Depeche Mode in the Background

I look around the room and smile in sat­is­fac­tion. It is ready. The room is dark, except for the black can­dles that are cast­ing an eerie sheen on the walls. The shad­ows they cast look like an audi­ence of ghosts assem­bling for a show. The haunt­ing lyrics of Depeche Mode are play­ing softly in the back­ground and the scent of incense is heavy in the air.

I pick at an imag­i­nary speck on my black shirt and smooth out my black pants. It is time.

I open the door and look at you. You are wear­ing a white robe that cling to your curves. The robe is a stark con­trast to your long, lus­cious black hair that is cas­cad­ing down your shoul­ders. A few strands are tan­ta­liz­ingly snaking their way into your cleav­age and I have to resist the urge to reach out and brush them away.

You are sit­ting on a stool with your back straight, your hands clasped in your lap. Your eyes are closed and your breaths are shal­low. You asked for this. This is for you. But I can tell that your body is heavy with trep­i­da­tion. I can also tell that you are resolved; the need in you for release is com­pelling you to go through with this.

“Come,” I say and reach out my hand to you. You open your eyes and shiver. You grace­fully rise to your feet and uncon­sciously adjust your robe as you do so. Finally, you gen­tly lay your hand in mine and I lead you into the room. I lead you to the altar in the cen­ter of the room. This is a black mass and I am the priest to claim your sacrifice.

With­out say­ing a word, I gen­tly turn you around and help you lay down on the altar. I cra­dle your head as you lay down and arrange your hair as a pond of black water pool­ing under you and falling off the sides of the altar. You are so beau­ti­ful and I tell you so. I kiss your eye­lids and I can feel your skin shiver when I trace a fin­ger on the side of your neck.

I part the robe to expose your glo­ri­ous heavy breasts. They are mine tonight. And I will claim them. Beside me, I have a tray of tools and liq­uids, and I reach out and sat­u­rate a cot­ton ball in alco­hol. I swab the skin of your right breast with the alco­hol and I see your nip­ple harden under the chill­ing effects of it.

“You look chilly,” I say. “Look at your breast.”

Quickly, before all the alco­hol has evap­o­rated, I light the vapors. You gasp and your eyes widen when you wit­ness your breast being licked by blue flames. I know that although you can feel the heat from the flames, they are not burn­ing you, but watch­ing your flesh on fire is still a heart-​stopping expe­ri­ence. In a few heart­beats the flames die out and I catch you look­ing at me with wide eyes and I see your chest heav­ing. You do not utter a word, but your eyes are say­ing that you want me to do it again. But I have other ideas.

I turn my back to you and face the tray again. I quickly wipe my hands with anti­sep­tic gel and select a hand­ful of long, slen­der nee­dles. I turn to face you and show you the nee­dles in my hand, slowly wav­ing them in front of your face. Your eyes are like in a trance and they fol­low the motion of the nee­dles before you. I touch the clus­ter of nee­dles to the top of your breast and scrape the skin slightly going down to your nip­ple. The nip­ple is already erect, but it hard­ens even more when I approach it with the nee­dles. Your chest is heav­ing some­what and I note with not a small mea­sure of sat­is­fac­tion that your pelvis is vaguely rock­ing. I take that as a sign of approval from you.

I look into your eyes and whis­per, “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath and let out when I tell you.” You inhale and momen­tar­ily I am mes­mer­ized by the impres­sive dis­play of your breasts jut­ting up against me. But I can­not afford to be dis­tracted right now. I men­tally shake myself and go to work. I take one nee­dle in my right hand and I pinch the skin of the top of your breast to make it taut. I posi­tion the nee­dle against your skin and when it is posi­tioned I tell you to let your breath out. As I feel your breath against my face I push the nee­dle into your skin and I feel you tense up a lit­tle bit.

“Good…” I say sooth­ingly. The nee­dle is in. I tell you to inhale and hold your breath again. I slowly slide the tip two inches under­neath your skin. I press down on the spot where I want the nee­dle to exit and tell you to exhale. When I smell the sweet­ness of your breath, I push the nee­dle through your skin for the sec­ond time. I tell you to open your eyes and you look at the nee­dle pierc­ing your breast with an almost detached fas­ci­na­tion. As you are watch­ing, I play with the ends of the nee­dle to make it move and move your breast with it and your breath is com­ing in spasms.

You look at me with eyes ablaze and try to form a word but noth­ing comes out. You lick your lips and swal­low and then you barely audi­bly whis­per “More…”

I smile at you and at that moment I have never been more proud of you. I ten­derly reach out and brush away a few strands of hair from your face and say, “Of course.” I have a full set of nee­dles and before I decide that you have had enough, your breasts are both cov­ered in neat lines of nee­dles. Not even your are­o­las nor your nip­ples have been spared.

And you are flying…