9 Mar 2015

Old Snippet - Some Fiction

This is the opening section from my Nanowrimo book in 2010. I wrote 50,000 words in total. It's a dystopian story about a sex slave escaping a totalitarian regime. Very original hey (!) It is very clunky and awkward. I cringe reading it now. But I miss my characters. They were so vivid in my head. Not sure I'll be able to resuscitate them though...

Condemnation - Part 1

He is pretty, fine skin and feminine eyes; blue eyes with thick black lashes that curl up at the end – to cause jealousy in a million women. Freckles are sprinkled across his cheekbones, down his nose, meeting his wide mouth, a mouth for kissing and pouting. At the minute his mouth is in a moue, frowning at his paper. A lock of hair has fallen across his forehead and as he reaches up to smooth it back his gaze falls across me but veers away at the last minute. I am sure that if I saw his eyes they would burn into me.

As he looks away, back down at his lap, I wind my veil more tightly around my eyes and head, the gossamer silk as fine as a puff of smoke. To look upon me full in the face is forbidden – if he even did so by accident, he would surely look away instantly. No glance will ever linger on my face, veiled as it may be. I am forbidden to all but one. To be caught looking at me is a crime punishable by death – or worse. I wonder about that beautiful face caught up in a grimace of pain; so close to an expression of ecstasy. His head thrown back, eyes wide and open, pupils so dilated his irises seem almost black and that long sensuous mouth either stretched wide in a silent scream or lips barely parted in breathless agony.

Just one word from him and I would be all powerful and omniscient over him. Pain like he had never known could be written upon his body and in his mind. Being forbidden to men and women alike makes you cunning in the ways of pleasure and pain. Trapped inside my smoky veil the blood pounds in my ears as I think of the many lessons I had – and the many things I could teach him. 

A suited, booted body can conceal a multitude of aberrant behaviours – fine cloth can be torn, converted into restraints and allow access to the flesh in ways that can surprise the novice. Perhaps tattoos hide beneath his shirt, crawling across his body like a blindfolded woman across a bed; piercings, spiny and sharp pushing out of smooth flesh and sinuous muscle. I feel my body, well-trained, flush with pleasure and desire at the thought of his response to this. I know that I will pay for this later – the cruel torture of pleasing one man when thinking of another.

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