Obsession
Julie Shiel
Others have wanted me, have been obsessed with me. They've followed me, tracking my movements, collecting discarded pieces of my life. It's a power game, and they see me as their prey. They seek to hunt me, to toy with my security. Perhaps they imagine themselves to be invisible to me, or maybe they relish the thought of my knowledge of them, and therefore my knowledge of my own helplessness. But they don't see the power I hold over them in their very obsession. They belong to me. They are addicted to that which they hunt…they need the fragile reassurances that they will one day possess me.
But none of them has ever taken it all the way. It's their fear that holds them back, and I despise their weakness even as I understand it. They fear the repercussion of their actions in this age of laws and careful consent; they fear the very resistance that they dream of. So they skirt the edges of controlled desire, never releasing the intensity that drives them, and they aren't even aware of it. They think themselves so bold to gather those meager scraps that they cherish; the sound of my voice on the phone, the stolen photographs, the objects I have touched, my secret scents.
I enjoy the game also. I like knowing I'm hunted, hoping with each ragged breath that he might be the one to complete me. Standing in line at the store and marking each customer carefully, I wonder, is it him? Is he the one? My gaze lingers on finding a knowing smile, my body responding in that hot wet rush of excitement. How I love the addiction of fear. I always wonder if he knows how thoughts of him affect me. Does he consider that knowing I'm being stalked, that hoping he is the one to take it all the way sends strange hot waves of yearning through me? It leaves me trembling with the sharp pang of fear, yes, but my arousal washes over it. The two emotions are hopelessly entangled.
Then you found me. I slowly became aware of your pursuit, and part of me welcomed a fresh hunt even though I had become jaded. I thought you a diversion from the boredom of every day life, although I had no expectations of you beyond what anyone before had dared.
I don't know how long you tracked me before allowing me to know of you. You emailed me first, teasing me with your knowledge of me, intimating that we had met, knowing that my curiosity would take the bait. Of course I knew what you were doing; it had been done by others before you, but realizing that fact made it no less effective. It was a new round of an old game, one that I thought I knew the rules to. You caught my imagination and my fantasies and I began looking forward to your next move. I became eager to see proof of your determination to possess me, hoping you would be the one.
You wrote to me of what I wore, where I went, whom I saw. You gave me information on those transient men in my life, the men I used up before they could use me. You were slightly mocking, reading my motivations like no one had ever been able to before. You slowly drove slivers of desire into my heart with each correspondence. I wanted you to show yourself, to
prove that you had more than a passing obsession.
You left roses on my bed, blood red roses that still held their thorns. On the pillow you left a note pinned with a razor blade, with two simple words on it
"You're mine". I searched my apartment for other traces of you, and finding none I felt an odd sense of disappointment. Then I swept the roses to the floor and made myself come screaming in my growing desperation. I was becoming aware that you were
different, and my desire was building with each thought of you, which is exactly what you wished. I wanted you to win, but I could never give up, so a secret vicious part of me hoped you would do whatever it took.
Next you allowed me to hear your voice on the phone. I grew weak with wanting you, and you heard my uneven breathing as I gasped between words choked with my wet desire. You urged me on, coaxing me to orgasm, and then laughed when I said I wanted you. "I know", you said, and hung up. I was angry, but also pleased. You had won that round and my dark hopes grew stronger.
You finally let me know your face, teasing me with glimpses everywhere I went. I knew it was you from the start; I knew it with a heavy cold realization that seemed final. By that time I was looking for you, and when you finally allowed me to see you, there was no doubt. You stood still in the crowd, your arms crossed, and stared at me with an insolent smile that said so much. I froze also, the shock of surety stopping me in my tracks, and we stared at each other through the crowded mall. Someone bumped into me, breaking our silent communication, and when I looked up you were gone. But after that I saw you many times, sometimes close enough to touch, and I think that you did touch, running your fingers through my long hair.
I looked for you everywhere. It became a kind of game for me to spot you, and I was lulled into a sort of comfortable complacency. I grew used to you, and began to think that was as far as you were taking the game. I grew bold, even trying to catch you once when I was in a confident mood. So although I was used to seeing you, it came as a shock when you took it to the next level.
You did warn me. You left the message on my answering machine, telling me you were coming. But how was I to know? I smiled and went to my bed safe in my knowledge that you were like the others before you.
I woke with your hand over my mouth. That sudden icy terror gave me strength, and I twisted beneath you, panicking in the darkness. You were ready for my resistance and clamped the chloroformed cloth over my mouth and nose. I fought for air, and breathing only the wet acrid fumes, I felt my strength fading. Still, I could see you in the moonlit room, and knew it was you. The shock made me easier prey, I think. I remember hearing you laugh as the blackness seeped into my vision, as my fluttering hands fell limply to the bed.
When I woke you had me bound and gagged. I was slow to come out of my drugged stupor, my limbs and mind heavy with the chloroform. I remember the way the knife glinted as you passed it in front of my vision before teasing my body with its chill caress. My breath was loud in the silence of the room. You taunted me, telling me what you might do, telling me what you had already done, how you knew I thought myself safe, but now you would strip that complacency away from me like layers. Fear blossomed in my stomach, a hot twisting ball of tension, yet still it aroused me. You took your time, exploring my body with the knife and your invasive touch, pinching and rubbing and scraping and biting me until finally you were ready. The soft click of the belt buckle will forever be etched into my memory; a sound of such finality, like the drop of a gavel.
Then at last you were inside me, and I was twisting beneath you, trying to shake you off me, even as a low moan escaped through the gag. You teased me about my wetness, telling me you knew I wanted it, and I growled, even then not willing to concede defeat. Do you know the shame that comes from a woman's body? I did not want your rape of me, but my body did, and you felt it and used it against me. I was fighting too hard to come. I wasn't sure if I should be thankful for that or disappointed. The first violation was over quickly, but you weren't done. You had planned this for so very long, and you were going to savor the capture of that which you had hunted. You used the knife to gain my compliance, using me in every way you had fantasized about, slowly wearing down my last tatters of resistance.
Your body was sated long before you were. You weren't to be satisfied with a simple rape. I felt the knife cutting into me a little deeper, more than the scratches you had been giving me, and another hot rush of panic bloomed in me. I fought in earnest then, my struggles renewed with this fresh danger, but you had me bound too tightly to break free of you. I fell back, my body tense and eyes wide, shaking and coated with the sweat of fear. Every sense had the edge of broken crystal. I remember each sound, each breath, the smell of you above me and that of my own horror, the intensity of your gaze as you looked into my eyes.
I remember how it felt when the blade broke through skin, the feeling of my hot blood trickling down my body, the slow tearing of flesh as you dragged the knife in random patterns.
I screamed then, again and again, not caring that I was gagged, only aware of the pain and my own liquid terror. You hushed me and took your time, carving patterns into my breasts, stomach, thighs. You smeared the blood over my ivory skin and between your fingers, rubbing it over my lips before you kissed me. That broke something, some basic tenet in my makeup. I quit screaming and froze, crying silently, but even that ended and a strange dissociative calm fell over me. I pleased you then, and your slices were almost tender.
None of them were so very deep…they were shallow cuts done more because you admired the blood than because you truly wished to hurt me. Cutting me had aroused you again, and you used me roughly, urgently pushing into me, your chest and face smeared with my blood.
You untied me then, allowing me to remove the gag with the understanding that if I screamed it would be returned, and made promise that you would return for me. You told me I belonged to you, while I sat silently, the blood drying stiff against the softness of my skin. You left, and I vaguely wondered if I should call the police, but I was in a maelstrom of confusion. Instead I took a long shower, the water washing away my tears with the blood, leaving only angry red patterns.
I found myself waiting for your return. Each night I went to bed thinking of you, remembering your bloody caresses as I traced the secret welts raised where you had cut me. They healed, fading to thin red lines that would pale with time, and it seemed that my yearning grew as they dissipated. I hated the dark desires you had awakened, but they fed off memories of your violation that were etched in my brain.
Finally you came again, and found my resistance had weakened. I tried to fight, but not so much because I didn't want it as because I enjoyed the dance. Your attentions were more intense that night, using my body in every way you wished, and tracing scarlet patterns into my skin. I welcomed the pain, straining against the knife rather than away from it even as I cursed you. I remember your soft laughter as I growled at you, even though I was wet with my desire.
You stayed throughout the dark hours of the night, leaving only when the sky began to pale. You were careless, expecting me to stay meekly where you had left me, curled among the bloody sheets. But I threw on a coat and chased you silently, watching you cross the street to get into your dark blue car. I noted the tags and hid as you drove past me, secure in your satisfaction. I thrilled at the sneaking sensation of breaking your unspoken rules, and tucked away the information I had gleaned with my boldness. I caressed the sigils you had carved into me, criss-crossing those from your first possession.
I knew you were the one, the realization of my shadowed dreams, the only one to play the game with your rules instead of mine. I found myself craving any glimpse of you, disappointed that I no longer saw you stalking my path, eager for the hunt to continue. Did you think that once conquered, I would simply sit and wait for you to claim me? My love, you should have
known me better. Yes, love… I grew to know you as that which I had searched for all my life. I started cutting myself in your absence, seeking that unity, that blood bond which you had created, or perhaps awakened within me. It is a dark and secret desire, the pain mixing with my arousal so the two are inseparable. I would smear the blood as you did, masturbating myself to orgasm.
It wasn't hard to find you, armed with knowledge of your car and tag number. You were startled the first time you saw me standing outside the convenience store, confrontational when you saw my car outside your house, but I left before you could approach. I craved any piece of you I could gather. I prayed for the night you would return to me, reliving your control, the feel of you inside me and the slice of your knife on my body, but you did not come. I got the message you left on my machine, telling me to stop following you, but it was far too late, my love. You made me need you. I cried, and cut myself until the blood ran hot down my body, but when I calmed I knew I could not give up on you so easily. You didn't…your pursuit was dedicated and I determined that mine would be also.
You made me yours. I belong to you, but you belong to me also. The chloroform was easy to get; you can order it from any lab supply company on the internet, but even so I had to wait until you slept to administer it. I see you looking at my scars…don't you like them? I found a razor blade works much better than a knife. I can cut so much deeper and neater. I've traced over your slices, again and again, a little deeper each time, so they will never fade.
Now I know just how deep to cut the first time so yours will match mine, and mixing our blood we will never be apart. Hold still, my love. I'll teach you to need the pain, just as you taught me.
Hush…
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