Tag 55! Again! This time by A. The only rule is, it cant be a death 55! it has to be a Tragic/Humour 55.

Well, frankly, i like tag 55. Its a nice brainstorming to fit in a nice plot in just 55 words. It requires some work, but its worth it. I definately loved the death tag. Of course it still had some sort of tragedy attached to it. But this tag as in the TH55, needs to have two elemets in it, tragedy and humour. Think of shakespere. you’ll know what I mean. I’ll tag a few people to try this one, lets see how they take it. Deep , Mystery gal , Nitz, Nithyananda and Percy .

Story title: Safeword!

The knife flashed infront of his eyes. He struggled to get away but the chains held him down.

She laughed Evil, saying “Not even close, sweetheart!”

Quick Tale : Chaptor 3 : Prudence

The car was cold at first, but once we were in the backseat we warmed up quite quickly. There was enough room, and I even had playthings laying across the floor of the car. Coincidence.

Then we kissed for the first time. My kiss was soft. yet full of primal instinct. I had him pinned down in the back seat, straddling him with his wrists above his head. With a little fumbling I found a pair of handcuffs.

While we were kissing I made sure he saw them in my hand, then waited for reaction.

“Kinky,” he commented, breaking the kiss and looking at them.

“Are you ok with this?” I asked him, sitting up and playing with the cuffs in front of him, loving the sound and feel of them.

He pushed up both sleeves, eyeing them. Uneasy, I could tell. “Depends. You aren’t a psycho are you?”

I chuckled. “No, I’m not.”

“How can I be sure?”

“You can’t. You just have to trust me.”

He hmmed. I was staring at the cuffs longingly.

Finally he shifted, then held up his wrists to me. “You only live once,” he smiled.

I smiled back, and got much more serious when the metal locked in place around his wrists. My seriousness made him shift under my body, then I pinned his wrists, more suddenly, above his head.

His eyes were opened a little wider, startled Alert.

The next kiss was hard. I was fierce. He shifted under me.

When I broke the kiss I moved my mouth to his ear and whispered, “If you REALLY want me to stop,” I paused and kissed his ear, “Say one word, say REINDEER”.

He moaned at my touch. I heard the cuffs rattling.

“Otherwise, all pleading me to stop will be gleefully ignored,” I grinned. “Keep in mind, I like that. It gets me off.”

I heard a chuckle from him. Nervous, but a chuckle nonetheless.

Another kiss to his ear. “Now what’s the word to make me stop?”

“Reindeer,” he whispered back with mock seriousness.

Prudence.

He kept his composure, or rather worked hard on achieving it.

My teeth dug into his flesh and I felt him tense all over. I bit. I sucked, then I nibbled. The flesh on his neck was tender, and even in the darkness I could see a slight redness. I moved a finger over it and “mmmd”

He shifted.

My mouth moved to his ear. “You mark easily,” I breathed, pressing my body into his. His hands were still pinned behind his back.

“Mmm,” he nodded.

“Anyone going to see your neck tomorrow?” I teased, nibbling behind his ear.

He chuckled, eyes still closed, and pulled at his wrists a little but I tightened my hold. “I work tomorrow…”

I moved my mouth down to his collarbone. “I’ll stay out of sight…” I hissed, clutching his skin between my teeth.

His whole body pressed onto mine and he moaned, “That’s fine…”

I pinned him hard to the wall.

It was a big, alcove type area, and I knew it was stiff and uncomfortable. He shifted but I used my knees on either side to pin him.

Between bites I whispered, “Is that too uncomfortable?”

His eyes were shut, “I can handle it,” he breathed. I could feel his body moving painfully against the wall.

I pulled and in a fast move pinned his wrists above his head and whispered, “Lift your head up so I can get to your neck. Hold still. And don’t open your eyes.”

My grip was tighter this time, tight enough around his wrists that I knew he could feel a serious edge in my moves. He tested the virtual bonds then held still.

Even when I moved my hand down his body and he twisted, arching his back, he still kept his hands unmoving and in my other hand, holding his crossed wrists above his head.

I wanted more. “Let’s go to my car,” I whispered. “Unless you’ve had too much for one night.”

He shook his head, eyes closed. “No…I’m fine….let’s go.”

Acceptance.

I saw him, and I knew I had to have… a talk atleast.

The Club was thinning out, and I knew from experience that the seating in the corners were dark, uncrowded and quiet enough to talk without having to scream at each other. It was mostly hunger - and the way he moved. Slow, with a purpose. He was standing at the bar sipping a drink. Sleek. Catlike. When he ran a hand through his hair, that sealed it.

“What are you drinking?” was the first thing I asked him. I certainly didn’t want a drunk to deal with, and it was a good way to find that out up front. He smiled. Sipped. “Coke.” he said. Almost bashful. I liked it. I moved closer to him and smiled, then ordered a drink of my own. Afterward, I turned to him and stared until he got uneasy and looked down, shy.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“Yes,” he said, not looking at me. But smiling. So slight.

“Good,” I said, leaning close enough that our sides touched as I turned toward the bar. “I like that.”

I could have sworn I felt him shudder. But that might have been wishful thinking.

I stood up and walked to him. close. It just happened. The way he had his head down, nervous, just drove me to him. It took a few long seconds to get there, but it was a careful few seconds. Standing close, then watching to see if he would back off to claim his space back. He didn’t. Hand lightly touching his thigh. It could have been accidental. I did it on purpose to see if he’d move. He didn’t. I pretended to be nuzzling to smell his cologne. I caught his breath; he was inhaling sharply when I pressed close.

“You aren’t used to a forward woman,” I observed out loud.

“No,” his eyes were shut, head lowered toward me. Breathing measured.

“But you like it,” I told him, reaching up, hand around his neck reaching to his hairs.

“Yes,” was on his lips as he looked direct at me. May be it was somthing more than my pull on his hair that made him so.

I took him up to the dark corner I remembered. Sure enough, people were mostly gone and the music was a bit loud but tolerable. We were standing close, very close, and soon I had him pinned up against a wall. Soft moans came from him. The kind that made me ache. When he moved his hands to my waist I took him by the wrists and pinned them behind his back. He twisted a little but didn’t pull away, then groaned, closing his eyes, frustrated.

“Shhhhh,” I hushed, clenching my grip tighter. Tight enough to make sure he knew I meant business. He sighed a little and I pinned him closer to the wall, switching to use only one hand to hold both wrists behind him. Of course this meant he could pull away with total ease, but he didn’t. He kept his wrists there. My free hand moved up his neck, to his chin, where I lifted his head up so I could bite his flesh openly, easily.

And he didn’t stop me.

Consent.

These days i’m feeling a little odd.. a tad bit of everything…

Why dont you suggest me one title for this one?

* * *

She has always wondered at his ability to travel, to change places, to switch between time zones. One day He’s here, and on the other he’s already across the ocean. His day has a double share of hours, and His life has a double measure.

She has also wondered where his things go, the things he leave behind each time he’s on the move again. She look around the room - it’s already bare, stripped of all his possessions. All old trifles uprooted, and all his traces eradicated.

Only the cinders in the fireplace are still alive, like a heart of this abandoned house.

“Will you come back?”

“Don’t know. I need some time to live there - to live away from *here*. Some change. A new path, maybe.”

“I hope you know where you’re walking.”

He shrug, sit down on the windowsill and gesture to her to approach. The wide window is open into a warm summer evening. The apartment is on the third floor. A white tulle curtain - perhaps he didn’t like it enough to pack - wavers in the breeze.

She stands beside him and watch the street below. Under the crowns of the trees, dusted green after the long heat, people are passing by - some trotting busily, some strolling, singles, couples, companies. They are too far below to hear what they say, but they are loud enough to make a presence.

She gaze down while his hands tug at her clothes, and when they touch, and when the silken tulle rubs against her bare shoulder. It’s making her slightly uncomfortable that they’re doing it here, on the windowsill, with his back leaning against the frame, but then her attention is diverted.

“What are you looking at?” He sit with his back to the window and can’t see what’s happening down in the street, but he can see the curious expression of her face.

“It’s a man. Must be a puppet-maker or something like that. Very old-fashioned.” She speak, all the while moving as she should, and he groan into her shoulder. “He was carrying a box, then he stumbled and the box fell down. You know what’s inside?”

He doesn’t, and She doesn’t think he care right now.

“Parts of puppets’ bodies. Right now he’s picking those artificial eyes from the pavement.”

She can see the man clearly because the street lanterns are already turned on. This makes her realize that they, too, are perfectly visible, in all their private indecency. She would tell him about that, but his hand softly brushes her sweat-covered back.

“Don’t worry. They never look up.”

* * *

A piece of fiction, that is very strongly close to my heart!
* * *

You love the sea.

You say you could spend days just sitting on the shore. You say the constant beat of the waves quenches thoughts, slakes desires. I don’t know, for me it’s just a pool of water.

The gloaming nightfall, a crescented moon and a gentle blow of the late summer’s wind persuade me to follow the path down to the beach. There are even stars on the sky. Everything needed to feel romantic, and the water is black and turbid, dark enough to become just a black mass on the brink of my vision.

There is a thin noise in the air, a quavering sound. Somebody’s playing a flute. I hope it’s not you - I don’t like the instrument, don’t like how its voice rises and falls, as if trying to reach some height and failing, always failing.

“They are like enchanted beings.”

“Who?”

“The waves.” You gaze past me, and I can see your profile in the bluish dusk. Behind us, above, is the edge of a steep cliff, and the smell of grass dried by the August sun gone mad on the dog-days.

“They are like hands, the foam on the waves - like white hands. Trying to hold on to the rocks, but they can’t, because there are always others behind them who pull them back. And their voices - like victims in the horror movie before they are dragged away by the monster.”

“You hear their voices?” I try to make my tone light-hearted.

“Don’t you?”

“No, not enough to make out the words. You are our sea interpreter.”

The somebody that is playing the flute is above us, walking along the cliff, and the sound vibrates from an intrusive forte to a soft piano. Even the residue of the sunlight has waned off, merged with the dusk, and now it’s only the white shine of the moon and the colourless, varnished surface of the sea.

“It is dreary. Dreary and hopeless.”

“What?”

“What the sea says at night.” I walk up to you to distract you, to give comfort, whatever it is that people do in sympathy, but you don’t seem to care. “It’s not to be understood by human ear.”

I shrug and suddenly feel cold. I don’t know what is there to love, in this sea, in this coastline, where there is nothing but the dim lights in the fishermen’s huts in the distance, and some sleepless loony walking in the grass on the cliff playing his flute and probably spying on us.

“Don’t get frightened.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. It’s because you’re afraid to listen - to hear how peaceful it is, this void. Without sounds, without thoughts, without a measurable depth.”

“Fuck you with your eerie talks. You’re giving me creeps.” My words are very heartfelt. “Fuck you!”

“Yes. Please do.”

The sound of the flute drifts away to the fishermen’s village. The sand under our bare skin is rough and hard.