This fictional story does not fall within the guidelines of a healthy Emotional sadomasochism dynamic.
Erasure
She was defiant, brazenly so. He watched her making dinner in a sleeveless shirt knowing she wore that shirt just to show off the tattoo she'd gotten that he told her she couldn't. He hadn't made a comment when she came home with the tattoo yesterday. He hadn't made a comment today either, but he knew she could feel his cold stare boring straight into her arm. They ate dinner in silence. After she tidied up the plates and got ready to do the dishes, he slipped in behind her. He reached around her and turned the water spigot off.
“I have something for you,” he breathed in her ear, “the dishes can wait. Follow me.” She glanced back at him slightly and he could almost taste the tension radiating from her muscles into the air. He walked upstairs to their bedroom with her in tow.
“Sit,” he instructed gesturing half-heartedly at the bed. She complied and fixed her stare at the floor. That was okay, he knew she'd face him soon enough. He walked to their master bathroom and returned with a syringe. “So, you remember my friend, Dave, right?” He asked.
“Dave the fat mechanic or Dave the biotech science nerd guy?” She asked. She shuffled on the bed a bit as if she already anticipated the answer and knew where this was going. She couldn't, though, he knew; no one would expect what was going to happen. He smiled down at her.
“The latter,” he said still smiling, “This is a suspension liquid full of the latest nanobots.” He tilted the syringe towards her for a second then prepped the needle. He squirted a thin thread of liquid into the nearby trash can on her side of the bed. “I told you I didn't want this tattoo and now, I'm afraid, I'm going to have to correct the situation.”
He watched her stiffen for a moment then grabbed her arm firmly and sunk the needle into the middle of her tattoo. He looked into her eyes as the needle emptied into her flesh. Her eyes watered and she clearly wanted to yank her arm away. She looked as if the words she wanted to scream at him confused and choked her. He smiled again, pulled the needle out, and patted her arm with his other hand while still holding onto her with his other. “Good girl,” he cooed.
“Another unfortunate thing, a side effect,” he said then paused dramatically, “The itching is intense as the nanobots undo the ink from the inside.” He patted her arm again, this time a bit harder so that it stung and he gripped her tighter with his other hand.
She looked up at him, a combination of an angry glare and absolute horror. He still had a firm hold on her arm. Then, abruptly, he let go of her and tossed the used syringe into the garbage. The sound of it hitting the bottom of the can seem to wake her up out of her compliant stupor. She began mumbling incoherently but definitely angrily and he spun around causing her to clam up immediately. He looked at her for a while, just staring through her.
“Oh, yeah, I also forgot the other side effect,” he said, “Dave warned me there's an ever so slight chance of the nanobots traveling into the blood. They can cross into the brain and start causing some minor damage. It's nothing to really worry about, the risk is just under 10%, and really the only damage might actually make you listen to instruction better. So, well, I see it more as a positive if anything at all.” He caressed her cheek and she recoiled. He left the room without another word.
She was up in the room by herself for a while. He had done the dishes and wiped off the table in her absence, including scouring the gravy pan. As he scrubbed that fucker clean, he imagined erasing her tattoo. He originally thought of taking a literal eraser to it. He knew it wasn't an effective approach, but damn, did the thought of how much it would hurt turn him on. He nodded to himself in thought, no, this choice had certainly been the best choice. He chuckled ever so softly then he heard her footsteps on the stairs.
She had sat still long enough for him to leave the room. She then tore the shirt from her body and ripped the thin material into a long strip. She formed a tourniquet around her arm just above the tattoo and a few inches above the injection site. Digging through her nightstand, she found a small pair of scissors but fumbled with them while she contemplated. She dropped them back into the drawer just as the intense itching started to take effect. Grabbing the scissors back up, she carefully scratched her arm longways with the blade, repeatedly. It didn't alleviate the itching and she could feel her heart pumping blood faster and faster. She pulled at the tourniquet to make sure it was as tight as it could possibly be.
Would she have to amputate her damn arm to stop the bots from digging into her brain? She got up and frantically looked around the room for other ideas. Then, she saw the lighter she kept near her favorite candle over on her vanity. Her face broadened with a huge smile. She grabbed it and began burning all over her tattoo and even outside the edges for good measure. It hurt like fuck but it was the option that offered the least amount of damage after all. She hissed in pain, quietly as to not alert him, as her flesh hissed. The disgusting smell of her arm hair burning almost stopped her as she felt she was going to vomit. However, she was determined to fry these little fuckers before they could erase more than just a dumb tattoo.
After she felt she had to have accomplished the mission, she set the lighter aside and looked at her arm in the mirror. Horrified, she looked away instantly. Her bicep looked like a bumpy asteroid. Big fat tears began to roll down her face as she released the tourniquet from her bicep, letting it fall to the ground without much thought. The itching had stopped. The bots were fried and harmless debris her body would eventually find a way to remove in time. She sighed and felt exhausted. She left the bedroom and stood at the head of the stairs listening to him washing dishes. When the water shut off, she composed herself and started downstairs. She was in pain but rather proud of herself. She beat him at his own game. She won. She smiled briefly but recomposed herself before entering the kitchen.
He looked over at her. His eyes instantly went to her arm rather than her shirtless body. There was a thick red indent above what used to be her tattoo- that tattoo was now just a bloody blotchy stinking mess complete with loose flaps of flesh threatening to fall off and disintegrate.
“What did you do?” He asked incredulously.
“I burned the bots to death,” she whispered, still proud of herself but also scared of his reaction at the same time.
“It was a fucking B12 shot!” He said angrily and toss the bawled up kitchen rag he had in his hand into the sink. “For fuck's sake!”
Her face fell. She maimed herself for nothing. That realization played across her face like a marquee stuck on repeat. She stood there with her mouth hanging open. She had no color left, the only color to her was her dark brown hair and the big ugly red patch of burn rot on her arm. He smirked at her suddenly.
“Well, that shot did end up getting rid of the tattoo regardless, huh?” He said in a stern tone. She blinked hard trying to keep the tears from coming back. She reeled on the inside, trying to comprehend, to process what the fuck just happened tonight. Did he know? Did he know this would happen or was the B12 shot just meant to terrify her for a short time in which then he'd fess up about its true nature? She tried to blurt out this question, but nothing really came out besides noise.
“I'm going to have to clean and bandage that, looks second degree,” he said tenderly taking her by the wrist to bring her in closer as he inspected the damage, “Good thing you didn't go much longer, that'd require surgery, you know.” He clucked his tongue every so many seconds as he examined her, but occasionally she'd catch him grinning ever so slightly.
“Did you-” were the only words she could finally manage to say and when she left the sentence hanging, he just smirked at her for a split second then he went back to looking at her arm. He glanced up from her arm with his eyes only and stared into hers in silence for what seemed a very long time. She hadn't won. She hadn't beat him at his game. One corner of her mouth began to twitch as if it wanted to smirk back at him. Her eyes hardened as she looked into his and he let go of her wrist. He smirked once more, just barely a second, and turned to go to the medicine cabinet. Was she imagining the smirks? Did he plan this? Was she losing her mind? She's unlikely to get these answers, she realized and sat down at the table; defeated.
He came towards her with his arms forming a bundle of first aid items. She reluctantly propped her arm up on the table. Then, she laid her head down on her left cheek, away from him and the injury. She exhaled loudly. She heard him rip open a box of some sort.
“Good girl,” he murmured as he began his work.
Disclaimer: This is fictional ffs. No masochists or other s-types were harmed in real life.
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