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Mercurial

Mercurial

Mercurial

A Short Story by Richard Trevellion

“Go on. Hit him. Slap him up a bit. He likes it. You like it don’t you Rod?” Jackson said, arms folded as moonlight cascaded over him.

“Re-really? Can I? Are you sure?” Met asked.

“Of course my boy go ahead. What you think Rod? How about it?”  Jackson allowed himself to break his normally stoic demeanour, relishing this time and grinned as he curled his fingers across the dome of Rod’s balding skull. Rod struggled towards the grip but his bound frame gave no leverage. He exhaled violently against the rubber tape spanning the length of his chapped lips. He sounded like a rabies stricken animal.

Met shuffled forwards on his knees towards Rod. He looked to his right and saw a mirror. It had a strong set gold frame. Bountiful fruit trailed the length of it. The glass was smooth. Glacial. The heat in the room was strong and the mirror looked like it could melt any second. Met pictured liquid glass slivering over an offering of gold grapes like mercurial cum.

In the mirror he saw himself. He was wearing boxer shorts and his erection was clear.  He was a tad underweight but smooth, his taut flesh rippled over developing musculature.  Jackson was standing by the bed. Close to Rod. Jackson’s body was thicker and hairy. Cleaved in all the right places and coiled with power. He was naked and his erection sagged slightly. It pressed languorous against the ragged purple cotton of the bed sheet.  

Rod could have been naked but Met didn’t know. Rod was wrapped in black rubber tape. He was like that when Met walked in the room with Jackson’s thick fingers over his eyes until the revelation of this bound man. Met’s birthday surprise. 

In the mirror Met could only see two exposed bits of Rog. His nostrils which he heard frantically sucking in air and his eyes. Eyes that emanated intensity. Hard as diamonds. They were looking at themselves in the mirror. Studying intently. Eye’s that Rod himself didn’t know. He looked like he enjoyed seeing himself like this. 

On the right of Met was a window. It was dark now. He hadn’t didn’t notice it come as he basked in this pleasure. Outside thick shards of moonlight punctured a gentle mist that draped the field. Met knew that field so well. It’s where they came on their honeymoon. Jackson and him. The converted barn cottage in the middle of Suffolk. There was no one for miles. 

Met had written some of his best stuff here. Stuff so enveloped in happiness and pure joy that still he had yet to impale the aura of warmth that surrounds it by actually reading them. The words seemed- in the sanctity of memory- like beautiful photon’s that to be observed would fundamentally change them. It was like Jackson embodied the words. Met was content with that. Every morning when they woke up together the words would be left there on his pillow like the imprint of head or rising off the steam of his morning coffee. Jackson didn’t even know they existed yet they orbited his existence like a satellite.

“Oh Jackson. I’m so happy we can do this. You are spoiling me.” Met said, giddy.

“Quiet Metty and get to it.” Jackson said as he playfully slapped the air in Met’s direction. Jackson felt freer than he ever had. Drunk on the buoyancy of his good deed and the good times ahead. You have no idea what you’ve got waiting little Met. This is only the start, he thought to himself.

Met shuffled further towards Rod and give him a firm slap in the jaw. The sound rang out against the nights silence.

“Oh Jackson I do love you.” Met said as he administered another firm hit to Rod’s face. The room was all moans and excited snuffles.

“Goood. Good Met.” Said Jackson.

Met gave Rod another slap, putting the weight of his palm into it. He looked right again at the mirror and watched his hand as it deftly swiped towards Rod’s face. He felt the sting and heard the wet slap of flesh on rubber. 

He examined the room. The light of the many lamps on in the room draped everything in a yellowish haze. There was the bed. The purple bed. It was holding him and Rod. Behind them was Jackson and behind him the window. The walls were beige. There was a short, white chest of draws underneath the window with a plump yellow pillow atop it for sitting. Met had sat there when he wrote the honeymoon poems. He remembered Jackson on the bed reading and the sunlight strewn all over his form like a luminous shower. How could I ever predict that they we would be back here? Doing this?

“Let’s begin!” Jackson Bellowed. Met noticed he had been gazing into the mirror the gaze of which he broke to renter reality. 

“We havn’t already?.”

“Strangle him.”

“Sttt-stra—?”

“Yes. Strangle Rod.” Jackson Interrupted.

‘Ok..I..I’ Met said as he eagerly enclosed his hands around Rod’s mouth and nose, feeling his own crotch surge with heat.

“Good! Good boy.”

Through his fingers, Met felt air pumping out of Rod’s nose. The tape covering his mouth bubbled desperately under Met’s palm. The rush of power eroded into guilt. Into reality. Met loosened his grip, letting air sluice through small gaps in his fingers.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” said Jackson as he moved towards both Met and Rod. Met loosened his grip further and Rod violently sucked in air through his nose sounding like a drowning cat. Jackson moved within inches of Met, coming parallel with his position on the bed.  Met felt a hard slap; yellow hot; a pain like the lamps in the room emitted. He was dazed for a second but he understood. He retightened his grip on Rod, ensuring not even a molecule of air could escape between his reddening fingers.

“Good. Good.” Jackson said. ‘One. Two. Three. Four’ he began to count listlessly.”Good boy. Five. Six.

Rod was growing visibly weaker. He no longer struggled and he had stopped trying to suck in air. How long has it been?  Thought Met.

“Should I let go now?” he said excited but cautious.

“No!” 

Met continued to hold onto the thing under his hands. This creature. Sweat was pouring from Rod’s exposed dermis. The thin strands of hair that pushed out from the rubber were soaked. 

Met noticed Jackson mouthing words silently.  Fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven. The seconds seemed to morph and distend. The room flexed and collapsed into grey film grain. Met was beginning to feel ill but his erection raged and a wet spot had formed where the tight fabric pressed the head against his thin thigh.

“Ok. Stop now. Let go. Let go of him” Jackson said and with an inlet of blood rushing behind his ear drums Met was once again in the room, feeling as though he had been shucked from a shell. He was drenched in the sweat, the yellow light staining him piss yellow. HIs teeth chattered and he could hardly will his fingers to let go of Rod’s face, but he did and Rod slumped backwards in his fettering. Met’s skin felt was chilled but his loins lashed with heat.

“What do we do?! He’s dead! He’s not breathing!” The word’s dashed to Met’s mouth before he could even think them. He looked back in the mirror and was disgusted at the excitement he felt. The middle class room with the naked men. The body slumped in silence. Jackson stoic and firm still.

Silence reigned.

“I can’t hear him breathing dont you care?” Met said fingering the tape around Rod’s mouth, removing it with difficulty and leaning to place his ear close to his airways.

“Step away from him. Step away.”  Jackson pushed Met to the other end of the bed and moistened his index finger, placing it under Rod’s nostrils. Met noticed the smell of the room. It was bestial, like the smell of a badger set.

“Ok..ok.  He is. He’s gon—”

“Dead?”

‘Yes Met. Dead.’ Jackson said quietly. “Fuck!” he roared disturbing some kind of bird that flashed black feathers past the window..

“Jesus.”

Met looked in the mirror from his new position and he saw nothing but Jackson. He was straightened. He looked strong and unperturbed. The light in the room looked darker. More Red. Their eyes met and Met felt as though his vision was being chewed by Jackson. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or animal desire. No one spoke for a straight five minutes but eventually Jackson looked away.

“I cant..What has happened? How? Can you tell me how it happened in detail? What was my face like? What was I doing?” Met said his voice quivering.

“We must deal with this first. I can’t alone. 

“You can. You’ve done this before haven't you?’ I cant do prison. I’ve made it this far.” Met spoke in panic but inside he was electric; he felt a rush unlike anything else he had ever experienced. He never touched drugs but he could only think about how this must be what cocaine is like. I did it. It was my hands. I actually ended a mans life tonight. The words felt so good in his brain, he wanted to mouth them but daren’t. 

“Grab his feet. The bathroom.” Jackson said, his voice like concrete.

“The bathroom? Why?”

“He needs to be in the bath.”

“Then we can think?”

“Then we can think. Grab his feet. I have his shoulders.” Met held tight onto Rod’s bound ankles and lifted in sync with Jackson. The rubber tape provided good purchase and the man’s frame was lightweight. Frail. It was almost like lifting something hollow. Like collecting shells on the beach. Childhood. The beautiful one impaled in the sand. Bubbles rising in the silt. Surely a hermit crab. Desperation to see something inside. But nothing. Empty and weightless. Cast back into the sea..

They waddled towards the en suite bathroom with the body. The awkward looseness of the limbs making themselves known despite the tape. Met saw the muscles in Jackson’s body gently tense. He noticed his penis. Harder than ever. He saw his own too. The same. Pressing tight against his boxer shorts. He felt guilt at himself. Their carefully cultivated image. The loving couple. Monogamous. Normal. He hated playing into such cliches but he knew he couldn’t control his penchants.

Jackson reversed through the threshold of the bathroom, careful not to bump Rod’s limp shoulders on the doorframe. Why shouldn’t we have a fun sex life? Plenty of straight couples do it. We aren’t responsible for perpetuating bigot stereotypes. They will always find a way.

“Ok. Lay him down. With care.” Said Jackson.

“With care? He’s fucking dead! He wont be feeling it.” Fucking dead; he repeated the words in his head.

They laid the body respectfully in the bath. It looked so absurd. This luxurious empty bath. All the nozzle jets like dried out barnacles in low tide. The body buoyant on nothing. Jackson walked back through to the bedroom and started to clothe himself while met stayed in the bathroom ruminating on the scene. So absurd.

“Im going to dig a hole outside. Put him in it.”  Jackson spoke as he walked back into the bathroom. He was fully dressed in black jeans and a black dress shirt. He was carrying his pair of boots and a balled up pair of black cotton socks. Met could still see an erection visibly displayed in the depths of the denim.

“Dig a hole? Are we safe? Does anyone know he is here?”

“No one.”

“Are you sure? He doesn’t have friends or relatives?”

“No one.”

‘No one?’

“I’ve known him for many years and I’ve known his life and it is not a life of friends and relatives. He will not be missed.”

“Known him for years? It’s been so long now Jackson. Don’t I deserve to know you properly? To know life before me? You said its better this way but this is something big. Something we share like never before. Its an insight into your past life. A Bridge. A connection to it. Its time to share Jackson. I want to know.”

“I’m going out there.” Jackson pointed through the threshold of the bathroom towards the sliver of window visible in the bedroom. “You stay.”

“But Jackson please.” Met groped on his knees towards Jackson but he was already gone. Met heard the front door crack shut and he was alone in a fug of stale sweat. He put his side against the porcelain and lolled an arm inside the bath. His fingertips brushed against the rubber that covered Rod’s head. He languished and several minutes passed. His mind was deluged in static. Out of the corner of his eye Rod seemed to jolt.

Met rose and walked to the bedroom. Naked still but for his boxers. He needed relief from all the harsh yellow lights in the room. He walked to each one and clicked them off. 

As the room darkened and the yellow subsided he felt like venom was being drawn from his flesh. The resulting blackness was comforting. A relief from the overwhelming emotions. The lust. Fear. Uncertainty. Everything was so straightforward in his life and he gorged on the chaos this evening was bringing. The education. The job. The husband. All threatened in a whimper of sexual excitement. 

Met walked over to the window and peered out. He saw Jackson emerge from a shed and disappear into the mist that had thickened over the field. The moon had disappeared behind fat clouds and the brightness of its light lulled. Met slid open the sash window and listened for sounds of Jackson. He heard digging. Grunting. Metal and stone. Dirt running into piles sounding like distant rain. Met was transfixed. He held the tip of his penis. Manipulating it vigorously. 

He heard a new sound and froze. The doorbell. Who could this be? The sound of digging continued oblivious. It wasn’t Jackson.

Met silently slipped on some lemon khaki’s and a loose white t-shirt. He closed the door and piled a knee high stack of luggage by the en suite bathroom entrance. Quietly he padded downstairs smelling the fresh potpourri at the base of the stairs.  He peered though the sophisticated peep hole and recoiled in silent horror. The police? Already? How could they know? The doorbell went again and met held his breath and watched the policeman shuffling impatiently and tiny in the shape of the peephole.  His high vis jacket shone like a tropical poisonous plant.

“I can feel your presence sir. Please open the door.”

Feel my precence? Bizzare turn of phrase. Met felt helpless without Jackson. Adrift on the moors. Met swung the door open with a breathy greeting. His arms spread wide, his pals facing the policemen and his fingers stretched out. I’m open. Nothing to hide. “Hello?”

“Yes hello sir I’ve got reports here of noise. Shouting and screaming, that kinda thing. Thought I’d come and check how you people are. Can I ask how many people are staying in the residence tonight?”

  Who would have heard? There is no one around for miles. 

Met felt like he was drowning. Who? Fuck! He strained to listen through the open door for sounds of digging but there was only the sound of wind jostling the long grass of the field. He mumbled out something approximating a number.

“Pardon? I couldn’t catch all of that?”

  Met examined the policeman. He seemed normal. Like a policeman should look. A shock of brown hair. Late thirties. Curated stubble. A bulk of equipment hanging off his belt.

“May I come in?” How many people are in the residence tonight sir?

Met stepped back slightly, closing his arms against his body. He felt his penis twitch in his boxers.  He noticed a push bike leaning outside against a lonely wooden post.

“Yes..It’s just me..Wait..One second..wait. Its me..and..did you see someone else outside?”

The policeman took a step forward over the threshold and immediately fell. He seemed to glide. He landed on the laminate floor in slow motion. Silently. His body heavily absorbing the energy of the fall. Jackson was standing just outside of the door frame holding a black cosh with no expression on his face.

“Where did you get that?”

“Take the ankles again.”

“Jackson I—”

“Take the fucking ankles!’”

Met hunched down as Jackson stepped forward and rolled over the body of the policeman. He took the arms and Met the ankles.  They took him upstairs with greater difficulty than they did Rod. They gently placed him on the bed. Viscous dead silence hung around them the entire time and Met’s intestines roiled with hot intensity. 

The lamps were still switched off and darkness bellowed around the room. The fat moon re-emerged from behind the thick clouds and fired a substantial bolt of pure white light over the body of policeman as he sank into the well used mattress. Jackson rushed off past Met towards the stairs and Met was alone with the unconscious or maybe dead man who he knelt down beside. 

One dead in the bathroom, one passed out on the bed. His penis visibly pulsated in his khakis, pressing firmly against the skirting of the bed. Jackson returned immediately, struggling with a black faux leather computer chair and a roll of duct tape.

“What are you doing?” Jackson said through gritted teeth. He strained and lumped the chair down in the space between the bed and the window, right next to where Met was kneeling. Met said nothing, continuing to stare at the peaceful moonlight soaked body that he drank in like wine. “Come and help. Get his waist.” 

“What are we doing? How did he know we were here there’s no one for miles?”

“Take the waist, now Met.”

Met stood up and took the policeman by the waist, forcing his fingers in the space between his lower back and the purple duvet. Jackson moved over and held the policeman’s shoulders in the same manner you would picking a bowling ball up with one hand, fingers all splayed.

“On three. One, two…” The men visibly strained and lumped the policeman into the waiting office chair. Met sat back on the bed and Jackson took the duct tape and aggressively tore off strips and gingerly placing them in strategic shackling positions, he began to sweat, his calm demeanour breaking at last. 

Met turned to his right and was once again drawn into the smooth surface of the mirror in which he saw Jackson busying himself with what, in that moment, seemed like the strangest task in the world. 

He looks so good in this light. The moon absorbed in the black cotton of his shirt. He shone with every movement. Jackson was now placing the policeman’s hands together and rolling the tape round and round at the wrists. He’s a pro. Met examined the gold frame surrounding the mirror. The frame looked sublime in the moonlight. Like the fruits had been laced in cream.

Finishing with the last wraps of tape around the policeman’s mouth, Jackson spoke. 

“Ok. Remove his trousers.”  Standing up straight. Whirled by the G force machine of sexual exuberance, Met was drowning. The speed. The vigour. Is this real? 

Met bent down without saying a word and unbuckled the policeman’s belt. It was black canvas webbing. Basic. The buckle functioned by the belt material passing through a thin letterbox gap with a wedge of metal that closed into the gap when buckled, firmly holding it in place.  With it removed the policeman’s trousers splayed open invitingly for Met. His buttons and fly were already open. The policeman’s boxers were black. Basic. Utilitarian. His penis lolled inside them. Met glanced up and Jackson wasn’t there.

“Jackson?”

“Trousers down?” Jackson said, his voice came faintly through the closed bathroom door along with a sound almost like a struggle. “Now the pants, Met. Take them off.” He said strained.

Met refocused his vision on the boxers in front of him and examined the way the policeman’s penis rolled into the crotch space. The folds of the curtain mechanism. The little cotton doorway that the policeman would piss through. Met imagined the policeman at the station urinals. Laughing and joking at the expense of arrestees. Making plans for the pub. Bemoaning the night shift. The paperwork. Did he have a semi?

All sorts of banging was taking place in the bathroom and then Jackson returned. Blustering. He was cupping two handfuls of water, which he gently spilled over the policeman’s face. The policeman started to wake, blinking; and Met froze.

“Get his cock out.” Jackson said while cupping the policeman’s cheek.   

A shiver ran through Met and his penis was full bore. The policeman made a whirring noise. Like a broken fan. He attempted to struggle and realised the futility. Met pushed his fingers through the cotton flaps of the boxers and met hardening flesh. Under Jackson’s stolid, moonlit watching figure Met struggled to release the policeman’s penis.

“Now take it in your mouth.”

Met’s body was a fiery hot bath and Jackon’s words were like dropping in a toaster. He physically shook as he took the flaccid member between his jaws, flicking his tongue across the head. Met closed his eyes in ecstasy and when he opened them Jackson was gone. He heard noises from the bathroom. Muffled grunts. Tearing of tape. Shuffling of material. The penis in his mouth was stiffening and he fell into this strange world of pleasure. 

In a technicolour porn haze he pulled out his own penis and began to stroke. Buffered by the sexual tension of the night he felt close to finishing immediately. He quickened the speed of his touch and bobbed his head on the penis. He looked up at the policeman and the way his eyes woozily hung in the gloom of the room. The policeman didn’t move now. Undoubtedly his spirit was broken by his shackles. This only catapulted Met further into his hypereal world of pleasure. 

Met heard more sounds from the bathroom. Creaks and the squat slaps of barefeet. He even maybe heard the laboured grumble of a car dopplering into the distance. They were all sounds made underwater in his psychosexual dream state. Sounds beamed in from another world.

Met’s orgasm was shattering. A juggernaut. Like he was firing a lifetime of pent up sexual emotion through the tip of his penis. As he resurfaced, panting into reality the world seemed tinged. Oblique. The terribly reality of the situation dawned all around him and he stood up, buttoned up his trousers and bludgeoned the policeman to death with the mirror wrenched off the wall. The sound bought Jackson rushing into the room.

Met was lying on the bed in blissed exhaustion yet he felt energy reigniting. Pieces of mirrored glass covered the floor and blood leaked onto the wood floor. The gilt frame still in tact but sterilised without the shimmering portal in its belly. 

Met sat up and surveyed the room as Jackson stood breathing heavily his face soaked in so much sweat. The moon was extinguished but the light in the room seemed taut. There was consistency in the darkness that made everything seem part of everything else. The window a painted canvas. Every object a sign, conceived and placed there by the human mind.  In the light reflection in the window Met smiled at himself. The punctum among the studium.

“Have you?—Is he dead?: Jackson’s voice wavered as he spoke. He stood standing silent shocked and waiting for a reply that never came. Met sensed the change in tone of the room and  longed for the return of the moonlight.

Met tried to catch Jackson’s eyes in the reflected gloaming. I know you’re looking. You did this for me. You made my wildest dreams come true. I knew you would. I love you and you’re perfect, he thought to himsel.f

“Ok ok. Errr. Erm. Good boy. Err.Now kneel down.” Jackson said his hands shaking violently. He seemed unsure of his words. Faultless intrepidness faulting.  Met did what he was told though. The act had bought him alive. Refracted. He knelt at Jackson’s feet and he noticed two of Jackson’s fingers tenderly touch the policeman’s throat. Jackson sighed deeply.

“Now get that cock out good boy.” Met obliged. “Now work it.”

Met felt two strong hands enclose his throat like so many times before. This was an old favourite. He tried to ignore how broken Jackson’s voice sounded. Like a child trying to be authoritative. He worked his cock back into hardness, defeating his usually monumental refractory period. “Ok that’s it. That’s it.”

Jackson’s hands enclosed tighter over Met’s mouth and Met experienced the familiar light headedness. The loss. The gain. The dizziness. The bubbling between his hips. The hands got tighter and tighter. Met burbled out sounds. Sounds of Pleasure. Then of Pain. Then of panic.

He let go of his penis and scrabbled for his neck, plying at individual fingers that wouldn’t relent.  He heard a voice above him. Way above. A voice from the sky. 

“You knew of my past. You knew I’ve done dark things. For money. For necessity.” Jackson said, his voice booming through Met’s dizziness like a hallucinatory deity. “I knew what you wanted. I know how they come together. I didn’t want that life anymore. You wanted it so badly. Ron is gone. I let him out the bathroom window. It was planned. The policeman is no policeman. He was paid. For you. You’ve fucked up badly but how could you know? You couldn’t. There is no going back now though. I can do this. I’ve done it alone. We couldn’t. I love you Met. I always did. From the day we met and I always will.”

Met felt muscles in his neck working zealously. His brain starved of oxygen. His limbs flayed wildly. Dizziness folded into black. Franticness into limpness. The blackness exploded into bright light. The ethereal sounds of Jackson sobbing unguarded sucked distantly into cosmic pure white fractals. And then everything was nothing.

Jackson cradled Met’s body in silence. The moon passed into clear sky and he was grateful for the light. The clarity. He thought back to the shallow grave he had started digging earlier. He knew then it was for Met but only for the rouse, for the surprise. “I never thought I would place you inside of it,” last words spoken through Jackson’s hot salty tears.

Music from Lane Shi

Music from Lane Shi

as the line moves along

as the line moves along