Rachet Me This

Sal has her way with Trev

The badious leather table supported Trev’s torso, his feet and hands secure in their respective stirrups, his eyes fixed at a forty-five degree angle to the floor. Between torso and stirrups were smaller accoutrements to support the legs without hinder. Designed to allow access to those parts deemed necessary while fully supporting the client at hand, the table was the instrument most requested within the house. Trev was not given that option.

Sal slowly turned a smallish luteous wheel under the table and Trev heard a series of audible clicks, what sounded like the screech and clap of a metal ratchet. Each sharp click matched the throbbing in his chest as he realized his legs were slowly being spread. Exposed and hanging, fearful and wanting, mind racing, heart pounding. “Keep breathing my delicious,” said Sal as her hands took the measure of tightness firm. “First time, I see.” If Trev could have turned his head he would have seen her creamy smile, rich as lust, brimming with purposeful anticipation.

Trev tried to speak, his lips moved but no words came forth. She had placed a small round silver device, no larger than a dime and somewhat cool to the touch, on the back of his neck that held the vocal cords at bay. As her fingers begin to probe, his fear of the unknown, a fear tinged with lustful expectation, gave way to a flood of emotion too complex, too muddled, to convoluted for this drugged mind to sort. Yes and no, right and wrong, shame and lust wrestled such that where one was the other soon took its place.

“Relax my pretty. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can, and I will.” Trev tried to speak again—nothing moved but the bulging veins on the side of his neck. Sal moved to the head of the table, allowing her nails to lightly trace a path from tumid tautness, over the roundness of hill and the curve of valley to the device. Circling the metal with her finger she said, “You’ll speak when I’m ready to hear you call my name and beg for more or is that curse my birth, defame my mother and pray for mercy. Besides, the room is sound proof, Lil’ has turned off your comm and no one knows you're here. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I have a very strong feeling that you didn’t tell anyone you were coming here.” Sal’s nails bit into the back of his neck drawing forth a small crimson worm that fell with gravity to the cold cobbled floor below. “Now shut the frail up and do what I say.”

Trev closed his eyes as if shutting out the world would make it go away.

“I don’t often get this privileged. Give yourself to me, and, well, we may have a mutual experience. Resist,” Sal hesitated, “well, let’s just say I’d rather see you walk out of here. But make no mistake; don’t much matter to me either way.”

Reviews

[AutumnStorm]

You've got it all going on. There are marvellous writers who like the painter that dips his brush in colour pot after colour pot and swirls it around the canvas creating a beautiful mess, expression to make the soul sing, and there are writers who assemble their work like a house of cards, careful layer upon layer, each aided by the one that came before, and there are writers that work from an idea, a Kentucky Fried Chicken stroke of luck that appeals to the masses, there are poets and screenwriters, there are romance and thriller writers, there are those who have a talent for creating sympathetic characters, those that have descriptive language nailed, those that do humour, those that inspire and question and philosophize. I've lived in books, and poems, I've laughed out loud and turned the pages quickly, I've sat with a single phrase in utter wonderment, I've had love affairs, some ongoing, with particular writers and particular characters, but never have I seen one writer incorporate it all so completely. Of all the writers I've loved to read, I've loved you best of all. The limitlessness of it. Chapter after chapter, style after style, moment after moment, smile after smile. Your characters have taken up residence in my heart...I was about to say Em's heart and Rog's humour, Yul's vulnerability and Kyra's strength, Von's life experience and Papa's wisdom,..., but the truth is, each of those traits is so befitting the others too, and more, to award one to one even for the duration of this review would be wrong. Such a vast body of work, so much already written, so many memories, so much affection and pleasure, and above all else is the absolute certainty yours is an eternal spring. Pure, natural, one. Reading of Sal, then, now and everything in between rises to the surface. Reading this chapter, this incredibly evocative, well-written singular chapter, I'm whiplashed by it all. Everything. Everything that I have read of yours. As said: In absolute awe.