, YOU COULD REALLY HURT YOURSELF."
‘What?’ I tried to say, ‘What are you doing?’ but it came out something like: ‘Mmm mmm mm mmmm?’
She got the gist of it, and explained:
“MARRIAGE IS AN AGREEMENT, SO THIS IS LIKE MY SIGNATURE. AND IT’S GOING TO BE PERMANENT.”
Her voice was oddly calm, pensive and not entirely sober.
She moved around the table and into my sight, wearing just a t-shirt, underwear and – by the sound of her muted footsteps – socks.
With a clunk, a hand-held object appeared in view on the tabletop just past my feet. One part looked like a black pen, with a thicker shaft, and the tip of the pen ended in a sharp silver dart shaped a little like a quill tip. The pen’s ribbed grip connected to a multi-part, device with metal bolts, springs, and a small motor. A miniature rotary device like a handheld sewing machine.
Just looking at the sharp pen tip and my stomach sank. The gleaming steel tip underscored my suspicion of medieval surgery. At my size, the device looked like a piece of manufacturing plant equipment that had been ripped out of the wall.
She was now unwinding a power cord which was had been plugged into the wall socket, a jack at the other end slotted into a DC power supply unit connected by a cord into the rotary device.
A pair of rubber surgical gloves was snapped over her hands; her long nails still visibly pushing out beneath the rubber fingertips. Then a paper square was ripped open, containing an alcohol wipe, which she dabbed over my pectoral, where the ice cube had been sitting. My numbed chest felt neither the dampness nor the pressure of the rub, but the wipe sent a burst of pure, sharp ethanol sting into my nostrils, not unlike the earlier wine fumes but minus all the sweet fruit flavor and calming vibes. It made me feel dizzy, and deepened my dread.
One gloved hand gripped around the ribbed pen shaft, lining up the tip with my chest. Up close I realized the needle tip was comprised of several tinier needles bunched together.
She switched the machine on, and contrary to expectation, it emitted only a whisper soft humming, which meant I could still hear my heart pounding in my ears. The motor was rotating, causing the needles to lance rapidly in and out of the pen tip. If her hand slipped the sharp nub would lance right through my heart.
‘You can’t be serious!’ I tried to scream, but it came out in another incoherent stream of gagged moans.
“KEEP STILL,” she said, “IT’LL JUST BE LIKE A TINY SCRATCH…”
This wasn’t reassuring, in fact, even more disturbing was the dreamy haze of her pupils from the rum and wine.
Her great upper body leaned over me, loose ponytail keeping her hair out of the way. A couple of rubberized fingertips of one hand pushed against my solar plexus, pulling the skin down, keeping it taut while her other hand held the pen grip, aiming the needle at my heart, which was flapping around inside my ribs like a dying fish.
The gleaming steel lance continued to grow and grow in my perception, heading straight for my heart.
"Aaaaaaaargh!" I screamed into the cloth stuffed in my mouth, trying to kick my heels against the ankle binds, managing to jolt my torso against the table.
She paused, drawing back. The fingers tensing my solar plexus lifted and a sharp nail gave me a cautionary poke in the belly, but so hard it winded me. She’d only meant it gently but the length of her nail combined with her inebriation made her misjudge her own strength. Now fighting an abdominal cramp for air, I tossed my head, bumping my scalp against the tabletop, then whipped it sideways, the shining quill tip, a little nearer every instant, too unbearable to watch. The smell of latex descended as one giant rubber hand descended over my head as a thumb print settled against my forehead, gently pinning my head to the tabletop and holding it in place, which also kept me from moving my torso.
The micro needle tips punched repeatedly through the topmost layer of my numbed chest, creating a buzzing sensation and tiny spikes like insect bites.
“Gnnnggngg!” My jaw grinded around the gag, sparking up the pain in my bitten tongue.
Over the next several minutes, the tips bit into my skin again and again. Her eyes were glued on my pec, in another world of focus, on the marks being drawn into the skin and filled out by injections of ink.
I couldn’t see – didn’t want to see – what she was drawing but it felt like a curving line, another curving line, some straight lines, and some sharp stabs like dots. As her face hovered low over me, her hot alcoholic breath steamed against my brow, until sweat was dripping down my face and my head swirled feverishly. She reached across for a tissue and dabbed my temples.
Now my lungs were growing achingly tight; the eight minute window was over, and I realized the gag was stuffing up my throat (probably the result of one of her long nails accidentally driving it in too far).
I tried to yell again but could only get out choking noises. She ignored this for a few seconds until realizing it was serious, and pulled at the gag. A wad of cotton emerged from my mouth, white stained with red. It wasn’t a gag; but a small wad of bandage.
“YOU BIT YOUR TONGUE,” she said gently.
I went to say, ‘No kidding,’ but it came out in an incoherent mumble; I couldn’t move my tongue without it breaking out in searing pain. At least the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
The needle tip dropped against my chest again, delivering its prickling buzzing.
She finished the tattoo and then the quill was pulled away and the machine was switched off.
My whole chest wall swelled in and out in jerks, my respiration so heavy it sounded like I was sobbing as I groaned for breath. Her massive form seemed to collapse over me as she lowered herself over the table to press kisses to my brow.
“IT'S OKAY..." she soothed, vibrating the tunnel of my ear, before letting her tongue lap around my temples as if to wipe away the perspiration, but it was so big and sticky that it accidentally swiped and gripped at my eyelashes as it did so, "...IT'S DONE."
She straightened up again, and with her thumb no longer pinning my head, I tucked my chin in to glance down. The skin where the pen had just been applied was reddening, surrounding the new tattoo. From my perspective the ink was upside down, but to an observer it was a brand stamping my chest that read ‘J.S.T.’ in stylized flourishing font suggesting it had been done by a female hand.
My head fell back and I stared up at the ceiling, not really seeing anything. The after-effect of the wine wasn’t a sense of relaxation and wellbeing anymore, but queasiness. Apart from the stinging, my chest felt light; a misplaced sense of relief: my insides weren’t going to be hacked into with a scalpel…
…well, not tonight, at least. But I was not to know that, in less than twenty four hours, they would be.
“I’LL BE BACK IN A SECOND,” she said, unplugging the machine, bundling up the cord and device in her hands, “JUST GETTING SOME BANDAGE TAPE.”
As soon as she’d disappeared from the room, I began wrenching with ungodly might at the arm binds, using all the strength in my back. Joints and vertebrae groaned, muscle strained, and pectoral flesh stung in anger. I gritted my jaw, doing everything possible to stifle my voice. Jen had an uncanny sense of hearing, and she might catch even a small high-pitched cry from outside the room.
Ignoring the pain, I felt the strings sliding from under the books. As they loosened, I used the increased freedom of movement in my arms to pump them against the string, tugging out even more, until my left arm made a sudden jolt of motion as the end of the string came out from under the book. With my newly freed left hand, I grabbed the string around my right arm and used the strength of both hands to work that free, then sat up and used my tiny delicate hands to undo the knots that bound my ankles.
With all limbs free I jumped up and raced over the table to the edge, the strings around my wrists draping after me, as if just begging to have me made into a human puppet again. In fact, I was worried that’s what might happen if I was caught, but I couldn’t undo the strings on my wrists using only one of my hands at a time.
Leaping down from the table onto the seat of one of the chairs, I then slid down a chair leg like a fireman down a pole, and once my feet hit the shiny tiles, started sprinting across the floor. A cool draught swept along the ground, waking my brain up.
In the living room, the floor was built up with the mega-sized forms of the couches, coffee table, and TV stand. Running up to an armchair closest to the door at the other end, I dropped to my knees and crawled underneath, commando style, the furry rug brushing against my front, making the irritated skin around my tattoo itch. The black sheet of underside fabric blotted out the room except for the perimeter of light surrounding the base, providing a view up to ankle high; a view of feet if she were to come into the room. But she hadn’t returned yet.
One of my arms snapped back, grabbed by something, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest.
The end of the string had gotten caught on one of the metal hinges on the reclining mechanism. In a panic, I seriously considered gnawing at the string like a rat, but decided to use my human brain to work, patiently unraveling the braided strands until it frayed and came loose. Then I wound the strings around my hands like a boxer’s handwraps so they didn’t catch on anything else.
The air was still and silent. I braced myself just below the edge of the chair, then rolled out and began sprinting across the floor to the entrance leading into the hallway. It was lit, totally exposing me as I ran over the tiles and veered into the open guest bedroom.
Maybe I slept in the master bedroom, but I thought of the guest bedroom as mine, if only because she rarely came in here – except to look for me. Under the spare bed, hidden behind an empty shoe box, I’d been secretly working away at a cracked section of the wall, now an open panel held together with tape, which could be folded inward like a cat flap, leading into a dark slot on the other side of the drywall. One of the problems with being shrunk was that nothing was made for my size anymore; sometimes the bedrooms were just too big and exposed to provide a true sense of privacy. The hole in the wall might only lead into a dark, drywall dungeon, but at least I knew I could be properly alone in there to change clothes, jerk off, goof around, whatever.
I clicked on the miniature flashlight lying on the ground just inside the hole, which illuminated my Batman costume stored within – appropriate; it was a cave – which I started to pull on. I wanted some ‘armor’ to protect my tender, stinging chest, and the soft leather padding making up the muscled bodysuit was the most rugged clothing I had, plus offered my face and hands extra protection in the cowl and gloves. Also lying on the ground was a modified grappling rifle that I’d been working on before I’d been miniaturized the second time
The barrel was a small air compressor which shot out the line, attached not to a hook, but an adhesive strip; a couple of spare strips I kept tucked in the belt of my costume. A separate cord reel mechanism retracted the line, but if the adhesive was glued to a surface some feet away, what it actually did was send me speeding at the surface, as was intended. The gun wasn’t perfect: every time it was activated the adhesive strip had to be replaced for another use, which wasn’t possible if it was stuck against a wall or ceiling and I was dangling off the end. Plus the reel tended to over-extend and jam and refuse to retract. Most inconvenient, with the dual bulk of the compressor and the reel attached, it was too big for me to carry around easily; I had to drag it over the floor with two hands, and a tiny Batman dragging around an oversized grapping gun didn’t flatter the image I was going for, but it was better than nothing.
First, I spent a moment patiently working at the strings wrapped around my wrists, using each hand and my teeth, until finally the knots loosened and the binds came free.
Then, with the suit on, I wedged the flashlight into the wall flap to hold it open while I began to drag the gun out—
And froze.
“JERRY?”
Her voice floated into the room, originating some rooms across the house. She must have returned to the kitchen area and noticed I’d gone, which was a breach of house rule number one: don’t run from Jennifer Tomlin. Now I was going to breach house rule number two: don’t hide from Jennifer Tomlin.
Footsteps thumped over the tiles, with rapid purpose.
Without another moment’s hesitation, I crammed the gun back inside the hole, pulled the flashlight inside, clicked it off and pushed my shoulder into the back of the flap to shut it, and hold it there.
Another echo down the hallway, low and ironic:
"THE FIRST NIGHT OF OUR ENGAGEMENT AND YOU'RE ALREADY IGNORING ME."
The night was made complete when you said ‘yes’, I wanted to say, now don’t push your luck.
“JERRY, IF I SAID SOMETHING OR DID SOMETHING THAT OFFENDED YOU, THEN I APOLOGIZE.”
A long pause, straining for my response, if any.
“TELL ME WHAT I DID WRONG…LET ME SWEEP YOU OFF YOUR FEET AND KISS YOU AND MAKE YOU FEEL ALL BETTER.”
Her voice was much louder, closer, while the footsteps slowed as they entered the hallway, measured and as light as possible, though slight vibrations ran through the wall panel pressed against me.
"THE TATTOO LOOKS GREAT," she tried again, now forcibly calm, "I PROMISE. JUST GIVE IT TIME TO HEAL. LOOK, BABY…” she made a small huffing sound of irritation, “…NO ONE HAS TO KNOW. AND SO WHAT? IT TELLS PEOPLE THAT I LOVE YOU."
The guest room door hinge groaned, the light switch flicked, casting cracks around the wall panel with a glowing outline. The thumping became fuzzy onto the carpet, and even more cautious as it seemed to move around the bed. Then pause. She must have been kneeling down to look under the bed.
The rubber cowl was growing slimy against my face and my heart hammered. I was charged up with thrilling dread, like I was being hunted. She was my girlfriend – correction, fiancée – but she was also ten times my size and strength, and a tendency to flaunt it.
The room light clicked off again.
My eyes closed, though in pitch black it didn’t make a difference.
Wasting no time, I flicked on the flashlight and propped it under the wall panel to keep it up, while I dragged the cumbersome gun through. Then continued to drag the gun over the carpet and out of the room. With a preliminary glance out the doorway, checking that the hallway was empty, my pace increased with the gun sliding more easily over the polished tiles.
Only then in the hallway I realized: the flashlight was still switched on, and half wedged in the wall. To be as fast as possible, I’d have to drop the gun on the floor and run back, in which time she might come by and snatch and confiscate the gun, which I had been working quietly away at for weeks, a personal hobby horse.
I kept going back down the hall, pushing the gun in front of me, my pace increasing to jog.
Lifting one end of the gun off the floor, I started trying push it along like a wheelbarrow (without a wheel). But it accidentally flew out of my hands and made a clattering noise against the tiles which, in the silence, seemed to echo out like sonar signal. My heart dropped.
The air was still, the pounding in my head was only my racing blood.
Yanking up the end of the gun, I pushed it past the end of the hallway, the living room expanded panoramically into view and, at the same time, from somewhere behind, the sound of a door being pushed aside until it banged into the wall, with the urgency of someone halting, dropping everything, and—
Thud thud thud THUD THUD THUD –
A rapid string of quaking noises, like an oncoming train pounding over rails, louder and louder, bowling straight at me from behind. She’d heard the gun drop and she was racing back down the hall – actually physically running because she had surely now seen me.
There was no time to look back. Grunting and wailing with my exertions, I shoved the gun across the floor with all my might. My sweat heavy cowl was slipping over my eyes but kept moving, half blind, guided by the feeling of the tiles turning to rug. Having lifted the end of the gun gave me extra speed, but it wasn’t enough, I was panting, out of breath, and the footsteps were almost on top of me—
I pointed the gun’s muzzle into the shadowy floor beneath the two seat sofa, and taking aim at the inside of one of the legs, pulled the compression trigger. With a sharp hiss the line burst across the floor, the adhesive stamped into the inside sofa leg and held. Normally I gave the adhesive a second for the gel to firmly seal against the surface, but there was no time. Praying it wouldn’t jam, I pulled the release catch for the reel, which whirred into life; recoil jolted through my arms as the line yanked me off my feet and clumsily dragging me and the gun over the carpet (and, unfortunately, not Batman-style through the air).
Next instant I was in the dark rectangle beneath the sofa, up against the inside leg.
Her voice rang out from above:
“WHAT THE FUCK—?”
The rug fibers whispered under my bare feet; the rubber boots had come off as I’d been dragged over the floor. They lay across the rug some distance behind, until a pair of giant, smooth bare feet trod next to them, shadow deepening before the boots were each captured between feminine long nailed fingertips and plucked up into the air.
My hands were now scrabbling over the adhesive strip, disconnecting it from the line, the damn leathery gloves sweaty and sliding around my fingers. Frustrated, I yanked the Velcro straps back and ripped the gloves off.
The rug-muffled thuds halted immediately beside the sofa, then rustling as she dropped down to the floor, thrusting an arm beneath to snake after me.
Her rumbling grunt came at my back, as her hand fished into the dark under the seat frame for me:
“JUST GET OVER HERE, WILL YOU?”
Fingertips scratched at the hem of my cape as they made a frantic snatch, but just missed me. But any closer and they might have swiped my ankles and flipped me over onto the ground. Foiled, the hand withdrew again. She could have gone around the other side of the sofa, but maybe she was worried I’d try to shoot her with the gun, not that it would do any good.
A moment later, the footsteps receded over the tiles as she stalked off, back down the hallway, her pace driven and purposeful. It wasn’t an excuse for respite. She’d be back, sooner rather than later. She would return with an ‘extraction tool’, such as a broom.
I pulled a fresh strip of adhesive out of my belt and fitted it onto the line, then pushed the gun out from under the sofa and began sliding it along the tiles leading into the master bedroom, and deciding not to deploy the gun again unless as a last resort; the compressor’s sharp hiss would be like a siren telling her immediately where I was.
Outside the room, the rustling sounds from the living area. She was back, poking around under the sofa. This went on for about a minute. While she was distracted looking under the chairs, I scrabbled up the overhanging quilt onto the queen bed and grabbed my miniature pillow amidst her giant ones – unused in over a week now – then raced back over the bouncy mattress and slid down the overhanging blanket again.
I planned to smuggle it back to the ‘cave’ in the wall and sleep there the night; get a moment of peace to wind down from the rush of proposing, intoxication from the wine, and the adrenaline of getting tattooed, then return to the bedroom in the early morning, once she had come down from her own proposal high.
Once the rustling, probing noises beyond had stopped, I began pushing the gun back over the floor into the living room, which was now empty again. Moving between each chair in turn for cover, I was eventually heading back down the hallway.
As I reached the entrance to the guest bedroom, the sound of footsteps came from the other end of the hallway, from what sounded like the laundry, which was at the opposite end of the house to the master bedroom. She had probably been looking for another ‘extraction tool’. It no longer mattered; I was home free inside the guest bedroom now, and pushing my gun along the carpet, under the spare bed towards my ‘cave’.
Then stopped in dismay.
The empty shoe box had been pushed aside. The wall flap was no longer propped open with the flashlight. The hole was shut and sealed up with overlapping strips of mounting tape. Rushing at it, I began pulling at one of these strips, the topmost, trying to peel it away, but it was so gummy I wasn’t strong enough…
The bedroom light clicked on, turning the whole room intense vanilla. I blinked as, behind me, soft steps came onto the carpet, ominously unhurried, as if knowing the game was up. Her murmur surrounded me:
"SORRY,” she said vaguely, “BUT I'M GOING TO CALL A PLASTERER TOMORROW. REALLY ATTRACTED TO TIGHT, DARK SPACES, AREN'T YOU…?"
Without thinking, I spun around and raced along under the length of the bed. In a heartbeat she was on the ground, stretching forward stomach to floor, crawling in on her forearms before sending a hand surging after me.
My cape yanked back, pulling me up off my feet, then I was hovering along just above the carpet before zooming way up above the bed as she straightened up again.
There was jerking sensation like being shot out of a cannon as the grip on my cape released, the bedroom walls became a blur as I was zooming through space again, much higher, until the ceiling came spinning at my face. My arms and legs paddled around helplessly in mid-air as I tumbled back down, before I was jerked through the air by my shoulders as my cape was snagged again, pulled down, and then my entire body rocketing back up, spinning madly, and falling back down to earth...
My shoulders went tight again as the cape was snatched and yanked, tossed up into the air, and as the cape unfurled, it was then seized victoriously in a fist, whirled around, and thrown up again, pulling me along with it, like a tiny hammer throw. As I came down, she missed my cape and in an effort to keep me airborne, bounced me on her fingertips to launch me up again.
This went on and on for several minutes, until my stomach was practically turning itself inside out with nausea. I groaned and my voice was immediately ripped out of my throat by the whooshing air as I went somersaulting down, back into her awaiting hand, which caught my cape and sent me shooting up towards the ceiling again…
This time, as I fell, she missed my cape with both hands, and on impulse, brought a thigh up just in time, pumping it smack into my front, crushing the air out of my chest as it bounced me high into the air again.
“SO CLOSE…!” she teased, and her voice seemed to spin around my head.
This was too much for me.
“Stop!” I squeaked breathlessly. “I need a rest!”
I collapsed into a limp, black leathery ball onto the palms of her hands, and remained there. The room seemed to swivel around me even though I was still. I was dizzy; couldn’t run even if she’d put me down onto the floor and gave me a head start. One of my hands drifted clumsily against my chest, battering at the padded leather covering my pectoral; the sweat running down my chest was making my tattoo itch and sting.
Her hand lifted until I was cradled against the wall of her chest as she flicked off the bedroom light, and then the walls were wobbling around, she was traipsing out of the bedroom and back down the hallway, my body bobbed limply, her breast against my back. She continued to switch off lights through the house until we came into the master bedroom.
She dropped into a seat on the end of the queen bed, placing me down on her thigh for a moment, her upper body leaning over me as her nails worked into my costume, digging beneath the leather to peel it away from my flesh. It was less elastic than my Superman costume, and required more force to remove, my extremities strained as she pulled at the bodysuit. Struggling got me nowhere, and in fact only helped shift my limbs out of the sleeves and leggings. As the fingers shifted around my body, nails dug painfully into random vulnerable areas. A pair of fingertips pinched one of the ears of the cowl while another pair clasped my jaw and pulled, peeling the cowl off my head before the entire bodysuit could be slid down my torso and exposing my naked flesh to the cool night air.
The suit finally came free from around my ankles, and was put over onto the bedside table, as her fingers wrapped around my back. The thumbnail dug into my jaw, tipping my head back so the thumb could slide in and gently massage my throat, seeming to savor the feeling of my carotid artery throbbing rapidly against the sensitive thumbpad.
I swallowed against the pressure at my neck.
“So you want to have sex.”
“KIND OF THE POINT, JERRY.”
“Is it? I like to look at you. I can’t see you when I’m inside.”
"COME ON. A GUY WITH YOUR BODY. I'M NOT GOING TO PUT YOU IN A GLASS CABINET TO ADMIRE. YOU ARE MADE FOR MY USE.”
Swallowing, I stared up into her eyes, which surveyed my face as if from a distance, already in contemplation of things I couldn’t even imagine, but whatever thoughts on her mind not being revealed in her deceptively calm expression.