alouette

I freeze as I enter your living room. You’re walking slowly around your handiwork, eyes upturned.

“Your tying is improving,” I murmur, stepping into the room but keeping out of your way.

“It’s easy if they don’t need to live.”

We’re presumably past safe words. I can only imagine how this evening has gone from her point of view. Perhaps a hot date with a smoking Domme, back to yours for a little rope and a lot of sex. I don’t know if you took advantage of her that way.

But honestly, what you’ve achieved is beautiful. She hangs suspended from your ceiling, back a graceful arch giving her the aspect of a great bird pulling out of a dive. To the hard point on the ceiling, installed a month ago, you have tied a heavy hardwood staff; and from this run lines supporting her body harness and restraining her arms, her legs, her wrists and ankles. Even her head is pulled back sharply by the hair. Mascara runs freely down her face, soaking into a fabric gag that keeps her from screaming the house down. Her throat is held in that uncomfortable curve. Even I can see the heartbeat.

Her skin is mostly olive but you’ve done something which I can’t tell is clever or cruel. Probably both. The limbs shade to deep red where suspended loops of tightened rope mercilessly cut off the circulation.

The question of why is answered swiftly. You place two fingers on her cheek and press to spin her from an articulated butcher’s hook. When the chosen arm swings by you pluck her elbow from the air and bring it to your lips. Muffled keening rises and rises as your proudly revealed fangs swoop down on the soft skin on the inside of her elbow, seeking the artery there. The gag turns her scream into an airy outburst that doesn’t quite cover the sound of splitting flesh, which I liken to biting into a soft apple.

Stationary blood spurts into your mouth but there is no heartbeat driving it. The tourniquet sees to that. Instead you tear open a viable wound and close your lips around it to suck. Your lips smack occasionally as you suck down a little air with her blood. It’s still hot and slides down your throat thick as syrup. You drink fast enough to almost choke.

Her fingers are still flexing. Despite lacking circulation and losing all blood and colour in the limb, her nerves still fire. The graceful hanging bird rocks and sways as she desperately tries to pull away.

When you release the arm it’s paler than even her torso, shading to a waxy yellow-white. The muffled scream turns to whimpering. You tap the dead limb, causing her to spin anew, and let out a metal-scented burp.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, causing you to glance over at me. The way you lick your lips of her blood strikes me dumb.

The other arm falls within your grasp. Without taking your eyes off me you pierce her wrist. The hand spasms as you do, unable to even stroke your face, and hangs there rigid and useless as you drain every last drop.

“Shhh,” you murmur, holding her a moment till she stops spinning. Her airborne shape rocks slightly from her silent weeping. “It won’t be long.”

Two or three pints would slosh inside a lesser stomach. Yours is a fortress with many curtain walls and moats, though. She has not yet begun to assuage your hunger. You don’t spin her but walk to her leg looking over it as though deciding where you wanted to bite.

You take so long to decide that your stomach rumbles, a sound made wet and thick by its content. In the end you don’t choose vein or artery. Your fanged jaws close instead on her quad muscle. I wince to watch you snip loose a pound of living flesh, while she screams and thrashes. You tear it away from her skin with dripping red painting your lips and chin. I watch your jaw clench regularly as you chew the raw muscle, its freed juices running down your throat before following them. Then you clamp to the wound and drink, again forced to suck it dry rather than wait for her fluttering heartbeat to feed her to you.

When the generosity of her veins begins to fail you take another bite, punitively large, and another, losing each to the sucking grasp of your throat. She feels every tooth. As you continue to tear apart her thigh you reveal a thigh bone, the top of a complicated knee joint, the socket of her hip. Despite the tourniquet, her wounds still ooze. You lick them again and again, craving more of the deep red taste.

Why chew her calf? You slice the rope holding aloft her foot and feed it into your slavering mouth. It glides down your throat once you crush and server the large tendons of the knee.

Her other leg receives the same treatment. Once shapely and nimble, you convert it to bloody hunks of torn meat and long tibia/fibia crowding for space in your tummy.

“I know you’re trapped,” you murmur to your shivering captive. She pleads at you with streaming eyes. “I’ll set you free now.”

How different it is to drink from a beating heart. Your teeth barely drive beneath the surface to find her pulse. At their touch she bursts over the inside of your mouth, eager as a hanging piñata. Each new beat blossoms hot into your mouth and barely has time to be swallowed. Do you feel how the spray tickles your hard palate?

However accommodating, however loving and generous and giving her heart is, it feels like only moments before it begins to squirm in a cardiac arrest. The blood that would sustain it gurgles peacefully around the wreckage of her legs inside your tummy. You drink forcibly to feel full, your hands touching and groping at your belly. The tension and fullness is there but you want more. There is still meat hanging.

I sit and watch as you strip the flesh from her bones, tearing muscle and gulping down quivering fat. You must be careful to leave enough tissue that the skeleton remains bound to the ceiling but most of her disappears into the cramped darkness in the centre of your wonderful gut.