Bandages and Blood

Bandages and Blood

I've never been to a party like this before.

That's my first thought when I walk through the front door. The building is crowded and the lights alternate between too-bright and black bulbs. Some of them flicker on and off, always just a little bit too fast to match up with the bass of the stereo. My roommate gushes over the display; there are Halloween decorations up everywhere.

Not the cheap kind, either. The sort that you can only buy at a specialty shop.

"I knew this would be worth it," she gushes, grabbing me by the arm. Tina is dressed up in some version of a gypsy woman. The bedazzled tube top that she's wearing can barely contain her breasts and her skirt is near completely see-through. "I'm going to go find Danny!"

Just like that, she's gone and I'm lost.

Tina, she's the only person here that I know. I'm not a big player for the social scene. College and work keep me pretty busy. I spend a good bit of time just wandering through the crowd, trying to find a face that I recognize. Just when I finally think that I might have found one, a hand lands on my shoulder.

The squeal I give is hardly fitting for someone my age.

"Shit," laughs the man, when I spin around. "Didn't mean to scare you, miss mummy."

He's referring to my costume and, for some reason, I find that funny. Normally, I pick up something cheap at the local five-and-dime. A rabbit or nurse. This year, I put some effort into it. There are bandages wrapped around my arms, looped over my neck. My skirt is short and white, but I feel like it covers more than my attempt at a bandage-bikini.

"I scare pretty easily." I try not to stare but can't help it - he's ripped, and it shows. "Tarzan, right?"

"Close enough," he says, moving to loop an arm over my shoulders. "I've been here for a while, and I think that you might be the girl that I've been looking for. We've got a bit of a movie going on in one of the back rooms, and you look exactly like what we've had in mind for the main girl. It's a pretty easy role. You just have to stand around, look pretty."

Somehow, I find myself agreeing. The thought of being on film is intoxicating. The next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a bedroom, in front of a makeshift camera stand. There's a second guy here, and I swear he looks like something from an Indiana Jones film. There's a whip looped around his shoulders and he's manning the film.

It's not until Tarzan's loin cloth is on the floor that I realize exactly what sort of movie they want. It's not until his hands are on me that I realize I don't really mind.

"Call me Brett," he says, and the words come out almost like an order. His hands land on my shoulders, pushing me down onto my knees. "And get to work."

It's strange, but I'm only a little hesitant. The way that he's ordering me about sends a shudder down my spine. I rest my hands on his hips, blunt nails curling slightly against his skin. He's bitter and his actions are rough, driving against me with no care in the world. Hands settle on the back of my head, curl into my hair, and all that I can think is such a strange night as heat courses through my body and pleasure tingles along my spine.

Soon enough, I'm pushed backwards. My head hits the ground, hard. My vision blurs, but jut for a moment. When it clears, Brett is standing over me, and someone has given him the rope that the camera man had been holding. It's only loosely coiled now, revealing itself to be a cat o' nine tails.


  • Boudoir
  • Glamour
  • Implied Nude

"Fuck." It comes out as a hiss. I wipe at my mouth with the back of one hand, staring hesitantly at the item.

"We've got a nice little scene planned," says Brett, and I assume that the camera must be off. "If you're still game?"

The intent is clear.

Against my better judgement, I give him a small smile. "I've never done something like this before."

"But you're willing too? Gotta make it clear for me, babe." Brett lets the whip unroll, holding it loosely at his side. He leans back on his heels and peers down at me, judging, demanding, wanting - and there's no chance in Hell that I can back out now.

"I'm okay with this," I say, with a nod of my head. The bandages wrapped around my breasts are starting to come undone. I'm halfway through fixing it when the whip cracks for the first time. It catches my knuckles and sends searing heat through them, through my spine, through my very soul. I yelp, dropping my hands down without needing to be told.

Brett doesn't talk much after that. He gives orders through the crack of the whip and the toe of his foot, which catches my side twice. My skin burns with heat. It's not long before the bruises start to burst, blood rising to the surface.

I can't help but curl in on myself. One hand comes down to rest between my legs, fingers searching for something to offer a bit of relief.

No one scolds me, so I assume that it's okay. Brett doesn't let up, not even a little bit. My costume all but falls away from me, stained with red, and I can't help but squirm and shout and sob against the onslaught. My hand never stills, not once. I'm afraid that if it does, I won't be able to see this through to the end and, for some reason, I desperately don't want to stop now.

So I sit there and I let the man do with me what he wants.

On, and on, and fucking on - it never seems to stop. I feel darkness creeping into the edges of my vision and my sobs have been reduced to little more than gasping breaths. My hips move against their will and everything is bright, so bright, too bright - when I come too, I'm still on the floor, still wearing my blood stained rags. Brett is gone and so is the man that had been running the camera.

I'm alone.

The blood has long since dried on my skin, along with some thick and pale. I curl in on myself - and it hurts, moving even this little bit. It hurts like nothing that I've ever felt before. But...there's no denying that I like it. The way my entire being feels like it's been set aflame, lighting my soul and lifting it up, past the point where it should ever go.

I feel like I could fly - but I don't. I sit there, and I sob, and I think that I will try this again sometime, maybe at another party, maybe in the darkness of a room where no one else can see. Either way, it will be with a man that doesn't leave me at the end, clutching onto tatters and unable to stand without opening up the lash wounds.

The heat is still rushing through my veins, setting my heart into a rapid beat. I close my eyes, try to breathe in deep, force myself up in one unsteady lurch. The dresser is nearby and I grab onto it, using it to hold up the weight that trembling legs refuse too.

It feels like a monster has set upon my heart, devouring it, leaving behind only the parts that crave darkness and deceit. And I think to myself, in the stillness of that room, when blood begins to once more drip down my back from a spot that the whip caught just a little too often, maybe it won't be with a gentle soul who stays.

Maybe, I think, maybe it will be another night exactly like this one.

Oddly enough, I think that I'm alright with that.




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