January 4th, 2005

Mask

Pakistani Steel

Acid tossed Diva on the bed and fell on top of her, pinning her limbs to the velvet cushions. He turned the blade around in his hand and slapped her across the face, the hilt knocking her teeth. A rosy mark swelled on her cheek. Diva licked the corner of her lip, where a few droplets of blood were slipping from her mouth to curl artfully around her chin. She moaned.




“Mm, brother, you’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Her smile burned his stomach. Acid flipped the hilt in his hand and held the blade to her throat.

“Bitch.”

“Is that Pakistani steel?” Her eyes were playful. Acid pressed the knife harder, a pink line appearing along the blade.

“Brutes. Psychopaths. Mad dog killers. But that's how others have described them. What I'm curious is; how would you describe our family tree, dear sister?” Diva squirmed underneath him, her bare flesh gliding along his thigh.

“Wolves, dear brother. Our family is a group of wolves, and you, sweet Acid, are the unfortunate white sheep.” Diva sighed and arched her back seductively. Acid grimaced.

“Sheep don’t kill.” Diva frowned, just for a moment, her façade fallen.

“No.” she said. “They don’t.” The kick to his groin was performed with such force that it sent him spiraling into the headboard. The pain was white and wet.

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