Gun
NC-17. 08/26/2006.

It is so easy.

He's practiced it for weeks, pushed and pushed and calculated and adjusted and tried again, pushing until his brain felt stabbed with hot needles, until his nose bled, until the room spun around him.

Lydia's fingerprints all over the thing, her sticky sex-stained fingers after the last time she came and he didn't turn her away. Let them find them.

He can never turn her away, can never stop thinking about how good it feels, always forgets about the rest, how much the goodness hurts, how much he hates what it does to him, after. How hard it's become to look at himself, to move, to walk out the front door.

The things she does.

Tied, tied so tight he can't feel his hands, feet, tied up in a bundle like a cannibal's main course, and her with her small swinging breasts in his face, her bruise-colored lips staining him with more than just lipstick, the instruments always so precise in her solemn hands. He begged and begged but they were just words and he didn't know what they meant, if they were a please stop or a please never ever ever stop until it's too late, and it didn't matter because his words were always meaningless to her anyway.

He made her laugh, she always said. She makes him--no, it's not makes, she takes him to a place that doesn't have a name, and it is terrible. Terrible and beautiful and he wants to go back there now and then run away and never see it again until the next time.

There is no other way to make it stop, now, he's gone too far.

Her with the thing cradled in her hand and him shaking, the ropes digging in until it feels like he'll break his wrist, biting down on the rubber in his mouth so hard his jaw aches, sliding on the sheets just a little, as much as he's allowed, and it doesn't stop her and his eyes are locked firmly on the trigger, straining his neck so at least he'll know what's coming.

And she fucks him with it, tearing him with the front sight even though she had the courtesy to stretch him with her sharpened-nailed fingers, fingers that he watches now but they stay back on the grip, clumped together and clenched like the thing is her hand, like she's fist-deep in him, like he has become an extension of her arm. And of course the pain doesn't lessen, just gets worse and becomes more wet and twisting and alive in him, spirals him up and up until the world is made of red light and shocking flares of blue pleasure, until there is nothing left to say or feel or do because nothing could ever live up to this.

This hell, this heaven, this distant place.

What is his life in the wake of that? Nothing, no point, except to wait and loathe himself while he waits for her to come to him again, to show him what he really is and bring him back to the world she makes for him. And the wait is too long, it's too hard, and despite the work and the maybe-regrets, this is so much easier, and more final.

The gun is on the table across the room, and he is sitting up in bed like he just woke up, hair mussed and what a picture he will make for her when she finds him.

It might not hit the mark exactly--he can't control the recoil--but he's made sure it'll be close enough.

He closes his eyes not because he doesn't want to see but because it's easier to feel the mechanism that way, to cock it back with a nice solid click, to inspect with his mind for the thousandth time, make sure everything's in order, take a deep breath, and--

Lewis pulls the trigger.

END.

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