"know"

Posted by Menagerie on July 21, 2004 at 18:55:45:

KNOW
She really couldn’t tell whether this was the first time she’d felt a distinct sense of dread, had been washed with real fear. She’d convinced herself the fear had always been there, just heightened with every encounter, each a little more daring than the last.
The first had been over coffee; the second over drinks. The third had been something stiffer. Each time, they’d told each other a little more. She was strong, but wanted something to think about. He was nervous, wanted someone who would be wide open. She wanted a challenge; he wanted a given. She wanted confinement, he wanted to confine.
She wanted fear. He could deliver it.
He was Creative; she was an A/E. He was independent; they’d hired him for a difficult account, then another. As they talked presentations and scripts and storyboards, they also talked life; that’s how it started. She found him intriguing; she had always thought of things the way they are, the way they added up. He seemed to see what they could be; a blank page, to him, was a beginning. He stirred those feelings about what she wanted, and what she hadn’t found.
It was the second time that wound up in his studio, which featured a high skylight, silent trees peering down through the glass. The bed, a tiny fold-out that dropped between easels and unfinished scale models resting on scarred tables, glowed under it as if lit from within. He seemed fascinated by her, examined her luxurious hair, strand by strand; every contour of her body. The reddish-olive tint of her skin seemed translucent in the light of the aperture above; he lapped at her breasts, and the wet spots shimmered as the waving limbs overhead interrupted the moonlight. She felt his teeth—he didn’t bite, he ran their edges gently along the curve of her shoulder, tracing her collarbone. A tiny break in the skin; she felt his tongue, and laughed.
“You like blood?”
“I like yours.”
The deeper dreams came later, unleashed by a chemical she’d never sampled before. She was buried in…well, it wasn’t a hole, it was a sinking, like she’d been drawn into another world. She was still there, still in the room, but couldn’t move, couldn’t emerge. She begged him to touch her; when he did, it was as if she was water, the ripples slowly pulsing from her thigh, where his hand rested, up into her crotch and belly, spreading to her hands and feet and into her face. She flushed; her mouth cracked open. She imagined—no, she could really see steam pour from her mouth, vapors swirling into the neon green beneath the skylight.
His meticulous examination of her body grew more intimate. Squinting into the semi-darkness, she saw him produce a vial. A heavy and faintly sour cream; he poured it over her navel and then spread it all over her, his hand cupped and palm facing outward as if he were smoothing the grease into a pan. This was different; she’d been massaged, but never coated, and she giggled and asked. Shyly, not even looking at her, he confessed.
He was preparing her as if she were food, he told her. He was covering her as if she were to be roasted, as if she were a rolled piece of meat. He was visualizing her naked in a pan, the door to the oven gaping wide, the filaments glowing cherry red. She was going to be his feast. She nodded, still lying on her back; her eyes shone. The talk wasn’t unsettling at all, not as his skilled, artist’s hands rode up one fleshy curve and down another, leaving an even coat that felt like a warm, rich, scented butter. She smiled, settled back. “Well, then,” she said, her voice deepening into a drawl, “have me.”
He did, his teeth edging along the surface of her skin; she felt like she was being scraped clean. He told her how wonderful she tasted, how much he enjoyed her. He buried his face in the full meat of her thigh, turning his head back and forth as the thick cream covered his cheeks. She looked down, and he looked up; his face was otherwordly, peaks and crevices of the gunk catching the aqua light. She laughed in delight.
She was kept; he was keeping. He called her the next day; he wondered if she had enjoyed it, but there was confidence in his voice. Yes, she had. She said. But she didn’t really know.
The next time, he again offered the tablets that had so skewed her senses; she demurred. She didn’t know if what she’d felt before had been real. He nodded; they talked.
He couldn’t explain the feelings he had for her, he said. He talked as if they were two snakes, one of lust, one of gluttony, intertwined like a strand of DNA. He couldn’t separate them. Had he felt this way about other women? He smiled, wouldn’t answer. He was stirring the pot—she winced when she thought of it that way; she didn’t know if anyone else had felt his hunger. She didn’t know how it ended.
Not knowing was becoming a big part of their relationship. She told him of the hallucination, the feeling of sinking, of being boxed in. Did she like it? She blushed, looked down self-consciously. She couldn’t explain that it was part of what she was looking for, that feeling of being held and of not knowing what came next. Not knowing. That was why she wanted to come back.
This time, it wasn’t the studio and the fold-out bed, with its unearthly glow and frowning trees. There was a door in the back; she’d assumed it was a closet, but he unlocked it to reveal another room. It was—she guessed she’d call it a kitchen. There was a large, hardwood table; rough, wooden counters. Cutlery and pans stacked neatly; cupboards, a pantry. And in the corner, an oven—large, squat, steel. Real big; big enough for… All under dim, flickering fluorescence. She giggled; your fantasy? she asked him. No, he said, quite seriously. This is real.
She felt a chill finger; it started above her ass, in her tailbone, spread up her back. They had prepared for sex before by casually undressing; now, he reached for her blouse. She stood still, hardly breathing, as buttonbuttonbutton came undone. The slick, paper-like fabric slipped off her shoulders; he circled behind her, the fine, nervous fingers slithered around, a squeeze undid her bra. Her eyes closed as he felt her breasts—again, his hands running over them, not squeezing or kneading but tracing them, cupping them, as a blind man would examine the contour. The hands moved to her ribs, down to her waist; thumbs hooked into her slacks. As the garment descended, her bare buttocks felt him through the slick khakis he always wore, like being tickled by—what? The barrel of a gun, draped in silk?
He helped her onto the table. Mixtures, appliances, spices; all were ready. He spooned a thin honey onto her, sparingly, carefully. It traced narrowly along her breasts and down her sides, but miraculously stopped short of the hard surface of the table. He decorated her gaily with candied fruit, cherries on her nipples, Mandarin orange wedges lining her belly, sticky slices of pineapple clinging happily to her soft inner thighs. When he worked his way to her pussy, a thick sauce…then his tongue; it reached within, slurping the condiment and her own juices together. It was, he told her, like nectar.
He flecked her with grains of spice. Sometimes they stung; they fell on the soft tissues of her labia, or dug into the crevices of her skin. She whimpered and jerked, but slowly, as if she were thrashing in her sleep; all the while, he was telling her why she was being prepared, how each of the spices would bring out her flavor, how they would meld with her muscle as she was being cooked…how sweet and saucy the muscle would be after it was cooked and had lost its fiber, as it became meat. How the juices would run from her meat as the knife sunk through it and met bone; how he would trap the juices and savor them, every last drop.
His rhythmic, deep, even voice hypnotized her; she could visualize the scene, her body laid out, the dishes and knives and forks, a carafe of wine, a basket of bread. As the edge of his hand brushed her hip and measured the curve of her leg, she thought of the knife, its blade breaking through skin made stiff by the heat, then plunging easily through her…one slice, then another, removed from her, gripped with carving knife and fork and placed on one of the dishes…as the meat reached the dish, she gasped; she had held her breath for nearly a full minute.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her, the barest of smiles creasing his face. They made love on the table—he had remained clothed throughout the “preparation”—but she already felt spent, as if she had already been through one of their marathon sessions. She vaguely realized he had already removed the foods and spices, had cleaned her; her skin was a hot, harsh pink under the crackling, ancient fluorescent light.
When they were done, she slept…the vision came back, this time as a dream. She was watching from above as her body was escorted from the kitchen to a grand dining room. She was on a huge platter, her wrists crossed over her chest, her knees up and ankles crossed; she was a deep brown, with hot spots shining on her and then disappearing, catching the light from candles. He was not alone; there were others—she tried to see faces. They all looked alike. The knives seemed to come from a dozen places at once; there was no pain, just pressure. Just like his skilled, feeling, caressing hands…but then her limbs came free, her body came apart, the pieces cut into smaller pieces and then were gone. From her ethereal vantage point, she lifted a hand toward her cheek; there was a tear.
She had to do more. Where was this going? This time, it was she who called him the next day, early. He didn’t seem surprised, and she remembered, again, that he wouldn’t talk about whether he’d had other women in this way. She was sure he had; he was so practiced. But what had happened to them? The angst was growing. Next Saturday? “Are you sure?” She wasn’t, but she said she was.
She asked for the little pills. Asked for them! The secret door was locked. A faint breeze stirred the overhead limbs; they cried on the skylight, leaves tick-ticking away as the late autumn carried them earthward. She was anxious, kept looking at the door, but he had something to show her. Would she like to see it? Of course.
The sketch was in the corner of the studio, behind some paint cans and a refuse barrel that was overflowing with crumpled rejects. He unveiled it, and again the faint half-smile flickered across his face as he held it before him. It was watercolor, part abstract, but she recognized herself, the aquiline nose, the scattered tresses. She was folded neatly upon a platter, surrounded by foods. Her eyes were closed, her mouth clenched an apple. Her flesh was tinted cocoa-colored, and offered glossy reflections of surrounding candlelight—she could almost see the flames dancing. Beside her, a set of knives…
The shiver again started in her coccyx and radiated out; she had a mild spasm, an intellectual orgasm. She took the drawing in her hands, peered at it closely as if it needed to be authenticated. Her practiced, marketing eye knew what she was seeing. A sales pitch. She licked her lips; her eyes moistened, and she looked up at him.
“It’s beautiful.” A statement of fact.
They remained in the studio that night, and the door remained locked. But as night grew still and edged toward morning, he rolled her over on her side, away from him; she felt him pull her arms together, and then the rough edges of hemp around her wrists. She didn’t even ask him why—just rolled over again, looked into his eyes and his soul, and her lips parted. Their mouths joined as one, remained together for an eternal minute, tongues seeking out each other; after all, she had no hands now—this was how she could exchange his caress. She remained bound, and desperately seeking yet another drop of pleasure, the rest of the night.
Still, when the ropes came off the next day—they slept in late—she was relieved. She still didn’t know whether she was the first to experience this at his hands. Well, no, she knew she wasn’t—but she didn’t know where it would go. She didn’t know what was next. She didn’t know, if she was in that kitchen, if her hands were bounds, if her sense were dulled…
And there were hints. In the morning, after showering in his spare, ten-foot-square bath, she looked for a towel; in a wooden cubby she found, instead, sealed bags. Containing women’s clothes. Each labeled, with a name. Who were they? Or, were they at all? Was he just furthering the illusion? And in the studio, behind a stack of blank canvas, she found…other sketches. Other women. In the same pose. A redhead, bright rose skin, glistening with grease. A black girl, large breasts flattened beneath her, high cheekbones framing the apple. Were they real? Had they been here? Did they react as she had when she’d seen herself, or did they run away?
But there was no hesitation. Yes, of course, next weekend.
She was on the table, in the back room. Her wrists were bound behind her; her ankles, crossed and tied beneath her pubes. She was dripping in sauces, the wedges of colorful fruit positioned on each part of her body where the flesh stood round and high. Her bare toes wiggled; her hands clenched and unclenched. “You’ll roast for six hours,” he was saying, as crystals of salt fell from a metal spoon, plunked into the goo he had spread in a thin layer all over her backside. “I’ll sample slices from your butt first—so juicy, so tender. Then, I’ll spear thin cutlets from your loins, just below the last rib; they’re the most flavorful.” She looked up at him; a two-inch wooden block prevented her from answering. And she was woozy from the dope, from a few stiff drinks—she’d asked for that, too, to dull the senses, to ready herself for… She didn’t know what
And, she thought helplessly as consciousness began to fade, as she slid into the oven, if she never woke up, why, then, she would never know.