One, two, three, four notches tighter. Black straps, tighter; buckles, chains, that feeling you get when life is lovingly squeezed from your lungs in a crescendo plethora of passionate gasps. A cat with nine tails. An angel with ninety wings, each torn off at the base in throws of ecstasy; a vivid reminder; pleasures of the raw flesh, sinewy muscle bending under the weight of a riding crop. Wax, melted candles, dripping, dripping, burning the skin; a pockmarked constellation, Big Bear, guttural utterances and growls which shatter the studs of an anal bead rosary. The clamps suck feeling from your skin, as staccato screams shoot ever upward like a celestial ejaculate to the cathartic peak where you both jump spiraling downward as the sound of you peeling apart resounds louder than temple bells.
There is a certain taste that permeates the senses when dining on human flesh. A musk, slowly creeping up the nostrils turning everything red until each blood-soaked bite is merely insult upon injury as the world spits crimson in ten directions, coating doorways and jamming handles trapping the ever rising tide until the only option becomes waiting for your body to be lifted to the sky so you may signal your purpose to those around you.
Rahul Rao is a Creative Writing Major at the University of Houston. That's about all you need to know right now.