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“No singing now, no whispering — nothing but an echoing, high-pitched, hollow scream, which issues from nowhere and everywhere. And then, as if in answer, the island takes on a life filled with screams. I sink to my knees, in this moment almost willing the whirlwind to break me, but I am not the glass which it seeks.”
(lilimist/eNiGMa)

In a bleak post-war age where genetic reproduction is cheaper and more reliable than standard toy costs, young men are kept as slaves and pets. Part shoujo anime pastiche, part dark science fiction.
Rated MA for homoerotic/sexual content, and mild pornographic & coarse language.

{ first written & released by Vixen Phillips in 1999 }

i.

The room is lit with twelve candles—no more, no less. In one corner, some soft and sensual lullaby rises from the stereo. The curtains brush softly over his skin from the open window as he begins to undress, smiling down at the sleeping city below, mocking it, wanting it, flirting with it. First his little black dress, next the purple skivvy, and finally the stockings and suspenders. He never wears underwear.

Here, for the next six hours at least, he can be truly alone. But he can never be free.

He moves over to the mirror, the candle light casting a dull amber aura over his white skin. He watches his own lips part as, in delicate movements caused by the everlasting fear of getting caught, he begins to run his hands over his neck, down his chest, deliberately tugging on the mandatory nipple clamps to induce a moan of pain and something else as well…

Pleasure, perhaps?

He removes one hand momentarily to wet his fingers with spit, then trails them back over his nipples, over the well-defined rib cage, down the flesh of his stomach, to the first beginnings of pubic hair…

Then he stops, and falls against the mirror, wracked with sobs of pain.

Every night, he stops there. Every night, this bitter conclusion only leads to tears more desperate and bitter than those of the night before.

I know what comes next, as surely as if it were finely scripted and rehearsed and replayed a million times over before my eyes. His hand slips down to upturn one of the crystals on the dressing table, from which he unearths a slip of paper, yellowed with age, worn with being read and reread, the words upon it memorized like some kind of prayer.

A newspaper article. His one reason to still hope, that one day he could fly free, like the bird of paradise he is, trapped within this cage.

He moves away to sit on the bed, head bent over. I can make out his lips moving as he reads in silence, tracing over the Kanji with his fingertips, more lovingly than he touches himself. He is ashamed. Ashamed of that which, had he been born into a different life, a different class, would have given him, and so many others, so much pleasure.

Others like me.

But I am trapped, too. We are all victims of the masks we wear, the roles we play, our lives nothing more than poorly scripted parts in a play written by those with the ultimate power, the overseers, the decision makers. Every cog fits, everyone has their place, desired or not, everything runs smoothly like a well-oiled machine.

But even machines can break down. All it takes is for one person to throw the old proverbial spanner in the works and…

I sigh, removing the night-vision goggles with no little reluctance as he finally crawls into bed. I lean over and cut off the audio feed from the deck on the wall, having no desire to hear him cry himself to sleep, the nightly ritual that at once leaves me both broken-hearted and elated.

As long as the tears still fall, we have a chance.

I move off into the bathroom, carrying my desire like a soul-destroying shadow. I switch off the light, watch myself unbutton my pants in the full-length mirror. Perhaps it is even the mirror that pleases me most about this hotel room. I strip off the pants and the underwear quickly, too familiar with my own needs to waste time with gentle caresses the way he does. Grabbing hold of my dick with one hand, I cup my balls with the other, begin to rub up and down the length of the shaft: violent, measured strokes. I am my own lover, my own creation, with no need for foreplay, no need for words of love, no need for the pretension that washes over me like a sea of doom every day.

This city only removes its mask by night, if you know where to look. Rape, prostitution, treachery, torture and tears. All these signs of hope, signs that the entire system is breaking down.

Narcissism by lilimist   Page 1 of 17   writing

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