Because He's Perfect

by Anna Edwards

  I take the length of rope and bind her to my metal headboard, winding the cord through the intricate design. She isn’t going anywhere soon, no matter how much she pleads. For the next two hours, she is mine to do with as I want.

  “This is so...unexpected,” she breathes, voice thick with lust, like her words are coated in it.

  Unexpected because I look shy and harmless, I’m the guy you ask to watch your bag while you nip to the loo. The one who offers you my umbrella in the pouring rain or gives up his last Rolo. They don’t realise what’s hidden beneath it all, they can’t see my conflict or my trauma. Pain is my constant companion, it helps me process, helps keep me centred. Pain is a feeling I understand, something I’ve come to crave.

  I unhook her bra and push it up over her perfect fake tits. She squirms, trying to move closer to me, offering up her body like I’m a god feasting at her alter. I cup one breast, squeezing gently before moving to pinch her nipple between my fingers. Leaning over her, I kiss her, but not where she expects. My lips find the faint scar on the underside of her breast, it’s barely noticeable as I press my mouth against her hot skin. I move my tongue slowly over the small mark, paying homage to her scar, her mark, her pain before trailing my tongue up to the taunt bud begging to be touched.

  I pull away and pull a nipple clamp from my box. She flashes me another grin as I attach one end, the rubber clamps cutting into the sensitive flesh. I give the interlinking chain a little tug, resulting in a low groan, before attaching the other one.

  Now that both my hands are free, I use them to tug down her fancy red panties. I see every inch of her in every surface, that glistening pussy telling me just how much she’s enjoying my touch despite the way my naked body looks. I grab a riding crop and run it over her slit, coating the leather with her juices. With the flick of my wrist and a light crack, I gently smack the crop against her cunt. She moves her hips, grinding against my sheets as she moans. Using my fingers, I massage the soft flesh, a nice red mark beginning to appear. My fingers find her clit, and I begin tracing lazy circles to distract from the stinging sensation. As her mewling noises get softer, I withdraw my fingers and whip her greedy pussy again, harder this time. The crop has caught her thighs, and crimson marks bloom quickly on her pale skin. There’s something about those marks that make me hard as fuck. I wanted to show restraint tonight, but I never expected her to be so responsive. I slide two fingers inside her, and her body tightens, begging to be fucked. I move my fingers in and out of her as my thumb teases her clit. Her body bucks as she begs for more, and that’s when I bring the crop down across her stomach, the smacking noise it makes as skin meets leather gives me a high I can’t describe.

  It’s only when I’ve whipped Trixie three more times and tears are beginning to form from the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure that I turn her over, ropes tightening as I do, and pull her hips so that she’s on her knees. I can feel her orgasm building as she begins to clench around my fingers, and that’s when I thrust into her. I move slowly, flexing my hips leisurely, determined to make this last. With a sharp thwack, I bring the crop down on her asscheek. Once. She pushes back against me, impaling herself further before moving against me. Twice. As she milks my cock, skin pink and purple from my lashes, she whispers my name over and over again, “Andrei, fuck. Andrei, ohhhh fuck,” like some sort of mantra. Third time. I bite down on my bottom lip, my own orgasm dangerously close as she grinds on me. Throwing the crop aside, I grab her hips, my fingers biting into her skin as I slam into her. Each thrust fills her as I fuck every thought from her pretty little head. From behind, I imagine she’s Olivia as she screams out my name and sends me over the edge.

  “Andrei…” she breathes as her own orgasm overwhelms her. My touch, the feel of me occupies every thought, every sensation while in my head I’m pretending she’s someone else. I roll over and catch my breath while she looks at me through heavily lidded eyes; desire is a hungry bitch, and she’s not done yet. I give her a moment before we start round two.

  When we’re finished and I’ve paid her, I escort her to the door. Outside my mirrored room, it’s hard to look at her, she’s seen my monstrous side. Traced my lines with her fingertips and tasted my sins. She tries to give me her card with her personal number on it, but I know I’ll never see her again. I don’t want to. My shame prevents me from ever going back to the same woman. I check my watch once again, it’s almost midnight. Time for bed before another day of trying to be invisible in the office.

  “Andrei, my computer is being slow again. Will you take a look at it, please?” Olivia leans over my desk partition, a small smile on her face.

  With cornflower blue eyes and golden soft curls framing her face, she’s a beauty. I’d spent hours staring at her face when she didn’t realise I was looking. It was symmetrical, her skin unblemished, and I’d yet to notice a single freckle or scar hidden away. She’s perfection, which is why I could never have her.

  I nod. Outside the comfort of my mirrored room, I was almost too shy to speak. I begin to pick at the skin around my nails—a nervous habit. I’m always tense around other people, always waiting for them to find my flaws and become aware of what a deformed, hideous creature I am. Sometimes, I would catch that moment, the realisation, the look as it dawns in their eyes what I am, and it made me angry. Angry and ashamed...I never asked to be this way.

  I begin biting the inside of my cheek nervously when I notice her staring at my hands. Time to switch up my nervous habits. All my life, I’d been afflicted, and for a while, I let it ruin everything, until three therapists back and group therapy, something clicked. If I wanted to have some sort of functioning life, I had to pretend to be normal. Pretend like I was blind to my monstrous side. That’s why I took this job, why I built the room, and why I chew my cheek or play with my fingers, because otherwise, I’d lose what was left of my sanity. Polite society doesn’t like to openly criticise flaws, so although I am always conscious of my scars, in public I try my best to ignore them, just like everyone else does. It’s just the look that keeps me teetering on the edge, because if I glance up and see it on their faces, I will lose the threads holding me together. If I can avoid that, I can make it through my day until I can get home, safe to my mirrors.

  “You’re a star!” she gushes as she reaches out and touches my arm.

  I force myself not to flinch, exhaling slowly as I give her a small shrug.

  “There’s a funfair in town, and I really want to go into the hall of mirrors and the ghost train. A group of us were thinking of going for a few drinks, then hitting the fair?”

  I never socialise, the pressure is too much. Group settings send my anxiety through the roof, and my ‘imagined illness’ takes over as I worry about every touch, every passing glance. Even the promise of all the mirrors doesn’t tempt me. Not enough to go, anyway.

  I shrug and give a small shake of my head before managing to croak out, “Not this time. Sorry.”

  I want to kick myself at how weak my voice is, how small and quiet I am. I know that in the safety of my own home I am nothing like this, but around other people, I must contain the animal inside me. I start playing with my fingers again. The skin peels so easily away from around my nail, the sharp pain keeping me grounded.

  Olivia looks at me with sad eyes, and for a moment, she looks like a China doll that I want to put in a box and keep on my shelf. She’s always kind to me, trying to talk to me in the office whenever we bump into each other, and I wish she wouldn’t. But then I’d miss her.

  “Andrei...” she whispers softly. “You can’t keep hiding away from everyone.”

  If only she knew the half of it.

  “I’m not. I have to work.” I cough awkwardly and get back to what I was doing, which was installing a new sound board into one of the manager’s laptops after he spilled his beer on it, probably too engrossed in his porn to pay attention. College girl porn, how original.

  “Okay, but next time?” She leaves it open like
a question, but I know I won’t go next time, nor the time after that. I’ve always been a loner. Displaced from everyone else around me, like I never quite fit in.

  It doesn’t matter how much I like Olivia, or how close I want to be to her, I can’t risk it. If she saw me for what I am, if she knew about my past, then she would run a mile away—like I wish I could, but there’s no escape. My past is too deeply ingrained despite the years of counselling. There are just some things I can’t relearn.

  I watch as she heads back to the others, a jerk named Brody and a woman called Jackie. Brody hates me, it’s like some laughable jock/nerd type dynamic that he keeps trying to shove down my throat. You can’t make fun of someone who refuses to engage, and that’s what pisses him off more. Jackie is a whole other kettle of fish, she wants to fuck me, a fact she made blatantly obvious when she propositioned me on my first day. I don’t shit where I eat, I’m not a fool.

  As Olivia reaches her desk, they look over, and Brody laughs. He may look like he’s found something funny, but the glare he gives me tells me otherwise. I don’t understand why though. Olivia isn’t mine, no matter how much I wish she was. She frowns at him, and he’s soon silent again. He reaches out and touches her arm as if he’s apologising, but she shrugs him off and throws an annoyed look my way. He’s an ass. She knows it. But he doesn’t seem to realise that she’s got him pegged, and so, he keeps trying his luck.

  I look away, breaking our eye contact as that fire creeps across my skin again, my anxiety setting in. Sometimes, this office is too much, my cubicle doesn’t hide me enough. I take my pencil, and using the tip, I count the lines on the back of my hand. I trace the silvery, raised lines. Four. Calm down, Andrei. Eight. You’re in work. Twelve. It’ll be over soon. Sixteen. I glance at the clock and see that it’s almost five p.m., five more minutes and everyone would be rushing for the door. Twenty. I exhale slowly, my body relaxing as I reach twenty-four.

  It’s like a bell has been rung, a silent chime that everyone can hear apart from me the second the clock strikes five. It’s always the same. When I look up from my desk at quarter past, the office is dead, and I’m the only one left. It doesn’t bother me, not like it used to. Being left in the dark is something I’m used to, something I need.

  In school, it was the same. I hid away, the library was my sanctuary until one day it wasn’t. I’d noticed girls watching me, giggling, and it sent my paranoia into a spiral. They seemed to think my broodiness was sexy, some sort of ploy, when all I wanted was to disappear. Back then, I was allowed to wear gloves, my scars not yet faded but instead dark pink, angry markers of my shame. I was also excused from swimming. They tried to fight my father on that one, but I simply stopped attending school, and they relented. The standoff lasted a month, but it was just another thing to add to my supposed allure. Brooding bad boy. They didn’t seem to see the fucked-up creature I was. My counsellor at the time said I should be flattered, I should revel in the attention, try to use it to understand that I wasn’t a monster. He was a knobhead. Instead, I told them my hobbies included killing cats, and they left me alone after that. I chuckle at that memory, the horrified looks on their faces.

  I engross myself back into my work, the entire system is due an upgrade this evening, and I have to oversee it to ensure our servers are working correctly. There is a simplicity with machines that human relationships don’t have. My desktop isn’t going to judge me. I know how it runs, how to fix it, and what to do to improve it. Some would say that fear kept me from forming meaningful relationships, fear of failing, of being judged, of not knowing how to act or what to say—but they would be wrong. It is self-preservation.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting, staring at the computer screen, watching the progress bar creep up, but the sound of a door closing jolts me from my peace. Olivia swans in, a huge grin on her face as she turns back on some of the lights. Her smart blouse and neat black trousers are gone, and instead, she’s wearing a flowy bohemian type dress and a denim jacket. She looks different outside of work, but also exactly how I pictured her. I blink, words caught in my throat. She pulls up a chair and sits in my cubicle with me; space is limited, so her leg is pressed up against mine as she wriggles in her seat before pulling out a bottle from her bag.

  “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “Since the mountain won’t come to Mohammed and all that.”

  She came here for me? Why? I fidget with my hands for a moment as she sighs softly and shakes the bottle again.

  I look at the light purple liquid inside suspiciously. “I don’t drink spirits.”

  She grins at me, “Ahhh, but this isn’t just any spirit. It’s violet gin. It’s like drinking sweets.”

  “You can’t—” I start, but she cuts me off.

  She laughs, it’s an almost musical sound. “Don’t be so literal all the time.”

  I live within walking distance of the office, another reason for choosing this job, and so, I take a sip from the bottle. It’s sickly sweet and almost makes my teeth ache, but she’s right, it tastes just like the sweets. She smiles again, the way her cheeks dimple make something in my stomach tighten. I want to be the one who makes her smile. The reason for that dimple appearing. I take another sip before handing the bottle back to her. We sit in silence for a few moments, and it takes me a minute or two to realise I’m not uncomfortable in her presence when it’s just the two of us.

  “Why are you here, O-Olivia?” I ask sheepishly. I’m curious, am I a novelty? Something she thinks she can fix?

  She tucks a golden strand behind her ear and bites her lip nervously before whispering, “Because every time I try to get close to you, you push me away.”

  I blink. What?

  “Why do you want to...be close to me?”

  Her lips twist into a smile, and there’s that dimple again. “Andrei, have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re hot. Like melt-the-polar-ice-caps hot.”

  I snort, she must be blind. Did she not see my scars? My marks of shame? I got these for being a bad child, for being a monster. I was brought into line, and in doing so, my inner ugliness became visible.

  She lets out a sigh as if she’s been carrying the weight of the world upon her shoulders. “And don’t get me started on the shy thing, I’ve always had a weakness for the damaged ones.” She laughs as she takes a giant gulp from the bottle. She leans in closer, and I inhale discreetly, she smells like cherry blossoms in the rain.

  She must have been drinking before she got here, I conclude, otherwise why would she be saying these things? Her words send a heat through me, not an unpleasant one like my anxiety, but more like a gentle warming. I say nothing, but I take the bottle from her outstretched hand, my fingers brushing against hers.

  I don’t know how we end up at the fair, my thoughts are all over the place as I realise I’m drunk. Too drunk. Bordering on the edge of control drunk. The main lights are all off as are the rides, but we follow the fairy lights strung up above our heads. What should be eerie, the silence, the blackness, the stillness of everything, is instead a comfort. Slipping my hand into hers, I drag her across the field. She giggles as we stumble about in the darkness, before reaching the hall of mirrors. The main entrance is locked, but I know of a secret hatch, a side entrance for emergency uses. I take a pen out of my pocket and use it to jimmy the flimsy door open.

  The hall of mirrors used to be my favourite place at the fair, something my therapy group tells me is normal for people with body dysmorphia. We can’t help but look at our monstrous selves. My obsession began when I lived with my father. It was like a compulsion, I needed to see my wrongdoings. Remember each one. Catalogue them, to remind me to be a better behaved son. They brought me comfort, and I felt reassured that I was in control, keeping my misdeeds in check. The mirror revealed the monster, but it also held it there, hence my need for my mirrored room. It is my prison. There, I am free.

  Giggling, she pulls me in, our reflections are shrouded in shadows, surrounding us. Sh
e runs off, and I give a chase, the combination of mirrors and alcohol giving me a buzz. It’s like Olivia has added fuel to a fire that already raged inside as I look for her, disoriented and distracted. I’m not watching myself like I usually do, instead, I’m waiting for her, hunting her down. A flash of denim to my right catches my eye, but a laugh from somewhere to the left has my senses going wild.

  It doesn’t take me long to find her, and when I do, I don’t think about it. I use my body to push her up against a mirrored wall, my lips claiming hers as if she is mine. She moans softly beneath me as she grinds her hips against mine. Olivia deepens the kiss, everything tasting like sweets and sugar. She is mine, I can’t deny that any longer. My hands tangle in her golden hair, and she feels so fucking good. I move my mouth along the column of her neck, biting and kissing as I trace the lines of her body with my lips. The groan she lets out as I drag my teeth gently over the sensitive skin of her collarbone is almost feral.

  I make the mistake of catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, and I see the creature I am. Hideous, hiding in darkness, taking advantage of a drunk woman. I step back suddenly, crushed by the fact that she is not mine. I do not deserve her. I slam my fist into the plastic mirror behind us, creating a crack in our reflections.

  “What? What’s wrong?” she asks, lust replaced with concern.

  “I...I can’t” I say, as she reaches out for me, and I move away.

  “That’s okay, we don’t have to rush into anything.” She’s speaking softly now, the way you would to a wounded creature.

  I feel shame fill me. Why can’t I be normal? Why can’t I allow myself to enjoy this? I slide to the floor, my back against a mirror. If she was a stranger, someone I was paying, there would be no issue. But this is Olivia. Olivia. Eyes like the ocean and a smile like sunshine. I say nothing as she sits on the floor beside me and places a hand on my leg.