I get a call from a man who calls himself “Metal.” I won’t lie, he sounds hot. A nice deep voice. He sounds like Gregory Peck mixed with a little John Wayne and testosterone. It was nice to say the least. He only had one minor flaw…
The first thing he does is tell me to shut up, and I can do that.
He tells me to obey every word he says or I will suffer the consequences. I am too intrigued by his voice to really roll my eyes. After all, a lot of guys who do the “listen to what I say or else…” routine secretly are power bottoms and crave black cock. Metal sounds different though. He sounds quite serious. His voice resonates with a certain charisma. In fact, with total honesty, I want to do what he says.
He says he wants to tie me up. I make sounds as if I were struggling, to which he retorts, “Shut the fuck up, you dirty cocksucker.” I find this oddly titillating.
He then forces me down on him and makes me blow him. He tells me to gag on it and go down until he can scratch my face with his pubes. I make the obligatory “Mmmmm…” noises.
“What the fuck did I just say? Didn’t I tell you to shut…the fuck…up?”
“Yes Metal.”
“Did you just talk to me again?”
…in a moment of confusion…
“Ummmm.”
I can hear the anger in his voice crescendo. It seems quite genuine. All of this seems quite genuine. He takes a breath and I close my eyes because I know what’s coming.
“Did you just speak again? Did you? I told you not to speak you pig. I explicitly told you to shut up. You’re forcing me to do this, you know…”
I feel relieved. I was expecting much worse. Metal begins to scare me. To articulate the reality of his anger would be like putting the atmosphere of a World War I trench war into text. It can’t be done, it has to be experienced. Metal is an experience.
“I am going to untie you. And I want you to slap yourself,” Metal demands.
I slap my leg.
“That is not your face. Do it again and harder.”
I slap my boob because it resembles the shape of my face more than a leg. Maybe he won’t notice the difference.
“Now say thank you, pig.”
“Thank you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank you?”
“You disgraceful whore. You disgusting piece of trash. You address me by ’sir’ at all times. I give you permission to speak, and this is how you show your gratitude? You disrespectful, ridiculous bitch.”
“Thank you sir. Metal.”
Metal’s voice deepens, he takes a breath, and I close my eyes because I know what’s coming.
“Bend over and let me see that boy cunt.”
…well maybe not. This guy thinks I’m a dude? What the fuck? No, seriously…what the fuck? He didn’t ask for a guy, or a tranny, or a mythological anthropomorphous type creature with a penis. He made no indication he wanted a man, nor do I sound like a man. Then again, he made no indication that he wanted a woman either. I stare at my wall in confusion and can see a part of my nose. Evidently I cross my eyes when I’m confused.
“Yes.”
Oh shit.
“What?!” Metal’s voice is hot, but his anger is starting to scare me. I toy with the idea of hanging up and refunding his money…but I am genuinely intrigued. His voice, his charisma, the fact that he is maybe gay…this story must come to a conclusion, and I want to know what that conclusion is.
“Yes SIR! SIR! I AM SORRY SIR! YES SIR!”
He pulls me by my hair and drags me into the bathroom and throws me into the tub carelessly, as if he were throwing out an empty bottle.
“Sir Metal, I am sorry, sir. Please.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He says he is going to take his knife and cut my arm. His words are so suggestive that I actually feel my arm tingling. I can’t explain it any other way, but his commands seem to live and breathe. They infiltrate me, and it’s exciting and spooky.
…Even if he thinks I’m a man.
“Now lick your blood you whore. Do it now, or I swear to god I will kill you.”
I’m torn. I am creeped out and excited at the same time. I am scared and exhilarated…all from a phone call. What does this say about me? What does this say about who I am as a person? I write on this blog making fun of the jokers I encounter, and with this call I am one of those jokers, and I can’t help it.
I make a sound like if I were to stick my tongue out at the doctor’s office. It’s all I can think of to sound like I’m lapping at the blood trickling from my arm.
“You want more, don’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
I don’t know what else to say. Metal commands and I obey!
“Then I’ll cut you more to feed you more.”
As intimidating as Metal is, I can’t help but wonder what his intentions are. I have been confused and interested by this call since I first heard him speak. I have invested well over 20 minutes already. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I need to understand the purpose of it all. So I say in defiance:
“Thank you.”
“That’s it. You’ve been warned. YOU HAVE BEEN FUCKING WARNED.”
His decibel level has risen. He is legitimately yelling at me now. He is shouting at me as if I were a dog who needed to be scolded, like Toby in roots, like Ike to Tina. It hit a nerve with him, and I could feel it in the few seconds while he was waiting for me to address him as “sir” and the silence he received as a result.
“You’re dead you disgusting bitch. You are fucking dead.”
He proceeds to cut my face. I make screaming sounds. These aren’t screams from me being passionate about my work. These are screams from me wanting to please Metal and fulfill his fantasy, even if it is only on the phone. It is me being passionate about him. I can hear him stroking his dick now, and his breathing is getting heavy.
“You’ve disrespected me for the last time. I can’t fucking stand the sight of you anymore.”
I whimper. His voice is confident and decisive. He tells me he is going to slit my throat and proceeds to do it. Metal wanted me to die.
“Now I can fuck you in peace.”
He bends my dying body over and necro fucks me in the tub. He tells me about how he is going to use my blood and shit as lube. He then tells me he wants to wait for rigor mortis and then post mortem lividity to set in, so he can rape my corpse in different stages of my death. Unlike this rest of this call, I don’t find this oddly titillating. I find myself getting bored with Metal, even though I like hearing him talk. It’s similar to seeing a really hot guy and finding out he has learning disabilities.
He puts me on ice to get me cold, and has sex with me again. In different positions, in different places. I’m starting to think Metal may have some kind of problem or something.
All I can do is listen to him stroke and tell me his necrophilia fantasy. I am, after all, dead…and dead people don’t talk. I contemplate making “Oooooooooo” sounds like a ghost because I don’t want to die, but I feel that even if I did talk as a ghost or something, he’d still tell me to shut up so there’d be no point.
Minutes pass while I listen to him stroke. If I could repress the 10 minutes of corpse fucking, I would probably be playing with myself along with him. Why can’t Metal be normal? His voice is so hot that it’s a shame he’s into fucking dead things. He finally comes, thanks me, and tells me he will call again. The disturbing thing is that I look forward to it.
Happy Halloween!
Bea