He increased the pressure. It still felt good. And he couldn't control it. Like a young bridegroom who had just come out through the door. Or someone running. Down the paved streets, the brick lanes, a kite in front of him, he chasing the kite, never looking who he bumped into.

He had never felt so free in his life. He wasn't answerable to anybody now. He was finally doing something which gave him pleasure. Him. Not others. Not his family, friends, lover, no one. Just him.

He pressed the blade. 'He'? He wondered. Who was pressing it? A part of him told him not to go on. The rational part -- he thought with a sneer. The part that told him to guard his correspondences, use euphemisms, be diplomatic. Oh yes, he was diplomatic. To the point of obscurity. Everyone said so. He had fooled so many, Even himself -- how cliched.

The sudden sharp pain jolted him back. Who was he? Who was inserting the blade? He was fair, exceptionally fair. So for this occasion he had specially chosen a black satin sleeve. His red lips. Ya, he looked good. But who was he? Someone was pressing him on. Asking him to find out more. To know -- what if? What if he went on? How much could he go?

~~scio.