by Galloway

It starts with the letter. It arrived that day, at my office via FedEx. I slice open the envelope, and it parts like a bloodless wound, the thick paper folds back like flesh. I pull out the single sheet of paper inside, and an airline ticket. The missive is direct, written in his fluid, well-schooled hand. "Meet me." Simple, direct, elegant. Heavy paper, watermark, written with a broad nib fountain pen. An address is provided. The paper smells of musk and lavender. I call my boss and tell her that I'm sick. So sorry, it just came on suddenly, a burning migraine. I tell her the feeling is so intense I think I've been blinded. She'll never guess what it really is that blinds me. My skin is already on fire. I shove the letter and the envelope into my briefcase, stash the plane ticket in my purse and shut down the computer. I put my sunglasses on, and hold my hand over my eyes, wincing as I scurry for the door. My knees actually wobble as I get into the car. Hands tensed in anticipation, I can almost feel the heavy cotton of his shirt beneath my fingers. The scent of scalded rubber as I pull out into traffic, the motor screaming its frustration that the speed limit is only sixty-five.

Packing is easy. I don't need much. A few items thrown into my overnight case. A heavy silk nightgown and the suede Mardi Gras mask are last moment additions. Strangely, I pick up the long shears from my desk. They rest heavy and cold in my hand. Blades nine inches in length. I smile and put them back down. I decide I don't want to have to check my bag. I call for a cab. I take a quick shower, the water sluices over my back and shoulders, as if this would settle me for the trip. My hands glide over my damp skin, nipples hardening, the skin along the sides of my legs breaking into gooseflesh despite the warm water. A delicious tension. I rub oil over my legs, up the insides of my thighs, over my belly and breasts, down my shoulders and arms. I dress in my usual plain style, cashmere sweater, fitted skirt, stockings, red high-heeled shoes. I grab my coat and umbrella. The cab arrives faster than expected: I barely have time to finish putting on my makeup when the horn blares below. I lock the door behind me and slow myself deliberately as I stride up to the taxi. In the cab, I call my fiancée; tell him that I've been called unexpectedly out of town, business emergency. It is unavoidable, so sorry darling. So easy to deceive him and so alarming that I feel no guilt at all in doing so.

The airport is awash in busy travelers, each darting hither and yon, bumping into one another, snarling at the slightest touch. A tall Arab businessman turns sharply, and walks right into me. I brace my hands on his chest to keep from falling. He looks at my fingers, into my eyes and smiles unexpectedly. His hand rests for a lingering moment on my hip. "Sorry" he says, dark eyes mirthful. "Don't be," I laugh back, slowly disengaging from his touch, my fingertips lingering on the front of his shirt. I slide my hand down his chest, dragging a fingernail over his nipple, and smile to myself at his sharp intake of breath: A little treat for a fellow traveler. I pick up my bag and hurry across the floor to catch my plane. San Francisco to New Orleans. Non-Stop, First Class. The Arab businessman watches me as I stride along, I don't need to look back. I can feel his eyes on me like a caress.

I barely make my plane in time. I'm literally the last person on the flight. The stewardess purses her lips at me in annoyance, despite her cheery hellos. I stow my bag, and take my seat. I ask for a blanket. The drinks cart comes by: complimentary champagne. Though not my usual fare, I have a glass. The air phone rests in its jack in the seat in front of me. I slot my credit card and call the hotel, a special request for our stay. No problem, billed to the room. I put on the headphones, listen to the piped in classical music. At least they have the decency to play Beethoven. I lean my head against the window and watch the earth fall away. I wrap the blanket over my legs and settle in to dream during the long flight.

Eyes closed I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, long hands wound into my hair pulling my head back so that my neck arches and the back of my head rests against his chest. His other hand pulls me against him. I can feel the long muscles in his thighs, the soft-scratchy texture of the hair on his chest against my back. He bites into the soft skin at the bottom of my neck, along the top of my shoulder. Hard enough to make me wince slightly, just as he releases the pressure of his bite and drags his open palm across my belly, down over my pubic bone, then gently curves his hand between my thighs and cups the damp heat that is beginning to suffuse me. I try to turn my head to kiss him but he uses his grip on my hair to keep me facing away.

"Are you my bad girl?" he whispers. I close my eyes and laugh. "Naughty is as naughty does" I reply. He lets go of my hair and wraps his other hand around me, cupping one breast in his hand, rubbing the edge of his thumb over the nipple, then letting his palm rasp across the tender skin to reach the other breast. His fingers pull away from my sex, damp, and warm, and he places his hand on my hip to turn me to face him. He wears his old black leather Mardi Gras mask, the halo of his blonde hair over his shoulders. He takes both of my hands and pulls them up over my head then pinions them with one hand, stretching my body up against the wall, pulling me at length so that my back arches slightly. I can feel the bottom of the brass wall sconce with my fingertips, and I grab on to it, as he lifts me from the hips and wraps my legs around his waist. The first thrust of his penetration leaves me gasping. I let go of the sconce with one hand to caress his cheek and he kisses my palm as his pumping increases in speed and ferocity, and I respond in kind. Wave upon wave, he fills me, and I suffuse him, like a storm riding the sea. The world is lit up underneath my eyelids, and when the orgasm takes me over I suddenly open my eyes and gasp aloud.

I'm still on the plane, abruptly sitting upright, feeling the warm, heady tensions already dissipating and the hot dampness between my thighs the physical reminder of the culminated dream. The annoyed stewardess leans over me and asks if I'm all right. I meet her gaze and hold it for a moment. "Fine, thank you," I reply. I really want to tell her to just piss off and leave me be. She took my meaning, huffing away. I look across the aisle and see an older woman watching me intensely. She mouths a question to me: "Nice dream?" I smile and nod. She nods in reply and returns to reading her book. I accept the second glass of champagne with a smile and await our final descent into New Orleans.

When I step off the plane, there's a chauffer waiting for me, holding up a sign with my name printed on it in bold hasty strokes. I raise my hand in greeting, and follow the chauffer though the throng of people, seeking lost luggage, arriving loved ones, and the rental cars they thought were all arranged. I put my sunglasses on, and steel myself for the intense damp heat that will greet me when we step outside. Its barely dusk. The air is sultry and heavy as a satin shawl. It drapes over me, around me as I walk to the limousine. The door is opened; my bag is taken, placed in the trunk as I settle in. The door is closed, and the cool air prickles my legs and arms as I open the bar. A bottle of Oban, some water. I pour myself a drink, and sip it, tasting the hard flinty edges of the scotch, watching the lights on the raised highway spin by, watch the yahoos on the Bourbon, swilling beer and laughing like madmen dancing on the edge of a precipice. My panties are damp, sticking to my body, a luxurious heat burning between my thighs. I lean my head back on the seat and breathe in the smell of well cared for leather, and something else. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The scent of a man's cologne and a smell that makes me smile to myself. This is a well-loved limousine. How well he knows me, a creature of the senses, intoxicated like an animal by the scent of past lovemaking, the flinty taste of the scotch, the heavy night air laden with jasmines.

I make the hotel by six forty. I push my sunglasses to the top of my head and address the desk clerk. My reservations are in order; he has already paid the room. I take my key, and prepare to go up, the bellboy carrying my slim overnight bag in one hand, leading me to the old, gated elevator, down the hall where converted gaslights burn now with electric lamps. Room three zero four, our usual suite at this hotel. The bellboy puts my bag down, shows me the familiar bathroom with its deep claw-footed tub. The sitting room, the bar, the bedroom. He opens the curtains on the bank of French doors over the courtyard. The ceiling fan whirs softly overhead. I hand him his tip, and his fingertips linger on my palm. The door closes and I'm alone in our suite. I unpack my valise; nothing much to it. I put away my things, then, in front of the mirror, I put up my hair, slowly undress, hanging up my skirt, folding the sweater, rolling down my stockings, peeling out of my underwear. I run the bath, and gather one of the deep robes from the closet. I ignore the opened curtains. Let them watch, if they want to. I don't mind. I sink into the heated water, adding a little oil to it, and soak off the flight, the car ride, and the last remembrances of my day in California. He won't arrive until eight. I look at my watch: Plenty of time.

I put on my silk gown, wearing nothing beneath it at first. Reconsidering, I put on fresh stockings, my heeled shoes. Better. I re-pin my long hair, small ringlets escaping here and there. Finally, I put on my Mardi Gras mask, the supple suede molding to my face, the black ribbons snug at the back of my head. As I turn my head this way then that, the door to the room opens. I can hear his tread on the floor, the whisper of his jacket coming off; I can see it in my mind being casually tossed over the armchair in the sitting room. I hear him open the champagne, lift the telephone and call for room service. Then, I know already, that he's heading into the bedroom, to lean against the tall windows and drink, and wait for me to appear. Far be it from me to disappoint.

I walk out of the bathroom, scented steam curling about my ankles. He is, as I imagined, leaning against the tall frame of the center French door. He's opened it to the night, and a slight breeze ruffles the curtain, the stray bits of his long hair that have come loose in transit. He's in his shirtsleeves, cufflinks still in, tie still snugly knotted at his throat. The shirt tapers to his narrow waist, long legs in soft Italian wool pants. The shoes he wears are worth more than I make in four months. I slip an arm around his waist, and nuzzle the back of his neck. He reaches back and strokes my thigh through the silk gown.

"You came." He whispers.

I chuckle to myself; a dark throbbing sound escapes my lips. Not yet, I think, not yet. I reach around and take the glass from him and drain it at a swallow. He turns to face me, and notices the mask. His lips part to speak, but I put a finger on them and whisper, "hush." I feel him start to smile. I pick up the package I arranged to have delivered from the front desk, feel its weight, its balance. I open it at the tapes: a pair of shears, nine-inch long blades: wicked instrument. I put them down on the table. He walks over, lifts the shears, and opens them with a cool metallic hiss. He slides a blade under the strap of my gown, and I gently place my hand over his and shake my head. He hesitates, and is lost.

"What?" he manages to ask before I lean up and kiss him, fierce as the heat that has been burning within me since receiving his letter. His hands rest on my shoulders, and then tighten there. He slides his hands over my arms, then around my waist. I part his mouth with the tip of my tongue; tease him, flicking it over his lip, curling it along the inside of his lips, like an invitation. He laughs deep in his throat. His kiss tastes of wine and cigarettes. Sucking his lower lip, I bite him, feel the flesh begin to swell, hearing his breath quicken; my free hand strokes the planes of his face. I bring up the hand holding the shears, and slowly drag the points over his chest. Then I pull away from him and work the tip of the blade under the edge of his necktie. I close the blades and the silk parts; I pull off the remnants of his necktie and drop it to the floor. Laughing softly as I work the point of the shears into the neck of his shirt and begin cutting away the fabric. The sensuous rasp of cold steel through the cotton, heavy points catching on tender skin.

When at last his shirt is opened, I drag the cool blades, heavy points against flesh, over his chest. I watch as the skin lifts in a long red welt, scraping over his nipple, drawing blood. He gasps as I kiss him, pinching the abraded skin, then lowering my head to kiss his neck. I deliver a slow kiss at the base of his throat, lingering, tasting salt, scenting him like a beast. I lick the long welt on his chest, soothing it, then blow across the dampened skin, watch the gooseflesh rise. His back arches against my hand, long fingers toying with the ribbons holding my mask in place. I kiss him so gently, then he moans at the following bite, then the next, and the next, working my way down his belly. I slide the blade of the shears along the button of his trousers, then cut through the thread shank, cut through the cloth over his groin, listening to the indrawn breath and the frightened silence as heavy metal blades glide along the side of his penis. The fabric falls away whispering down the length of his legs.

I slide the blade into the leg of his underwear, feel the point catch and scrape over his hip as I rip the cloth open then close the blades with a snap at the waist. He's panting, eyes closed, hands opening and closing at his sides. I slide the torn cloth to the side and suck the soft flesh on the inside of his thigh, stroke the cold metal between his legs, lifting him to his toes on the points of the shears, tickling the sensitive place between his balls and his anus. I raise my eyes to his and smile. He places a hand on my shoulder and tries to take the scissors from my hands. I dig the points higher, and he rises up further on his toes.

Licking the weal that gleams red on his pale skin I can taste the places where the flesh has broken open. I bite the welts, then slide my lips over the bruised places, rub my cheek against his belly like a cat. I shift my grip on the scissors, holding them by the blades, and press the length of them into his chest. I shove him down on the bed, holding the long scissors in one hand and watching him carefully. Then, I pick up the remnants of his necktie. He again tries to speak, but I press the folded blades of the shears on his lips. I bind one wrist, then the other to the iron headboard. I use what's left of his shirt to gag him. I sit astride his hips; feel him hard between my legs. I lean over and kiss him, feel his mouth straining around the frayed cloth. He raises his hips, eyes pleading, muffled words behind the restraining cloth. I stroke the side of his face, drag my long nails over his chest, then stroke my fingers over his thighs. I watch his hands close around the iron rails as I begin to rock faster. I unbind my hair and let it trail over his chest when I kiss him. It's the world of my daydream, lit beneath my eyelids. I close my eyes and listen to him groaning behind the gag, muffled cries timed with mine.


About myself: What do you really want to know about a former Catholic schoolgirl who writes stories like this? What flavor of ice cream that I like? I read de Sade and giggle, I read the paper and weep. You figure it out.

email Galloway

Scissors © 2002 by Galloway






Home | Fiction | Illustrations | Epigrams | Romans
Liaisons for Laughs | Random Frivolity | Weblog
| Hightower's Antics | Reviews
Pawtawnee Chronicles
| Poetry | Fiction Archives

| About |
| Submissions | Links

Copyright © 2001-2011 Sliptongue
unless otherwise noted. / All rights reserved. Reproduction
of material, in whole or in part, from any Sliptongue pages without
written permission is strictly prohibited.