[Repost from hausofgray.net]
Or Little Red Riding Hoodie & the Big Bad Wolf
I’ve spoken about conditioned reflexes before, quite extensively in fact. I’m not going to lecture you again on what they are or how they work. Instead I’m going to tell you how a certain boy became the perfectly trained and willing victim of a predator.
He was younger, you see. Innocent. That’s what really got me. I wanted that innocence. I wanted to take it and twist it and turn it into something dirty. I wanted to crush the fragile bones of his wrists into the wall and press up hard against him. I wanted to take. I wanted to steal. I wanted all of him. Everything he was. I wanted to break him, to ruin him.
I didn’t touch him. I bought him a present.
Lounging in the break room, lithe and lazy, a cherry lollipop caught between his teeth, he unwrapped my gift. It was his birthday, nineteen years old, whole life ahead of him and all of that. He pulled the plain red hoodie from the paper, beamed around the candy, thanked me and tried it on. Hood up, zipped halfway, it suited him and I told him so. Smiled at him. All sweetness and the chemical scent of cherries. And the game was on.
Six months of casual touches, swift smiles and lingering glances across the room. Six months of toying with my treat, but only when he wore that red hoodie. He wore it more and more, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not. And every time he did, I allowed a little more of my possessive nature to bleed into our interactions. Fingernails grazing the back of his neck, leaning in close; I could practically taste his interest, feel his desire growing in the quick, nervous thump of his pulse.
Slowly, gently, carefully I taught him how to be a victim. How to display submission in the bared line of his throat, the flicker of his eyelashes. I rewarded each display with the attention he craved. A year passed. I had time. I can wait forever when the prize is worth it. His red hoodie is battered now, frayed at the cuffs where he pulls his hands inside the sleeves, making himself nonthreatening. Playing the victim. It’s time.
The next time he wears it, I catch him in the courtyard. No words, just a look, and he backs himself up against the wall, letting me crowd him, accepting the knee pushed between his thighs, the rough tug at the back of his neck, and his eyes roll up and closed, a tiny desperate noise catching between his teeth as I lean in and bite. Claim. Take. And when I’m done, I leave him gasping, wrecked and disheveled; but his hood is still pulled up.
Two years, and he’s older, wiser, smarter. He’s funny and popular, a real lady-killer, confident and even a little arrogant sometimes. It makes me smile. Little Red is all grown up.
And when the gentle, hesitant knock comes at my door, I smile again, in no rush to answer. I know he won’t leave before I get there. And there he is, in his old red hoodie, a soft, nervous smile playing on his lips. His eyes flick up quickly, then down again. Asking without words. He knows his place.
He enters on his knees.