whips & heroes

[lorentzen-nicklaus]

 +  well. what happens when paranoid meets paranoid? a crossing of solipsisms. 
clearly. the two patterns create a third: a moiré, a new world of flowing 
shadows, interferences.... "'want me here'? what for?"

 "for me." whispering out of scarlet lips, open, wet.... hmm. well, there's this 
hardon, here. he sits on the rack, leans, kisses her, presently unlacing his 
trousers and peeling them down far enough to release his cock bounding up with a 
slight wobble into the cool studio. "put your helmet on."

 "o.k."

 "are you very cruel?"

 "don't know."

 "could you be? please. find something to whip me with. just a little. just for 
the warmth." nostalgia. the pain of a return home. he rummages around through 
inquisitional props, gyves, thumbscrews, leather harness, before coming up with 
a miniature cat-o'-nine-tails, a black forest elves' whip, its laquered black 
handle carved in a bas-relief orgy, the lashes padded with velvet to hurt but 
not to draw blood. "yes, that's perfect. now on the insides of my thigs...."

 but somebody has already educated him. something ... that dreams prussian and 
wintering among their meadows, in whatever cursive lash-marks wait across the 
flesh of their sky so bleak, so incapable of any sheltering, wait to be 
summoned....no. no---he still says "their", but he knows better. his meadows 
now, his sky ... his own cruelty.

 all margherita's chains and fetters are chiming, black skirt furled back to her 
waist, stockings pulled up tight in classic cusps by the suspenders of the boned 
black rig she's wearing underneath ...   

                                   ° GRAVITY'S RAINBOW  pp. 395f. °


 kfl *