Meanwhile in a Parallel Universe

There is another world. Hadas Hinkis steps behind the camera for Erika Lust and lands us somewhere colder, brighter, cheaper. A man lies on a long white table, head bowed, arms locked at his sides. He isn't watching the scene. He is the scene. Two women circle him, silk pastel against bare skin. Their lingerie was sewn last week, maybe just for this. The first woman shoves a finger under his chin, forces his mouth open, and climbs on. She settles on him the way a cat claims a sun-warmed ledge. Every tilt of her hips knocks the table leg. The second woman slides onto the far edge, wrists cuffed behind her, the front of her slip already damp. She grinds against nothing, then against his ribs, leaving a wet stripe like wax on wood. He stays rigid. They take turns biting, bouncing, switching. Nails scrape the lacquer near his temple. One comes first, a soft, ugly moan that rattles the glasses stacked at the table's corner. The other rubs herself raw against the same surface, using his throat as the last inch of friction. When they leave, the only mark they leave on him is saliva and fingerprint bruises. The door shuts. The man opens his eyes. He's still only a table.