Noble Savage (butts)

To be an intellectual, one needs to focus her attention. What separates the intellectual from your ordinary smart person is a passion for something specific, whether it be 17th century architecture or the mating habits of guinea pigs. Ellen was an intellectual. She had studied for a decade and a half and nearly memorized not only Rousseau’s work, but his biography, to such an extent that she could answer even the most trivial questions as Jean-Jacques would, and in 18th century Swiss French.

Sitting at her desk, she looked through her students’ papers, their base summaries of other summaries, and made arbitrary marks wherever she could. Her chair was cold and hard, and she rocked back and forth over the course of an hour, warming it, softening it.

One audacious paper stood out. Some cynical student had made the claim that the entirety of Rousseau’s political philosophy came from his closeted interest in spanking. Ellen paced for a moment to calm herself down, and threw herself back in the chair with renewed purpose, resolving to judge the essay on its arguments rather than its aggressiveness. Rousseau would have done the same.

As the semester continued, Ellen kept an eye on that student, a demure young woman who rarely contributed to class discussions, but scribbled diligently in her notebook. She always wore stiff jeans, and seemed to bend over at the waist as she sat down.

“Professor Collins? I have some questions about the final.”

Ellen assured the girl that she that she’d be fine as long as she applied her powers of reason.

The girl smiled. “You really are Rousseau incarnate, aren’t you?”

As she walked away, Ellen did her best not to stare.

“Sacre bleu,” she said.

#academia, #butts, #intellectual, #microfiction, #paraphilia, #professor, #spanking, #sublimation, #the-fetishists

Ogre (masochism)

Though the caravan was lined with lights in all manner of color and size, they did little to clarify the evening. Glorn could not see far, and he could not hold his hand over his eyes to find the balance between glare and dim. His hands were secured over his head. He could break the rope at any time, and he took comfort in the thought, but it was just a thought. A number of baseballs struck him in the chest from where he could not see.

“This brute comes from a race that doesn’t feel pain, so throw as hard as you can!” Edgar announced. The balls seemed to come in a quicker rhythm. Their impact was not precise enough to be a massage, but Glorn was not uncomfortable.

“Eight hundred years ago, these monsters were employed by the great Genghis Khan in his takeover of The Far East, until they threatened to take over themselves. Your abuse, ladies and gentlemen, is all that is keeping this one docile. Three balls for just one dollar! Five swings of the the whip for ten!”

A child stood on the platform behind him, with his father. Glorn heard the three of them talking — Edgar and the customers — about the proper technique and protocol for whip swinging.

“The follow-through is important. Think about where the tip is headed.”

Edgar demonstrated with a strike of his own, well-practiced. No one would hit hard enough if he didn’t show them that they could.

The boy’s attempts were sloppy and soft. Edgar told him to try a few more times.

“I think that’s enough.”

“No, Dad, he likes it!”

The whip snapped just once more, and the baseballs stopped coming. Glorn snarled at the empty fairground.

“Pervert!” someone shouted.

It kept him docile.

#abuse, #fairground, #microfiction, #mythical-creatures, #paraphilia, #the-fetishists

Sabbatical (balloons)

Most of the other parents dropped off their kids and left, but Harold was determined to be fun. After ten years in a company that offered no satisfaction, he had taken time off to meet his 7-year-old for the first time. Josie’s parents were good hosts, and they wanted him to feel welcome, though he had no reason to stay. They gave him a reason.

“Why don’t you blow up some of these balloons?”

His daughter had already run off to play, and though he wanted to spend time with her, that would come. Right now, he just had to be available. He thanked Josie’s parents, and started on the pile.

The balloons were small and stiff. He put one in his mouth and tried to blow, but he wasn’t expecting so much resistance. Josie’s mom laughed at him. “No, you’ve got to pull at it a little.” She grabbed one and massaged it in her hand, stretching it in repetitive motions forward and back. Harold watched her with great fascination.

He mirrored her motions. As she brought the latex to her mouth, he paused. She filled the balloon in one continuous contorted breath. When she removed it from her lips, she gasped as air slid back into her. She tied the balloon off in one smooth gesture. She hadn’t overfilled it. The balloon was comfortable, not overstretched, and still retained a healthy areola. “Now you try.”

His balloon looked just like hers. He grabbed it with both hands and rubbed his fingers across the top. He made a slight moan, he hoped a subtle one.

Josie’s mom smiled, as if at a joke. Josie’s dad looked at him. His daughter and friends looked at him.

He coughed. “Excuse me.” He would meet his daughter eventually. Maybe after prom.

#balloons, #closeted, #paraphilia, #secrets, #the-fetishists, #workaholic

Telekinesis (breasts)

When Lana gave her talks to two or three people instead of a dozen or more, she stammered. Large groups were a blur, and she could monologue about art and artifacts without interrupting herself. In smaller groups, she saw their faces. The man was leering, the woman was staring, and their eyes made her shoulders ache.

“Take a closer look at this eighteenth, I mean sixteenth century vase,” she said, hoping to draw their attention. The couple turned their faces toward the milk-white vessel, though they seemed to ignore her explanation of its significance. Lana crossed her arms in front of her.

“How long have you been working in the museum?” the man interrupted.

Lana shook her head. The question made no sense to her, and the woman was still staring.

“Save all questions for the end,” she said, staring back until the woman crossed her arms, too.

#breasts, #misogyny, #nanofiction, #paraphilia, #self-loathing, #stares, #the-fetishists, #unspoken-rivalries

Sketchbook (tattoo)

Jolie wore long sleeves. Everyone would laugh if they knew she’d been working on a dragon. So far, it was just an outline.

She was polishing windows when a woman in the waiting area asked her what was underneath her shirt. “Nothing,” she said. She tried to affect a blasé attitude. The woman smiled.

“Let me know if you want to show me.”

The woman was older, pushing forty, but she was in good shape. Jolie found her flirtations strange, but smiled back warmly.

Later, when Tom told her someone had requested her, she knew who it was.

“Listen, you can say no. I think you should say no, but this lady wouldn’t listen to me.”

Jolie did not say no. The woman asked her to draw anything she wanted, and it would be okay. She wanted the surprise, she said. “If you’re as inexperienced as they say, the surprise should be fantastic.”

She wasn’t sure where to begin. She sterilized all her tools several times as she interviewed the woman on her interests. Fish were a possibility. Maybe a whole aquarium of tropical fish.

“Just do whatever you would do on yourself,” the woman said as she pulled down her panties and lifted her dress. Jolie wasn’t sure. She leaned back in her chair and nervously tapped her thigh. The woman smiled, taking the gesture as an invitation, and crawled face-down on Jolie’s lap.

The woman’s butt pointed straight up. It was covered in doodles. ‘Stylex’ had signed his name. So many of the old designs crossed over each other that none were fully intelligible. As Jolie pressed the needle down, the woman moaned in a mix of pain and joy.

Jolie drew a dragon. When she made a mistake, she crossed it out and tried again.

#butt, #dragons, #hidden-talent, #intern, #lesbian, #microfiction, #naive, #paraphilia, #secrets, #tattoo, #the-fetishists

Relief (nurse)

Tammy took a few deep breaths before she entered room 403.

“Good evening, Mr. Cartwright,” she said business-like, as polite as she could manage given the inevitable response.

“Go fuck yourself, you fat cow. I’m in pain, give me morphine.”

She was sure he wasn’t in as much pain as he should have been. According to his chart, he was probably faking. She hoped he wasn’t. If everything he said was wrong with him was correct, he had but days to live.

“Let’s see what we can do,” she said, and took the man’s arm. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed onto his wrist and held it in place. The man was weak from all this time in bed.

Taking his blood pressure and pulse, she counted the seconds on her watch, ignoring his expletives.

“Whore! Slut! Jezebel!”

She told him to hold still. Some of his IVs were coming loose, and she didn’t want to go through the fuss of sticking him again.

He swung his free arm across the bed and with his exoskeleton hand latched onto her breast. Tammy took a step back. He’d pulled out his tubes. She’d have to fix that before she left.

Taking a pair of tourniquets, she grabbed the man by the wrists and told him in no uncertain terms that he would hold still. She tied his arms to the railing, and he soon stopped resisting. He became quiet. As Tammy squirted some saline out of a needle, she did her best to ignore the man’s arousal, an incidental medical condition. She scowled.

He would get his morphine. She stabbed him in the vein, pretending she could hurt him. He would be so easy to kill.

“Goodbye, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, pretending.

#anger, #microfiction, #misogyny, #murder, #not-murder, #paraphilia, #professionals, #resentment, #sickness, #the-fetishists

Cheater

Through the dark, Gerard massaged the air around his wife’s body until he found her. She was motionless, almost unaware of him, until his hand landed gently against her skin. The sensation took her by surprise, and she twitched, but his other hand brushed against her hair and smoothed her down.

He could tell she was confused, but that would pass. One kiss later, she was relaxed. He’d just learned how to kiss. With a brief and warm exhale, life-affirming saliva blessed the back of her neck. She was silent. He touched her faintly, so that the dark was touching her and not his hands. As long as she was surprised and mostly unaware of his touch, her mind wouldn’t resist. Women are taught from a young age to deny pleasure, so he had found out.

“Where did you learn to be so sexy?” she asked in slow breaths. He didn’t want to answer, since he had an answer. Instead, he chose mock hubris.

He was born this way.

In school, he’d been ashamed to admit that he had studied for tests. He wanted to be the kind of smart that didn’t require effort. He did study, always after dark, usually alone. Sometimes with a friend. He was a good student.

His hands were magic now. His wife was in another world. She was cheating on him with that world. Someday, he swore, they would make love in the same room.

#cheating, #contradictions, #microfiction, #relationships, #the-fetishists