Life in progress

Tag Archives: masochism


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Epilogue Rich Boy

Spotlights shine down like mother’s sun. Father’s love comes after in the form of drugs and liquor. Relive, rich man.

 

On stage, man raises his hand to the shrieking crowd, awed with humility at his fans’ adoration. Grasping the microphone, he thinks of father rolling in his grave.

He sips water from a bottle and shakes the rest over his head, a momentary reprieve from the lights’ insulating heat. Layers of clothing hide scars he openly speaks of yet never reveals. He laments mother’s death with his lyrics and thousands cry for his loss.

Father’s legacy follows him doggedly. Later, alone, man will consume that for which he distances himself from his own offspring. Let the child have his mother.

The boy within bows, singing of the love engraved in his heart.
To go to the beginning of this series click here

Disclaimer: This series is an unauthorized, semi-fictional story, based in part on the author’s imagination.


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Thirteen Idolized Man

The lights, the lights, like mother’s love burn through retina and numb the brain. Drink them in, precious boy. Screams of adoration oppress and uplift, confusing like family’s comforting reassurance. Float, young man.

Man drops his key card on the table inside the door of his hotel suite, his music echoes in his ears. He turns to his chosen one and bends to press his mouth against hers. His desire radiates heat through his body. His chosen leaps up, legs around his waist, her sweet scent reaches his taste buds. Man carries her to the bed. She knows what he wants. She has been his before.

“The sword is beside the bed,” man says.

Man lays back and his chosen slides from his lap to retrieve the katana he occasionally uses, like a benediction, to shave his face. She hands it to him and with a smile and a shink! he unsheathes the weapon.  He drops the scabbard to the floor and rests the sword on the bed above his head while she undresses him.

“Do you love me as I love you?” man asks.

“More,” his chosen whispers.

She crawls up his body to take the weapon.

Man closes his eyes. The lights and the roar of the crowd pierce his memory as he hungrily anticipates the inspiration of a fresh scar.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Fourteen click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Ten Grown Boy

Screaming neon bathes the room in hues of blue, but red abducts the breath. Lay down, young man. Torturous pleasure soothes Ego where she hides. Take it, tempered boy.

Man stands at the end of the bed, contemplating the sensuous mound beneath the white cotton sheet and draws with finality on his cigarette. He watches as she rolls over through the cloud of his exhalation. He readies silken crimson scarves, tying one to each of the four posts.

“What do you do for a living?” man asks unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

She laughs a dark, wicked divulgence and rises to her knees, facing him.

“I’m a nurse,” she says. “I help people to heal.”

Man grunts, deep in his throat. He inhales her naked refinement with his eyes.

“What happened here?” she asks, placing her fingertips delicately upon the hollow where his collarbone should be.

“It doesn’t matter,” man says.

He strips his shirt from each of his wrists and goes next for the buttons of his fly. He watches her watch him, her gaze steady, unfaltering, settled solely on his flesh.

When he reclines, bereft of his clothing, he surrenders his limbs.

“Do you trust me?” she asks as she ties him, wrists and ankles, like a martyr, to the bed.

“No,” man shivers.

She smiles as she slips one last scarf around his neck, tugging gently.

An exalted master in his own right, man succumbs.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Eleven click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.