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The luna moth is pale green and bears two long tails on either side, luminous and frail. A multitude of moths will come to lights when the night is dark, but the luna moths always caught his eye. They fly in search of the moon, and love, or more likely lust, of an entomological kind.
Grey speckled spiders as big as a man’s hand will construct large webbed orbs near bright sources of light. We think of spiders as ugly and unkind, as murderers who eat out their prey from the inside.
She came to him at night, driven by her strange desires. She thinks she comes for pleasure, and for reasons she wants to hide, because of the dark thoughts that take over her mind. Perhaps she sees what he does to her as a weightless thing, as a way to sprout wings and find her direction in the night.
He sees lines of dissection laid out upon her skin. He uses rope as his knife. And chain. A hood to cover her eyes, so that she loses herself in her own mind. The administration of pain is a prod. He traps her, using light.
In darkness, her skin becomes luminous and bright. She flutters. She fights.
He grasps her, probes her, and grapples with her limbs, out-flung. He binds her to his orb. He smothers her in silk. He creates for her the fantasies she has carried inside, and more. Much, much more. More than she ever wanted to know. In the end, he eats her from the inside.
Incising along a central line, he folds back her skin and pins it to his dissecting table. He is looking for her nuts and bolts, the machinery of her life.
She is looking for the moon.
"I have a rape fantasy," she says.
"This is a sexual bondage site," he says. "We’ll see what you’re made of once the cameras roll."
He smiles.
He chains her hands behind her back and gags her. He shoves a hood over her head.
A rape fantasy. How could she have known he’d make her fuck herself like she was too dirty to touch? Up and down like a yo-yo, a thing, a nobody, poking herself on wooden penises all in a row. He’s so pleased when she gets creamy. He shows it off to the viewing audience. She beams. She is his prize cow.
He hangs her by her ankles and dangles huge, heavy weights from her boobs. She stretches. Her mammaries lengthen like udders heavy with milk.
Maybe she feels a snap. Maybe something comes undone.
She is driven into a dark recess. And she’s lost in that place, trapped, even after the weights are gone, only to be replaced by harsh clamps on her tits. He keeps battering at her resistance, creating strain, each stress another shove into that dark recess.
"I think I’ll hog tie this crazy, wet bitch."
And the cameras roll, recording the separation of her body from her soul.
He ties her hands to her feet. He coils her spine in a direction it was never meant to go. And she is exposed, every part of her. She’s more helpless, more hungry for his hands, his touch, his penis. Why doesn’t he want her?
Tied in place, she wanders in a daze. Maybe it isn’t dark after all. Maybe it’s just foggy and dim, and she’s become a ghost. Yes. That’s it. He’s taken over her body. He’s claimed her for himself. And she’s roaming, watching herself like the audience is watching, as though she’s really someone else.
"Make yourself come."
That rips her, frightens her more than anything else he could have done. She flails against her own genitals. She beats off. She feels like she’s falling down.
After it’s over, she stares at her face in the monitor screen, seeing the tears he made her cry.
"Look at me," she thinks. "I thought that I would die. And now, how soft my eyes, my cheeks, my chin. How loose and inviting. How ruined. And fine.
"My beauty ends and begins. . .here."
He watches her stare at the screen.
"Nothing,," he thinks. "She’s made of nothing." He turns and studies her face. "She’s made of nothing at all."
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