Now, Fuck my Face!

My breath hitched. This wasn‘t a series of disconnected encounters. This was a consortium. A collective. "Each of us has worked with you," Julian continued, gesturing to the others. "The doctor diagnosed your condition. The librarian settled your debts. The chef found your flavor. The fireman... well, he just needed to bleed the line." He smiled, a thin, cruel thing. "But our individual... tutorials... were merely preliminary sketches. Today, we begin the final piece. The magnum opus." Chef Laurent stepped forward, his knife-like gaze stripping me bare. "You‘ve learned individual tastes, but you have yet to appreciate the full menu. The complexity of a dish is not in one ingredient, but in how they all... come together." The firefighter grunted in agreement. "Pressure isn‘t just about one burst. It‘s about the cumulative force. The total system load." Julian walked around me, his appraising gaze like a physical touch. "We are going to create you. We are going to paint you, sculpt you, write our story on your body. You are no longer the muse. You are the medium. And you will be... cooperative." He stopped in front of me, so close I could feel the heat from his body.