Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

“ No te reconoces? ” Raul whispered into César’s ear. “Don’t you recognise yourself?”

“César EL ACTOR!” Alonzo proclaimed.

Sabine jerked the wheels again. As César watched her the memory of the woman in the video from his childhood blurred into Sabine’s movements. His eyes felt like the camera, panning up the side of the wheelchair, to her arms, to her lap, where, to his surprise, he now saw a large erect penis that she was holding with one of her stern hands. This hand stroked the penis at a regular pace at first, then accelerated, faster and faster. César wanted to shut his eyes, to look away, but instead, like the camera lens, his eyelids opened wider and zoomed in closer to the fingers gripping down on to the bulging penis. Sabine’s hand yanked and yanked at the penis, as César’s eyes tried desperately to look away. Come on, come on, cripple… a man’s voice gritted in his head in the same tone as the porn from his childhood. His eyes slid up and down the penis with her hands. Come on cripple, get me off! He saw something inside that penis start to twitch as if it would ejaculate straight into his eyes. Just as the hand gave that penis one final stroke, César shut his eyes and screamed.

“TE MATO, PUTA!”

When César opened his eyes again, Sabine had rolled herself up to the door. She turned back to face César.

There was her brow.

There was her jaw.

There was her mouth.

Sabine’s face was flat and serene. “So… you want to kill me, César the actor?”

César bit on the inside of his lip.

“That’s what you would like to do, isn’t it…” Sabine continued in a gentle voice. “That’s why you want to help me upstairs… You want to show off a bit, isn’t that right… you want to kill me in front of Marcel, you want to impress your agent…”

César felt a wind blow across his cheek. He was nodding.

“Tell me, César the actor, how would you kill me…?”

César stuffed his hands into his pockets and pulled his shoulders in until he felt covered up.

“Idunno,” he mumbled.

“Come on, César, come on, tell me …”

“…Idunno. I dunno. like. choke you. maybe.”

“I see… And how would you choke me?”

“Idunno… with your own hands.”

“Oh. Interesting. And how would you do that?”

“Well… um… on the floor…”

“Mhm…”

“I could… maybe… on top of you. And you could be… under me. And I would hold your wrists against your chest, I guess. Like really tight. And, um… because your legs are… you wouldn’t be able to kick or… struggle… you know. You’d just jerk back and forth, like underneath me, but I’d be sitting on your stomach, and I’d be holding your arms down…”

“And where would Marcel be…”

“Marcel could be like, just sitting. At his desk. Like comfortable. Watching.”

“I see.” Sabine paused for a moment. “César, I have a personal question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you don’t find it too rude…”

“No, go ahead…”

“Well, I was just wondering: Would you rape me before or after you killed me?”

“…I du nno …” his voice cracked.

“Oh, come on now, César.”

César lowered his eyes.

“Would you rape me before… or after… you choked me to death with my own hands?”

César continued to look at his shoes.

“Let me help you, César the actor. Let’s think about this together, okay? Would you like to put your penis inside of me when I am still jerking around, or would you prefer that your penis enter a more limp, softer body?”

César felt his whole stomach tighten. He pulled one hand out of his pocket and wiped his nose, then stuffed that hand back into his pocket.

“You could, for example, flip me over, and spread my butt cheeks, and put the tip of your penis right up against my anus. It would be squeezed tightly shut, as I would be very frightened. But you could, of course, push your penis in, little by little. That space would be especially tight, so you’d really have to force your way inside. That could be quite nice, no? Pushing your hard penis deeper and deeper into my anus, as my butt cheeks squeeze together around the base because I am so frightened. Also, because you are ripping the tissue around my anus and this is hurting me, in addition to being frightened. But, for you, it must feel really nice, to push your penis into that warm, tight space… It would, wouldn’t it… It would feel really, really nice…”

César sniffed again. A drop hit his shoe.

“Stopit,” he mumbled.

“You’re an actor, aren’t you, César, hm? Isn’t that so? Well ACT, then, ACT, César, ACT!”

César couldn’t speak. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t even pull his hands out of his pockets to wipe the blood dripping from his nose. Then, beneath the tapping of the droplets of blood on his shoe, he heard a creaking sound. He lifted his head and saw Sabine with her back to him, shifting her position in the wheelchair. She was suddenly no longer concerned with him. Her arms were straightening out, as her hands gripped the arm rests. In one elegant gesture, both arms swiftly pushed Sabine up to her feet. She typed in the building’s entry code and stepped neatly over the metal door frame. The door thumped shut behind her and the empty wheelchair rolled back on to César’s feet.

César stood alone in the street. His pants felt tight. He took both hands out of his pockets and looked down. His penis was hard. Suddenly embarrassed, he darted his head around to see if there was anyone else in the street as he tried to adjust himself. No one, good. But as he looked back down, he saw that it had grown even bigger. It was bulging painfully against his zipper. He immediately hunched over himself, trying to hide it, to soften it, but could feel his erection continue to get harder and fatter. In his hunched position, he tugged at his pants, left, right, out, down, trying desperately to calm this thing down. But the more he twisted, the more it seemed to grow. Now he was afraid to look down. He could feel this hard-on ballooning out of him. His neck was straining. His cheeks were burning. César closed his eyes, begging to be relieved from it all. In his darkness, his arms and legs tangled, and he tripped and fell on to his knees. When his full weight hit the cement, César let out such a deep, pitting cry, that it echoed backwards through all his lived years and pinched his mother’s womb.

When César opened his eyes, a dark silhouette of a man stood before him. The man extended his black-leather-gloved hand towards César and César took it and stood up in one simple motion. The dark silhouette leaned in and kissed César on the lips.

The man then slid his woollen cheek against César’s and whispered into his boyish ear, “ Bravo, mi amor. ”

“Excuse me…”

“Yes?”

The Head Natasha stops her lesson and looks down at the crouching girl.

“Um… I was just wondering…”

“Yes…”

“…where does our pain go?”

She takes her arms off her knees, and sits up. Her kneecaps look like two putrid papayas.

“Well, that is a good question. You see, whatever hurts on your body is like a mass of cold water rising and breaking against a bunch of rocks, and you just have to remember that there’s someone up there with a paintbrush and easel, trying very hard to paint every droplet of that crash on to a canvas, so you can’t be moving around too much. If you stay still, he can finish the painting, and then it can be hung up in the Louvre.