I’m drugged with pleasure, drugged with pain. Drugged by the music. Time has no meaning. The only thing that feels real is Cole’s voice in my brain:
“These ideas of right and wrong, good and evil . . . who taught them to you? Your mother? She’s the worst person you know. Was it the priest at church? Your boss at work? Who decided these things?”
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
“It’s up to you what’s good and what’s bad. There is no god outside you. You are god. This is your world, your life. YOU decide what to feel.”
I’m floating through the air, weightless, rotating in space. I realize he’s untied me. Released me from the manacles.
But I don’t want to stop. I’m not finished yet.
Cole lays down on the table, his cock jutting up like mast, still rock hard, still ready for me.
I mount him, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands on his rigid chest. Slowly, I lower myself down on his cock. It’s easy to do—my ass is already stretched and ready.
I slide down on him until he’s all the way inside me and I’m looking down into that flawless face—feminine and masculine. Evil and good.
Rolling my hips, I start to ride.
I ride him with his cock all the way up my ass. I ride him harder and harder, keeping time to the song.
Run away, run away and never come back
Run run away, run run away, run away
Show ‘em that your color is black . . .
When I know I’m right on the edge, I lift up his hands and put them around my throat. I let him choke me, his fingers squeezing harder and harder until black sparks burst in front of my eyes, drowning out the music and the room, drowning out everything but pure sensation.
The last orgasm is so much more than pleasure. It’s a detonation inside of me that blows me apart, shattering everything I used to be.
I’m blasted to bits, la petite mort, the death of Mara.
I don’t know if I’ll ever come back together.
Or what form I’ll take if I do.
31
Cole
When we’re finished, I carry Mara into the shower. I bathe her slowly and carefully, washing her hair, massaging the shampoo into her scalp.
I wash every inch of her. Her chest, her back, her arms, her legs, even the tiny spaces between her toes.
She submits to me completely. Allowing me to move and manipulate her. Leaning her head back against my chest, eyes closed, utterly exhausted.
I don’t know when I changed my mind about killing her.
Maybe it was the moment she lifted her hand and let me close the manacle around her wrist.
Maybe it was even before that, when I opened the door and saw her standing there in that black dress. She’s beautiful, infinitely more beautiful than the Olgiati. I can’t shatter her.
I wrap her in a soft, fluffy towel and carry her into the living quarters attached to the studio. I rarely sleep here, so the space has the stark cleanliness of a hotel room, the blankets pulled tight across the bed from the last time the housekeeper visited.
I lay her down on the crisply-starched pillows, asking her, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
It’s not like me to be nurturing. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done it before. I enjoy testing out personas, seeing how they make me feel, the effect they have on other people.
In this instance, my motivations are slightly different. I want to revive Mara because I want to talk to her again. I want to know if she has any other ideas for the unfinished sculptures. And I want to know how she felt about what we did.
More than that . . . I want to hear whatever she decides to say to me. Typically, I know exactly what information I’m trying to extract from someone. Mara surprises me with comments and insights that I hadn’t foreseen. Letting her speak freely is more rewarding than manipulating her.
She’s a continual puzzle to me. I was shocked that she came here already understanding the dynamic between Shaw and myself. With a startlingly clear understanding of who and what I am.
Her recklessness is beyond anything I’ve seen. She put her life in my hands—willingly. Freely.
She trusted me. Believed in me.
I should be disgusted at her idiocy. At the fatal mistake she made.
And yet . . . somehow she was right. She knew what I would do better than I did.
I’ve never been in this position before. I’m cut loose. Floating in space. Unsure of anything anymore.
I check the fridge in the small kitchen. It’s filled with drinks and snacks, though usually the housekeeper ends up throwing away the food and buying more, because I often forget to eat while working.