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#QuemPensa é Spiralist: “The Mantis” Parte II

#QuemPensa é Spiralist: “The Mantis” Parte II

The Christ-like sacrifice of his father was never completely forgotten as the boy turned into a man at the orphanage and found himself completing his education and landing a secure gig with some faceless corporate entity, blending in seamlessly with an unknowing and indifferent society, but he could feel the weight of time slowly dilute its impact over the years. He found himself at odds with his distrust of anything resembling romance and his hormonal urges in his teenage years, sticking to pleasuring himself only and fighting off the memories of the only sexual partner he had involuntarily had in his life thus far. But like a rescued back alley fighting Pit Bull Terrier which heals its wounds and eventually softens and falls for the charms of humans he spent years not even knowing existed, the man soon began softening his stance. The lonely nights of instantaneous meals accompanied by the droning sound of his television and the routine, passionless consumption of pornography only deepened the void within. God only knew why, 20 years after that fateful evening, he constantly found himself yearning for the companionship of a woman, the warm and honest touch of someone.

Far from feeling comfortable chatting someone up at some sleazy dive bar with a starter kit of cheesy one-liners, the man effortlessly had a work colleague set him up with a friend of his wife, who suggested that her happy-go-lucky nature might provide a good counterpoint for him, perhaps prompting him to open up a little. It was a risqué chemical blend that could assimilate its elements elegantly, or go together as disastrously as bleach and ammonia. But now that he was 33 years of age and beginning to wonder if he would ever have the chance of starting the family he could never be a part of, the man was inclined to finally give it a try. Perhaps he was, at long last, ready to free himself from the shackles of trauma.

They found themselves at a nice restaurant that night, him with his diligently combed hair and his best short-sleeved shirt, tie and glasses, and her with a tight, monochromatic combo of a thin sweater and skirt, both bright green, black clinking high-heels and a black leather purse. She looked as though she had rocked that look and been through that evening on an endless loop, so comfortable she was, while he couldn’t help but display his teeth sheepishly in nervous smiles. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that she kept on yammering about the crazy traffic in the city center that caused her to arrive a few minutes late and apologize extravagantly while he nodded amidst monosyllabic acknowledgements, because he frankly had completely forgotten all of the poignant dating advice he had found online from love gurus and experts, such as being a gentleman, curbing his enthusiasm, offering discreet compliments and, most importantly at the moment, speaking. But he was understandably nervous. He had never really done this before.
They sat in a leather semicircle booth. The Maître D’ sabotaged the woman’s verbal marathon:

Excuse me, miss. Have you two chosen from the menu yet?
Oh, shoot, I didn’t even notice the menu was here…
If you’d like, we could start off with drinks and I’ll give you a little while longer to select your course.
Wonderful. Hum, what alcoholic beverages do you have?
…hum, well, we have our own craft beer, some fine and well-aged Port-
That’s just perfect, perhaps we could share a bottle for now? What do you say?
Well, I- I’ve never… I don’t really drink.
You’ve never drunk anything with alcohol?
Hum… no.
Oh, darling, now I’m not letting you off the hook on that front, we have to pop the cherry there, don’t we?
Ah-ha, I’m not sure I should…
Oh, come on sweetie, could you do that for me? It’ll be ok, don’t be scared. I have a little more experience, so I’ll make sure we don’t go overboard, ok? You trust me, don’t you?
…well, alright, I guess-
Perfect! So we will go with the Port for now, thank you.
Splendid, I will bring it shortly.

The Maître D’ walked away.

So, you know, my friend never told me much about you.
Oh, I’m certainly glad about that, ahah.
Ha, right… so what do you do?
I’m a sushiwoman.
I’m specifically in charge of preparing Fugu. It’s this pufferfish that is served as a delicacy of sorts, and normally only the highest-ranked restaurants in town have it. You have to be really careful when you prepare Fugu, because people normally want to eat the fish’s liver.
The liver?
Yes, most people agree it’s the best part of the fish. But it’s also the most toxic. So they have me remove this tetrodotoxin and the viscera from it so that we can serve it as sashimi.
Oh, wow. How toxic is it?
Let’s just say that some people agree it’s even worse than cyanide. It can paralyze muscles that are indispensible for breathing. But some also say that, with the right quantity, a person can fake their own death by injecting the toxin, or even use it as torture to completely immobilize another person’s body while their brain remains fully active.
I have to be completely informed about these things. After all, it is my job.
Oh yeah, of course.

The Port did not take long to arrive.

Oh, great, thank you!
Have you had the opportunity to take a look at the main courses?
Well, I’m afraid we got lost in conversation here, ahah.
If you’d like, I can tell you what specials our head chef is preparing tonight.
Oh, lovely!
Well, as long as there is something dairy-free on the menu…
Lactose intolerant, sir?
I’m afraid so, yes.
We have Caribbean curry tonight. It’s chicken drumsticks and beans, along with white rice and small vegetables like carrots and spinach, all with some excellent, sweet curry on top.
Huh… sounds great, yes.
And the lady?
Do you have steak?
Of course. How do you like it?
Rare. Bloodied, even.

The Maître D’ walked away.

I am a carnivore.

She cheered until he sipped the wine down his gullet and applauded in the end. She had some herself and urged him to have some more. It was almost exotic for him, a taste that was sweet and intoxicating at once. Even before their dishes arrived, an ever so slight haze blurred his vision and he felt himself letting go of his fears little by little, opening up to this stranger who seemed to be getting more alluring by the sip. He could feel the pores of his skin open up and his breath get warmer, the colors of the world brightening and swirling like a kaleidoscope. He laughed whole-heartedly until he spat half-bitten chunks of his curry-dressed chicken without too much embarrassment, and before he even noticed, another Port bottle stood on their table at her request. She kept pouring it into his glass. He couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun, and that was because he never did.

The man would be hard-pressed to say he learned anything much about her during dinner. All information disclosed by her that evening between mouthfuls of her bloodied steak paled next to her most confessional and sordid stories of things he had only fantasized about in the privacy of his small studio apartment. She seemed to be getting closer and her voice getting lower in volume as the stories piled on one after another, and his blood circulated freely down to his groin. He knew he was leaning closer to her as well. Their dessert was some cake he honestly couldn’t care about by now. She still ordered malt scotch whiskey to cap things off spectacularly, and as soon as they swallowed the first glass, she confessed her tastes to him, her desires, what got her off under the sheets and what unfulfilled fantasies no one had managed to satisfy yet. Her salacious confessions were whispered in a husky tone into his ear, with one hand hidden by the tablecloth on his lap, slowly sliding down and eventually meeting and caressing his hard-on. This had never happened to him. He tried to keep his cool.

I think we should get out of here.
Me too.

They paid the bill quickly and left. There was no time to waste on clichéd activities like bowling and dancing. They had a dance number of their own ahead of them. They got a cab and giggled like schoolgirls the whole way to his apartment, the alcohol flowing freely in their bloodstream, even more so for him who was inexperienced. On the backseat, she kept teasing him with her fingers between his legs. The last time someone had done that… no, he didn’t want to remember.

They took the elevator up to his floor and she was already all over him. She threw herself at him as soon as the elevator’s door closed behind her, and he didn’t exactly refuse the unsubtle advance. When it stopped on his floor, they rushed with their arms wrapped up in one another to his door, which he struggled to unlock with his trembling hands.

As soon as he did, he stumbled arrhythmically into his bedroom as her grip held on tightly to his tie, and… well, you know the rest. This, for the uninitiated, is what we call “in medias res”.

She fell with her back on his bed and pushed him down by the tie to fall on top of her. It was like she had known his bed for years. Soon enough, his glasses were gone and his hair was a mess, whatever was left over of his product on his head causing his hair to look like a multidimensional portal for converging, raging seas. She was quick to establish herself as the dominant force even in his lair, moving him over and positioning herself on top of him, removing her sweater with feline agility. The way he looked at her let her know he was completely bewitched.

As she began unzipping his pants, he opened the top drawer of his nightstand to remove a freshly bought condom pack of 12 he had awkwardly bought in a nearby convenience store. Unsure of what to go for, he took the unselfish route and chose “Mutual Climax” as the gentleman he was. The silicone lubricant with benzocaine seemed like a prospective ally, unlike the plastic casing around the package he was now struggling with to an embarrassing degree. He told himself that the alcohol had to be playing a part in this. She looked up and saw the frustration on his face.

Have you ever opened one of those? Don’t tell me you’re a virgin, honey.
Huh, no, not exactly…
She giggled.
Give it to me.

He thought she would find some kind of magic opening he had somehow missed around the pack, but instead he saw her sink her teeth into the plastic and rip it open like a feral creature. He wasn’t sure that was the right way to go about it, but it sure got the job done. She took a packet and gave him the rest.


As he placed the torn pack back into the drawer to close it, she intercepted his arm.

Wait, what’s that?
In your drawer. That, with a lock. Is that like a diary or something?
Oh, no, that’s nothing really.
You keep a diary in your early thirties? Are you kidding me? I have to read it!
No, seriously, it’s nothing much, I don’t even use it anymore, I just keep forgetting about putting it in the trash.
Oh, no, don’t come at me with excuses, I want to read it.
I don’t think we should.
Please baby, please!
I don’t think you want to read that.
You gotta have some seriously juicy stuff in there to buy a diary with a lock.

She pouted adorably. She knew how to get what she wanted.

Can’t you do that for me…? Please…?

What was he supposed to do now? He could either maintain the privacy of his thoughts, save himself from potential humiliation and risk ruining the night’s mood entirely, or he could be dangerously transparent, have an oddly intimate moment and perhaps fill this woman’s tank with extra libidinous fuel.

Ok. Can you get me my wallet?

She gave him a quick smile with her upper teeth softly biting on the left corner of her lip before she eagerly jumped from his bulge and got the wallet she remembered him throwing onto his desk as she pulled him by his tie when they entered the room. He carried the key with him at all times. This had to be interesting, to say the least. He asked her for the key, but he was hit with a counterproposal.

May I be the one to open it?
Please, baby, please!
Ok, sure.

He handed the diary to her, and she sat back on top of him and unlocked it with the tiny key. Inside, she found way more than just his daily thoughts. The diary, which was more like a notebook, was covered with cut-out pictures and collages of actresses, models and pornstars in their kinkiest and most revealing outfits and poses, often accompanied by graphic and lewd descriptions of his fantasies with them. She felt her breathing stop in surprise and amusement, looking at all of that flesh and compromising filth, while he helplessly placed his night and possibly even his reputation with his friends on the woman’s hands. But then again, the Port and the malt scotch whiskey definitely had a say in his predicament.

You are one dirty man.

He reverted back to that sheepish smile he had started the evening with.

Uh, wait, I like this one here. “I imagine her, innocent as she looks, tying me up in bed by my 4 limbs and leaving me a helpless victim, naked for her to do what she pleases. I imagine her making a toy out of me and abusing me at her own will. And I just lie in there and become her servant, a vessel for her desires. I want someone to have their way as they please with me again”. “Again”, what does that mean?

I also came prepared for tonight, just in case, you know.
Yeah, and I think it fits right in with this fantasy of yours.

She reached out to that black leather purse of hers and pulled four pairs of handcuffs out of it.

Why do you carry all of those in your purse?
Just relax.

She went ahead through the rest of the ritual, removing his glasses and placing them on his nightstand, unbuttoning his short-sleeved shirt and pulling out his pants and underwear, all the while teasing him with the dirtiest talk and suggestions his ears had ever come across, telling him the things she would do to him after she had him handcuffed. He felt like he was in heaven. He had forsaken the fears he let control him for the two decades that had led to that moment. His father’s hex did not apply to him.
His bed had four wooden poles in each corner and seemed to have been built for this very moment. He had just the right height too. She cuffed his wrists and ankles to each of the poles tightly and he pulled his limbs to no avail, confirming the strength of the bed’s wood to them.

Alright baby, how do you feel?
I’m alright.
Yeah? Ready to feel even better?
Do you know what is an aphrodisiac?
It will enhance everything. You won’t even believe how good it feels.

She again reached out to her purse and took out a syringe filled with a strange liquid.

Why do you carry that too?
His question went unanswered. She just told him to relax again and found his cephalic vein for intravenous injection. He felt a pinch of pain, but it was gone quickly. There there. She put the syringe away.
Aren’t you going to take that too?
I don’t need it.

She moved her head down between his legs and initiated oral sex. He had often wandered what it would really feel like, at least coming from a place of mutual consent, and remembered how he could relate to Bill Hicks’ bit about almost breaking his back trying to please himself and hoping that the removal of one vertebrae would be the next step in human evolution. But now he didn’t need it anymore. He felt the warm moisture of her mouth around his shaft working in nearly automated increments of speed, and found himself letting his head fall on his pillow and his eyes close. His breathing intensified and his subconscious began taking over without his permission. Soon enough, without noticing, he began mumbling:

Oh momma.

  It kept coming out as she worked him out faster and more intensely.


She could feel him burning up inside. She lifted her head and raised her body to begin riding him.

The… the co- condom…
                        No, that’s ok baby, I wanna feel you. I’ll get plan B tomorrow.

His slurred speech worried him. He could also tell that the rest of his body was not responding to his commands, and it wasn’t just the handcuffs either. His toes were not bending fully, his hips did not swing, his back was not arching. What sort of aphrodisiac had she injected him with?

Wh- why c-can’t… I spea-k… move…

Whatever muscles of his face could still move, they conveyed the shape of baffled horror. His voice was going and he was genuinely frightened.
In short, he was at someone’s mercy all over again.

I work with Fugu, remember?

He wanted out right now. Powerlessly, he watched her ride him with majestic fury, her back arched and her moaning mouth lifted to the ceiling with her eyes closed and her breasts bouncing. He should be enjoying this, but he wasn’t. He was horrified. It brought back those memories that had flashed and echoed faintly in his mind as he stumbled into his own bedroom. Her body type was similar to that of someone else he used to know. He could swear even her face was twisting into a familiar one. His sense of place and time were lost, as he felt himself reeling in those years and being taken back to his nest.

His lacrimal glands managed to produce only a single tear in each eye. She leaned forward as she continued riding him, her vagina clamped around his penis like a gargantuan cave that leads men into the depths of hell. She moved her hips more furiously, her head pressed forward, her right thumb rubbing on his left tear, his eyes petrified, and her smile was so disturbing it would send a shiver down his spine if anything else other than his penis was responsive to outside stimuli. Something really bad was about to happen. Something beyond his wildest nightmares.

She brought her lips up close to her left ear and whispered:

Momma’s gonna take good care of you.

She bit him on his upper lip and ripped the flesh out like an animal. Blood gushing out everywhere like Jackson Pollock on a tear. She fed on his raw flesh as she continued copulating harder and faster, devouring his cheeks one ferocious mouthful after another as the friction in her cunt built up to that mutual climax his pack of condoms had promised. The shock and the blood loss killed him soon enough while she kept on eating his face off.

With his blood dripping from her mouth, she sat straight on top of him, gasped for air and squealed as she came and orgasmed, feeling his body ejaculate his load in thin streams inside of her. Much like his father’s conception of him, he did so long after his heart stopped beating.

cabeça de um homem cortada em cima de uma mesa
Théodore Géricault – Head of a Guillotined Man, 1818