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Her eyes go to Landon, then back to me. It takes her another minute before it all comes together for her.
“No… Is this all because of earlier this week? All over fucking bag skating? You can’t fucking do this to people!” While she’sshouting, she stands and walks toward us as much as the chain will allow her.
“That’s where you are wrong. We can and we are. And this is so much bigger than just bag skates. You stole from us. You stole from us and then fucked us over. So now it’s our turn to fuck you over, Banksy.” Spitting the words out in her face. The audacity of this chick.
“I didn’t steal shit from you! What are you talking about?” Banks throws back at me.
“Don’t fucking lie to me. Don’t act stupid and innocent. I see you. We see you for exactly who you are.” Landon gets in her face, his hand grips her by the neck, over the collar.
With his hand still gripping her, he walks her back until her ankles hit the mattress edge. He pushes her down onto the bare mattress with some force, enough to where she bounces slightly before laying still. Banks’ chest is heaving. She’s scared and trying not to show it, but we can see right through this little girl in front of us.
Walking up behind them, I drop the bag and climb on top of her, sitting on her pelvis. As she wiggles beneath me, my warm blood travels south. She is so fucking hot at my mercy.
“In the bag you will find some handcuffs, pass them to me.” I instruct my brother. He wastes no time getting them out and passing them to me. I have Banksy’s tiny wrists held tightly in my hand, holding her arms over her head. Her breath tickles my skin as I wait for Landon to secure her.
He wraps the cold, shiny metal around one of her wrists, then the other. Squeezing them both tight until he is sure that she won’t slip out of them. Before I can even speak, he is back in the bag, pulling out two zip ties. He slips them in her cuffs and secures them through the chain attached to her collar, which he has made as tight as he can by bringing the excess slack toward us. This way her arms are stuck above her head, unable to move.
Satisfied that she’s secure, I let go of her slowly, my fingers trail down her exposed body and goosebumps form, “This shit gets you off, doesn’t it Banksy?”
The bag rustles some more, holding my hand out and not breaking eye contact with her, “Pass me it.”
He does so without hesitation and places the handle in my palm. Wrapping my fingers around it, my focus now is Banksy and her reaction.
“No, no, no!” she screams, her face is flushed red and her hips buck against me, trying to get me off of her.
“Bro, where the fuck did you get one of these?” Landon’s voice is a mixture of shock and impressed.
“Banksy, do you know what this is?” I ask her while holding it up to her, examining as the light glares off the reflective stainless steel.
“You don’t want to do this. Please, no, don't do this.” She whimpers under me.
“Oh, I very much want to do this. Don’t let my charismatic personality fool you. They call me the Spawn of Satan for a fucking reason.” A large grin forms on my face. “Landon, hold her legs down, I need her to stay still for this shit.”
I feel the bed dip behind me as he positions himself.
“This, Banksy, is a skin graft machine. Some people I know were able to get their hands on this for me. It was freshly acquired for us today, so don’t worry it’s sterile. Well, as much as it can be in that bag. You are the first one to use it and we start today.” I smile at her, and turn it on. The buzzing sound of the machine fills the room as it vibrates slightly in my hand. Banksy continues to squirm under me. Which does nothing to help the hard on I have been battling since straddling her.
I’ve let my brother tattoo me a few times, but never the ribs. He always says the people he ink’s there can barely take it, a few have even tapped out.
Naturally, that’s the first place I go on her petite frame. The grafter will only take a thin layer of skin off of her with each stroke of it against her body. There are settings for different thicknesses, which I can control. Today, we are only going with the thinnest option.
Touching the machine to her skin, she screams loudly into the empty space, as the sharp blade begins to cut at her soft, delicate skin. Slowly, I move it down the side of her body, smiling in satisfaction. I am absolutely entranced. As I finish my first graft, I look back at my brother, “Shove your sock in her mouth, we can’t have people hearing her.”
Landon gets up taking one of his socks off, rolling it in a ball and shoving it in her mouth, stopping her moans and wails of pain. Tears stream down her cheeks and her face is beet red.
Once he is done, he moves back to hold her legs down behind me. The machine is still buzzing as I go in again, taking another graft from the thin skin covering her ribs. At least now her howls are muffled and I can concentrate better as I begin grafting another thin piece of skin off of her. Another rectangular patch begins to show, tiny spots of red blood fill the area. What I am taking is thin enough that blood doesn’t come pouring out with each cut. Raising the machine off of her, I leave that piece of skin with the other on her stomach. Shit’s kind of gross, even for me. The ultra-thin, almost translucent skin reminds me of when a sunburn begins to peel.
Banks is still trying to fight it and the tears continue to roll down her cheeks. Her face has gone from bright red to white as a sheet.
Noticing her change in complexion, I probably don’t have much time before she passes out. We can’t have that. She will feel the pain. The agony.
You don’t steal from us. You don’t fuck with us.
Placing the machine back up to her skin, I pull one more graft before putting her out of her misery. Again she screams, her body moves trying to escape the pain. The attention needed to do this and the extreme focus calms me. It’s sort of like hockey. Keep your head up, never lose sight of the puck. The moment you put your head down, you are fucked. This is completely different, but also the same. Keeping my head up and never losing sight or control of what I’m doing. This shouldn’t be as relaxing but it is. With each pull I feel satisfied with what I have done. Like people who have the uncontrollable need to press buttons. The release of serotonin gives us the feeling of complete satisfaction.
Maybe this is why dad did what he did, his extreme control. His incessant need to watch everything. Know all. Be everywhere without actually being there. Could this be the same effect it had on him?
Fuck that. I am not thinking about that fucker while I am here enjoying myself. While my dick is hard rubbing against Banks, practically naked, chained and at my mercy. This image will be engraved in my brain for years to come. It’s fucking stunning.
