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Description
The knife felt good in her hands.
She ran her fingers along the stainless steel blade, gingerly. Savoring its sharpness. Its coolness, letting it warm in her hands.
Her hands, steady. Holding still for the first time that day. The slight tremors were gone.
Yes, the knife did feel good in her hands.

He stood before her. His manhood limp, his body sweaty, arms bound above his head. He looked down at her, she up at him.

“Now?” She asked.
“Yes.” he panted.

She smirked to herself. Was he always like this? During the day at his office job, did he secretly like it when his boss berated him? Did he savor every single rejection that he got through life? He seemed such a nice guy, she would have never though that he was actually into this sort of thing.

“Where do you want it?” Her hands were sweating now. Did she really think that she could be capable of something–anything–like this?
“Anywhere! Just hurry!” He was growing impatient. His voice betrayed that about him. But his cock–now semi-erect and nearly staring her in the face–said that he was liking it. She suddenly wondered if he would like it more if she refused than actually carried this out.

She decided not to chance it. Someone this bizarre might get violent if he didn’t get what he wanted.

She placed the blade against the inside of his groin, then thought better of it. She was no pro at this and having to explain something like this to the police wasn’t her idea of a way to spend a Saturday night.
She chose the soft curve of his hip instead. It her favorite part of the male anatomy. The penis seemed too direct to her. It was nearly everyone’s favorite part. She liked the curves instead. It was artistic, beautiful in her eyes.

She placed the blade there, against the curve of bone, and cut. He groaned and thrust his hips closer to her. Closer to the knife.
Noticing this, she went deeper. A small trail of blood ran from the cut.

She drew back, almost afraid of what she had done. Afraid of herself.She had never done anything like this before. Nothing even remotely close. Althrough her life she even hated the sight of needles. Vaccinations were a nightmare for her and, now, here she was, cutting some man that she barely knew aside from running into him in the hallway of the apartment building that they shared.

He seemed friendly enough. Nice enough and damn near normal. Her opinion of him quickly changed when he asked her to do this for him. Just why he would ask a complete stranger for something so unusual and sexual was beyond her. Maybe it was just another of his sexual kicks.

She was breathing heavily, staring at her work.

“Why did you stop?” He asked. The expession on his face was so helpless, so lost. He wanted her to keep going, it was obvious. She glaced over at his erection, a semi-clear line of his seed dribbled from its head.

She looked away from his manhood and swallowed hard. Her throat clicked painfully.She stared at the cut that she gave him for a few moments, almost shocked that she had actually done this to him. She had never been prone to violence. She never hurt anyone like this before in her life. But did he even feel the pain? Of course, being cut must have hurt him in some way, but did he feel it like other people? Was every pain a pleasure to him?

“Keep going.” He was pleading with her now.

She took a deep breath and placed the blade against his soft pale skin once more.

He made coffee afterwards.
It was all too surreal for her. He sat next to her on his couch and handed her a cup.
“It didn’t know if you wanted sugar or cream, so I left it black for you.”
“Black’s fine.” Her hands were shaking again as she took the cup from him. Even the cup seemed normal, a plain white mug.
She looked over at him as he sipped his. “Do you…do that often?”

He looked down, almost as if he was ashamed. “No. Not really. Just sometimes when things get bad, you know?”
She shook her hand. “No. I’m sorry, I just don’t understand it…I mean, what you mean.”
He ran one hand through his short dark hair. He was shaking, too, she noticed. She saw the signs of slight tremors in the tips of his fingers. “See…well, it’s hard to explain…”
“Try.” She urged. She wanted to know. She needed to know now. What she did with him could never amount did to him went beyond sex in her mind. It was the sharing of something more primal than any lovemaking or lustful encounter one night after hours bar-hopping. More intimate.

Her dark eyes searched his face, seeing the tinges of sadness on the corners of his mouth. The lines there–lines that she had not noticed before–would betray any smile that he attempted.

He lit a cigarette then. She’s a bit taken aback by this because he never seemed like a smoker before. Even his apartment didn’t smell like a smoker lived in it.

He took a long drag and exhaled it after a moment.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” he offered her one with that same strange casualness that he offered her a cup of coffee with.
She took one from him and lit it. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry that I asked you to do that and, well, we barely know each other and all.”
“It’s okay.” She looked down at her coffee. “You’re just lucky that I said ‘yes’.” she gave him a tiny smile.
He nodded, almost to himself.
She leaned close to him and placed her hand over his. “If you don’t want to tell me–”
“No! I—I do. I think I owe you that much.”
He stared off at nothing for a moment. She was almost sure that he wasn’t going to saya word.

And, then, he began.
—–
It started when he was young–twelve, he thinks. He says that he has a hard time remembering those times, but she suspects that it’s more like he doesn’t want to remember.

His mother died when he was three. The cause of her death was unknown to him and was left unspoken by his father.
By the time he was six, he had come to think of his mother as the lucky one.

His father was a man who—by all accounts—a born loser. Unlike those that quietly resigned to their ffates and simply existed, his father grew to hate everyone and everything.

Hardly a night went by that he wasn’t subjected to his father’s rants on anyone who dared succeed in and out of his presence. His hate was even directed at his son, who—even in his childhood—seemed to do better than his father.

He spent his childhood fearful and often self-confined to his room, preferring solitude to his father’s voice and fists.

He grew into his early teens timid and awkward. Luckily, the other children seemed to ignore him, so school was a brief haven from violence.

His father had become more brutal in that time. His constant string of “girlfriends” was running low as news of his oft-ignited temper spread throughtout the close-knit population of prostitutes.
The last one that he had sent packing with four-less teeth than what she arrived with threatened to have him arrested. His father laughed in her face, but remained secretly fearful that she would make good on her threat. He could tell this only because the “girlfriends”–the ones who did figure that the money was worth a few bruises—became a rare sight in the house.

He didn’t care anyway, he hated them. Nearly all of them reaked of alcohol and piss. He clearly remembered walking in on one shooting up in the bathroom.

He said something brief about the night when it truly began, hinting that he remembered more than he led on.
He remembered the being up late, reading the last of a story from his school’s English textbook (“’Most Dangerous Game’ by Richard Connell,” he laughed, bitterly. “Funny how I can still remember that.”)

He fell asleep with the book closed, but still curled up next to him.
He was usually a light sleeper, but he never once stirred as his father entered the room. What he did awaken to was his father jerking his pajama pants down and, then, his own textbook slamming into the back of his head.

His father raped him then and there with one arm pressing his son’s face so deeply into his own pillows that he thought for certain that he was going to die.

His father’s assault hurt worse than any other verbal or physical abuse that he subjected his son to. The pain bit deeper, straight to his very being.

It seemed to last forever, his father pounding mercilessly into him. He wanted it to be over more than anything else he had every wanted for in his life. He wanted to die.

He knew enough to know that it was wrong. It was a perversion even to his young mind, a mind that had barely grasped the concept of sex.

When it was over, it did not end.

He had rolled off of the bed to get away, if for nothing more than to breathe.
His father stood over him, nude, sweat glistening in the faint light.

“Why’d you make me do that?” his father demanded.

Through his pain, he had looked up in confusion. He had done nothing but sleep, yet, to his father, he had led him to do—that.

The confusion that he silently replied with seemed to anger his father even more than anything in his bitter life.

His father’s fists crashed into him again and again as did his accusations that his son was black and twisted and that he was sick for seducing his own father.

When he awakened, it was late afternoon and his father was gone.

The was pain as he lifted himself from the floor and the brief horror of blood as he cleaned himself. His anus was torn to the point that showering made him bite his lip and made his eyes water.

His body was littered with bruises, but none of it could compare to the things his father had said as he stood over him.
The words rang clearly over and over in his mind so often that he began to wonder.

He had hoped that it was an isolated incident. That it all was the result of his father having one too many more than he usually did.

His hope quickly died as his father’s visits became more and more frequent, soon giving away to him expecting it on any night, at any moment.

He would lie awake each night, waiting for his father’s attack, trying to assure himself that his father only did this when he was drunk, that his father was only doing this because he was angry over not getting the promotion again, that his father really did not mean to hurt him.

One by one, each excuse that he once comforted himself with fell away from his mind as the truth of it all began to set in; at least what he began to precieve as the truth.

As he grew into an even more withdrawn and awkward adult, he understood it all as his fault. He had done something to attract his father’s sexual attention. What exactly that was, he did not know.
—–
His father died when he was twenty-three and spent and had spent an uncomfortable, yet pleasent five years away from home.

He was hardly surprised to see that he was alone at his father’s burial. There was no funeral and there would be no wake. There was only one man giving his father a goodbye. He wondered then if his father knew it would be like this. That by living a life so full of hate, that he would die alone with only his son to only grudgingly mourn for him.

The relief over his father’s death became sour, a hot bile in his mind and heart. All of the answers he needed died with that black-hearted, drunken bastard.

In all of the years that he lived away from home both before and after his father’s death, he tried to find answers or even some help.

He tried therapy but found himself unwilling to confide in any of them about the true depth of his father’s cruelty.

Finally, he gave up trying to talk about it and decided on suicide instead.

His intention was to slice his wrists open and bleed himself dry in the privacy of his won bathroom.

He sat in his shower with water pouring down on him, fully-clothed with a razor blade to his wrist.

He was beyond talking about his problems, he wanted to let go in the most final way known.

He placed the blade’s tip against his wrist and made one swift cut down towards the crook of his elbow.

Blood splurted and he fell into a fit of tears. He wanted to go through with it but lacked the courage to finish it with the other wrist.

He gave up on all thoughts of killing himself as a queer sensation of pleasure began to creep through his body.

Curiously, he gazed down at his arm to see the black slowly oozing out of his wound.

At first, he was terrified by the sight of it. Anything black was not a color expected from the human body.

He tried to jump to his feet to call any kind of help, but the first orgasm came, dropping him to his knees.

The second dropped him to his side.

He lay there, twitching, convulsing, as the black pulsed out and he came repeatedly.

It went on for about ten minutes. When it as over, he sloely got to his feet. The crotch of his pants were saturated with his own semen—more than he thought that the human body could produce—the material cold and clammy against his groin.

As exhausted as he was, he began to clean himself. As he did so, he noticed that the black was gone. Looking around, he found no trace of it.

He bandaged his arm and threw away his ruined pants, wondering what had just taken place and why.

Had he imagained the whole thing? While he did not deny the reality of his orgasms—the proof of that was quite obvious—the same could not be said for the black that came out from him.

He crawled into bed with the last of his energy ebbing from his muscles and—for the first time since he was twelve—his dreams weren’t troubled with nightmares.
——
She leaned back on the couch, taking in everything he said. “So, you–”
He cut her off by nodding. “You saw yourself how much I…enjoyed it.”
“But nothing black came out.”
“You didn’t see it, but I did.” He smiled strangely to himself and took another sip of coffee.

Hers sat cupped in her hands, cold and forgotten. She didn’t know what to say or ask.

Seeing her experssion, he explained, “I know that it sounds crazy, but I think that whatever it is, is everything that my father put in me. All of that pain from the—what he did to me, it’s all there, running through my veins.”
He turned to her, “See, when I slit my wrist, I let some of it out. That’s the only reason that I get as to why it feels so good.
“All of those years of inner-pain and misery was just the dark inside of my soul trying to get out.”
——
They parted company, casually, yet sweetly. He kissed her on the cheek and invited her back to his apartment another time with promises of coffee and no knives.

She accepted and smiled as she made her way back to her place.

The smile was only there at the request of her subconscious—the part that held a girlish hope of a relationship with him. The rest of her mind was preoccupied with his story.

Back in her apartment, she watched televison and chain-smoked. Every show she watched was interrupted by her own thoughts.

The glow of her bathroom light made her head throb. She could barely ignore the pain over her own memories—memories of her own father standing over her, telling her that her violation was her own fault.

The years of guilt and anger crashed down upon her. She sobbed, softly, thinking back to each time her own father raped her and blamed his own vile acts on her.

For so many years afterwards, she remained “that stupid whore” in her mind and dressed to conceal her “slut body”. She told no one and had no one to turn to in those years and in the ones that followed.

As quickly as they came, the tears ceased to flow. She wiped away the remaining tears from her eyes just so she could see.

The knife felt good in her hands as she made the first cut on her body.

Resting against the cold bathroom wall, she sighed.

She sighed and waited to see the black come out.

HMB
2006-2007

Description
The knife felt good in her hands.
She ran her fingers along the stainless steel blade, gingerly. Savoring its sharpness. Its coolness, letting it warm in her hands.
Her hands, steady. Holding still for the first time that day. The slight tremors were gone.
Yes, the knife did feel good in her hands.

He stood before her. His manhood limp, his body sweaty, arms bound above his head. He looked down at her, she up at him.

“Now?” She asked.
“Yes.” he panted.

She smirked to herself. Was he always like this? During the day at his office job, did he secretly like it when his boss berated him? Did he savor every single rejection that he got through life? He seemed such a nice guy, she would have never though that he was actually into this sort of thing.

“Where do you want it?” Her hands were sweating now. Did she really think that she could be capable of something–anything–like this?
“Anywhere! Just hurry!” He was growing impatient. His voice betrayed that about him. But his cock–now semi-erect and nearly staring her in the face–said that he was liking it. She suddenly wondered if he would like it more if she refused than actually carried this out.

She decided not to chance it. Someone this bizarre might get violent if he didn’t get what he wanted.

She placed the blade against the inside of his groin, then thought better of it. She was no pro at this and having to explain something like this to the police wasn’t her idea of a way to spend a Saturday night.
She chose the soft curve of his hip instead. It her favorite part of the male anatomy. The penis seemed too direct to her. It was nearly everyone’s favorite part. She liked the curves instead. It was artistic, beautiful in her eyes.

She placed the blade there, against the curve of bone, and cut. He groaned and thrust his hips closer to her. Closer to the knife.
Noticing this, she went deeper. A small trail of blood ran from the cut.

She drew back, almost afraid of what she had done. Afraid of herself.She had never done anything like this before. Nothing even remotely close. Althrough her life she even hated the sight of needles. Vaccinations were a nightmare for her and, now, here she was, cutting some man that she barely knew aside from running into him in the hallway of the apartment building that they shared.

He seemed friendly enough. Nice enough and damn near normal. Her opinion of him quickly changed when he asked her to do this for him. Just why he would ask a complete stranger for something so unusual and sexual was beyond her. Maybe it was just another of his sexual kicks.

She was breathing heavily, staring at her work.

“Why did you stop?” He asked. The expession on his face was so helpless, so lost. He wanted her to keep going, it was obvious. She glaced over at his erection, a semi-clear line of his seed dribbled from its head.

She looked away from his manhood and swallowed hard. Her throat clicked painfully.She stared at the cut that she gave him for a few moments, almost shocked that she had actually done this to him. She had never been prone to violence. She never hurt anyone like this before in her life. But did he even feel the pain? Of course, being cut must have hurt him in some way, but did he feel it like other people? Was every pain a pleasure to him?

“Keep going.” He was pleading with her now.

She took a deep breath and placed the blade against his soft pale skin once more.

He made coffee afterwards.
It was all too surreal for her. He sat next to her on his couch and handed her a cup.
“It didn’t know if you wanted sugar or cream, so I left it black for you.”
“Black’s fine.” Her hands were shaking again as she took the cup from him. Even the cup seemed normal, a plain white mug.
She looked over at him as he sipped his. “Do you…do that often?”

He looked down, almost as if he was ashamed. “No. Not really. Just sometimes when things get bad, you know?”
She shook her hand. “No. I’m sorry, I just don’t understand it…I mean, what you mean.”
He ran one hand through his short dark hair. He was shaking, too, she noticed. She saw the signs of slight tremors in the tips of his fingers. “See…well, it’s hard to explain…”
“Try.” She urged. She wanted to know. She needed to know now. What she did with him could never amount did to him went beyond sex in her mind. It was the sharing of something more primal than any lovemaking or lustful encounter one night after hours bar-hopping. More intimate.

Her dark eyes searched his face, seeing the tinges of sadness on the corners of his mouth. The lines there–lines that she had not noticed before–would betray any smile that he attempted.

He lit a cigarette then. She’s a bit taken aback by this because he never seemed like a smoker before. Even his apartment didn’t smell like a smoker lived in it.

He took a long drag and exhaled it after a moment.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” he offered her one with that same strange casualness that he offered her a cup of coffee with.
She took one from him and lit it. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry that I asked you to do that and, well, we barely know each other and all.”
“It’s okay.” She looked down at her coffee. “You’re just lucky that I said ‘yes’.” she gave him a tiny smile.
He nodded, almost to himself.
She leaned close to him and placed her hand over his. “If you don’t want to tell me–”
“No! I—I do. I think I owe you that much.”
He stared off at nothing for a moment. She was almost sure that he wasn’t going to saya word.

And, then, he began.
—–
It started when he was young–twelve, he thinks. He says that he has a hard time remembering those times, but she suspects that it’s more like he doesn’t want to remember.

His mother died when he was three. The cause of her death was unknown to him and was left unspoken by his father.
By the time he was six, he had come to think of his mother as the lucky one.

His father was a man who—by all accounts—a born loser. Unlike those that quietly resigned to their ffates and simply existed, his father grew to hate everyone and everything.

Hardly a night went by that he wasn’t subjected to his father’s rants on anyone who dared succeed in and out of his presence. His hate was even directed at his son, who—even in his childhood—seemed to do better than his father.

He spent his childhood fearful and often self-confined to his room, preferring solitude to his father’s voice and fists.

He grew into his early teens timid and awkward. Luckily, the other children seemed to ignore him, so school was a brief haven from violence.

His father had become more brutal in that time. His constant string of “girlfriends” was running low as news of his oft-ignited temper spread throughtout the close-knit population of prostitutes.
The last one that he had sent packing with four-less teeth than what she arrived with threatened to have him arrested. His father laughed in her face, but remained secretly fearful that she would make good on her threat. He could tell this only because the “girlfriends”–the ones who did figure that the money was worth a few bruises—became a rare sight in the house.

He didn’t care anyway, he hated them. Nearly all of them reaked of alcohol and piss. He clearly remembered walking in on one shooting up in the bathroom.

He said something brief about the night when it truly began, hinting that he remembered more than he led on.
He remembered the being up late, reading the last of a story from his school’s English textbook (“’Most Dangerous Game’ by Richard Connell,” he laughed, bitterly. “Funny how I can still remember that.”)

He fell asleep with the book closed, but still curled up next to him.
He was usually a light sleeper, but he never once stirred as his father entered the room. What he did awaken to was his father jerking his pajama pants down and, then, his own textbook slamming into the back of his head.

His father raped him then and there with one arm pressing his son’s face so deeply into his own pillows that he thought for certain that he was going to die.

His father’s assault hurt worse than any other verbal or physical abuse that he subjected his son to. The pain bit deeper, straight to his very being.

It seemed to last forever, his father pounding mercilessly into him. He wanted it to be over more than anything else he had every wanted for in his life. He wanted to die.

He knew enough to know that it was wrong. It was a perversion even to his young mind, a mind that had barely grasped the concept of sex.

When it was over, it did not end.

He had rolled off of the bed to get away, if for nothing more than to breathe.
His father stood over him, nude, sweat glistening in the faint light.

“Why’d you make me do that?” his father demanded.

Through his pain, he had looked up in confusion. He had done nothing but sleep, yet, to his father, he had led him to do—that.

The confusion that he silently replied with seemed to anger his father even more than anything in his bitter life.

His father’s fists crashed into him again and again as did his accusations that his son was black and twisted and that he was sick for seducing his own father.

When he awakened, it was late afternoon and his father was gone.

The was pain as he lifted himself from the floor and the brief horror of blood as he cleaned himself. His anus was torn to the point that showering made him bite his lip and made his eyes water.

His body was littered with bruises, but none of it could compare to the things his father had said as he stood over him.
The words rang clearly over and over in his mind so often that he began to wonder.

He had hoped that it was an isolated incident. That it all was the result of his father having one too many more than he usually did.

His hope quickly died as his father’s visits became more and more frequent, soon giving away to him expecting it on any night, at any moment.

He would lie awake each night, waiting for his father’s attack, trying to assure himself that his father only did this when he was drunk, that his father was only doing this because he was angry over not getting the promotion again, that his father really did not mean to hurt him.

One by one, each excuse that he once comforted himself with fell away from his mind as the truth of it all began to set in; at least what he began to precieve as the truth.

As he grew into an even more withdrawn and awkward adult, he understood it all as his fault. He had done something to attract his father’s sexual attention. What exactly that was, he did not know.
—–
His father died when he was twenty-three and spent and had spent an uncomfortable, yet pleasent five years away from home.

He was hardly surprised to see that he was alone at his father’s burial. There was no funeral and there would be no wake. There was only one man giving his father a goodbye. He wondered then if his father knew it would be like this. That by living a life so full of hate, that he would die alone with only his son to only grudgingly mourn for him.

The relief over his father’s death became sour, a hot bile in his mind and heart. All of the answers he needed died with that black-hearted, drunken bastard.

In all of the years that he lived away from home both before and after his father’s death, he tried to find answers or even some help.

He tried therapy but found himself unwilling to confide in any of them about the true depth of his father’s cruelty.

Finally, he gave up trying to talk about it and decided on suicide instead.

His intention was to slice his wrists open and bleed himself dry in the privacy of his won bathroom.

He sat in his shower with water pouring down on him, fully-clothed with a razor blade to his wrist.

He was beyond talking about his problems, he wanted to let go in the most final way known.

He placed the blade’s tip against his wrist and made one swift cut down towards the crook of his elbow.

Blood splurted and he fell into a fit of tears. He wanted to go through with it but lacked the courage to finish it with the other wrist.

He gave up on all thoughts of killing himself as a queer sensation of pleasure began to creep through his body.

Curiously, he gazed down at his arm to see the black slowly oozing out of his wound.

At first, he was terrified by the sight of it. Anything black was not a color expected from the human body.

He tried to jump to his feet to call any kind of help, but the first orgasm came, dropping him to his knees.

The second dropped him to his side.

He lay there, twitching, convulsing, as the black pulsed out and he came repeatedly.

It went on for about ten minutes. When it as over, he sloely got to his feet. The crotch of his pants were saturated with his own semen—more than he thought that the human body could produce—the material cold and clammy against his groin.

As exhausted as he was, he began to clean himself. As he did so, he noticed that the black was gone. Looking around, he found no trace of it.

He bandaged his arm and threw away his ruined pants, wondering what had just taken place and why.

Had he imagained the whole thing? While he did not deny the reality of his orgasms—the proof of that was quite obvious—the same could not be said for the black that came out from him.

He crawled into bed with the last of his energy ebbing from his muscles and—for the first time since he was twelve—his dreams weren’t troubled with nightmares.
——
She leaned back on the couch, taking in everything he said. “So, you–”
He cut her off by nodding. “You saw yourself how much I…enjoyed it.”
“But nothing black came out.”
“You didn’t see it, but I did.” He smiled strangely to himself and took another sip of coffee.

Hers sat cupped in her hands, cold and forgotten. She didn’t know what to say or ask.

Seeing her experssion, he explained, “I know that it sounds crazy, but I think that whatever it is, is everything that my father put in me. All of that pain from the—what he did to me, it’s all there, running through my veins.”
He turned to her, “See, when I slit my wrist, I let some of it out. That’s the only reason that I get as to why it feels so good.
“All of those years of inner-pain and misery was just the dark inside of my soul trying to get out.”
——
They parted company, casually, yet sweetly. He kissed her on the cheek and invited her back to his apartment another time with promises of coffee and no knives.

She accepted and smiled as she made her way back to her place.

The smile was only there at the request of her subconscious—the part that held a girlish hope of a relationship with him. The rest of her mind was preoccupied with his story.

Back in her apartment, she watched televison and chain-smoked. Every show she watched was interrupted by her own thoughts.

The glow of her bathroom light made her head throb. She could barely ignore the pain over her own memories—memories of her own father standing over her, telling her that her violation was her own fault.

The years of guilt and anger crashed down upon her. She sobbed, softly, thinking back to each time her own father raped her and blamed his own vile acts on her.

For so many years afterwards, she remained “that stupid whore” in her mind and dressed to conceal her “slut body”. She told no one and had no one to turn to in those years and in the ones that followed.

As quickly as they came, the tears ceased to flow. She wiped away the remaining tears from her eyes just so she could see.

The knife felt good in her hands as she made the first cut on her body.

Resting against the cold bathroom wall, she sighed.

She sighed and waited to see the black come out.

HMB
2006-2007