[NaNoWriMo] Make Me - Chapter 8 Excerpt
Nov. 14th, 2004 06:42 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
apothsis.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
nanowrimo_ljWhen Damian met Jane...
Two men, two women. A couple, man and woman, are dressed only in a loincloth, the bare breasted woman is lightly tattooed. The clothed pair, a woman in a simple yet elegant kimono, the man who has a purple Mohawk, is dressed comfortably in black jeans and black shirt. The kimono clad woman is Asian, The black clad man is white, as is the woman with a outline of wings tattooed onto her back, the semi nude man is middle eastern.
The Kimono clad woman takes the middle eastern man, and with tenderness, stands him up, and begins to talk very softly with him. Having him raise his arms up, she begins to circle his torso with brown rough rope.
Meanwhile the purple haired man has the tattooed woman kneel. Taking out a length of multi-colored rope, he begins to weave a loop around her torso, sliding it around her breasts, both below and above. He then makes a loop in the midline of her breasts, cinching the two lines tight. Very slim and slight, the pale woman seems to be transfixed by what is happening, and when the rope is suddenly pulled taut, a gasp escapes her full lips, her breasts now jutting out, forced to be more prominent than they are, dusky nipples becoming hard as the crowd watches.
The two rope wielders continue to bind the semi-nude people, the woman, rail thin but with a lovely curve to her hips and a sinfully innocent look to her face,seeming to become entranced with what is happening, arms now bent back, bound with rope, that same rope forcing her to arch as a loop is affixed around her waist, and between her legs, the loincloth showing the knotted parts of the rope pressing against her sex, her ankles are bound tightly, and used to keep her bowed, on display, vulnerable.
The middle eastern man, in contrast, is now encased in a lattice of brown rough rope, made to stand upright, one leg bent and bound behind him, one arm, opposite the bent leg, is now bent back, in a stance reminiscent of a dancer's pose, the rope forcing him to show every curve of his muscled frame, however, his body is held up by a series of binds so that he spins slowly on one toe, like a living musicbox ballet dancer.
The time it took... minutes, hours, the two people watching don't know. As the crowd watches, commenting to themselves, chatting to their friends, or being as jaded as they can be, two people are as bound to this spot, just as the semi-clad couple are on the small stage, though for different reasons.
The man, African American, is dressed in a tailored suit, collarless shirt, charcoal-on-black stylings, his usual stance keeps a space around him, as people look at him as 'someone not to be taken lightly'. Right now, however, he couldn't care any more about what is around him.
Looking up at the stage, he follows the the movements of the two rope... Artists? The word comes to his mind, impossibly, but that is the only way he can explain it. Creating art from flesh and rope. Transforming what you see... into what -is-.
He watches as the pair of artists bend and force the two semi-clad individuals into their form, seeming to bring out their spirit, making them endure, but even then, that form creates their function. The bound woman, the one with the wings, clearly needed to be set free, and oddly, she is. Forced to be displayed, made to be so vulnerable, he can see the evidence of her excitement in the darkening of her eyes.
In binding her to the earth, he has set her wings free.
The man spinning on point has been made to be... connected, somehow. Freed from motion, he becomes constantly moving, constantly changing, yet static. Connected in experience to everyone. By swinging free, he is grounded to the reality of everyone.
Dumbstruck, he looks on... and at that moment, the kimono-clad woman looks down, smiles at him, bends to take up a small section of black rope, and hands it to him with a wink.
Before he can stop himself... he reaches up, and takes it from her.
In that moment, he hears a gasp, looking across the stage, he sees a raven-tressed woman in an elegant black cocktail gown, looking directly into his eyes.
As he meets her eyes... the look of recognition for this experience, even for a split second, make him feel like they have known each other forever.
The woman, white, tall, curved and pale skinned, pushes back her fall of curly black hair, looking up at the stage at the two semi-nude people...
And all movement stops for her.
She can see the woman's breathing become rapid, sees her blatantly get aroused by what is happening to her, can see her breasts jut out, and for the first time in her entire life, she wonders what it would feel like to touch a woman... to feel her excitement.
In the back of her mind... something else wants to -BE- that woman.
Watching the kimono dressed woman, she sees the man under her care become quiet, still, almost introspective by the coarse rope encasing his body.
She feels herself go flush by watching the man and woman do... whatever this is to their willing 'victims'? Not understanding, but somehow knowing, there are no victims here.
She can see the concentration of the people, focused into simple and precise movements, creating frozen music by their touches, and that is exactly what it was, their fingers as deft as any musician she has ever known.
She feels a touch faint as the bound woman turns her head, and seems to watch her, as she being watched. As the Mohawk'd man continues to bend her in place. Bind by bind, the two women keep each other's eyes locked to each other, Jane finding herself growing more restless as the woman on stage becomes more relaxed. More and more, she finds herself shifting uncomfortably, wanting to do... something, anything.
Anything to be -there-.
She follows the quartet as they complete their four-part harmonized piece, and finds herself looking at the loops of rope at one of the performer's feet.
She never studied it before... now, however, it seems to -demand- attention.
Flexible and supple, yet capable of creating such rigid structure, the rope seems to be alive in their hands, and on their bodies. As she thinks that, she finds her attention grabbed by the Asian woman's hand, as she picks up a small piece, and hands it to someone standing below her. Large dark hands take the rope shank, like Michelangelo's Adam being touched by the finger of God.
In that moment, the pent up tension in her exposes itself, and she gasps.
Startling herself, she blinks, and looks at the man who is now holding the rope.
Looking into deep black/brown eyes that invite her in.
And without knowing why, she wants to know more.
“....hello.”
“I couldn't believe it myself, I... well... it was so, beautf... er...”
The man, Damian, smiles at Jane.
“No, I thought it was too. I don't know about the rest of this... whatever this is, but I haven't seen such...”
“...passion?”
“YES! I mean, I'm looking around, looking at people getting the crap beat out of them, yet... “
“So... beautiful. I don't know what it is, it seems like the woman just...”
“Became alive”
“yes. YES. Alive.”
“I...”
Jane looks at Damian
“Go on, say it.”
“I kept wanting to know how to do that. How one...”
“...creates.”
“Yeah. So much was unsaid, yet they seemed to know -exactly- what to do, and how to get it done”
“They must know each other so very well... but even then...”
They both look at each other, leaning against the bar, and suddenly, they laugh. A bit of self consciousness, a fair amount of embarrassment, yet...
Somehow, they both have -seen- something that, they don't think anyone looking at the performers -got-.
Yet, something made them recognize something in -them-... the rope that Damian plays with, seems to add voice to that.
Looking down at it, he wonders, why he is twisting it so in his fingertips, when he sees long, pale fingers slip themselves into the coils.
Jane looks at her fingers within the loops of the black rope, looks at the rope within the grasp of dark fingers, and finally looks into the eyes of the man standing there.
“My...
My name is Jane.”
The man smiles shyly. She smiles back, thinking for such a supposedly imposing figure, that the look was oddly tender.
“I'm Damian. Pleased to meet you.”
Two men, two women. A couple, man and woman, are dressed only in a loincloth, the bare breasted woman is lightly tattooed. The clothed pair, a woman in a simple yet elegant kimono, the man who has a purple Mohawk, is dressed comfortably in black jeans and black shirt. The kimono clad woman is Asian, The black clad man is white, as is the woman with a outline of wings tattooed onto her back, the semi nude man is middle eastern.
The Kimono clad woman takes the middle eastern man, and with tenderness, stands him up, and begins to talk very softly with him. Having him raise his arms up, she begins to circle his torso with brown rough rope.
Meanwhile the purple haired man has the tattooed woman kneel. Taking out a length of multi-colored rope, he begins to weave a loop around her torso, sliding it around her breasts, both below and above. He then makes a loop in the midline of her breasts, cinching the two lines tight. Very slim and slight, the pale woman seems to be transfixed by what is happening, and when the rope is suddenly pulled taut, a gasp escapes her full lips, her breasts now jutting out, forced to be more prominent than they are, dusky nipples becoming hard as the crowd watches.
The two rope wielders continue to bind the semi-nude people, the woman, rail thin but with a lovely curve to her hips and a sinfully innocent look to her face,seeming to become entranced with what is happening, arms now bent back, bound with rope, that same rope forcing her to arch as a loop is affixed around her waist, and between her legs, the loincloth showing the knotted parts of the rope pressing against her sex, her ankles are bound tightly, and used to keep her bowed, on display, vulnerable.
The middle eastern man, in contrast, is now encased in a lattice of brown rough rope, made to stand upright, one leg bent and bound behind him, one arm, opposite the bent leg, is now bent back, in a stance reminiscent of a dancer's pose, the rope forcing him to show every curve of his muscled frame, however, his body is held up by a series of binds so that he spins slowly on one toe, like a living musicbox ballet dancer.
The time it took... minutes, hours, the two people watching don't know. As the crowd watches, commenting to themselves, chatting to their friends, or being as jaded as they can be, two people are as bound to this spot, just as the semi-clad couple are on the small stage, though for different reasons.
The man, African American, is dressed in a tailored suit, collarless shirt, charcoal-on-black stylings, his usual stance keeps a space around him, as people look at him as 'someone not to be taken lightly'. Right now, however, he couldn't care any more about what is around him.
Looking up at the stage, he follows the the movements of the two rope... Artists? The word comes to his mind, impossibly, but that is the only way he can explain it. Creating art from flesh and rope. Transforming what you see... into what -is-.
He watches as the pair of artists bend and force the two semi-clad individuals into their form, seeming to bring out their spirit, making them endure, but even then, that form creates their function. The bound woman, the one with the wings, clearly needed to be set free, and oddly, she is. Forced to be displayed, made to be so vulnerable, he can see the evidence of her excitement in the darkening of her eyes.
In binding her to the earth, he has set her wings free.
The man spinning on point has been made to be... connected, somehow. Freed from motion, he becomes constantly moving, constantly changing, yet static. Connected in experience to everyone. By swinging free, he is grounded to the reality of everyone.
Dumbstruck, he looks on... and at that moment, the kimono-clad woman looks down, smiles at him, bends to take up a small section of black rope, and hands it to him with a wink.
Before he can stop himself... he reaches up, and takes it from her.
In that moment, he hears a gasp, looking across the stage, he sees a raven-tressed woman in an elegant black cocktail gown, looking directly into his eyes.
As he meets her eyes... the look of recognition for this experience, even for a split second, make him feel like they have known each other forever.
The woman, white, tall, curved and pale skinned, pushes back her fall of curly black hair, looking up at the stage at the two semi-nude people...
And all movement stops for her.
She can see the woman's breathing become rapid, sees her blatantly get aroused by what is happening to her, can see her breasts jut out, and for the first time in her entire life, she wonders what it would feel like to touch a woman... to feel her excitement.
In the back of her mind... something else wants to -BE- that woman.
Watching the kimono dressed woman, she sees the man under her care become quiet, still, almost introspective by the coarse rope encasing his body.
She feels herself go flush by watching the man and woman do... whatever this is to their willing 'victims'? Not understanding, but somehow knowing, there are no victims here.
She can see the concentration of the people, focused into simple and precise movements, creating frozen music by their touches, and that is exactly what it was, their fingers as deft as any musician she has ever known.
She feels a touch faint as the bound woman turns her head, and seems to watch her, as she being watched. As the Mohawk'd man continues to bend her in place. Bind by bind, the two women keep each other's eyes locked to each other, Jane finding herself growing more restless as the woman on stage becomes more relaxed. More and more, she finds herself shifting uncomfortably, wanting to do... something, anything.
Anything to be -there-.
She follows the quartet as they complete their four-part harmonized piece, and finds herself looking at the loops of rope at one of the performer's feet.
She never studied it before... now, however, it seems to -demand- attention.
Flexible and supple, yet capable of creating such rigid structure, the rope seems to be alive in their hands, and on their bodies. As she thinks that, she finds her attention grabbed by the Asian woman's hand, as she picks up a small piece, and hands it to someone standing below her. Large dark hands take the rope shank, like Michelangelo's Adam being touched by the finger of God.
In that moment, the pent up tension in her exposes itself, and she gasps.
Startling herself, she blinks, and looks at the man who is now holding the rope.
Looking into deep black/brown eyes that invite her in.
And without knowing why, she wants to know more.
“....hello.”
“I couldn't believe it myself, I... well... it was so, beautf... er...”
The man, Damian, smiles at Jane.
“No, I thought it was too. I don't know about the rest of this... whatever this is, but I haven't seen such...”
“...passion?”
“YES! I mean, I'm looking around, looking at people getting the crap beat out of them, yet... “
“So... beautiful. I don't know what it is, it seems like the woman just...”
“Became alive”
“yes. YES. Alive.”
“I...”
Jane looks at Damian
“Go on, say it.”
“I kept wanting to know how to do that. How one...”
“...creates.”
“Yeah. So much was unsaid, yet they seemed to know -exactly- what to do, and how to get it done”
“They must know each other so very well... but even then...”
They both look at each other, leaning against the bar, and suddenly, they laugh. A bit of self consciousness, a fair amount of embarrassment, yet...
Somehow, they both have -seen- something that, they don't think anyone looking at the performers -got-.
Yet, something made them recognize something in -them-... the rope that Damian plays with, seems to add voice to that.
Looking down at it, he wonders, why he is twisting it so in his fingertips, when he sees long, pale fingers slip themselves into the coils.
Jane looks at her fingers within the loops of the black rope, looks at the rope within the grasp of dark fingers, and finally looks into the eyes of the man standing there.
“My...
My name is Jane.”
The man smiles shyly. She smiles back, thinking for such a supposedly imposing figure, that the look was oddly tender.
“I'm Damian. Pleased to meet you.”
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