“It hurts.” The cheap rope chafed her wrists and cut off her circulation. Her ass high in the air, her wrists locked to her widespread ankles. She thought the scene would be erotic, but she was feeling more and more like a pig about to be put on the spit.
“Let me go,” she said. “It hurts.”
Finally he answered, “It’s supposed to hurt, stupid. The fine line between pleasure and pain. That’s what you wanted, right?” Gone was the smooth gentleman with the buttery voice and warm eyes. The mask had been good enough to fly under her psycho-radar.
“I think I made a mistake,” she said.
“I think you did,” he said. And tightened the noose around her throat.
Still warm from afterglow, he went back to the same club the following night. He found a short-haired beauty waiting for him by the bar. Her big brown eyes seemed to be looking for a Master.
It was almost too easy. A few drinks and innuendo were all it took. He was glad he had a new coil of rope in his car.
Back at her place, she smirked and said, “But I’m not a submissive.”
“But you like that fine line between pleasure and pain,” he said. “Why else would you be at that club?”
“You think you’ve figured me out.”
Her knowing smile was beginning to aggravate him. “I can recognize the look in your eyes. I’m a natural-born dominant.”
She chuckled. “Show me.”
He lunged towards her. To intimidate her. To see the fear burn in her eyes. When she stood in a fighter’s stance, he hesitated for a moment. He didn’t even see the first blow catch him in the temple.
Hogtied and naked, he struggled to open his eyes. Blood made his eyelids feel gummy.
She kicked him with the point of her stiletto boot, Ground the heel between his shoulder blades. “Creeps like you ruin it for the rest of us. We’re about safe, sane, and consensual, but we get lumped in with you sickos.”
He struggled against the tight bonds. Tighter than his crudely-made knots. “It hurts,” he said.
“It’s supposed to hurt, stupid. The fine line between pleasure and pain. Remember?”
He recognized her voice, but that was impossible. He saw a glimpse of her white face. “But you’re dead! I buried you in the park.”
“You didn’t dig deep enough, dummy.” She grabbed his hair, coughed, and sprayed mud in his face. She hated the stink that seeped from her pores, but at least she crawled out before the worms got to her.
For the rest of the short night, she taught him about the real line between pleasure and pain. And between pain and torture.
Hana K. Lee is a writer of genre short fiction and has been published in thuglit.com and rumble: the micro-fiction ezine. She is also one of the contributors of the anthology “Hell’s Hangmen: Horror in the Old West.”
You can find Hana at myspace.com/little_eyes.
Nice one! I like how the tables were turned on him at the end – by his own victim.