"Micah, please," Daniel begged. "Whatever happened to you as a child, you can get help."
"I found help," Micah interrupted, glancing toward me warmly. "I found understanding. I found someone who sees beauty where others see only horror."
The photographer's eyes widened, not merely with fear now but with the collapse of moral certainty. His world—where victims remained victims, where evil had clear boundaries, where righteousness protected the innocent—crumbled. "You're both insane."
"No," Micah corrected gently. "We're artists who refuse conventional limitations. Who recognize that transformation requires sacrifice."
He turned back to me, businesslike again. "I'll need about forty minutes to complete the facial harvesting from Reverend Morris. During that time, perhaps you could prepare Daniel's ocular structures?"
"Certainly," I agreed, moving toward my tools while watching Micah return to the reverend.
Reverend Morris had begun regaining consciousness, his head turning blindly as awareness returned. The bandaged eye sockets added a macabre quality to his expressions as terror registered on his features. He seemed to sense Micah standing over him, despite his inability to see.
"Welcome back," Micah greeted him. "We're about to continue your transformation."
The clergyman's mouth worked soundlessly, muscles still immobilized by the paralytic compound.
I began preparing my tools for Daniel's ocular extraction, but my attention remained focused on Micah. His movements displayed confidence I hadn't witnessed before, hands steady as he positioned a light to illuminate the reverend's face.
"You taught me that pain opens doorways to spiritual truth," he told the terrified clergyman. "Tonight we'll explore that concept together."
The first incision was perfect, precise pressure, perfect angle, minimal blood loss. The scalpel traced the zygomatic arch accurately, revealing bone beneath parted flesh. Micah's technique showed refinement beyond what I'd taught him, suggesting independent study and practice. The way he'd adjusted his grip to accommodate his missing finger joint spoke of hours of private adaptation, finding new ways to maintain precision despite his sacrifice.
"Beautiful work," I commented.
Micah smiled without looking up. "Thank you, Daddy. I've been studying advanced facial anatomy to prepare for tonight."
The term of endearment sent a surge of possessive pleasure through me. My cock hardened at the sound of that word on his lips, a reminder of the nights he'd spent nursing at my chest, taking comfort only I could provide. It’d been nearly a month since I'd forbidden his release, since I'd demanded his essence be preserved for our work.
As I turned my attention to Daniel, beginning the delicate process of extracting his first eye, I found myself constantly glancing toward Micah. His work proceeded with remarkable exactness. He hummed softly as he separated facial muscle from bone, a melody I didn't recognize accompanying his methodical movements.
A curious symmetry emerged between our parallel projects. I harvested eyes that had observed, while Micah worked on sockets where judgment had resided. Divine vision versus human perspective, the watcher versus the condemner. Both subjects transformed through the removal of sight, yet with opposite symbolic meaning. The perfection of this unplanned synchronicity sent a thrill through me.
"That's new," I observed, nodding toward a specialized tool he used to elevate tissue planes.
"I modified a dental instrument," Micah explained. "The curved edge allows cleaner separation of periosteum from bone. I had to adapt it to work with my grip." He flexed his maimed hand, the amputation site prominent in the stark studio lighting.
I removed Daniel's left eye carefully, preserving the optic nerve for potential artistic use. The photographer's body convulsed beneath the restraints, his remaining eye wide with unspeakable agony.
"Shhh," I soothed, appreciating his suffering while maintaining professional focus. "Your contribution will achieve significance beyond anything your photography accomplished."
While I worked, Micah continued harvesting the reverend's facial bones. His technique combined surgical accuracy with artistic vision, each cut revealing a deeper understanding of both anatomy and aesthetic transformation.
"You were right about one thing," Micah continued, voice dropping. "When I first entered your office, I hoped for artistic mentorship, maybe validation of my technical skills. I never imagined this freedom." He looked up, meeting my eyes across the room. "Thank you for seeing me. The real me."
I smiled and leaned across the space to kiss him. "You've exceeded my expectations. Truly.”
"I've had an exceptional teacher," he replied, and we returned to our work.
After some time, Micah stepped back and drew his forearm across his temple, wiping away sweat. "What do you think?"
The clergyman's face had been artfully deconstructed, key elements removed while maintaining recognizable features. The surgical accuracy was impressive, but more striking was the compositional consideration evident in what remained. Micah had created negative space with purpose, revealing underlying structure while preserving identity.
"Extraordinary," I acknowledged, genuine admiration coloring my tone. "You've maintained recognizable features while harvesting significant structural elements. The balance between removal and preservation shows remarkable artistic judgment."
Pride shimmered in his eyes.
"I've been thinking," Micah said as he returned to work on the reverend. "About expanding our artistic exploration. Moving beyond individual transformation to more complex statements."
