Posing as the Night
I watched her intently as I dressed in the deepened shadows of the room. It seemed as if the moonlight streaming through the half-drawn blinds risked the tranquil darkness simply to caress her pale and silken skin. She glowed there, in the dark and the light. She was beautiful.
Despite the shower, the scent of her still lingered on my flesh. It was as if I had been steeped in the exotic perfume of her sweat and sex and first time blood. It was a musky, almost smoky smell, clean and sweet and beyond intoxicating. I inhaled her deeply, savoring the aroma that I knew would fade all too soon.
I recalled the sound of the leather cinching and squealing as it twisted nervously around graceful wrists that had never felt its bite before. I watched as she writhed and struggled reflexively against the restraints, sweat glistening in droplets like morning dew on her skin. Growing ever more excited at her protestations, I saw the tension in the delicate line of her jaw build as she worked her tongue furiously against the gag that held her in silence. I waited patiently, yet with great anticipation for the inevitable moment where the body, beyond the ability to struggle any longer, embraces the helplessness that it was, before this night, unaccustomed to. That golden moment of acceptance that there is absolutely nothing that can be done that I do not allow. The realization that I and I alone am the gateway to her freedom is a release in and of itself; a veritable orgasm of the mind. These additional protracted moments filled with this almost unbearable tension are worth it for that single one. Soon, her body quiets and as the tears shine and fall from the corners of her eyes, I begin.
Taking up the dagger from its place at the bedside, I slide the flat of the blade across her trembling body slowly. She flinched at the coldness of the metal on her flushed and heated skin. I could feel her tighten when I cut her softly rounded breasts free from the scandal of black lace that kept them hidden from me. They rose and fell rhythmically with each breath that escaped her in excited pants. Slowly, slowly, I worked the blade down between them, tracing down the line of her stomach, across the slope of her hips and to the very edges of her feminine secret, revealed as the dainty panties fell away in a flash of the blade and a flick of my wrist.
Her nakedness was glory. Perfectly formed, perfectly made. Her long black hair framed her face like a dark halo, and her pale skin was paler still clad only in the shadows and the moonlight. She was shaved clean, revealing smooth skin where silky hair is normally found. Bound and gagged and completely open to me, she radiated like a light. She was light. She was the sun and the day garbed in the form of this glorious woman and I, I was posing as the night.
I do not recall with any clarity all of the moments that passed between us this night. I could not say for certainty the number times her eyes begged for her freedom, though her body yielded to me with each thrust and motion, nor could I count all the tears that she shed each time her body tensed and released. It was an ecstasy. Though little time had passed between that most intimate of acts and my musings on it now, the time with her now seems dim and distant. The memory, along with her scent, was fading all too soon.
I do remember, though, that moment of penetration. That, it seems, I always remember. That invasion of her, of them - first violent and resisted violently, then, with each thrust that repeats and follows, the body yields, the body accepts and the body relinquishes. The cycle of life played out in the span of single night. What could there be that would ever compare to this? Life and death distilled in potency by the compression of time and taken in one draught in a single moment. How could one not become a slave to this addiction?
Taking great care to wipe the blade that revealed her and released her clean of the blood that sheathed it with each penetration, I kissed her, and she lay there motionless, as oblivious to my tenderness as I was to the angry marks left in cooling flesh by the bite of the blade. I wanted to remember her in perfection, as I had all of the others.
Were it not for the vacant eyes that plead silently to the ceiling that she could no longer see, one would never know that the shadow pooled beneath her was the very life that she was full of mere hours before. One would never imagine that the bliss in which she now slumbered would be one that she would never again wake from.
Those devoid of any inkling of understanding have slandered me a "serial killer". I am admittedly frustrated at their collective lack of imagination. This art is not about death. Death is incomplete and meaningless without life. It is the completion of a circle, the ending of that which has begun. It is a ritual that takes place every moment of our lives. The most any of us can affect is the momentum of the wheel as it spins.
With the click of the door as it closes behind me, she is forgotten. Already I can feel the emptiness, the incompleteness begin to grow within. It will not be long before I shall present another perfect beauty with the gift of her first time. Not long before I seek out another glorious creature that shall embody the day.
It will not be long before I am once again posing as the night.
