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Do not read my works if you are offended by descriptions of sexuality and violence. |
Passion |
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Audio read by Meri Paite (5:07) |
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“Hurt her!” How often had I heard him say those words! As always, his voice sounded casual and detached, did not convey the passion that drove him. Or, rather, the passion wasn’t yet there when he said it — only the memories of passion past, the promise of passion to rise within his body, to stir him, to drive his own pain from his tormented mind. Only then his now half-closed eyes would open wide, his teeth would part to let the tip of his tongue wet his lips, his ears would start to pick up all the nuances of sound, his nostrils would take in the scents, his now limp penis would stand erect to its full size, his breathing would become faster, his face would light up in this intense glow of passion that I loved so much to see, that I loved so much to help to bring about. “Hurt her!” How often had I obeyed this command! How much pain had I made those girls suffer who had been helplessly strapped to this iron frame, how many hours had I denied them the deaths that they had soon begun to long and scream and cry and beg and plead for. How gladly had I helped him to achieve these hours of satisfaction that he desired! “You show no pity for those wenches,” he had once said to me, half wonderingly, half acknowledgingly, after one had died a particularly slow and painful death. Pity? How could I have pitied them? Envy was what I felt. Envy of the attention they received from him, envy of their much more central role than mine in letting him find the peace he craved. It was them he needed, it was their bodies he used, it was their meat that found its way to his table — I was just the tool he used to soften them up, to get them out of their shells, to make them consumable to him. And he relied upon me. He never told me what to do, how to torture them, he always left it up to me and I did my best to never disappoint him. But I grew tired, and I grew older, and while at first I had hoped it would only be a matter of time before he would allow me to provide the one true service to him, it never happened, and I began to fear it never would. And though I tried to hide it from him, and never would have dared to inconvenience him with my own petty hopes or frustrations, he must have noticed it. He is a kind Master, have I said this already? “Hurt her!” How often had I heard those same words, but how different were they now, when I was strapped to the iron frame! And the girl to whom he had spoken them was standing in front of me. My successor! How I loved my Master! How I wished she would serve him as well as I had, or even better! “Hurt her!” He had not given her any tools, he wanted to see what she could do without them. “Hurt her!” She slapped my face. She punched me in the belly. She kicked me in the crotch with her knees. She punched my face, my sides, my breasts. She kicked me with her feet. It was pathetic. “Stop,” he finally said. Then he turned to me and said, “I’m sorry.” I had tears in my eyes, tears because I knew now that he loved me. And I knew that there would be another one, one day, but not now, but now it didn’t matter anymore. “Untie her,” he said, and she obliged, and I tied her to the frame, and then I showed her what hands and feet and teeth could achieve in the Master’s service. For hours, she screamed as few had screamed before her. And for the first time ever, after she had exhausted herself and he had exhausted himself too, and with the glow of passion slowly fading from his face but still visible, he took me in his arms and kissed me. |
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(08/2009) |