TRY ME ON! New Fiction

        I’ve largely left off all other art forms, in favor of my first love, painting. Yet time and again, other muses barge in, and will not leave off until they’ve had their way with me. One such uncanny blend of the beautiful and bizarre has insisted that I write. I have surrendered half the evening to do so– (Happy now, intrusive muse?–) and may now return to my easel, where another example of disturbing attraction impatiently awaits. 
        Enjoy this tale, for the next muse who whispers such obscenities into my ear my find my flogger prints on her backside! (Not that such would necessarily dissuade…)
 
        From the Creatorium of Master Nick, September 2012

TRY ME ON!

         From the shop window, the mask smiled at Amy. It was made to cover the entire head, and resembled a character from an anime, though no particular one that she could place. Whatever the original context, it’s shining hair, sparkling eyes, and cheery expression seemed to summarize all that was missing from her life. The mask called to her. She went inside the shop.
The place was brightly colored. Music played from hidden speakers. Aside from a few novelty items, like the mask, most of the wares were fashionable clothes. It should have been a trendy spot, but it was virtually deserted. It must have been so for some time, as there was a fine film of dust on the floor. Only a lone shopkeeper bustled somewhere in the back. That was good. Amy was ordinarily a shy and serious girl, and felt a little silly coming in for such a frivolous item. Still, she couldn’t resist it.

         She picked the mask up from the window display. Something fluttered out, and down into the dust. It was a piece of paper bearing bold, cheery letters. She plucked it up, shook it off, and read.

TRY ME ON!

         She’d still feel foolish doing so, even in a mostly empty shop. She decided to use a changing room. She found one tucked away in the back. There were no customers here either, nor any attendant. Looking around, she caught just a glimpse of the shopkeeper’s back, disappearing into an office. Amy quietly closed herself into the changing room.
She took off her thick glasses and tried the mask. Despite its exaggerated size, it was a close fit. The opening stretched just enough for her head to squeeze through. Then it closed snugly around her neck, not a hair’s breadth below the jawline.
         There were cleverly hidden slits through which she could just see herself in the mirror. She could hardly believe that the gaily smiling girl looking back was her. It wasn’t really, but Amy sensed that it could be.
         Looking down– (She now had to bend her neck down to do it–) she found that her usual clothes looked frumpy beneath such a glamorous face. These, like all the other outfits that mama had bought for her, hid any trace of feminine curve. Amy turned, thinking to get something flashier from the shop, then found that she didn’t need to. Hanging right here on a peg was a hot pink bikini. It was the sort of garb that her mother would have called “shamefully small,” but mama wasn’t here.
         Amy stripped out of her clothes. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t face a mirror while undressing, for she always found herself ashamed over imaginary little flaws. This time, she regarded herself in a whole new light. In truth, the view was narrow and fuzzy, but peering at herself through the mask’s eyes gave her the forbidden perspectives of both voyeur and exhibitionist. Outside of her own bedroom, and the school locker room before she’d graduated, Amy had never worn anything more revealing than a modest one piece. This was thrilling. It almost seemed wrong to cover herself again, but the bikini didn’t leave too much to the imagination.
         The fit was perfect. Admiring her new self in the mirror, she turned this way and that, as music continued to play throughout the shop. She realized that she had begun to move in time with the rhythm. She had only attended two dances in high school, and spent each of these sitting in a chair with her back against a wall, looking with a mixture of longing and resentment at the revelers. She was a month away from starting at the local university, and had imagined that it would be no different. Now, in ways she’d not have dreamed possible, wearing the mask had freed her from herself.
         Emboldened, she wanted to show off. She’d never really been noticed before. Now she desired the gaze of more than just her own eyes, or even those of the mask. Let the whole world see! She was safe in her disguise. She could do anything.
         She could say anything. Better yet, she realized that she could express her most secret desires in writing, without revealing her true voice.
         She was starting to think like a mask.
         She fished her cell phone out from one of the pockets in her old, uninteresting outfit, and pulled paper and writing implements from her bag. She scarcely knew what she wrote. A part of her expressed concern about that, but this interior voice had grown suddenly quiet, almost inaudible.
         She set the phone’s camera to stream video. She waved to the world. She held up the notes, one after the other. Her old self insisted that she at least glance at these pages. She managed to do so, just long enough to see that her handwriting style had changed drastically between one and the next, but not long enough to read, without her glasses and through the mask’s eye-slits, whatever she had written.
         What did it matter? She could give a new name, flirt with random strangers, even tell people where she was, and invite them to join her. Amy’s mother had taught her that sexual desires were like an itch, and that one must summon the willpower not to scratch. Scratching an itch just made it worse, but wasn’t it satisfying! Amy had always secretly dreamed the sex would be doubly satisfying, or more, by some accounts. A few whispered confessions she’d heard sounded overwhelming. Now, at last, she felt more than ready. She could do anything with anyone!
         In the back of her mind, the voice of her mother screamed. Pregnancy! Disease!
         The mask assured Amy that she could mitigate such risks, if she insisted. A condom was a mask for the cock.
         And if the shopkeeper had a problem with such play in the changing room– Well, the mask could scratch that little itch too, one way or another.
         No!
         Amy shut the camera off. She did it on impulse. If she’d planned to, she didn’t think her fingers would obey the command.
         She tried to raise her hands again, to slip her thumbs under her jaw, and peel off the mask. This time, her fingers would not obey. They tugged instead at her bikini bottom, pulling the fabric higher and slightly askew, exposing more of one cheek.
         She struggled to regain control. Her hands twitched, shook, and finally began to rise. She tried to wedge her fingers under the edge of the mask. She couldn’t find it. She panicked, fearing that it had merged seamlessly with her skin. She scratched at her throat, but moved the mask not at all. Then one fingertip brushed the edge. It was almost imperceptible, like the end of a roll of neatly cut Scotch tape. One nail slipped into the groove, then her hands drifted away from her new face, and back down to the camera phone. Through the eye-slits, Amy helplessly watched them move. Her fingers once again sent video online.
         Her body performed, and the mask smiled. It was hot and hard to breathe, and still Amy danced. She gasped, and cried out for help, for the shopkeeper, for Mama. No sound escaped the mouth of the mask. Her mind was trapped, staring out in mute horror, as the mask remade her into an idol.

         Her videos went viral. Some were aroused by her scantly-clad dancing form. Others were disturbed the the mask’s large unblinking eyes, yet even this dread was, in its way, compelling. Emboldened by anonymity, many sent messages to their anime-masked idol. The mask’s human puppet fingers typed replies to some, particularly those who had never found healthy outlets for their appetites, those starved for contact of any kind. Meetings were arranged. Those who went to the meeting place, (a brightly colored but little-known shop,) found not their idol, but only a great deal of dust, and a mask, bearing a note.

TRY ME ON!

Master Nick Roberts © 2012

Return upon the morrow, my sinful subscribers,
for more of the beautiful and bizarre!
https://www.facebook.com/TheArtOfMasterNick

One Response to “TRY ME ON! New Fiction”

  1. Sue Swift/Suz deMello Says:

    Ni-ice…give me more!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: