Faces

She has two faces. One is the sweet, delicious face she shows everyone else (except those who have wronged her, and then oh she can fly with anger)...and me, too, most of the time.

The other she saves for me, for those times when the bug has bitten her. They are so alike, almost mirror images of one another, to the point that she says the same things, but they are still different somehow.

"Oh, does that hurt?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Let me see if I can fix that."

Same. Different. All at once.

She knows I hate the needles. She won't mention piercing--even though she has three herself--she is that kind, ordinarily. Because ordinarily, it doesn't matter that much to her.

But sometimes it means very much indeed to her. Sometimes it frustrates her so much that once she has me bound to the bed, helpless and hoping for just the usual teasing and denial, she will get out her sewing needles and work her craving out on my chest:

She lights a candle, and holds the needle to it, "to sanitize it," she says. I can't bear to watch. She puts the needle down, and grabs my face. "Look at me," she says. "Don't you like the way I look?" As if she were showing off a new outfit, or a shiny necklace. Not leering, half-crazed, wanting to thrust a needle half an inch deep into my skin.

I do like the way she looks. I wish I could see it from a different vantage point.

I force myself to watch as she picks up the needle and jabs my nipple with it. I wince, screwing up my eyes in surprise and pain. "Ooh, that must smart."

Pity. I swear it is real, most of the time.

She scratches red lines in my chest, wanting so bad (I can feel it in her trembling) to sew *something* to my skin, to feel the subtle resistance of flesh. Not so much to see blood: she thinks of that more as a necessary evil. And the quivering beneath her, she likes that. She tells me so.

"Mmm," she sighs, caressing my side, "so taut, so thick." She runs the needle stiffly down my torso, down to my cock, down to my balls that feel almost cold from exposure. I stifle a gasp, only halfway successfully. She's kept me waiting for days.

And she won't stop until I cry, until the tears come out not from unsatisfied lust, but from fear and desperation, pure and simple. Just so she can hold me in her arms, and comfort me. This time, it's genuine.

Or is it? I can never tell which one (if either) is the mask.