Debate

By Brewt.Blacklist

March 2014

SHE IS, by all the modern definitions of the word so relentlessly expounded upon in the media, beautiful. Her hair, long and dimensional and thick, doesn’t simply crown the top of her head. It luxuriates in glorious flows of rich darkest Ecuadorian bistre cacao onto the table, spreading out in elegance, and if she were upright, walking, it wouldn’t bounce, it would undulate seductively. Were someone brash enough to dare run their fingers through it, it would fold back into place on its own, admonishing the partier to do it again and get lost in there forever, and to come into her power. Her coiffure is expensive, the maintenance of it requires staff, and my assessment of it is barbaric: how long is it, what kind of braid could be wound into the ropes to hang her by it, and what would she offer to make that not happen. I am but a fiend, jaded and indifferent.

Her skin is radiant, perfect. She has no tattoos, no marks, no moles. Her makeup, like her hair, is divine and flawless and no quick-slap coat of paint: it is sheer artistry. She had to have gotten up early for it, and, no doubt, had her latte delivered to her as it was going on in a room full of minions whose sole reason to breathe was to tend to her and her many, many needs. Her full lips glisten and call out their temptations to have an intimate something I have to nestle between them for long periods of time, and she moves them in ways that say welcome. She blinks around the aerial shade of brown of her eyes slowly so I can get a good look at her eye shadow, with all its delicate luminescences that I have to stare at and observe to understand the complexities of its subtle color gradations, and how the lines of her liner seem to move when she closes and reopens her eyes into something that makes her appear most agreeable. It’s a tempo thing, part of the bag of tricks women wield against men. Her eyelashes are pronounced, but not ridiculously long. Mercifully, no glitter there. I wonder if her mascara would run under the right circumstances.

Her face is unreal, it is so perfect. Completely symmetrical, it combines youth and innocence with seduction and sheer raw sex. It should be difficult to look at her, but she has all the appearances of being friendly and inviting, easy to talk to, were it permitted. She effortlessly ranks high among the most exquisite women I have ever seen, and would statistically stop traffic in every country on earth.

Laid out as she is on a narrow table with her hands up over her head, she wiggles the cuffs on her wrists which are heavy black leather, shiny and polished and clean and obviously new, never even worn before. No scuff marks are on them, and the padding on her wrist-side is fluffy and white. There is a black rope running through the chrome links on them, and it takes me a while to discern that it is silk. She stretches a time or two and tests her range of motion. On the other end of the table, her dainty feet have a companion set of cuffs. She has been bound to the table at the ends, and she has lots of ability to squirm, but no leverage or freedom to sit up, or even twist herself onto her side. She is slightly stretched, and there is a hint of the rack.

Her body, too, is a work of art, sculpted and shaped and toned with the obviousness of relentless hours at the gym. Her breasts have implants, and they stand up firm and tall and bulbous on her chest in a way actual human female breasts cannot. Her nipples are vigorously erect and veritably cry out to be flicked, pinched, bitten, chewed by the darker sides I carry with me. Her stomach is stone-flat, and the breathing motions in her upper chest induces waveforms and ripples through it that flow from her diaphragm all the way down the rest of her abdomen to the most visible cleft of her sex. She isn’t just shaved, she has had laser hair removal of every follicle on her entire body below her neck, not to mention labioplasty to make her clitoris plain and obvious. It’s impossible to see it from this angle, but her legs are thin enough that it would be easy to conclude that, were she standing with her hair flowing in the breeze and her knees were together, there would be a gap between her thighs where her pretty pussy lips would hang down into just enough to capture attention away from whatever else could be around her.

She is designed. Everything about her, from the perfection of her ingenious manicure to the clever angles she holds her feet on the table have been carefully crafted to create an image of a woman that at least a man, at least me, would have a hard time looking away from. She has all the right curves and lines and all the little motions she makes by just lying there scream out for attention, for observation. Her chest—and thereby, her breasts—heaves as she breathes and arches her back and her matching-collared neck rolls her head this way and that while she waits. Her demeanor is expectant and serene, and she alternates opening and closing her mouth. Her teeth are perfect and iridescent, and her tongue glistens and behaves itself as it peeks to the edge of her lips. She is not just to be seen, she is to be concentrated upon, and fantasized about. She is a living bid for the stuff of dreams.

The room is abstract, white fading off toward gray in all directions. The table is black, and there is a second table behind it that is hard to see what all is on it.

The man comes in, dressed all in black casual—he is nearly invisible, and plays the parts of Noh that I am not supposed to really see, and it is easy to supplant his flat imageless image with my own—and the show is set about to begin. The starlet focuses on him and his non-descriptedness in attempts to entice him by amplifying what motions she can do on the table. She does not speak; she bats her eyes in his direction and smiles a smile that is to be interpreted that she is honored to be here, to be here with him, but it strikes me as plasticene. It is a supermodel’s smile.

He circles around to the other side of her and turns toward the second table, returning to tower over her holding a long stick on hand. No, it’s a riding crop, also shiny and new. He begins rubbing the shaft and the popper over her and she moves away from it as it crosses her ribcage. He lets it fall and land harmlessly on her by only its own weight a few places on her: the tops of her thighs, across her stomach a time or two, even on her face and cheeks, which gets her to squinch her eyes shut. He flicks it down onto the middle of her chest, directly on her sternum, accelerating it only slightly faster than what gravity could do, and pats her with it, slowly increasing the tempo and the force he applies until he has to grasp it firmly with his hand to keep from dropping it. The swats become enough that it barely makes a sound against her skin, and as it gets louder, her breathing changes into something slower, deeper, in what I would like to think is an effort to control herself as he makes more and more noise with the crop. His wrist is flicking and the end of the crop vanishes in the air until it reappears on wherever it lands on her, making a solid slap, getting her to tense up where he struck and have the impact radiate out on her body like a waveform, getting her to gasp once. Her mouth opens and her eyes widen and she is efforting herself to not make any noise, to not interfere with what the weapon is doing against her, and still he applies more and more pressure with each downstroke, more speed, getting higher and higher velocities to wend their way through the end of the leather stick. He hits her now on her expensive breasts and her eyes widen and her head and jaw freezes with a slight shake of her head, and he smiles as he traces a line of attack from there down her tummy, getting her abdominal muscles to contract down toward the table. He moves the ictus of the whip down through where she would had shaved just this morning if she had had pubic hair in the first place and he says his first words.

“Spread your legs; as far as you can.”

The ankle bindings keep her from doing little beyond parting her knees, but as she does, he directs the crop down off the tops of her thighs toward her inner thighs, and her hips thrust around as he strikes her faster and faster and closer and closer to her sex, and he periodically re-admonishes her to do as he says when her reflexes kick in and she appears to disobey him. Her breathing is noisy by now, and she no longer able to suppress the little reactions to being hit and she tries, oh how she tries to do what he says, and she lifts her pussy up off the table as far as her bondage will allow for in what is to be considered to be representative of the limits of her strength and endurance and she holds her breath, and he spats the crop directly onto where her clit should be, right at the top of her pussy lips, and she groans and closes her legs around the crop. He lets go of it, and she rolls it back and forth, waving it like a flag, moaning, and making the first sound that could be identified as a word: “Oh.”

He smiles and lets her settle herself down before pulling the crop out from between her legs. She lurches at the extraction with her mouth open, her eyes wide. He runs his other hand up and down her, where he had been striking her, and she writhes from the comfort, and goes back to undulating herself up to meet his hand as it flows around her, stroking her ever so lightly.

They eyes manage to lock and he nods his head. She inhales deeply and exhales with her first expression that could almost pass as a sentence: “Oh, sir,” which she reiterates time and time again as he continues to stroke his hands over her contortions, tickling her a time or two, getting her to throw herself about in her bondage with peals of laughter. He turns back to the second table, and she continues saying the two little words, and something bothers me. She appears to have some kind of a disconnect with what is happening here, and her mind is obviously somewhere else. It does not seem to be subspace. It’s more that she’s daydreaming of something like maybe a beach.

The very-precisely constructed archetype of a ravishingly beautiful woman laid out and restrained, naked, helpless—with a fully clothed man standing over her, able to do anything he wants to her—is the draw, the appeal for revenge against all the put-downs women have expressed not just to him or to me, but to all men everywhere, and the notion that she is here to pay for the sins of all womankind has with it a sheer attraction that is so beautiful it is difficult to look at. Except, that is not what is going on here. She pronounces her two-word vocabulary with the echoes of a woman looking down and trying to comfort a five-year old boy who scraped his knee, and it is apparent by this point that this is all script, all planned to the finest detail, probably even rehearsed. It is an entertainment.

He produces a vibrator, one of the big strong ones that looks technological and makes no effort in its construction toward simulating a man—form follows function, even in things that buzz—and it is the kind that plugs into the wall, and he places it right square between her legs directly on the target she has so craftily constructed for men and she lurches. Now she is engaged with what is happening, and she squirms and she moans and she begs with the two words she is allowed for a mere minute and a half before she risks everything and asks to “please, please, please” and can she “have permission to come.” It took no time whatsoever to go from the simulations of agony to the simulations of ecstasy. His eyelids compress and he says that when he gets to “one” she can come, and she frumps as though she was five and sets back to quivering. He counts backwards from ten, and when he says the final word after the shortest of delays, and he pronounces the word of permission long and slow, she arches up off the table and cries out and goes back to saying “oh, sir” and throws herself against the ropes and makes unintelligible noises. She has the screaming orgasm of the ages. She squirts; I don’t know, maybe she urinates.

She settles down and turns her head with a smile I have seen before. She glows with the smile that happens at the front of the big churches when the offering plate is passed, and gets full. She is in complete control and has been from the start, and everything has happened exactly as she had predicted and planned, and she is smug, and she is getting paid now.

She is the very embodiment of all the women I have ever known that would have nothing to do with me and all the women I have ever been taught that I could have absolutely nothing to do with, that all she has for me is ridicule and disgust and loathing, no matter what I do, no matter how I act, no matter what I say, and my education process kicks in hard and concludes her smile is avarice. This girl, this woman is sin itself but the sin is not mine, it is hers: vanity, greed, the appearance of lust, she induces envy and desire for what cannot be had, and the sin that is mine is wrath and I have been played, as it is all an act, a show, and she is something I should walk away from and I do.

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SHE IS a woman that I might take a second glance at in public, but no more. The kind of beauty one sees in common places, like in the service industry. Pretty, but not overpoweringly so. One who, as she performs her task of waitressing or checking out the groceries or making me a latte, when she smiles, it proves relaxing, reaffirming, a cause for pause to make a bright spot in my day, but no more. It would get her a tip. She has a good body, quite naked, sporting dishwater blonde hair in an unkempt pageboy with her roots starting to show, and if she didn’t look so tired, she might have a sunny disposition.

Her hands are in cuffs; scruffy old ones that are at least humane: they have handles built into them she can hang on to with the leather around her wrists done up tight and secure with several small padlocks on each arm; they are nothing she can just take off. They are somehow attached to heavy hemp ropes in ways I can’t quite see—ah yes, carabiners, also with locks—that lead up to ratchet pulleys that latch onto the rope as it is pulled through, and her arms are drawn up above her head so she is fully stretched into a “Y”, and she is vulnerable, in more ways than her bondage relays. Her feet remain unseen, but it is plain she is standing, and not dangling airborne from the ceiling. She stretches up enough that I can at least imagine she is standing on her unobservable toes, and she breathes deep from her diaphragm; her breasts are relatively immobile and pulled tight, at least at the moment. She is unshaved under her arms and at the tops of her legs and between them, too, and it confirms the dye-job from her god-given camel-colored hair. She looks human. She chews her nails.

There seems to be some kind of conversation going on with her by the two men who are readying her, but what they say cannot be heard. All that can be made out are her responses: “Yes,” “It has been,” and “I completely hate it.” After her last comment, she hangs her head as though she is ashamed to have to admit that, and she shudders once, and her flattened nipples begin to rise. It may be a fear response.

The room is bare but obviously an unfinished basement; enough of the ceiling rafters are visible where the pulleys are attached to make it clear the ceiling is flat, not at angles—and thence, not an attic—and the lighting is not well-designed. There is enough light to keep the shadows at bay, but it does nothing beyond making her visible. She breathes and blinks. After a moment of just her standing there, collecting her thoughts, she raises her head to nod it and she forces a smile, and my day is made. It is then that I notice she is alone, but only for a scant few seconds.

The two men who had been stringing her up step back into view and begin prowling around her. They are both old enough to be her father, overweight, and it looks like they slept in their clothes which I recognize as cheaper than my own. She keeps her eyes on one of them religiously, and her lips quiver. Simultaneously, they pull their arms back to reveal their bags of tricks they have in mind for this woman, this girl, this victim, with whips in their hands, and they both swing forward in concert, slowly, gently, exerting just enough to get centrifugal force to lengthen out the lines into casual arcs, so they can gauge their distances from her, and both whips touch her lightly at the same time. They make no sound. Her torso wiggles a tiny bit in response, and she compresses her lips and rolls her eyes across the ceiling once.

She blinks several times at the one man, and keeps her mouth shut, and exhales and inhales noisily through her nose.

The men both pull their arms back, again in synch, and push their whips against her a second time. There is still no sound from the impact, but the way she licks her lips and swallows suggest it might have been a little harder. It is the last time they manage to hit her at the same moment. They have their own schedules to keep, and though they partner with each other, stroke for stroke, they no longer match rhythm, and set up unsteady syncopations for the rest of the affair. The men keep alternating their glances between each other and the woman. The man she keeps her eyes on does not blink very much, and his breathing is labored throughout the session.

The complimentary snake whips are ancient, a dull grayish-brown, obviously in long service and well used, approximately five feet in length, and completely flexible. One of them is bent, as though a strand had broken. The leather lines narrow to an almost-sharp end with no popper, and they wrap around her as they strike, and as the men circle her, swinging their arms, the swishes and the cracks start sounding.

They whip her, front and back. At first, one only whips her with back-hand strokes, the other with fore-arm strokes.

She rolls her head to keep the one man in sight as much as possible and she never so much as acknowledges the other. When the man she looks to steps behind her, and wraps the whip around her sides with the tip circling onto the tops of her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, she hangs her head and closes her eyes and her mouth falls open and she gasps. When he is far enough around her other side, she snaps her head up to him with a stricken look on her face, and when she sees him again, she relaxes a little, and her breathing kicks up to panting. The expression she bears delivers the notion that she is being supported through this by the mere fact that she can once again see him. She mouths the words of affection to him.

The tempo picks up, as does the force, and the attack strengthens and the harm is becoming apparent. For no reason I can discern, both whips start hitting her from both directions from both men, as they move from deliberate, one-directional strokes, to both swinging both ways, back and forth, each doubling the number of times they are hitting her within the previous timeframe of a single stroke. The whip marks are beginning to show on her and she glistens with sweat; she shimmies in what is almost a jig of pulsations. Her body was not pristine when they started: she was covered with bruises and most of them have been on her long enough to be fading to yellow and brown and green, and she has what looks like burn scars around her belly button. The lines from the whips redden, and some of them begin to bleed. Another unseen signal passes between the men, and their rotation around her changes direction, from counter-clockwise to clockwise.

The man she looks to for strength again passes around behind her, out of her range of vision, and she begins thrashing about, moaning from what so now obviously hurts, and she begins to dance, lifting her knees one at a time, twisting herself around as the force and frequency of the lashes continues to increase. The swish of the whips is near constant, and when the next rotation sets in, and the man she is here for is where she can see him, her face crumples, and she begins shaking her head back and forth, and she cries out. She had expended what was left of her strength for the sole reason to hold out for him to see her downfall, so he could witness her succumb to what he was doing to her, what he had arranged to have happen to her, wrought by himself and his minion.

The whipping is relentless and both men are obvious in their expenditures of strength against her. They necessarily have to slow down their fore-and-back-handed swinging to compensate for how hard they are now hitting her. The men are out of breath, and she is crying and throwing her head around. Still it goes on, and the second man, the one who she has still not even looked at stops what he is doing behind her and steps forward and strokes her, checking her, which offers her enough comfort to lift her head back to the man she is trying to impress. Another unheard question is asked, and she responds with “N-no,” and then “Yes.” She heaves her breasts as she tries to still herself, to reposition herself to face the man she is her rock, her salvation.

The men step back to their positions, and let her have it. Hard and fast, and then harder and faster, whipping her everywhere at once, and she looks up to the ceiling and screams. They do not let up; she screams again. And again. And again, shrill, hard, long and loud. The whips are unseen, they are flying so fast, the men’s arms blur, and the marks crop up instantly, deep red lines, criss-crossing her entire body, from her armpits down to her knees, she is completely marked side to side, front to back, top to bottom, and blood rivulets down her until it is splatted away by the whips.

The second man is behind her and says the first thing either man pronounces that can be heard: “Spread your legs.”

The whipping stops and she trembles and shakes uncontrollably. Her lover is in front of her and he reaches his hand to her face which she falls directly into and takes a step towards him, as far as the ropes will allow. She says “Ah” several times, fast at first, then slowing down. He lifts her head up and he waits for her to look at him and he nods. Her lips throb, and she steps back, and obeys. She squinches her eyes shut and performs what appears to be a superhuman feat as her knees part as far as she can get them and still stand.

He retreats from her and she relaxes into a beatific appearance in the sudden quiet, quiet except for the sounds of breathing—hers, the men’s, mine—and she, waiting through the seconds of respite, fills with adoration and reverence when she beholds her owner, and the second man swings up from behind, between her legs, through her sex, and the first vertical line appears, running up from her public hair. Both of her knees snap together, lifting up, catching the whip, and she dangles, off the floor for the first time, and the whip is released by the man behind her. It undulates like a snake across the floor. The expression on her face changes into disbelief, and she regains herself in less than a moment, and tears flow down her face, and she looks up toward heaven once again. Her mascara runs.

Her mouth drops open and her breathing palpitates, and she does the impossible. She lowers her feet and spreads her legs, and the whip she had caught between them falls to the floor and she stops breathing. It gets picked right back up; this isn’t over yet. Both men hunker down and reposition themselves to lean around her to acknowledge each other, and they pull their arms back together, and as the same time, they whip her—double-crack—between her legs and she stands there, squirming on her toes but doing everything she can to keep her legs apart, to keep her sex exposed to the beating, taking it with flinches and lurches and cringes and groans, and they hit her intimacies time and time again, the whips striking front and back, accelerating back into the whirlwind, windmilling the strikes. Her legs shake violently.

She finds her voice and she lifts it, loud and strong with a cry that raises, stopping and restarting her screech, twice, three times she has to catch her breath as she screams until she is at the top of her range, and she gasps, heaving and wheezing and barely whispers “Mercy.”

Everything stops; time stands still. Her feet give way and she swings in space. The man she came here with steps up to her and he tangles his fingers through her hair and pronounces his first audible sentence: “Are you sure?” She nods and bawls, and it sounds like she is apologizing.

“One more. A big one. It’s tradition.”

She makes long sounding panicky rasps as he steps back and somehow she calms and struggles to put her feet back beneath herself to support herself. The man waits for her to settles down the contortions of her face before he accepts her consent; she pants it several times. He steps out of sight, and the other man runs his hand around behind her before he draws as far back as she can, and lets fly a stripe down across her back at an angle disparate to all her other lines with every ounce of strength he has. The strike is a gunshot. He vanishes.

She doesn’t make a sound, but she moves as though she were standing in an earthquake. The pressure is visible on her face, and it looks like she might throw up.

Her man comes back to stand before her with his arms crossed as he waits for her to look up at him, which she cannot quite do. Her head raises, but her dull brown eyes are downcast, off to the side from where he stands. She looks miserable, unhappy, but it does not appear that she feels that way about him, but in herself, in her performance of what must be her duty to him, and she appears to be disappointed, but not in him;, it looks like she believes that she had failed him. She nods and braces herself, stiffening up every muscle she has.

He outdoes the other man in ferocity and force, and he grunts as he whips his woman a final time, a mighty blow that raises immediate welts across both of her breasts; they bound and recoil from the impact. This time, she gasps, and sobs, and weeps and makes unintelligible cries; she babbles. Whatever strength she had in her legs fails for what has to be the last time, and she leans forward, putting her weight onto her upheld arms, and dangles around in a peculiar arch.

He drops the whip and stands as close as he can to her, and she collapses into him as far as the ropes to the ceiling will let her. He catches her and lifts her up and she cries long and loud and buries her head into his neck. His arms go around her waist and he puts his hands across the tops of her shoulders, the one place he can reach she has not been whipped, and he, too, breaks down and cries and shudders with her, until at last the miracle happens, and she struggles to put her feet back underneath herself and she leans up to kiss him and she comforts him.

There is no reason given, no explanation, no justification. The negotiation of how they got there happened in their own privacies as well as whatever the hell happened next, and I have no question whatsoever that I am a brash invader; I am ashamed to be party to their most-forbidden daring secret, to have spied on their clandestine intimate glory, and this, this I will dwell on as I apply my own hands against myself, many, many times, and it will be my honor to do so again and again in absolute awe of what I had beheld, for the remainder of my days.

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Posted with Blogsy

Solitairist

By Brewt.Blacklist

February 2014

SHE STOOD outside in the rain. She had rung the bell more than once before, but that was a long time ago, and it didn’t get him to answer the door any faster and before she had finally gotten to come in on that cold miserable evening, he had her take off all her clothes right there on the front stoop. He took them from her, including her shoes, and she stood and shivered for what felt like an hour before he opened the door a second time and scowled at her and derided her for not kneeling on the iron grate and he left her out there some more as the chilled metal pressed painful creases into her knees and the wind blew while she continued to wait and be cold and wet. The only grace on that night was it was dark and cars were not whizzing past or slowing down to honk at the naked girl on her knees waiting to be let in as though she were a dog even though, once she got in, she was severely corrected with an electric shock collar like a bad little mutt who barked too much and had maybe peed in the house.

She had to earn her way back up to the dignity of being able to stand to wait for him with her clothes on, through subsequent visits as she endured the assorted embarrassments of having to play with herself in various and sundry ways facing toward the street as the kids walked by on their way home from school in the afternoons, all of whom stopped and stared and insulted her, which was a different kind of awful from having to jill off facing the door in the mornings when the little old ladies were out walking their precious little pooches, leaving her to kid herself about whoever might be looking and maybe they will just have to wonder just what it was she was doing to get her back to twist around this way or that way, or to get her buttocks to shimmy they way they did when she came. More than once she heard footsteps slowing down behind her then speeding back up with huffings and general mutterings about what a terrible thing that horrible woman was doing, right there, on the street where children could see and not one word of sympathy or compassion as they obviously didn’t understand that she was doing something that she had to do that wasn’t exactly her idea. At least, then, too, there was the more-than-casual blessing of miraculously not being put into the position of having to explain to some valiant savior-hero-type who happened by under the auspices that gosh, something must be wrong and golly, ma’am, what’s going on here and they would end up taking time out from their busy whatever way on their over-scheduled whatever days to try take care of a naked girl they just so happened to be passing and redeem her from goodness gracious whatever was happening here, nothing, now see here now, you just come along now, missy, with offers of clothes, maybe dinner and drinks, and wouldn’t you like to fuck me now for saving you, and she would be put into the horrifying uncomfortable position of having to explain that no, everything was fine, really, and that she’ll be alright, really, now go away, no, I mean it, go the fuck away, yeah, really, which would have prompted the kinds of derogatory remarks she got at the bars when she turned down the offers of drinks and dinners and maybe a little fucking except they would have been much worse here on the front step where she was already naked and engaged in a sexual act they could plainly see and the explanations she could have come up with couldn’t possibly have covered for her refusal here, now, could it, because at the meat markets there would have at least been other prey for the slobs to foist themselves off on to, unlike here. No, that was one bullet she had somehow managed to dodge all those weeks that she had been as good as gold out here in the chill and even moreso once she got inside where it was warm and she could be utterly obedient to his slightest whim, hyper-attentive to his every motion and nuance, in order please to get the virtue of clothes back when he made the call to her to come over and she would appear on his doorstep and cool her jets outside until he answered the bell to let her in and do…whatever. He hadn’t seemed to have thought about sending her home without any clothes. It was probably only a matter of time.

When the door would eventually creak open she would greet him amicably with a slight engaging smile out of, of course, respect and the understanding that he wanted her to at least appear to be happy to see him when she came over, and she would risk only a quick glance up to his face in a fleeting attempt to determine what she could of his usually transparent scrutable mood as she bustled passed him into the foyer, where he would offer to take her coat so he could hang it up in the closet, as he was such a gentleman. She would wiggle out of it and he would shake it off and once again comment so predictably when this time of year rolled around on how much like a drowned rat she looked, and she would dredge up a small laugh and have to work at keeping her hands at her sides and simply letting herself drip. He had, in recent days gone by, been very insistent about what her hands could and could not do, and she was currently under stricture as to what she could and could not touch on herself which made getting dressed and undressed a challenge any more and makeup and showers were special tribulations to accomplish, and she didn’t want to take any chances and settled for blinking the water away as it dripped off her hair onto her face. He would then "tsk-tsk" at her and make some disparaging remark about how unacceptable it was that she was getting his parquet wet with rainwater, and she would apologize and he would snap at her to take off her clothes. She would work as fast as she could get her near-frozen fingers to fly at unbuttoning her blouse, careful not to touch her skin and she would twist her shoulders around to get her bra off which he would have to help her with as though they were an old married couple, and she would shimmy her hips, mindful to not apply pressure with her hands to the cloth so near where she had been so specifically expressly forbidden to touch under any circumstances to get both her slacks and her panties down as she kicked off her shoes in one fell swoop. He sighed when she was done and she went back to shivering and micro-adjusting her stance to keep her thighs from touching and her lips parted as had been dictated in some dirty novel once. He would tell her to put her clothes in the dryer and she would gather them up with a purpose and run down the stairs into the basement and have to stop to fold the load that was in it before she could put her own clothes in on a low setting for what she hoped would be long enough to get them dry but not shrink. Her collar was waiting for her there and she put it on. She assured herself twice that the end-buzzer was not set to disturb them, and stopped to empty the litter box on her way out, in a vain effort to avert some nastiness he had on other days beset her with when his mood had turned especially foul over some ridiculous refusal of hers that he didn’t feel was proper by folding her up into a leather armbinder, ankle hobbles and a blindfold with the order to clean the cat’s toilet with her lips, and to be sure to get it all, and she could spit what she got out into a small trash bag with an accompanying small sermon about how she should thank whatever slut-god she believed in that she did not have to do something considerably worse, and it only took four hours of continuous whipping to get her to concede on both points. The first time. She ran back up the stairs, taking two at a time only to find the foyer empty which came with the meaning that she had taken too long and would have to answer for it while something else unpleasant was happening, and if that came about she would have to add to her confessions her attempt to foil something she didn’t like with the understanding that that would probably lead directly to it. She descended to her hands and knees and crawled off toward the front living room and waited near but not quite in the doorway, in case he had guests he didn’t want to embarrass with a naked girl crawling about. Which was altogether different from the times he had guests that he wanted to embarrass the naked crawling girl with.

The archway would be approached as closely as she would dare without explicit order or permission—it always struck her as odd when she would come over and he would never see her except to let her in, and she would sometimes simply sit while he read god-knows-what, she would wait there in the hall until after he went to bed and she was never sure if she should just be there when he woke up the next morning or not and she would inevitably ultimately decide to leave sometime during the silences of the night, interpreting his lack of attention to mean that she was not really wanted after all; her own schedules prohibited her from staying over most of the time—and she leaned back onto her haunches and spread her knees as far apart as the abductor muscles in her inner thighs would allow for, lifting her hands up behind her head to the one place she could them on herself without a specific order or penalty, spreading her fingers in her hair to keep them from touching each other as that was prohibited, with her elbows spread as far back as she could pull them without the assistance of the rope he so often used to keep them out of the way with, her breasts lifted as high as she could get them and her eyes would close and her lips would part all in compliance with what that French author-whore thought was sexy and meaningful in a mad attempt to impress and titillate a lover with a story that had to be published anonymously and the identity of the author-mistress had to remain a secret until the man and his wife were dead to avoid the scandal that befell their children anyway, and she would wait and do what she could to settle herself down. She would listen to the cackle of the fire in the next room, and the clinking of the glassware as another drink got poured, and eventually she would hear her name and her next well-rehearsed predefined actions would be set into motion.

She would crawl into the room, dragging her nipples along on the carpet, bearing in mind the oft-repeated instructions to be mindful that the point of her doing this was two-fold: physical, in that she should be conscious of the sensation of the stretches of her flesh that had the power to arouse her being grated along the rough fibers of the carpeting, which at times had been enough to bring her to orgasm alone when he would have her crawl around the room that way until she couldn’t stop herself which he would then discipline her for—for not having permission—and humiliatory, with the debasing actions at hand echoing her station and her rank with a reminder that there were still further depths she could still be ground back down towards again that she could try, just try to earn her way back out of. She could be having to drag her tongue, or her anus, or her clitoris as she waddled in to his immature eighth grade locker room jeers along with those of his friends whom she would be expected to fuck and to suck off and to let them do whatever they could think of to her, and they could think of hell of a lot as they remarked how she slobbered a line of drool on his rug or wiped her shit on his carpet or left a trail of cuntwater on his floor because that was just what useless slug-sluts did, and was she even worth lowering themselves to fuck, guys, and they would argue about maybe taking pictures or better yet movies of her doing the most humiliating things they could think of that week and posting them to the internet and send her mother or her boss a link, hey, they could make her fart, no, they could do her up in clown makeup and make her fuck bums off the street, hang on, how much piss did they think she could swallow before she threw up, they should find out, they should do it all, listen, they were making it too easy on the little bitch, they should make her bleed, and she would force her owner’s incessant admonitions to replay through her mind that she should be a grateful little whore for whatever mercies she could discern he was presenting her with by not making it fucking worse at all fucking times, as if that helped.

Her trip across the parlor would on some days get so far that she could reach him, and kneel before him and lick the very bottoms of his shoes or suckle on his invariably stinky gym socks or put his feet all the way into her mouth or even into her pussy, or it would not as he would make some kind of noise that she was expected to interpret as an order to halt, and he would chastise her for being so stupid as to stop when he so obviously wanted the attentions of her tongue on his toes as should be simplicity itself for her to divine especially by now after all this time and he would ask her what was wrong with her and did she need some inspiration and then he would take some fresh hell out on her, or he would not and would instead let her confess and then wait and stew about what he was going to tell her to do next, and this particular evening, it was the last of these habitual alternatives. It was, at least, just him here tonight: a small boon. She repositioned herself into her slavegirl kneel and still hadn’t warmed up yet and so she shivered and yearned to be closer to the fire while she ran through the rather long and detailed list of her faults and insufficiencies and sins as loud as her collar would let her—retelling it all and reordering the account over and over when some other memory of yet another trivial failure she had been guilty of since she had been here last bubbled up and she re-efforted herself toward getting them into the order of importance she guessed he would want them in—that he chanted his response to as to whether or not that was everything with his usual well-rehearsed blasé manner, implying that he was getting bored with her again, complete with the intimations and threats that she had better find a way to become more entertaining, or he would take the reins and find exciting new ways to distract himself, which had its own sense of irony to it, at least recently.

Usually he would then take suggestions as to what kind of reprimand she had earned since the last time she was here and for the longest time she would suggest something simple like a spanking and he would roll his eyes and she would correct herself with something she considered to be considerably worse which he would then redirect her toward whatever foolishness he had planned, until, of late, she simply started with the suggestion of whatever increasingly dull ordeal he had actually performed on her last time, which he would have to point out that they had just done that, and what else do you have. They would come around and go around that a few times; it was part of the game. Last time had been bondage: he had tied her up to where she couldn’t even wiggle and hoisted her off the floor and just let her hang there while he watched. All he did was gape and stare which did nothing for her self-image issues; he didn’t even fuck her, instead he fucking masturbated, right there in front of her. She only completely hated it. His efforts to use her in the ways he had been gravitating toward of late to find his own solace and peace and sublime sense of power had pushed her off to places she tried desperately hard not to think of, especially when he so less and less frequently bade her to break the rule and put her hands onto herself all the way on to orgasm while he was doing whatever less and less inventive idea he had to her—certainly not torturing her or humiliating her or anything cool at all; they were practically vanilla any more—reminding her with her own litanies of her utter uselessness that she came to him; it was not the other way around. She shook before him for two reasons: because she was cold and because she was genuinely afraid that what little he had cooked up for her today would diminish him even further in her eyes, and the silence that ensued after she had finished her admittance of shortcomings went on for what felt like an hour, an interminable hour in which he stared hard at her the entire time, and her self-consciousness had a lot to say to her about what else she could possibly be doing wrong in all this, in the whole damn thing.

He spoke at last and instead of the usual cat-and-mouse game of how-shall-I-then-chastise-thee, bitch, he tendered her to come up and sit in his lap and that hadn’t happened for such a long time that she was surprisingly clumsy in her efforts to leave the floor and slide herself into his arms. He took her collar off and put one hand around her back pulling her in close and tight, tipping her head down onto his shoulder, and the other nestled between her legs and she didn’t do anything to thwart him; that had always proved unprofitable regardless of the place and position she found herself in. This was almost nice, peaceful, plain. He made the expected remarks about how she wasn’t wet where she was supposed to be and she apologized, that it was no reflection on him, and how now, at the first apparent opportunity to speak freely in general terms in so many weeks, she couldn’t stop carrying on about how she so very often thought of him and subsequently had to go change her panties at work or at restaurants, and she toted no less than four pairs with her every day in her purse for the eventualities that she would need them and she had been thinking of upping it to six, and she blamed her inexplicable lack of arousal today on the weather. He asked her if something was bothering her and she shuddered once before she replied that she had been so tired of late and she worried all the time that she wasn’t doing enough to fill his orders when she wasn’t here, and how she was saddened to report that she had been failing him altogether too often on the number of times a day he wanted her to keep her mind on fucking and think about what it takes to make her come and to try to do it without touching herself and to especially readjust her thinking to the kinds of sex he liked and not the kind she liked, and he stopped her right there and asked her what the difference was, never mind that she didn’t get any of this into her bid for absolution earlier.

She swallowed and began to whimper and plead with him not to make her talk about that, that he was enough, and how he should please remember that she was submissive and had no use for herself and the only thing she wanted was to be of use to him, to be his toy, and how she watched every minute of porn he had sent her, over and over and was working hard on making all the right connections to force herself to like it, no matter what it was, and that she could adjust, she just needed a little more time to accept what he wanted to be all she should want, too.

He asked her again what she understood that difference to be and how it was different from her own desires and she tried to change the subject, to how she would be happy to fuck any way he wanted, how she would fuck anyone he wanted, that she was good for that, to fuck, to fuck, to relentlessly fuck. She stuttered as she implored him to please let her just suck his cock and please, that was all she wanted to do, and how he tasted so good, and even though it may have once been true, she did not point out how it wasn’t that way any longer. He tasted terrible to her any more, which had its own perverse satisfactions for her, as that was what she believed she deserved, to suck a cock she no longer loved, and to perform degrading and disgusting and oh-so-often painful actions for a man she no longer loved, to let him at least derive what little satisfaction he could from her however he chose to do so, and to ignore her and her little needs, too. It was the least she could hope for.

She expressed how she longed to maintain her faith toward the idea that maybe someday he could once again break her as he used to, he could grind her down into a whatever-the-hell-she-was when she definitely broke down and not only acquiesced because that was what she wanted to do, but because she had given in because she had been forced to with all the nasty implications that he would have to make her do something she truly didn’t want to do, that he would push her out beyond herself which was the only peace she could find through all the endless noise in her head.

But she kept to herself how she had quietly observed him no longer making the efforts he used to and of the losses she felt when a relationship such as this wound its inevitable way down to the whimpering end which were rearing their ugly little heads to her when she was alone at home at night and she was tempted to rub one out without permission after having watched so many relentless hours of porn she truly didn’t care for for no other reason than to at least try to make some desperate effort toward the connections she was expected to make.

Although they were not officially there yet, she had seen the signs that all this wasn’t going to be able to continue on much longer. She wanted this to end the right way, with her current lover declaring her to be of no earthly use or interest and to carry on for a moment or two about what a miserable failure she was before throwing her out maybe even naked so she could at least have something to pray about for the next guy, to work on and improve herself, so she could get out and suffer through being alone for a while while she worked on changing her mind about this perversion or that immoral debauched kink in order to make herself ready for when her own criminal needs and urges would once again overwhelm her and drive her back into the clubs, trolling for the next someone to give herself to. She dreaded the possibility that the proverbial next moron would be like that previous bastard she had fallen in with by the ugliest of happenstances who simply would not let her go and dragged it all out to where obviously she and even he was bored with his unimaginative recyclings of the same old thing: cocksucking, cocksucking, endless cocksucking, that was all he had her do, that incompetent lazy-ass son-of-a-bitch wasn’t worth her time—although her skills at getting a penis to ejaculate in her mouth were exemplary any more, so she did have to give him that much credit—and she at last screamed that she had had it with him and his response was to scowl and to order her to put her fucking mouth right back down there where it fucking belonged and the bum didn’t even try get up off his couch to stop her when she finally stomped away, spitting at him, never to return. She never wanted an affair to have to end like that, ever again, ever. It took years, not to get past the fact that he was the worst, but that she was. In some ways, even that was better than whatever the fuck this had become. This had become the nothing she felt when she was alone and lonely and holed up in her eremitic apartment, an anchoress walled up in her cell, and this, this she despised to the very well of her soul.

The man whose lap she was curled up into had little interest in her pasts which was a first: everyone wanted to know all about how she got to be this way, a masochist, huh, and they claimed they were interested in the whys and the how-comes so they could gosh, make it better for her and play into her gee-willickers needs more thoroughly but that was never the truth, they had only wanted to know so they could gossip or attempt their clumsy hands at psychoanalysis in a vain attempt to fix her or even worse, find some special stupid simple little something that would I’ll-be-darned enslave her even more unimaginably further to them without any effort on their part and it was their petty selfishnesses and trite little superior pities which got her to invariably run and break it off and pull up stakes yet again when all they had to do was make it hard on her. That was all she really wanted which, granted, was a challenge any more as there was so very little she wouldn’t do and she could see that her current boyfriend, her current dominant had no imagination left and he was done with her and that was fine as she was due for a rest from the slavery and maybe this time she could stay away long enough to get her interests along some other lines she had pursued in some other pasts renewed and who knows, maybe she could even write again. She hoped that it was today, that it was over and he was conclusively finished with her, and he would throw her out as though she were nothing but garbage so she could recluse herself into her solitudinal apartment and suffer the kinds of losses even she understood she had already subjected him to when they had their falling out over reasons that had no more depth or meaning or validity any more, and she changed from offering things to him and settled for simply deferring, not saying anything she didn’t have to, to just going along with whatever he wanted and she began to withdraw her enthusiasms and hold something back, a little more each time until she got her shell reestablished and she would retreat into it while he dripped wax on her or rubbed nettles on her, into a place he couldn’t touch her where she could watch herself scream as he whipped her, but it somehow wasn’t her screaming. The trusts they had worked so hard and so long on had been broken because they were both stupid and selfish and greedy and immature and neither of them had a good explanation as to what happened. She had to be insane for what she actually wanted and she wished things could be another way but it would not be any kind of improvement if she were to tell him—she needed him to just know through mystical means what she needed and if he couldn’t do that, he should just let her go so she could try to find someone who could—and she was prepared for this to be the end; she had been for some time.

He called her on the lie about the flavor of his dick as he had been to the gym that day as he had on so many others that she came over, without bothering to shower afterwards, and she defied him and begged him to let her prove how she felt about keeping his cock in her sneering mouth for as long as he wanted and how he would see she was so eager for it, to show him how she so truly felt about him. He asked her why she would go so far out of her way to express such falsities to him and she said he deserved to believe he was loved and he pointed out that even if it could possibly work for very long, tricking someone into believing they were loved was quite different from loving them and she claimed it didn’t matter, as long as it looked like it, that would be good enough.

He laughed and said that she was so full of shit, and she replied that it was worse than that, that she actually was shit and that he needed to man up and do the right thing here, and finish it. To give the fuck up. For real this time; not like last time. His eyebrows crossed and he looked away from her and he asked her if she meant that and she said oh my fucking god, yes, and that he should get away while he could because there was nothing here, there never was, there never will be, world without end, and that she could just as well now go about learning to hate him.

His face darkened and his jaw set and his eyes narrowed and he called her a fucking jew whore, and carried on about how she hadn’t been hiding a thing from him and that her silences were never silent and he disparaged how she had been just going through the barest minimum of motions and had no real god damn commitment here, and she responded how he was such a god damn fucking protestant asshole bastard, demanding that she adjust her precious little feelings in ways she could no longer do if she ever even fucking could, and he shouted to her about what the fuck she was even doing here and she spat back at him that until now, she, at least, was living up to her obligations, and even though it was a lousy bed she had made she had stayed in it until right fucking now no matter how much shit was in it as that was what she deserved, to be shit among the shit, and she lied to him about how honored she was to fucking be here and she lied to herself about how she couldn’t stand it here any more, or maybe she could, she had no fucking idea; she was the princess of lies.

He bolted up out of his chair, spilling her off his lap onto the floor which she crashed most noisily into, sending flares through her elbow and her shoulder where she hit, and he pulled one foot back and thrust it forward directly into her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her in one swift kick, and she coughed and she curled up and she wheezed and batted the air in a feeble attempt to ward him off. She rolled around, and he kicked her on her lower back, getting her to arch, and he fell on her and proceeded to beat her with his bare hands. Not with a whip or a belt or a cane or a bat or a crop or a cat or any number of other implements of corporal punishment he had brandished against her so many times on so many endless nights before, no, he set about her by slapping her directly about, first with his open palm, striking whatever intimate stretches of flesh became available as she thrashed about on the floor, raising her hands up defensively to thwart his efforts to strike her in one place only to open up and avail some other tender spot as she curled up and bunched herself in as tight as she could make herself, swearing up a bluestreak and promising in no uncertain terms retributions and repercussions and convictions for all that he dished out on her over the months, the past couple years, how she was down to just being a fuck-woman and it was time for him to fucking pay for his fucking failures to be what she fucking needed.

He snarled and called her a fucking bitch and upgraded his attack to punching her with the heel of his hand, throwing as much force as he could onto her back, the sides of her stomach, her buttocks, her thighs, her head as she flailed underneath his assault, and it didn’t take long for the bruising to set in and she caught glimpses of the marks that were being left from his bashings and he called her all the other bad names he could come up with with all the rage he could muster, and he ordered her at the top of his lungs to put her fucking hands down so he could hit her tits and she did not comply so he pried her legs down and sat hard on her and assailed her on the exposures of her chest he could get at, howling at her to fucking obey him, you god damn worthless slut, and he continued to violate her with his mitts, pummeling and buffeting her with a demonic abandon until she surrendered and cried out that she would, to please stop, she would put her arms down if he would only stop for a second and he said no, this isn’t a god damn negotiation, this is about you doing what you’re fucking supposed to, now submit, submit, submit you fucking cunt, submit, and he did not relent and he did not retreat and if anything he hit her faster and harder and she quivered and she shook and she spasmed through all the pounding and she was sure this was going to be it, that he was going to beat her to unconsciousness and then get rid of her in ways she truly dreaded and she would never see him again and assuming she survived, it was a price she was willing to pay, to let him have his final onslaught onto her and be done with it all and she stopped pulling her arms in as hard as she could and he felt the change in her and he threw her arms aside and began pummeling her breasts with his hands, punching her as hard as he could with actual fists, knocking her hands back out of the way with every strike, bruising his own hands and cracking his knuckles and he even fractured two of his own fingers in the process, making her hurt in a way he had never done before, and she rolled her head back and forth and screeched and wailed as she willed her hands to the floor, to let him hit her, to stay out of his way, and when the marks definitely showed up on her boobs, he froze for an interminable second and then attacked his own clothing as he tore at his pants to get them down and out of the way enough and he jabbed at the insides of her thighs along her abductor muscles and roared at her to fucking spread her fucking legs, and her elbows came back up over her breasts so her hands could come up and cover her face as she was about to sob and she obeyed.

He threw himself in between her legs and he jammed his erection into her vagina and he raped her. He took no regard for whether or not she was wet and he forced his cock into her cunt with every ounce of fury and hate he could rally, and she raised her knees and spread them as far as she could and rolled her hips to make it easier for him and he pumped himself into her and he fucked her, he crushed her fucking tits as he squeezed them as hard as he could and held on for dear life as he fucked the ever-loving shit out of her until his orgasm overtook him and he ejaculated into her pussy, he came into her twat, and he grunted and collapsed his entire weight onto her and his breathing rattled into convulsions as he lay on her and she quivered and stilled and she dropped one hand off her face onto his shoulder and simply touched him there, not pulling, not pushing, and she otherwise did nothing to interfere with the actions of the man who had put her through every wringer he could, but not this one.

Something had always stayed his hand when it came to re-enacting her first intercourse that she had spoken of in only the most reluctant and off-putting ways, clamming up and making it clear that she saw no need to speak of it, taking whatever response he would give with her nose turned up the slightest bit and a snarl that she didn’t want his pity and she had always considered him a bit of a coward for not doing it anyway—she had survived it so many times before, she could survive it again—and she always wondered why wouldn’t he do that. He let all his friends do it while he watched, and everyone else she had ever been with went out of their way to make it happen again and again and again, in some vain effort to somehow try to change the outcome and it was here and now when she was sure they were at an end that he finally succeeded in breaking down whatever it was in himself that kept him from such barbarity, and her entire outlook changed. There was something about him she suddenly wanted to know: this, this act, this atrocity had somehow hurt him as much as it was supposed to hurt her. And she had to know how. And why. And when. And what the fuck happened. And for the love of god, who.

If she had anything to say about it, they weren’t going to end at all. They were only just beginning.

Not that he could see or feel or hear or smell any of that in her reactionless state. He tipped his head up up up and bore his stare into her face and growled, "The whole point of body armor is to eventually find yourself in a position that you no longer need it." Blink. "Get the fuck out." He struck her in the diaphragm, getting her to clench back up into a ball and he leaned back onto his knees to take one last long look at her. He exhaled and stood.

As he slumped off to mope in what could only be guilt or despair or frustration, trudging up the steps with his pants falling down around his ankles that he did nothing about except waddle through their hinderances, she listened to his tromping fade and his breathing degrade into something that could have been a sniffle until it was quiet and she sat up and put her collar back on and then she set out to disobey him through her own aches and crawled after him, following him up to his room, dragging her nipples up the stairs which got her breasts to bounce along the way in a most comical fashion, passing his pants on the way up to the bedroom she had never actually seen before as they had always performed their acts of whatever depravity he could devise in his living room or in his basement or his garage or back yard or out in public but never here, never where he slept, and she hesitated at the door for only a moment before she stood and crossed the hardwood to his bed and got into it with him as he fumed and flinched. She kissed him long and slow and tender with all the adoration she could summon whenever he would spin up some protest about what either of them had ever said or what either of them had ever done, or what the fuck she was even doing here now and she wrapped herself around him as she had understood lovers do, and she praised him in whispers and thanked him for at long god damn fucking last completely becoming what she had needed, that he was indeed her master. She took a deep breath and reminded him aloud that she had promised to to to—it was hard for her to put it this way, the way it was referred to in all the endless hours of soft-core porn he had sent her; it felt so alien, never mind the current that coursed through her as she spoke—to go down on him, and his eyebrows crossed but he eventually slowly nodded and he held his breath while she dug her way around under the covers to where his cock lay, limp, wet, exhausted, and she re-enacted all the lessons she could remember about fellatio and set about enslaving herself to a man, to this man above all others, as she had no other. When she felt him finally breathe, she closed her eyes and marveled at how good he tasted.

She stayed the night, and attended onto him, cleaving and walling herself onto him, never once straying out of reach. She had so much to learn about him; she had so much to tell him. She liked it much rougher than he did, and she said so, not as any kind of demand, but as an offering, and that and that she she c-came when he f-fucked her the way he did. Hard, like that. She gasped at the zaps. He nodded, and mentioned that the intent of the collar was never to quiet her, but that what he wanted was for her to be willing to suffer to speak to him, and that he missed her talking to him and he had done everything he could to get her to say something, anything, even going so far as to try to bore her to damn death in the foolish hopes that she would at least try to offer up some kind of rebellion and he bewailed that she had never understood that and that she should have—through mystical means, if necessary; he even felt bad about having to come right out and say it, and that kind of ruined it for him, and she said no, please, let her be worthy and she flinched and she swallowed and she straightened up and said it again—and then he nodded and said he’d have to see what he could do about going back to doing things some other way for her again; he had missed it, too, and none of this was exactly easy on him, either. And that he’d have to do something about her coming without permission, now wouldn’t he. She nodded and her mouth fell open around a smile and she wept, for reasons that didn’t involve being tortured into it since she couldn’t remember when. In the morning, after breakfast, during which she told him all kinds of stories about herself he had never asked for, taking the hits from the collar, which he smiled and approved of, he took her to the garage and hung her by her hair, and somewhere in there, as she was intimately engaged and involved with screaming at the top of her lungs, and the collar was happily frying her throat, they entangled and he pierced her and her slut-god with needles and skewers and the darts of longing.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Green Room

By Brewt.Blacklist

November 2013

OH, WHAT do you want with me?

Do you really need to ask?

Don’t even think about that.

Why not?

Because I don’t want you to. Please. Not tonight.

No, I’m going to think about it anyway, whether you like it or not, and whether or not you know, and I am reasonably sure it is going to happen. In fact, on that idea, I’m nothing short of positive. Tonight. And you did ask.

When?

Not tonight, obviously. But earlier. Are you saying you don’t remember?

I take it back.

Too bad.

Can’t we just leave it alone?

No.

God damn it.

Now. How should I have you start?

I really don’t want to do this.

So, then, don’t. You know how.

Fuck you; that’s not going to work.

I know.

I just wish you wouldn’t do it like this.

I’m not doing anything. Not yet, anyway. And let’s face it, it’s not like we haven’t talked about this enough: it’s nothing you don’t want.

That is so totally not true.

Yes, it is. It’s your own fault, you know.

What do you mean?

Well, I gathered you were leaving it up to me as to when. You shouldn’t have told me how. Or what.

You’re right. I shouldn’t have. But god damn it, I did.

For which I, for one, am grateful. Why would you do that?

Do what?

Tell me what you did.

I don’t have a marvelous answer for that.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you?

Don’t gloat; not if you want this sort of thing to continue. It is unbecoming. But I suppose I couldn’t. If that’s what you want to believe.

Not that it matters anyway.

Not at this point. Why?

I don’t know why you…hold on, what? Why what?

Why do you want this?

I’m not sure I have a satisfying answer.

So you really shouldn’t talk about my inability to explain it in myself.

If you want to be that way, sure. All I know is that it matters to what’s between my legs—not to mention what’s between yours—and it gives me a peace a mind unlike any other.

Well, whoop-de-fucking-do for you.

I’m betting it does something for your peace, too.

You’d lose; it keeps me up at night.

You can’t tell me you’re not getting what you need out of this.

I most certainly can, and I most certainly do.

See? You do get what you need. Good girl.

What? Stop that. Quit twisting things. You know what I mean.

Couldn’t resist. Despite your struggles—er, rather maybe because of them—I love it anyway. No matter how hard you resist admitting it.

What do you love?

I love to see you go through this, and go through it for me.

This?

This whole this, end to end. It’s fucking magic.

I sure as shit am not going to do it for anyone else.

So start. Take off your clothes.

This is such a bad idea.

God, how you love to say that. Do you want to say it again?

How did you know? Asshole; this is such a bad idea.

Hurry up.

Okay, okay. What are you going to do?

What it takes to get what I need from you. All the way.

I can act, you know. Maybe we’ll make it a short night.

Yes, you can. I suppose now you’re going to say that you always act, and how you always get away with it, ha ha, the joke’s on me—except it’s not like I can’t tell, you know—and that all that I am is cruel.

Bastard. You are cruel. Heartless. Vicious.

Bitch. Not all the time.

There are days that it feels like it.

I have an idea that this is certainly going to be one of them. It’s part of the deal, you know. Are you afraid?

You have to ask? Of course I am.

Which is part of the charm, part of the spell. I suppose if you ever got to where you weren’t, then I’d have to do something else.

Don’t say that. I shudder to think.

That’s my girl. You say the nicest things, always trying to bolster me up.

Creep. Your obsession with me is not helping. You have got to get past that.

No, I don’t. Do you really want to know what’s going to happen?

Do I have the slightest chance of talking you out of it?

I’ll tell you yes.

Oh, no you don’t. That is not going to get me to beg. God, why do you keep trying to manipulate me? I’m here, aren’t I?

So is that a yes or a no, about the whole wanting to know what’s going to happen thing?

Tell me. It can’t be worse than what I imagine.

And what’s the worst you can imagine?

Now you’re stalling.

Say it. Or it’ll be worse.

Great. What an amazing threat. Just fucking great. Fine. That tonight’s the night you’re going to kill me.

Really? For true? This is what haunts you? I don’t understand that.

Who says fear is rational?

So which idea makes it better? Going in with the understanding that I won’t, or going in with the idea that I might?

Going in there at all is awful enough, never mind the whole god damn mortality issue.

Then are you green-lighting me to murder you?

Please stop trying to manipulate me further. Isn’t what we do enough? Please? God: I don’t want to die. And if I ever do, you’d be the last person I’d ever hand myself over to to do that.

That almost hurts my tender little feelings.

Outstanding. I have an effect on you. Thank fucking god. So are you or aren’t you going to tell me what you’re going to do to me?

Hm? Oh; sure. I think I’d rather you went in there with the idea firmly implanted in your pretty little head that you will in fact survive this.

Oh, what a comfort.

I want you to remain connected to what tomorrow may bring.

Not like it’ll be an improvement.

Nonsense. As soon as you release hope, you’re already dead.

Oh, great. Next you’re going to start quoting the movies I like to me as though they were important.

What? What are you talking about?

Tomorrow is another day? Whatever. All you’ve said is what you’re not going to do, which, gee, thanks. The girl gets to live. Which puts us right back to where we started. What do you want from me?

I want to see you suffer. In a deep way that is nothing less than profound. For me.

This conversation doesn’t count?

Always the comeback.

So you’re going to hurt me.

Yes.

I don’t suppose it’s going to be something quick, huh.

Not a chance in heaven. I said suffer, not have a pang or a twinge or an ache.

How long?

Until I make an absolute fool of myself and can restrain myself no longer, and I have to fuck you.

How are you going to fuck me?

Do you have a suggestion?

Will you please just fuck my pussy this time? That’s what it’s for, you know.

I don’t think you’d hate that enough. It sends the wrong message about what this is about.

Oh, well, then, if that’s the case, please please please fuck me in the ass. You know how I so very much so love it so. And let me carry on a while about how much I would so thoroughly despise having you throb and twitch and spew your cock in my cunt. Like that’s what it was for; sheesh.

What an exceptional idea. Ass it is.

Oh, shit-fuck me.

Like I say: an excellent plan.

It didn’t matter what I said, did it. It was always going to be my ass.

You got that right.

Wow. Do I ever feel special now. This is going to cost us both, isn’t it.

Yes. Dearly.

We’ll never be able to face any of them again.

True. Maybe. I honestly don’t know.

Is it worth the risk?

You know the answer to that. This is who we are.

God damn it. Will I whimper? Be not just embarrassed but completely mortified to my very core about what you’ll make me do out there?

Absolutely.

Will I cry?

Yes. Real tears; none of this fake acting shit.

Crap. Will I scream?

Yes. A lot.

You’re going to make me lose control of myself, and shatter my dignity, aren’t you.

That’s the plan.

Can I go to the bathroom first? Please?

No. if that happens out there, you’ll get to clean it up. You won’t get to use your hands.

God fucking damn it. Do I have to look like I like it? Put on a happy face?

What do you think?

Shit.

Funny you should use that word.

Stop it. That doesn’t help.

What would? Buckle up, buttercup? Put your big girl panties on?

You’re going to let me wear panties?

Okay, that was not the best choice of imagery I have ever come up with.

What a fucking surprise, Sherlock Einstein.

Insults will get you…well, you know what insults will get you. The answer to your question is no. Why aren’t you naked yet? And for that, you get to crawl in. Oh, stop looking like I just took your pony away, princess.

Motherfucker. Here. Take them.

Gee, guess what they are?

Don’t say it.

Do they need to spend some time in your mouth, to remind you what they’ve been absorbing? Not to mention why they do that?

Do you think I don’t know?

Maybe I’ll take them in with me. Let everyone see for themselves.

You’re going to humiliate me, aren’t you?

Gosh, you’re clair-fucking-voyant.

I suppose you are going to make me cum anyway, regardless of what you do to me, through it all, in front of everybody?

Yes. Like you have to. You’re going to cum like a whore.

Promises, promises. That’s the important part, isn’t it? To show them all what an absolute slut I am?

This isn’t just about showing all of them what wonderfully degradable pliant little creature you are. It’s also about showing them what an absolute monster I am.

I’m terrified.

Of what?

Of all of it. The degradation, the pain, the loss of standing and respect, Jesus.

Is that why you’re pussy’s throbbing right now?

Is that what it’s doing? Can’t you just fuck me now right quick and get it over with and call it a night?

This isn’t just about us; it’s also about them, and who will still stand with us when it’s over.

What if it’s none of them?

Then we go someplace else. Start over, like we’ve talked about. Do you really want to stick around with any of them if they can’t stand us?

Don’t you ask that of me?

Why, can’t you stand me?

There are days. Today might be one of them.

Tell me you love me.

How masterly of you. I love you.

I want you to say it out there. Damn near constantly. And be sincere: I don’t want them to have any question.

Can I at least swear when it gets hard?

No. The only words I want coming out of your mouth, no matter what I demand, no matter what happens, no matter how rough it gets, are “I love you”. I don’t want them leaving saying to each other “how can he do all that to her?”or “how can she let him do all that to her?” I want them leaving saying “Why don’t we do that?”

You live in a dream world. You ask impossible things, you know.

You know that’s not true. Look at us: are we just a fantasy?

Please don’t put it that way. How are you going to do it? How are you going to prove to them how much I love you? Did they even ask?

The whole nine yards. Nettles, needles, whips, paddles, wax. I’ll punch you, slap you in the face; I will hit you everywhere, and I do mean everywhere. You will be heavily bruised for quite some time when this is over. I’m going to tell you to open your mouth a lot, and I am going to put things and stuffs in it that I will expect you to swallow.

Bad things?

Yes. Bad things.

They’re going to hate you, you know.

Yes. Maybe. Some of them for sure. Do you consent?

Of course. What are you going to do if they try to stop you?

I’m going to count on you to convince them that it is alright.

Might be a bit of a challenge when I’m screaming at you to stop, please, please, stop.

No; what did I just say? You don’t get to do that.

Shit.

And what did I say about swearing?

Fuck. Let me at least get that out of my system.

Tell me you love me.

I fucking love you.

I fucking love you, too. I also love fucking you. Tell me that you love what we do to you.

Is that an order?

What do you think?

God damn it.

Come on. Fess up.

God damn it some more. You’re the only person I can do this with. You’re the only one I’ll let that far into me. As much as I want to keep it a secret, yes. I love what we do. It is a pleasure to suffer for you. I am counting on you to make sure I do it a fucking lot. Christ, it is so damnably hard to admit that.

Yes. Yes, it is. That’s what we’re doing here.

Is that what you want? Did I say the right thing?

Yes.

That is so god damn fucking awesome. Jesus god damn fucking Christ on a cracker. I can’t believe we’re doing this.

You can still say no.

Quit it. You know I can’t, especially seeing as I cannot pronounce that word to you, let alone mean it.

Can’t, or won’t?

Same difference.

You do love to squawk.

Isn’t that part of it? How we push each other through all this? Shouldn’t we let them see that, too?

Not tonight. We need to see who survives the initial cut.

I’m not sure I will.

Of course you will. You’re the strongest person I know.

Sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. Will you tie me up?

Will that make it easier?

God, yes, please. Tie me tight, gag me. Make it so I don’t have to do anything except lie there and take whatever you can dish out. It would relieve me of so much stress, so much performance anxiety.

But that’s not what they need to see. You’re the one they have to believe in. You have to make them understand that you are not a victim. At least, not an unwilling one.

Spec-fucking-tacular. What if my strength gives out? My resolve?

Then I’ll be in trouble. Serious trouble. Look, if you so much a flicker any kind of non-consent, they won’t even bother asking you and they’ll call the cops and have me arrested for beating the shit out of you and torturing you harder than anything they’ve ever seen, and I guarantee they will go so way far way out of their way to see to it I will never see you again, that they’d rather you did just go right ahead and die before they even let you so much as think about me again. They will never stop watching you—twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five—for the rest of your life, and they will rain hell down on you if they even so much as consider the possibility that you might in some deep dark night masturbate over anything they don’t completely approve of. Guess how much that would be. They will nullify you. It all pretty much rides on you. You, me, everything.

Nothing like a little pressure, huh.

Nope. Just don’t forget whose idea this really was.

I wish we weren’t like this.

If wishes were fishes. And it’s time. Take my hand.

I thought I was going to crawl in.

You’ll get plenty of time to do that when you kiss everyone’s feet.

Oh, god. What if they don’t want that?

Then you will beg them until they let you.

I’m going to need a bigger vocabulary. I can’t imagine how calling out to you that I love you is going to be the least bit persuasive to someone who doesn’t want their feet kissed by a kneeling naked girl they don’t want to see be like that in the first place.

Sure. Whatever you need to say. Just don’t forget what we want them to see between us.

W-what if they want more? Than me just kissing their feet?

Then you will bless them, and offer them even more than they ask for. Every last one of them.

Up to everything we do?

Up to everything we do.

Is our hospital insurance paid up?

That’s what you’re worried about?

Wait; when are you going to take off your clothes?

I told you: when it’s appropriate. When I can’t help myself.

Are you scared of letting them see you when your cock is as small as it is right now?

Is that helping? Now who’s stalling?

What, you don’t want to let them see it grow as you torture the ever-loving bejesus right on out of me? Really show them what this is all about? Because this isn’t just about me: it’s about you, too. Or are you spooked it might not work this time?

Okay; sure. I’ll call your bluff. Why not? All we have to lose is everything.

Atta boy. See? Cute little thing.

Maybe I’ll start with having you put your tongue in my ass. Let them see what happens when you do that.

That would be so disgraceful.

Yes, it would be. For both of us.

Way to give a girl hope. I really don’t know that I can do this.

I have all the faith in the world in you.

You’re a fool. Can I ask for one thing before we go in?

What?

Can I have a hug?

Of course. I love you.

I really do love you so very, very much, too. I will follow you wherever you may lead, even unto my own destruction.

Right. Don’t be so melodramatic. Or morose. This is supposed to be a happy night.

Yes, sir. Won’t they be surprised?

I’m sure. So, my bride-to-be, let’s go. ‘Nough pussy-footin’ ‘round the elephant in the room. Our families are waiting.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Line Dance

By Brewt.Blacklist

October 2013

I POKED my head out to see how much further I had to go, and looked back to see how far I’d come. One of the camera crews had just done a fly-by, and I was in the middle of the line that snaked around the space. No man’s land, er, no woman’s land: I was too far from where the organizers were at the door—trying to keep order, laughing, joshing around, thanking people for showing up, making us sign consent forms—and I was still way too far from the objective to start to invoke any kind of implementation onto myself. This was technically the quiet contemplative part of the room, not that it was technically quiet; there was music blaring. Rockabilly. Not my favorite, not by a long shot. Although not unexpected. And talking, er, shouting to the guys around me was unheard of, unthinkable; it was a sure sign that I wasn’t here for the objective, that I was here instead trying to get something going on the side. Which wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t like that. So I waited, biding my time, swaying on my heels, trying to keep the objective in mind and not dwell on anything else that might pop up in my head.

Not that that worked.

I had gotten the day off from my place of employ to be here, and this was not going to be a story I could probably tell back at the office. At least, not out on the floor. There would, though, be some status and mileage to be gained at the bars on boys’ night out when the tales of bravado would come up to determine who had to pay for the next round, and this was sure to be a cinch for coverage of at least one or two night’s servings of fine adult beverages. It had proved sufficient before. I got up, showered, shit, shaved, and then shaved some more, and had treated myself to some breakfast that morning and got to the place at what I thought to be more than early enough to discover that I was not original in my thinking. The line already extended around the block, and it took more than a couple hours to even get inside and it was cold out there.

Once I was finally through the gates and was all signed up and congratulated and thanked and had enough of the chill worn off to take off my coat—which I had to hold—I gandered around the room, and I was, frankly, bedazzled by it all, just like always. It was all very exciting, and I was here, and here, this time, was a gymnasium, of all places; I marveled at how that got wrangled. Didn’t the owner know what was going to happen here today? It made no sense. Or maybe it did: perhaps the weekend events could have some kind of resonance of what happened here on a Tuesday, and who knows, it might drive ticket sales. Or maybe this sort of thing happened here all the time and there was a waiting list, a list as long as the line I was in. A line that was at least moving. Everything was in motion; there was no actual stillness in here.

Somewhere not even before the middle of the court, nearer the freethrow line on the entrance side, the guy in front of me started jostling around a little. I poked my head around him again, being careful as to how and where I rubbernecked—I didn’t want to see something I didn’t want to see—and sure, we’d made progress toward the objective, but I thought it was still a shade or two too early to initiate things. It would be bad to peak too soon. The help was still a long ways away from us, fluttering about near the head of the line. I wondered if maybe he was just new at this sort of thing when the corner of my eye caught some motion behind me, and that guy was starting in, too.

I gave in, and commenced in on myself as well. When in Rome.

I didn’t seem to have very much to operate with and officially, to the nag of my pride, chalked it up to the weather, but the gospel was, I was having the worst time conjuring up any images that would be of any remedy, despite having researched so many so long and so hard at the house this morning before I left. Maybe that’s what was needed here, something like, uh, refreshments. TVs playing the good stuff, if for no other reason than to benefit the old veterans who had drug themselves out into the cold just to be here. Set the mood. Of course, I could understand the objective not wanting that. It raised the question as to just who we were all doing this for, ourselves or what’s on TV because god forbid, it should not be about the objective.

We forged ahead, and I had some small flourishing with myself, and began to run through things in my head, things I could never so much as confess to considering let alone condoning or admitting that I went out of my way to acquire images of and movies of and stories of and descriptions of, things that traditionally that brought about the, uh, required output, but as I dipped into even them as a measure of last resort since nothing else was succeeding, and for reasons I could not begin to fathom, I had trouble committing, even to them, and not very much happened. Something must have been bothering me. Something wasn’t right, and I couldn’t put my hand to what. Maybe it was something about the veritable army of men, here to serve the objective. Maybe it was the smell. Who knows. We trudged forth.

I lost track of a little time—woolgathering—and suddenly the help approached and asked the guy right in front of me how he was doing, casting her gaze down and then she patted him on the side of the cheek, confirming that he was doing just fine, honey, just fine.

Then the moment I had been dreading since I walked in here happened, that I didn’t even know I had so much as considered as being a dilemma, and I was greeted amicably by the help, and asked if I needed any assistance. I shook my head and stared down and to the right as I was required to do by whatever it is that men have been so steeped in that struggles so hard to preserve our honor, but this was a professional I was dealing with, and she inspected my rather foolish attempt to defend my modesty and perhaps my dignity and she rolled her eyes up like she had been waiting for me and she smiled at me and she knelt down anyway and situated herself to where she could do some good and gently nudged my fingers out of her way.

I gawked around and saw another man getting some support. And another. And another. I was not alone. There were lots of women playing the part of the help today and I risked a hope that maybe this wasn’t so bad and all was still going to be accomplished. I exhaled and put my wrists on my hips and tipped my head down to watch.

She assisted me.

I had never partaken in the benefits of the help before; I was amazed that it hadn’t occurred to me as being such a good thing, and I felt like a foolish genius who had just been shown the light that was right there right in front of him the whole time. Part of me wanted to point out how stupid everyone else was who didn’t imbibe and part of me wanted to congratulate everyone else on not needing this so I could keep it all to myself and think about baseball and math and mom to extend this operation on indefinitely. I had to pant a little.

Normally, this would be just the sort of thing that would get me into a position to do some good, and I could usually ignore the protestations of the women I asked it of in the past however well-mannered and good-intended and simply lose myself for a little while before they would give up as having done as much as they could stand and that had better be enough and we would move on to something else. But I was apparently not feeling very normal that day, and nothing that was supposed to happen happened and my mouth and my lips went dry and moved into odd formations and did things I did not approve of. The help was, in fact, performing proper due diligence and I was extraordinarily grateful despite the scowls that besieged my countenance—that she didn’t seem to notice—and she even stayed with me as the line advanced. It was so clumsy to try to take a step forward with a woman doing this-this…thing. That should maybe be something that could be endeavored on in gym class in school, to try to develop a more graceful way to walk onward with a woman kneeling or bent over or something before the man as she did what was necessary for him to get him to where he could meet expectations. If an appropriate dance-like move could be developed, this could be maneuvered into parades, with precision marching and turns and twirls while the man and the woman remained in an arrangement of proximity that really had only one interpretation. Someone should get a handle on that. It would be entertaining, to say the least.

We took another unwieldy step, and I gaped around again to see that at this point I was the only one being tended to. It made me fairly self-conscious, and that did nothing for my courage or my self-worth or my confidence that I could even do this and I began to question what I was even doing here. All the other guys I had been standing with were starting to shuffle up and huddle around the objective, and I still was not of any earthly use. The help tipped her beatific face up toward me, and I swear, it appeared that she admired me, and she pulled herself to her feet, running her palms up my sides, reaching up and whispering in my ear that we could go over there and get out of the way until I was ready, and I hung my head and she held my arm, c’mon, it’s okay, as I stepped out of line and let her take me over to lean me up on the sidelines where she would take another swing at me. This was not how I had foretold this day going when I got up this morning, nor when I went to bed last night; neither was it anything like any of the other moments of preparations for glory I had convinced myself were absolutely going to happen here today over the last few weeks of anticipatory trances. It was all supposed to proceed as it had before. This wasn’t my first rodeo. I was dizzy with being simultaneously ashamed and enthralled.

She guided me against a table so I could stabilize myself and the room stopped spinning. She ran her fingernails over my chest and assured me this happened all the time before she descended once again into a stance that conveyed an representation of subservience that was in fact a lie about just who was actually in charge here but reflected the appearances of the pecking order of our society and hinted at consents of things men could expect from women under the right circumstances—and this locale on this day with these people, of all population groups and times and places, was indeed the right circumstance, if ever-oh-ever it existed—and normally I liked seeing that, in pictures and movies and reading about it in stories, and I especially liked it from up here, from where I could convince myself of an elevated socialized location, of some kind of command structure that I was at the pinnacle of, and she prepared to consummate her performance and revealed a fealty and reverence up toward me as she was about to recommence on her operation and asked if there was anything she could do, if I needed something, uh, special, and my lips quivered as I asked, as politely as I knew how, if I could see some more of her, which was only the tip of the iceberg of what I really wanted from a woman and she said but of course and went about doing what I asked until I nodded my head, and she redirected her focus back in on her specialty, her skill, her craft. Her assignment.

She was magnificent. Gorgeous. Ravishing. I closed off my sight to all the hustle and bustle in the room, I shut out all the racket, I put blinders on to everything except the outstanding example of God’s handiwork I had before me and how she exerted herself toward my needs and she set in to earn her designation, her cognomen, her title. I relished her ministrations which continued for naught and my thoughts wandered around as they so often so disobediently do. I had never understood why the help was dressed at these soirées. I supposed it went back to the questions about just who it was we were all here for: ourselves, the help, or the objective.

I glanced up toward the objective, and heard the roar of the guys I had been standing in line with as they achieved their roles—somebody over there was worth some kind of attention, and the camera crew seemed very excited—and honestly, I found all that to be of no use whatsoever toward my goals, but the objective made some sounds, the right harmonious noises, and that did. Perhaps it was another kind of enthusiasm that had earned the camera crew’s focus. It got mine. The help seemed to be more aware of what was going on around us than I did and she picked up on what had caused the reaction in me and re-attacked her task with renewed vigor, initializing her own relevant modulations in tone and pitch, recapturing my attention, and maybe that was what had been missing. The exhibitions and cacophonies of men going through the motions never seemed to do the right things for me; I always had more vested interests and responses to the pageants and musics of women in the process.

And as my thought streams began to curtail their meanderings, it occurred to me that maybe that’s what was really needed here. If the objective is, in fact, the objective, then that’s what they could put on the TVs here: the objective engaged in and discharging the act and enjoying it. That would keep the rallying all going in the right directions, and perhaps realize a smidgen of lift to those of us old-timers who might need such a thing and serve as a reminder as to what it is we are all here for.

I had a purpose here, and it called to me.

I rejoiced at what could only be termed an opportune response in myself at the help’s efforts and praised whatever it was I could thank for this turnabout of the undertaking at hand, that the help was getting something to happen, that I was making progress, and she continued with the glorious intonations and the precious cast on her angelic features that conveyed how much she adored her practice, and the continued favorable treatments she lavished onto me, which comforted me even more. Even if it was an illusion, even if she didn’t know me from Adam and she had no authentic care or consideration for me as a man or a lover or a human being, it wasn’t a concern. What mattered here was her calling to the objective, and she was going to get things to happen toward that, regardless of what it took—I was in awe of her dedication—and if it meant expressing a personalized depiction of acceptance toward one of the poor slobs in the line, then, by god, that was what she was going to do, and for a moment, despite all the most obvious of evidences happening all around me about how insignificant I was to the whole course of action here and how I myself was of no real consequence and maybe I shouldn’t even be here, I could disavow all that and maybe begin to make the connection that perhaps in some small way I had magnitude here, that maybe it really was somehow about me, and I fell into my dreams and my fantasies and I could envision the help repeating this again for me later, when it could be just her and I and not all these other people, and maybe, just maybe, she could be the objective and I could imagine that she liked that, that she maybe liked me, and I let myself go right ahead and believe that she wanted me, me, over everyone that was in here, and my mind drifted off with a ridiculous optimism as it so often does toward inappropriate ideas about what one can and cannot do with a woman and the faith that there were in fact and truth and reality some women out there that wanted those sorts of things to happen to them, and how long and so very hard I had been looking for such a woman and maybe she was one, could it be, and my strength returned and she continued her service towards me, towards my needs on beyond obligation, on beyond reason into the irrational areas where I was the objective, and it was me that the throng was here for, except I would not have men here, I would have women, lots of women, and they would all be functioning for me, enacting reveries and fancies and atrocities and the heinous things that are forbidden to do to a woman that lead inevitably to them voicing their reactions and opinions about the sheer evils of that sort of thing, not with words or pleasant rational polite conversations that would be laced with negativity and accusations and insistences for condemnations for such abominations but with voicings that one can only make under certain circumstances, rather extreme insane conditions when language itself fails and the woman’s very neurology forces something out that normally expresses ache and affliction and perhaps even so far as an agony that mimics hate, but among a rare few is at the same time interwoven with a compulsion and affection and with lust and with urges for deference and capitulation and assent to the will of a man who would inflict such horrors on a woman for his own hideous uses towards the vibrations he could induce into her that she would reflect back to him in a feedback loop of urgency and passion and allegiance that swore from their onset to devour them both in longing and ecstasy and loyalty which we all must disavow during the day in front of others, and it was my absorption with that kind of devotion to such terrifying satisfactions that are prohibited in public that persist in coming to me at night all night every night unbidden when I am alone and the abyss howls, and its song wakes me from my sleep to make me have to do something about it all to myself, god damn it all, exactly who is in charge here, and the crisis began to rear its ugly little head on me and I could see it from here like I do in my bed at home and I loved it and I hated it at the same time, and I was reminded that there were times I cannot stand this about myself and the women I know cannot bear it either, and she, the woman, the one who was here in this room with just me, persevering with me through my little problems and perversities and obscenities started to make the resonances that normally express distress and discomfort that come about when a man has encroached his way too far with a woman, and she demonstrated her strength and resolve and she endured and she held herself there and she did it for me and I didn’t care if she had ever done this before, she had to have done this before to have this kind of control, that was fine with me, it was outstanding, I was astonished, and she let her own reactions that she couldn’t keep from happening happen to her and she did it for me and she did not use that as an excuse to stop, no, she carried it on out further, for me, she demonstrated her willingness to let me feel what happened to her when what happened to her happened when a man went too far with her where she breathed and what happened when she couldn’t and I felt it and it was magic and I was filled with wonder and you just stay right there, honey, I cannot tell you how amazing that feels, the power, the sensation, my god, the power, and I didn’t care who saw, I didn’t care about anything else in the whole wide world, and no one had ever done that for me before and she submitted to my unholy desires and it was beautiful and it was acceptable and it was what she was there for and it was alright, you just go right ahead, sir, you’re almost there, you’re almost there, and I nearly failed the objective, I almost went too far with the help and I gasped for my own breath.

The help understood me better than I understood myself and she stopped what she was doing and finished her chore just in time to spare me yet another embarrassment and stood and put her arms around me to lead me back toward the objective. I was in a daze. As I came down from whatever heaven she had thrust me into, I wanted to tell her not to ever leave me and the building fell back in around me and she let go of my shoulders, she ripped me in two as she did and I experienced loss, true loss, don’t go, don’t abandon me, I have to, and as she was about to relinquish me to the objective, having done what she came here to do with me and having genuinely done it so very, very well, I asked her her name with the lame excuse that I could extend my compliments to the people who care about these things and she tipped her head to the side with an expression that said I just had to be kidding, right, but she patted my stubble and she said I was sweet and to have fun and she let me off at the circle and made her way back up the line, reassembling herself back towards presentable, searching for someone else she could be of aid to. She ducked into the horde and vanished.

I turned my head back, and peered down into the middle of the group of men that surrounded the objective, and I remained to finish what the help had begun, and I executed my commission.

I couldn’t think about the objective at all, or even be bothered to notice it, and I closed my eyes and made up stories and visions and delusions of the help and I instead. My face, I know, was blissful and at peace. I awoke in time to see myself expend myself. The objective never even noticed me and did not even acknowledge I was even there. I did what I came here for, and was immediately pulled away by another someone—I didn’t even see who it was—and I left. I looked back once to try to see the help one last time to no avail.

At the exit, I tried to speak to one of the other people involved with the affair about how good the help was, especially one pretty one in particular, and was assured that everyone said that, and no, you can’t meet her, and no, you can’t wait for her, now go on, get out of here.

One of the fellas at the old watering hole that evening mentioned a rumor about what he had heard happened at the big venue in town that day. After all the wolf whistles and profanity died down, and a few ribald jokes were guffawed at, and the waitress had come back to check on us and got to suffer some more through being leered at for trying to do the only job she could get that didn’t involve her spreading her legs, all eyes fell onto me as I had bragged about having participated in such fêtes in days gone by. I feigned ignorance and bought a round. The waitress surprised me when by saying yes when I asked her out after everyone else had gone home, and I was a gentleman towards her, which was not what she was looking for. I remarked on what a coincidence that was, that that wasn’t exactly what I was interested in, either. It took us a while to find our way through that, and we were really good for each other for a few months. We’ve been on-again off-again ever since. There’s still a lot we’re figuring out about each other, including some things we’re not allowed to bring up among the more civilized decent folk we both end up having to grindstone our days with. We’re still developing, and when we conquer, er, when she is conquered, she is happy to make the most captivating sonorities under the most impermissible of conditions.

When the show came out about what had happened there that day, I, of course, bought it and took it to my once-again-empty home—my girlfriend was mad about me about something or other—and I watched it twice and did not see myself in it. There were a lot of people involved; the mob seemed endless. The objective carried on about how great it was that everyone came out, and expressed gratitude to all who participated and how important this was and how history was being made and frankly, the whole thing was dull and off-putting and I totally didn’t care about the objective, and it was the last such episode I attended in person.

But there were glimpses and shots of the help and even of one pretty one in particular as she warmed up some of the other men there—the footage of what happened between her and I had managed to land on the cutting room floor; those precious unseen moments make this my favorite piece of my collection—and even to this day, when I all-too-often have the place to myself, I continue to observe my duty to her and my memories of her and the fleeting images I have of her regularly. I never saw her again, certainly not in reality, and not in any other recordings, either, and over the years, I quit looking for her. She’s gone. I’m afraid I must concede, though, that I do embellish my recollections of her a little, depending on my mood, not to mention what the night brings when it bothers to wake me with the promises of echoes that I am not allowed to hear during the day, despite my best efforts to be washed over by them regularly at other times, and all the cooperation I am given along those lines, when I once again am plagued with the reactions that I have and take on the burdens that I do that I cannot seem to put an end to at home in bed alone in the dark.

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