The Cannibal's Prayer, Page 5

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  I carry her body to the bed and set her down there. My toes and my fingers are tingling with excitement, with need. On some level it feels impossible: she is fantasy turned real. How odd it is to think that a person of the screen can come full-bodied into this world, be made flesh and blood, all to come here, to lie in my arms. She lies still, suspended in blissful unconscious. I dry her. I lie beside her; I touch her, explore her body. All the sweet crevices and the supple swells. The curve of the breast and of the hip, the curve of the soft belly, of the shoulder and the thigh.

  I tie her limbs to the posts of the bed, spread her like a starfish on white sheets. I tie her gently, firmly, spread for me, her arms in an imitation of Christ and her legs spread wantonly, only for me. I struggle to work my cock through the zipper of my slacks. I cannot bear to see my own nakedness, my vast and grotesque expanse. I hate her for her slim body, always collapsing into the arms of the chiseled dullard, the empty-eyed automaton, the fantasy male of unachievable glamor and beauty who snatches her always her from the jaws of more deserving men. Now she is mine.

  She sighs when I enter her. I realize that I am doing her a true favor. She cannot bear to choose, cannot bear to accept. She must be forced. She must be made to experience pleasure. An actress is like an animal. Though it knows it not it must be tamed. Be broken. Consent is beyond her. She wishes to be my slave but cannot ask. It must be imposed upon her.

  My ejaculate falls from me after only a few strokes. I hide my cock and push the seed deeper in with my fingers. She twists against her bonds, moaning with unconscious pleasure.