The Bleakest of SeasonsbyDeeply_Twisted©
Written by Deeply Twisted 10/01/2012
Edited by Captains Siren
You never imagined that it would start from an odd post on a message board.
It was a simple ad in a personals section on a dark little corner of the internet. Authors swapped fanfics back and forth, and wrote smutty tales and stories for each other. Bodice rippers and corny romances, and all sorts of tales starring celebrities and the characters that they played engaged in all kinds of sex and things that would drive a copyright attorney completely bonkers.
His ad was simple. He offered to write a different type of story, featuring the person that contacted him. In the post, the author made no bones about his intentions to write stories for whoever was willing to supply him details. The stories would be violent, brutal, painful nightmares that any normal person would shudder to see.
His handle was Deeply_Twisted.
His post was disturbing. It stood out.
His next was even more disturbing. He messaged the board to state that he still had slots open for whoever wanted to star in a story.
Who was this... person? Was he a freak? Was he really deranged? What did he mean that he still had slots left? Were people really lining up to star in a story about their own painful, punishing violation?
You had to know more. You messaged him.
'I'm curious... ...about you. With all due respect, are you serious when you post about being violent, etc? I've never met anyone like you before, if that's the case.'
To your surprise, he responded. He did not degrade you, or try to engage you in cyber sex. He did not evade any question that you asked, and he was as open as any man you had ever met. Any question you asked, he answered. He harboured no illusions about himself, and he shared his doubts about his good nature and his soul. He fretted that he was a monster, and he confided in you his darkest thoughts.
You listened intently. (Via chat...) And you learned a great deal about him, and he learned about you. And this whole time, this odd man that would answer any question you asked without hesitation, he struggled to make sure you were comfortable with him. Even when he shared things with you that made your skin crawl, he struggled to ensure that you were not frightened.
The stories were an outlet for him. They mattered to him, because they kept him sated and sane. They mattered to you because they went places you could not imagine, even though you tried.
Oh how you tried.
And he kept updating you on what he was writing. Some girl requested a humiliating rape that had little violence, and he spun his talent to accommodate her. A tale was told of six escaped convicts and a relentless, punishing, humiliating ravishing.... That was surprisingly painless. Another one requests a story that focuses on the torture of her own very large breasts, and he forged a tale with simple words that made your nipples ache in sympathy.
And it disturbingly aroused you. Why?
Who was this guy? You could not fathom how this person, so polite in chat, with such a wry sense of humour, writes these things? And why were you reacting this way?
It flummoxed you. Sometimes you thought of him at night. Dark thoughts flowed in the darkness as you tossed in your bed.
And he still talked to you. Not one attempt to get sex or satisfaction, or any one thing from you. Gentle jokes mixed with thoughts on evil, twisted torments flowed through your computer and through your phone. He listened to you and learned about your day, paid attention to the things you said, and remembered little tidbits of conversation that you mentioned casually in a way that both impressed and unnerved you.
More than once, you pleasured yourself to the things he described, but even more than that, you started to imagine him with you and doing those things to you.
And one day, it happened. He mentioned that he was heading out for tempura sushi at a local place called Midori's. It struck a bell with you. You knew that name.
Midori's was on Hightower, off Westbridge. You drove by it every day.
You thought about it, and then called up Google.
There it was, Midori's Sushi bar. Try the Tempura Sushi! The ad exclaimed brightly!
Sweet Jesus, you think, he's here. Right here, in town. The forums let people obscure where they were from to allow them some sense of privacy, and you both had that feature activated. But you've been chatting with him for some time now, and he'd let it slip because he didn't think anything of it.
On one hand you thought, its sushi. You had no desire to be in a place where they served dead anything, let alone raw dead fish. You'd become a vegetarian some time ago, and you preferred your food to come from green plants and your garden. On the other hand, to put a face to this maddening figure, this funny, twisted, painfully honest man, that was maddeningly intriguing.
It was not a contest. A moment later you were primping yourself in front of the mirror. Hair was twisted into a messy bun, snappy shoes with just enough heel to flaunt your calves slide onto your feet. A quick check in the mirror shows your pale skin accenting the shadow of your cleavage.
It would have to do.
The car ride is quick, there's no traffic at all. And the lot at Midori's is barren with just a few cars.
You walk cautiously into the lobby, head swivelling around to see if you can spot him. There's a couple in the corner sharing sushi (Yuck!), a middle aged man sitting in the back enjoying a bowl of soup justtt a tad too much.... And then you spot him. He's sitting directly at the bar, dressed in an immaculate Armani suit. His dark hair is styled, coifed and perfect. He uses chopsticks flawlessly; ladling raw fish into those soft, nearly perfect lips effortlessly.
You swoon just a little. He looks like a young movie star.
You smooth out your dress, and surreptitiously rearrange the 'girls' to show off more cleavage. You let your glasses slide halfway down your nose, partially because the frame isn't tight and never stays in place, and partially because it makes you look like a naughty librarian.
You strut over to the Sushi Bar and sit one seat away from him and his perfect hair and suit. He gently wipes away a bead of soy sauce from his lips, his perfect, soft, pale lips.
The chef bows to you, and asks what you would like to order.
'Can you make a twisted roll?' You ask coyly. 'A deeply twisted roll.'
You lick your lips and turn to smile at the dark, handsome stranger as he recoils in surprise.
Your smile falters as he continues to shovel sushi into his mouth. A moment ago, that had been almost sensuous. Now it was just irritating.
The chef looks at you in confusion. He stumbles over his English and apologizes deeply, explaining that he does not know what that is.
'It's a special roll, the Deeply Twisted roll. Are you sure you've never heard of it?' You ask, with just a hint of exasperation. You look over at the tall dark stranger with the now very gauche suit and the over gelled hair shovelling raw fish into his gullet like some bizarre fish disposal machine. He returns your look with one of confusion.
'Lady,' He says, not unkindly. 'Just try the tempura roll. It's fantastic!'
You roll your eyes and lean over. 'It's me Scott. Addie. Remember? The speculum and the bees?'
The man's eyes widen, as he stares at you. Behind him, the older man chokes on his soup that he had been shovelling into his mouth. The couple continues to blissfully lie to each other and eat as well.
The dark man continues to stare at you, then he turns to speak to the chef.
'I'll... I'll just get mine to go.' And then he deliberately takes his drink and his sushi and moves to another table, looking over his shoulder at the crazy lady behind him.
You smack your hand into your forehead. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. This was a bad idea.
Abruptly, you notice the older man at the back table, sitting quietly, staring at you. He wipes away the last fleck of soup that he choked on and you lock eyes.
'Addie? What... what are you doing here?'
You smile. He's not what you thought he'd look like. But he's here.
You ignore the increasingly agitated chef behind you and get up to walk over to his table.
And with that, your story really began.
He gets up to greet you, and you surprise yourself by giving him a hug. It's one of those awkward no contact below the waist hugs as he refuses to be anything less than formal with you at this point. Clearly you have him taken aback with your sudden appearance. He invites you to sit down and attempts to recover his poise while you gleefully examine your internet mystery man.
He's not at all what you imagined him to be. He's older, late thirties, early forties, and you can see the beginnings of a solid gray head of hair. He's made no effort to hide it, or even acknowledge it, either completely oblivious to it or possessing little vanity.
He has pale blue eyes behind rimless lenses, and a day's stubble. He's dressed simply in a gray golf shirt and some khaki's. His shirt has a couple of dark, damp spots where soup has been spilled in his eagerness to consume it. He has a little bit of a belly, as you'd expect from a man that works at a desk all day.
And it all looks so different from what you expected. But what did you expect? How exactly is a brutally honest man with intensely violent fantasies supposed to look?
'Soooo Addie.' He says, still struggling for words. 'Uh... hi?'
'Hello, tall dark and depraved.' You respond playfully.
He flushes ever so slightly.
'Maybe we could lower the volume on that talk kiddo?' He asks, and you squinch up your nose at the comment.
'Why do you call me kiddo?'
'You feel like a kiddo to me.' He replies honestly.
'Uh huh. And how is your dead fish?'
'This is actually beef Udon. It's just noodles, meat and vegetables in a clear broth.'
'Ew. Still gross.' You tease at him.
'I'm sorry; I didn't know you were a vegetarian. Or were stalking me.' He teases back with a raised eyebrow and an accompanying smirk.
'Oh please. If anyone is going to stalk anyone, it would be you.'
'Heh. True. Did you want a drink or something kiddo?' He asks.
You mull that for a second. You just met internet mystery man, closet non-consensual sex and torture porn writer. He's now offering you drinks. Is it really prudent to take one from him?
Hell, is it even prudent to be here?
'Yes, I could have a drink.' You hedge.
'Something dry would be nice.'
'I'll ohdah you a nass a peeno greeeegio then.' He says with a horrible Italian accent.
You chuckle at him, he smirks back at you. He's kind of funny, in a nerdy, subdued kind of way.
The waiter brings the wine, along with a beer for him and you chat for a while. How life is, how bizarre it is that you both live in the same city, how the weather has been, how work is. The usual banter flows out of both of you.
You turn it around and around in your head, but you're not sure how to phrase the question, or even if you want to ask the question.
As he always does, he takes the lead in the conversation.
'Addie, you look like you want to ask me something. Again. Why don't you just ask it?'
'I'm getting there!' You protest, ad spin the words back and forth in your head.
Nothing sounds good. No matter how you twist it or turn it, you don't know how to express it. So you do the only thing you can think of, you blurt it out.
'These things that you write about, your stories...'
He raises an eyebrow.
'...I've been thinking about them a lot ever since I met you...'
He cocks his head at you, eyebrow still raised. You can't decide if this look is charming or ridiculous on him.
'... and I want to try some of these... things. With you. For real.'
His eyebrow is still raised, but his mouth is slightly open. He's stunned.
You shut up. He'll say something and make this less awkward in a moment. Something smooth, something dangerous, yet erotic will spring forth from his mouth.
'That... that is not a good idea.' He sputters.
That was not it, you think.
'Why is it not a good idea?' This was clearly not the response you were expecting. Shouldn't he be jumping at the chance to do... things to you?
'Where do I start? One, those are just stories. Two, they're really violent stories...'
'We don't have to be really violent....' You object.
'Shush. Not finished. Three, you have no experience at all with these sort of things, and four, I actually like you and value your friendship... as bizarre and stalker-ish as it may be. This can only end in disaster.'
'Once again, this doesn't have to be really violent. We can explore this together.' You rebut him calmly. He frowns at you, concerned that something he's been very careful to protect over the last few weeks might be imploding.
He starts to say something, then stops. He glares at you in frustration. You smile back and peer at him over the top of your glasses. You hope you're being charming. You want to try this. You really do. And for some stupid reason, you trust him. The fact that he's balking at all makes you want it even more.
Abruptly, you can imagine yourself, naked, he's gripping your hair, bending you back. Your bodice is torn, and he looks like a shorter, fatter version of Fabio with glasses and a lot less hair. You shake your head and smile to yourself.
'Addie...' He pleads. 'You know me. I can't do the things I do to you. I like you. You don't drive me that way.'
You frown at him. Then you reach forward and poke the tip of his beer bottle, hard. It tilts, then falls over and splashes all over the front of his shirt. He's shocked that you just did that, and it takes him a moment to grab the bottle and set it upright again.
'Do you still like me now? You ask innocently. Mischievously, you clasp your fingers together and rest your chin on them. He glares at you, so you flutter your eyelids at him for effect.
He clenches his jaw, then runs his hand through his hair. The waiter wanders over to see if he can help and Scott turns to ask him a question.
'Can I get a Tatami room... and a towel?'
You flutter your eyelashes at him again. He rolls his eyes back at you.
A moment later, the waiter is bowing and ushering you both into a private Tatami room at the back of the restaurant. A very low table fills the center of the room, and comfortable pillows line the benches. A fern sits in the back, and the room is filled with quiet yellow light and calming music. Scott removes his shoes and places them at the door, then he gestures for you to precede him. You look around and then follow his lead, placing your black Tom's at the door, next to his large, black, severe, dress shoes.
Scott offers his hand and you step into the room and sit into the recess. It feels intimate in the room. Scott enters after you do, and plunks down across from you. The waiter motions to close the door, but Scott stops him and asks for an order of green tea for the both of you. The waiter nods, then he slides the door quietly shut.
Finally, you are alone with him.
'I reiterate. This is a bad idea.'
'It is not.'
'It is. I was nervous from the moment you started asking questions that you were thinking of diving into this. This is not a good lifestyle to explore.' He argues with you.
'I'm going to steal your own tactic and use it against you. One, your stories and the things you fantasize about fascinate me. Two, I trust you. Three, I know you enjoy and value our friendship and will protect it and me, and four....'
'Yes?' He says quietly.
'Four... if you won't help me explore this, I'll find someone that will.'
He crinkles his nose when you say that. You exult just a little because you're certain you just won the argument. He sighs, looks at the door, then looks directly at you.
His gaze is unsettling. He spoke with you once about how sometimes it felt like there was more than one person living inside his skin, roaming around in his skull. Now you almost feel like Scott left the room and somebody else is driving the bus.
'Fine.' He says. For the first time in the evening, you have no desire to argue or tease him.
'I'll audition you, right here, right now. You'll do exactly what you're told, without complaint. If you argue, or protest, or refuse, we're done. If you can do everything I tell you in the next little while, I'll let you explore this. Slowly and carefully, and at a speed I think you can handle.'
He takes a breath and continues. You realize you are holding your own.
'This isn't what you think it is. This is not some fucking harlequin romance novel. I'm going to push you hard and test you, and you need to understand that if you quit once or back out, we're done.'
You're still holding your breath.
'And I would have never have asked you to try this. Never. I am *praying* this doesn't fuck things up between us. Because if it does, I will be very, very disappointed.'
He pauses, looks you in the eye.
'Do you understand?'
'Speak. The. Words.'
'I understand.' You say quietly. The mood has definitely shifted.
He gives you a good hard look. Then he closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath, then places his hands flat on the table.
He doesn't move. You reach forward and tentatively put your hand on his. His skin is rough, and you can see several scars on his fingers.
He opens his eyes and looks at you directly. You jump slightly. His eyes have gone grayish blue now.
The room feels chilly now for some reason.
'Strip.' He commands.
'Wh..What?' You stammer after a moment. Your breath catches in your throat.
'Are we done already?' He says with a smile.
You curse under your breath. This wasn't what you expected to be doing tonight. But you'd better be doing it now, or this whole thing is over. A moment later, you set your glasses onto the table and begin disrobing.
Carefully, you pull your dress up and over your head. Your breasts bunch up together and then pop out almost free of your bra. Embarrassed, you start to tuck them back in, then realize that's pointless. You stall for a moment, and he just watches you, waiting for you to try and weasel out of it so that he can call an end to this.
You shake your head. You want to see more, know more. Understand more. You reach behind your back, unhitch the clasp on your bra, and slowly slide it off your chest. Calmly, you meet his gaze as you extend your arm out to the left and drop the bra on top of your bundled up sundress. Your nipples stiffen as the breeze in the quiet little private room caresses your skin.
'Impressive. Underwear too please.' He says.
You groan quietly, half stand, and slide the bikini brief down your thighs. A moment later, you carefully deposit the lacy little undergarment on the pile of clothing a few inches away from you.
'Tsk. Tsk. Fold those clothes into a neat pile please.' He says with a little shake of his head.
You nod, and unbundle the dress and start folding it into a neat square. As you do so, he picks up a pair of chopsticks, and breaks them open. You watch each other silently. You, naked and chilly, and folding your underwear in this tiny little room in the back of a restaurant. He watching you, rapidly rubbing the fractured bamboo sticks together to remove any splinters. He reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of rubber bands. You finish folding your clothing, and it sits in a neat little pile next to you. You look at him, unsure of what comes next. He smiles at you.
Your nipples stiffen. You blush a little.
'Lean forward.' He orders.
You do, and he picks up your glasses and slides them back in place on your face. They immediately slide halfway down your nose. An errant hair drops down out of your messed up hairstyle; you blow it back up out of your face in a move that you hope is charming, or at least cute.