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helena bonham carter (as marla singer) request m/f

Marquis De Sade

1st Level Blue Feather
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All around the both of us, right above our heads, there’s the sound of spiteful angels taking aim and firing their machine guns at the rusted sheet metal of what Tyler calls a roof.

Looking up at him like this, from where I am right now, because of the weather outside, it just really must be the artificial white glow of a rock-shattered streetlamp that makes me fall in lust with him.

In Northern Siberia, Tyler explains, there’s the Natruu tribe. He says what they do as a rite of passage is they carve symbols into their own bodies. Carving with a knife until they draw blood.

From the basement of where Tyler calls home, there’s the just-showered scent-cocktail of coconut lime seeping up through the damp floorboards and embedding itself in the peeling wallpaper upstairs.

He tells me, “Each symbol has meaning.”

This is 5123 Paper Street. This is in just one of seven bedrooms we’re in right now.

Tyler says, “The symbol of a bird, a carved outline of the animal into your chest represents freedom.”

Tyler straddles my waist. Looking up at him like this, from where I am right now, I can count the ripples etched into his stomach.

One. Two.

After any picture is cut into your flesh – a bird, dog, a rabbit, what all the elders do is send you off into wherever.

Tyler says, “The Aboriginals of Australia call this Walkabout.”

Tyler says, “The monks of Nepal call this Ten Days of Silence.”

He says, “You’re cast into the unknown for however long it takes until you find yourself.”

Three. Four.

What the carving of a dog means is you’ll grow up and be a good father. You’ll be loyal. A good hunter, gatherer and provider for your family.”

Five.

He tells me after the wound heals you return to your village and there isn’t a single teacher in any region of the world that could teach you more about yourself than the knowledge you gain on your own.

Tyler, straddling my waist on what he calls a box spring mattress, he pulls, stretches and snaps a single yellow rubber kitchen glove over his right hand and tells me how there’s really just three basic steps to every tribe’s rite of passage.

Six.

Tyler bites down on the very tip of his rubbered first finger and he pulls his head back. The rubber finger stretches, stretches until it finally snaps clean off.

He says, “No matter what tribe, group, whatever. There’s always some kind of ritual.”

Tyler wiggles the tip his exposed first finger through the hole in his glove and does the same to his rubbered third finger.

Stretching. Pulling. It snaps right off again. All around us, coming from the basement, there’s the faint smell of shea butter.

Tyler licks his lips. Tells me, “Why anybody anywhere from any group goes through a rite of passage of any kind, it’s just always to find out in the end what they’re really made of.”

Like a shaved-headed space monkey.

Like the little army of Tyler’s below us dressed in all black making pink bars of soap in rusted vats of fatty acids.

In every room lingers the invisible aroma of chamomile and green tea extracts.

Tyler, sitting on top of me straddling my hips, he leans down and he asks, “What’s your Power Animal?”

I open my mouth to answer but it’s all too sudden.

Tyler’s fists grip tight the left and right side of what I’m wearing and the buttons pop and fly off one by one all at once in every direction around us, like a water fountain of clasps splattering all over what Tyler calls a bedroom.

I grasp his wrists. Tyler snaps his arms away, smirking at me. Tyler straddling my hips as I begin to squirm, he says, “Tonight will be a rite of passage for you.”

He says, “Your very own Walkabout.”

I squirm a little harder underneath him after that, my legs kicking at the bed sheets behind him, my hands frantically pounding against his chest until he grabs my wrists and pins my arms at my sides. I try and fight. I struggle. It’s no use.

Tyler waits until I calm down again. Until I feel there’s no danger. I relax in his grip. He lets go.

Tyler sits up straight, still straddling my waist and reaches into the pocket of his open, unbelted oversized white cotton bathrobe. He pulls out a little see-thru plastic baggy with what looks like a clear fluid inside and says, “This is what soap looks like before its soap.”

He nods his head at me, tells me, orders me to unbuckle my bra. I take in a breath, prop myself up and do as I’m told.

I am Jane’s Curiosity.

Tyler says, unzipping the little baggy, “This is soap minus a few key ingredients.”

I would repeat the chemicals here but there’s just no way to pronounce tocopheryl ethylhexlglycerin without sounding like a pretentious bitch.

Tyler takes my bra, twirls it around his finger saying how fashion has always been a form of ritual in itself.

What we’re made up of, in the end, he explains, is how much padding we wear to attract a mate of the opposite sex.

How small a pair of high heels.

How big is your belt buckle. How small is your shirt to make your arms look bigger. How expensive is your hair product before you find that just right combination of equal parts glyceryl, butylenes and steareth for that holding effect.

He says, pushing me down hard against the bed on my back again, “This will a test to see what you’re really made of.”

There’s no real warning as Tyler suddenly empties the wet contents of the plastic baggy all over me. Dripping, slopping all over my upper exposed body, and leaving me shivering and cold, lying underneath him, trying to get back up again without much success.

Tyler grabs a hold of my wrists with his one ungloved hand, pulling my arms up above me. High enough to stretch me out. The middle of my back raised up off what Tyler calls a bed.

My legs kick behind him, kicking at the bed sheets and Tyler says, “Do we do this the hard way, or the easy way?”

I ask him, venom in my tone, still struggling, “What’s the hard way?”

Tyler says, “I’m sure there’s plenty in the house to tie you down with starting with my bathrobe belt.”

My chest rises and falls with each breath. I never take my eyes off of him. Tyler’s grip around my wrists is tight.

I am Jane’s Inner Submissive.

I give in. Relax. Or at least try to. Whatever rite of passage voodoo whatever Tyler’s going on about has gotten me intrigued enough to see where this is going.

Tyler, still holding my wrists tight and high above my head and leaning over me, he takes his gloved free hand and runs his exposed finger, his index finger, in a clean, sprawling figure eight beginning from my left collar bone and running across to my right one, moving down, around the left curve of my breast back up to my right, down my side, across my stomach, into the hollow of my torso around my belly button, back up my stomach and rests his finger against my lips.

He says, “Missing some ingredients, soap just isn’t market ready. It doesn’t clean how it’s supposed to.”

My lips begin to tingle. My breathing getting faster. My chest rises and falls higher, lower, faster, stronger.

My body begins to squirm.

Tyler removes his finger from my lips and this time uses his gloved rubber finger, his second gloved fingertip, to trace the exact same pattern left behind in the thick liquid goop all over me. The exact same figure eight.

He says, “Minus a few chemicals here and there, and maybe over here, what you have left cleans you in a whole other way.”

My skin begins to ripple, goose bumps all over me. In a figure eight pattern. Where his finger is.

Where his finger is now.

My collar bones.

My stomach.

My belly button.

Where his gloved fingertip runs up my side, my right side, I jerk my body up underneath him and bite my lip.

What this feels like is a long string of slow low voltage electricity beginning at his fingertip and following the pattern he traces all across my upper body. His fingertip moving, flowing across my exposed skin like he were painting me into real life.

This is how it cleans me. Gets down to my soul. Tells me that nothing else matters really except how I feel.

Tyler says, smirking at the expression scrunched up on my face, “Just let go.”

I am Jane’s Stubborn Little Girl.

I squeeze my eyes, grit my teeth and twist from side to side. I feel what he’s doing to me, what the liquid is doing to my skin.

Some kind of chemical reaction.

Tyler says, “I know you can feel this Marla. Every little everything.”

I groan. I thrust my body up and down beneath him. Try to escape. The grip around my wrists isn’t tight enough to bruise but I can’t escape and can’t avoid this...

Damn.

Tickling.

Tyler says, “A well made kitchen glove comes with ridges on the tips of each finger so you won’t drop your dishes.”

His rubber gloved and ungloved fingers scuttle just lightly and quickly underneath the skin of my ribcage. This makes me buck violently beneath his weight.

My legs kicking, kicking at what’s left of the bed sheets.

I let out another groan. Louder, angrier than the last one.

I am Jane’s Unwillingness To Give Up Control.

Tyler says, “You can feel the ridges. These fake rubber fingerprints. I know you can.”

Tyler’s right. Every damn stamped rubber swirl pattern drives me crazy. The switch between his own fingerprints and the rubber fingertips make me want to...

Laugh.

And I let it out in little spurts.

Little titters. Finding their way out from between my grinding teeth. I giggle.

I. Snicker. This, all this letting go, this is all new to me. Too new for me.

I shake my head. No. I try and lift myself up off the bed even further but my arms are held up too high for it to be comfortable and so back down again against the bed I come crashing. Then back up again. I fall back down. Then up. I kick my legs hissing, “Tyler sssssstop. Ssssstop it you’re ttttttickling me.”

I whack Tyler’s back with my heels. He says, “Don’t make me pour this into your heels and keep them strapped onto your feet because I will.”

Another, deeper groan.

I think of something, anything. To try and make it stop.

I am Jane’s Much Needed Distraction.

Tyler says, tickling my ribs, the chemical sizzling all over my bared skin in every pattern his fingers leave behind them, “Marla. Just let go.”

Nooooo. Noooo.

I laugh. I laugh more. Louder. I start really laughing now. Fuck what my Power Animal might be. This is deeper than any meditation. This is more meaningful than Ten Days of Silence.

I am Jane’s Rage For Not Doing This Sooner.

For not allowing myself to feel. To let go.

My body reacts beyond my control now. I lift myself up, arching my back again so my weight is on the top of my head. I open my mouth and let it all out.

In every room, even the basement, my laughing gives the sound of Mother Nature a run for her money.

Outside it’s multiple choice between what might be rain, hail stones or what the end of the world might sound like smashing against what’s left of the roof.

Inside, it’s me emptying what’s left of me.

My body violently twisting, jerking up and down uncontrollably as I can feel Tyler’s fingers tickling my hips.

His fingers squeezing my sides. Tyler running his fingers, two at the same time – gloved and ungloved – all across the curves, dips and crevices of my bare upper body. The surface of my skin tingling right down to my nerves and making me shake.

Making me shudder.

Tyler scoops a palmful of the clear liquid up with his gloved hand and reaches up, slapping the flat of his hand smack into the hollow of my right underarm. My wrists still pinned above my head. My armpits fresh shaven and smooth and exposed.

I am Jane’s Vulnerability.

I try and struggle upwards, glaring at him, furiously shaking my head and cursing at him to PLEASE NO.

NO.

TYLER. NO.

Tyler smiles.

Tyler’s grip tightens around my wrists above me as I fight and reduce myself to pleading with him.

Tyler please.

I grovel.

I am Jane’s Cries For Mercy.

Tyler scratches at the very middle of the curve of my underarm. Marla he says. Just let go.

I lose myself. Drown out my own thoughts, hopes, fears and everything else that’s in my way of finding myself with laughter like I’ve never dared set free before.

Tyler doesn’t stop. He just tickles.

I twist my body, I pull and wrench at my gripped wrists. My legs kick and pound the springs of the mattress.

Tyler tickles.

I scream. I find my Power Animal.

Tyler doesn’t stop.

I lift my head, take in a breath and swallow.

Tyler switches armpits and tickles.

This is my own personal Walkabout. To find out what I’m really made of deep down inside.

Tyler carves his fingers from my right armpit down my side and digs back under my ribcage.

All around us, in every bedroom, it’s just me screaming.

Tyler says, “Wash. Rinse. Repeat.” And does the same with my left side.

I send clouds of feathers spraying up from either side of my head as I crash up and down against my pillow.

Tyler said according to the Natruu tribe of Siberia, the Northern area of Russia, birds represent freedom.

Tyler catches a feather with his gloved hand.

My eyes open wider than I’ve ever been able to see. I close my eyes. I try and throw him off of me.

I am Jane’s Unbridled Passion.

Tyler takes the feather and he brushes it against the parts of my skin free from clear liquid. The parts of my upper body that’ve dried. That are still on fire. Still tingle.

Mild chemical burn says Tyler. The effect will last but leave no trace of itself afterwards.

I shriek. I let go. I finally let go.

Tyler’s grip relaxes above me. Slowly, I pull my arms down and curl up into a ball.

I am Jane’s Uncontrollable Sobbing.

Tyler dismounts me. Lies down beside me.

Tyler lights up a cigarette. Tyler takes in a deep breath and breathes out smoke rings.

All around us, it’s just the sound of light rain.
 
I am no fan of Helena Bonham Carter and was never even a fan of her in Fight Club (one of my favourite movies.)

But I have to say, I love your writing. This latest piece is fantastic. I know you are a Palahniuk fan so probably love using his style but I am blown away by what you've done with this.

Awesome work - yet again. You set a very high benchmark my friend.
 
excellent creativity. it was like i was actually watching a scene from the movie.
 
very cool parody. the ryhthym of fight club is replicated perfectly. now I'm certain that Marquis is actually chuck pahlaniuk doing research for an upcoming novel on the tickling fetish.
 
Thanks everyone! Glad you all enjoyed this one. Like Suikoden said in his JJ sequel, it's always cool to know that other people enjoy what I consider a side hobby.

Suikoden: Thanks again mate. Eventually we're gonna run outta praise for each other's work and some of the other writers here. :bowing:

Ticklish Witch: :roflmao: That's the funniest (and probably most rewarding) comment I think I've gotten. I'm very, very happy you enjoyed it 'cause I kept you waiting so long and felt bad. You were pretty specific with your request so I'm glad it met your requirements. Hmmm...maybe we could print this chapter out and splice it into the book someplace. Make a better read really...

jj82277: Thanks! The comment above to Suikoden I'd direct at you as well.

Gluestick: :p
 
He says, “Don’t make me pour this into your heels and keep them strapped onto your feet because I will.”

*mental orgasm*

this is like my 50th time reading this same story over and over.
your the greatest! seriously! it was totally worth the wait!
 
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