12-02-2018, 08:38 PM
The air was crisp though with a touch of bite. Despite being early summer, Moscow was experiencing a cold snap. The collar of his soft wool overcoat brushed against his neck.
In truth, Beto was bored. What he could do here- at the Guardian, or anywhere really- was limited. But New York held no call to him either.
He was afloat, drifting. He was on that bridge again, the river below wide and deep and inviting. Its continuous endless flow singing to him, promising any and everything in its depths.
Fear kept him rooted on that ledge. The only thing he ever truly felt. Well, that and the hint of excitement at the prospect of plunging into those waters. Stalemate.
He needed to be grounded, to be busy. He'd scheduled to take the bar exam here so he could practice. The CCD contained the open optimism and promise of opportunity the US once had. At least, that was how it presented itself. The calculatedly superior version of what the United States had once been. Jack would be upset, he knew. Not that it mattered. The Attorney General wasn't his boss anymore.
But that was later this week. He felt the hungers now. He needed the familiar pain. So carefully controlled, exquisite in its detailed application. He luxuriated in it, in the feel of the needle going in and out, so sensual and glorious.
It was orgasmic, an experience unlike anything he'd ever known. In those moments, the bridge disappeared, the water disappeared- everything disappeared. The universe was gone and only he existed. It was the closest to the divine he could imagine.
It was his sacrament, his communion, the blood and flesh fresh upon his tongue.
The door jingled as he walked in. There was only one artist, just finishing up. Handsome, with a closely shaved head, he said he'd be with him in a moment. Another man was also in the shop, but after a brief glance Beto ignored him.
Instead, he looked at the art work on the walls, various patterns and drawings, pictures of satisfied customers and their newly minted work.
Beto had two full sleeves down to his wrist, as well as his upper chest and back. Not that anyone saw them, of course, outside of his doctor or those who might catch him in the locker room. Nothing peaked above his collar or below his wrists.
He still had room. Today he was interested in his calf. He had the image of what he wanted in his wallet. By his own estimate it would be at least a four hour job.
He hoped it could get done today. Though with only one artist and someone ahead of him, perhaps not. Then again, maybe the man was just curious. The shop wasn't large. "He does great work," Beto said, voice pitched a bit low. "What are you getting?"
In truth, Beto was bored. What he could do here- at the Guardian, or anywhere really- was limited. But New York held no call to him either.
He was afloat, drifting. He was on that bridge again, the river below wide and deep and inviting. Its continuous endless flow singing to him, promising any and everything in its depths.
Fear kept him rooted on that ledge. The only thing he ever truly felt. Well, that and the hint of excitement at the prospect of plunging into those waters. Stalemate.
He needed to be grounded, to be busy. He'd scheduled to take the bar exam here so he could practice. The CCD contained the open optimism and promise of opportunity the US once had. At least, that was how it presented itself. The calculatedly superior version of what the United States had once been. Jack would be upset, he knew. Not that it mattered. The Attorney General wasn't his boss anymore.
But that was later this week. He felt the hungers now. He needed the familiar pain. So carefully controlled, exquisite in its detailed application. He luxuriated in it, in the feel of the needle going in and out, so sensual and glorious.
It was orgasmic, an experience unlike anything he'd ever known. In those moments, the bridge disappeared, the water disappeared- everything disappeared. The universe was gone and only he existed. It was the closest to the divine he could imagine.
It was his sacrament, his communion, the blood and flesh fresh upon his tongue.
The door jingled as he walked in. There was only one artist, just finishing up. Handsome, with a closely shaved head, he said he'd be with him in a moment. Another man was also in the shop, but after a brief glance Beto ignored him.
Instead, he looked at the art work on the walls, various patterns and drawings, pictures of satisfied customers and their newly minted work.
Beto had two full sleeves down to his wrist, as well as his upper chest and back. Not that anyone saw them, of course, outside of his doctor or those who might catch him in the locker room. Nothing peaked above his collar or below his wrists.
He still had room. Today he was interested in his calf. He had the image of what he wanted in his wallet. By his own estimate it would be at least a four hour job.
He hoped it could get done today. Though with only one artist and someone ahead of him, perhaps not. Then again, maybe the man was just curious. The shop wasn't large. "He does great work," Beto said, voice pitched a bit low. "What are you getting?"