Within Clarissa

It was a bad year. I hate when people say that. It sounds pretentious, it sounds

knowitall. Most people I know can't even remember so far back. But they still

say shit like that. They always do. That way they sound wise and like they

actually have a perspective on life and time and their position in it. Bollocks

to them.

But it was a bad year. I'll remember it as a year of disasters. First, Lynn

left. She walked out on me, lowercase style. There was no big Hollywood drama,

no passionate scenes to mark the end of a relationship. Shit, it hurt me. I like

to imagine I am not that easy to drop. Of course, we had our fights and we had

our sessions of screaming at each other and it's safe to say the final months of

our relationship were as dramatic as it gets. It's safe to say I was an asshole

for most of that time. But I make no apologies for that. I am an asshole, that's

just what I am. And I didn't feel Lynn's constant bitching and sarcasm demanded

to be received with anything else but a solid dose of well rehearsed assholism

and I ignored most of her babble in the greatest tradition of unmoved males.

Thank God for the X-box, I say. It would have been tough those last several

months if it wasn't for Bill Gates's little box of dumb, earthly pleasures. I

think what made Lynn extraordinarily pissed was seeing me at 7 in the morning,

in my underwear, unshaven, obviously underslept, my gaze fixed at the screen,

twitching at the controller like a spastic nine-year old. You know it is sad

when you find a box of circuits designed by the richest asshole alive more

exciting than a woman you actually invested great efforts in getting into your

bed a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, they never stay in bed. Boys will be

boys and we never learn.

I didn't even feel like having sex with her most of the time. Well, it comes

with the territory, doesn't it? Move in with the most gorgeous kitten out there

and find yourself tomorrow morning staring at your 59 years old neighbour with

her breasts hanging down to her belly, wondering how it would feel to give them

a little squeeze.

We did have sex, quite regularly still, because those were the rare occasions

when I felt I actually had an idea what to do with her and she was wise enough

not to bitch and moan about my horrible character features whilst doing it.

Not the greatest sex of all time, for sure... But still, it's your good will

that counts.

And then she just decided that this was not the life she wanted to lead and

soberly told me this was going nowhere and that she is leaving, that she will

test her luck elsewhere. She didn't even accuse me of anything in the end. Ouch.

It hurt. I had a mouthful of cereal and, quite honestly I wasn't even listening

to her when she started speaking. I seem to recall I was contemplating pros and

cons of a corporate sponsored remake of 'Day of the Dead' and was getting ready

to spend another day just lying around and doing nothing. And she just calmly

explained her reasons as if she was speaking about a not very interesting TV

programme she saw on cable last night. She never said it was my fault or

something of the sort. And she made me feel so insignificant that, I swear, my

throat tightened and I felt like crying for a moment right there. So she left,

carrying only one bag and I realised that we never really lived together. It was

an extended overnight stay for her, nothing more than that.

Then Gothboy discovered he was HIV positive. Stupid fucking idiot. I'd rip his

head open and spit into his brains if there were any to start with. But anyway,

the lifestyle of his will take care of everything sooner than later. Some people

discover they have caught the ol' HIV and they radically change their life, look

at those optimistic joggers at 6 in the morning, drinking healthy water and

vitamin pills by a shovel, hoping to postpone the inevitable. Not Gothboy. I

think he hasn't even sobered up once since he got the news. He cried a river of

tears that first day or so I'm told. I only saw him next day and sure as hell

his face was red and swollen, but it might just have been the side effects of

JB's or whatever other form of alcohol drink he's been consuming by a gallon for

the last 20 or so hours. I was mad as hell at him. I wanted to come across as

sympathetic and to give him the support he dearly needed, and all that, but he

just pissed me off. He made me mad. Looking at that asshole who effectively

tossed his life away, fucked other people's lives up along the way and then

could do nothing but drink himself stupid made me angry and bitter. I told him a

million times, but did he listen? No. Ol' Jimmy Gothboy just shared his needle

with whoever wanted to be his friend at that moment. He always wanted to be a

star, an autodestructive celebrity, to replace his white trash persona with an

aura of danger, mystery and open possibilities. Hence his stupid stagename,

hence his habit of offering anyone in hearing distance to shoot up with him.

Nice one, Gothboy, nice one, you shot up your own fucking death, hope your veins

feel happy now, you sod.

Honestly, I couldn't stay there for very long. If I did, I'd probably ended up

smacking him and Laura who was crying uncontrollably. Too late for that, Laura,

your big brother just used up all of his free coupons. She, of course never once

thought about probably dozens of girls her age he passed that little virus of

his to over the past weeks or months. She just saw her big bro trembling with

fear, unsure what to do, not even daring to think about the options.

As one thing leads to another, I was actually more angry at Gothboy for fucking

the plans we had together up. The tour had to be canned. Kevin wouldn't dream of

hitting the road without Gothboy, Gothboy couldn't even be brought to his senses

to discuss the possibility of him doing the tour, as his life was pulverised in

one swift move. And I was angry at both of them. I was looking forward to this

tour. Martin really did wonders this time around and booked us with some

excellent dates. We were to perform at really decent venues this time, sleep in

hotels and get a handsome amount of money each if all goes well. And it would

have gone well, the agency we were going through was far more professional than

any of the enthusiasts that we have been dealing with in the past and the

advertising and pure hype would have done the trick. Hell, some of the dates we

were supposed to be on the same bill with Matmos, my favourite gay couple in

business. I was looking forward to meeting those guys. This tour could have been

a good career move and healthy fun. But, no, Jimmy had to screw it all up

because Jimmy needed his heroin addiction shared with whoever was the closest

person at the time.

All this meant I had to find some work to do. Which depressed me beyond belief.

I was counting on that tour to provide enough dough to last for several moths,

maybe a year. Without Lynn to spend money on, it could have lasted for a year. A

year of cereal and applejuice and X-box games. It could have been great. Alas it

was not to be.

But then there was Clarissa.

I am still wondering. Is this supposed to be some kind of cosmic-balance type of

thing?

Clarissa...

It could have easily happened that I never met her. In fact I do have certain

moments, usually late in the night, after smoking some green and listening to

too much fucked up UK electronica/ vintage dub/ whatever ritual music I might

happen to be into that week, moments when my paranoia breaks out of its bounds

and I actively imagine, no, I KNOW that there is another me out there, another

me who never met Clarissa, never knew of her existence. I feel sorry for this

another me and I shit myself because I am afraid that one day I will wake up to

discover I really am this other me.

* * *

"Now put your hands on the back of your head."

She does. Slowly. Just the way she knows I love. She manages to radiate a myriad

of impressions at the same time. Obedience, uncertainty, acceptance... She

places her palms at the back of her head and her fingers hug each other.

I circle around her slowly. I feel calm. There is no hurry, I am taking my time.

She is standing in front of me, scared, fragile, obedient. Putting hands on her

head makes her breasts go up. I like the way her armpits look in this position.

They are very sexy. There's only the tiniest trace of black there, just to

suggest that these are indeed regions of mystery and power on the map of her

body.

She is silent and her eyes are lowered, she is staring at the ground. With her

hair now dyed jet black and dressed only in stockings, suspenders and high

heels, her hands up on her head and her gaze avoiding mine, she is a picture of

beauty and strange innocence. A slut can suggest innocence. I made Clarissa my

slut, I designed her to befit whatever my sexual tastes may be and through all

that she remained innocent. I am as surprised as anyone. 33 odd years of on and

off art and music and bullshit and this proves to be my only masterpiece.

"Now get down on your knees."

I am speaking in gentle soft tones. There is no need to shout or be aggressive.

Clarissa knows that she will obey or be punished. She knows that beyond any

doubt. Sometimes she chooses punishment. For now, she obeys.

It is not easy to get down on your knees with hands on your head and standing on

ridiculously high heels. But she does that with grace. She has accepted her

training with passion that surprised me more than I thought possible. She is

eager to please me. She makes me drunk with power sometimes.

I play with the whip for a while, walking around her, speaking to her,

explaining to her the level of her unimportance in the great scheme of things.

Basically I am bullshitting. I am telling her how dirty she is and what she

deserves for that. She is not allowed to sit on her heels, and she knows that,

so she's kneeling, her hands still up, like a statue of a slave. She listens to

me but speaks only when spoken to. Because those are the rules.

I never even had to impose those rules on her. Probably for the best, I'm not

the worlds greatest master. In fact, I have never been a master, never thought

I'd be one. I am still unsure if this is real me, if I am not just embarrassing

myself. But Clarissa makes everything worthwhile. The embarrassment never felt

so sweet.

"Do you understand?" I ask.

"yes." Her voice is soft and it never stops giving me hard ons.

"But you still don't want to change your ways, do you?"

She takes a couple of seconds before she replies. Then it comes out, even

softer:

"no."

"Even though you know I will do all sorts of things to you? Why? Why do you want

to be treated like an animal? Why do you want to be humiliated and punished over

and over again?"

There is no answer for a couple of seconds. Then she raises her eyes and looks

into mine. A true master would punish this blatant disobedience. But I am just

transfixed by her gaze, enchanted and the best I can do is stay calm, keep my

face a mask of stone.

Finally she whispers

"because I want to please You. i am Your slut, Your animal to humiliate and

insult, Your whore to fuck and use and discard after You don't need her anymore.

because You take pleasure in fucking Your slut, pumping her up with Your semen

and throwing her away like a used condom."

I am clutching the whip harder as she speaks. I am also becoming harder. This is

what we were born for, I swear, there is nothing that makes more sense in life

than this.

But I grin:

"You say all the right words, but, tell me, why should I believe you, slut? How

do I know you mean all this? How do I know that indeed, deep inside you do not

harbour hope to be free once again? How do I know you are not dreaming of

fucking someone else? Of being a slut for whoever might want to fill that dirty

cunt of yours?"

And she looks positively hurt by my words, the darling. Her black hair dances

graciously as she is quick to shake her head, to convince me.

"no, please", her voice almost on the brink of tears, "sir Nick, You are the

only one this slut wants to please. my pleasure is unimportant, it is Your

pleasure that i have been born to provide."

And try and not love the girl who says things like this, kneeling on the floor,

exposed, dressed like a porn actress.

"But, you'd still fuck someone else, is that true? If I requested you to do so?"

This is a repeated game we play. I am not sure I'd want her to be fucked by

anyone else at this point, but the very idea makes her breathing go heavy.

"i'd do anything to please You, sir."

I know she would.

Slowly, I touch her face and shoulders and her armpits with the whip. It looks

convincingly like a horse whip jockeys use, even though it's more like a toy

replica. But it can provide pain. But there is time for that.

I touch her face, her eyelids, trace her eyebrows with the tip of the whip. I

touch her lips. They are painted red. I order her to open her mouth and she

obeys.

If there is anything more erotic than this, then the universe is indeed an

impossible place. Seeing Clarissa close her eyes and lick the whip is

entrancing. She uses her tongue on it slowly, like it were an extra-sensitive

male organ. I can see passion on her face, surrender, ecstasy.

"Clarissa, I have never seen a woman act like such a slut before." I tell her.

And this is not just part of the game. It is the truth. I have never seen a

woman so surrendered, so focused on being obedient, so lost in her sexuality, so

aware that she is being observed and so turned on by it.

And she takes the whip into their mouth, she starts sucking it and she starts

making noises, moans and sighs. I know that down there she is already dripping

wet, but there is time.

I hit her over the breasts and her little scream is a mixture of surprise and

pain. But I know there is excitement in it.

"Did that hurt?" I ask

"yes.", she whispers.

"Do you want more?"

Silence.

"...yes."

"Are you sure? You want me to hit you over your tender breasts with a whip?"

"yes.", this time the answer comes more quickly, it has more conviction.

I hit her again, harder this time. The whip leaves red marks on the white skin

of her breasts. Her scream is half-muted this time, because there is no

surprise, just pain.

I watch her nipples becoming incredibly hard. This never ceases to shock me.

She's loving it. She is in pain. She is in heaven. I am becoming more and more

aroused as well.

"Why? Why do you want that? Why do you want to be hurt?"

And she looks at me again. I see tears forming in her eyes.

"please." is the only thing she manages to whisper.

I carry on. After a while, her breasts are painted red, covered in marks. I make

her suck the whip, the tool of her punishment, the source of her pleasure. I hit

her again, over the face even. Fucking Christ, never in my wildest dreams I have

imagined it would be like this. Her tears. Her screams. I need her to suck me

right now, I need it really bad. And I grab her hair and force her mouth open.

There is no hurry and she will be thoroughly and methodically punished and

humiliated over the next couple of hours, but right now, right now I need to

feel her warm, dark mouth embrace my cock.

Her face is hot as I rub my cock against it and her eyes are wet with tears that

I spread all over her face, along with her mascara.

"Open your mouth wide, Clarissa, I want to put my cock in." Her mouth is already

open, I forced her to open it with my fingers and I know it is as far as it will

go, but I still have to say this.

* * *

I never hit a woman in my life. Until I met Clarissa. Sure, I had my share of

macho posturing and I did, half-mockingly threaten Lynn to wipe the floor with

her when she made my seeing go red. But I have never hit a woman before.

Clarissa... she is one of those events in life that shake you all up and leave

you wondering. Have I ever known anything? Have I ever known myself?

It's a wonder we met at all. She didn't look like my type to start with and...

Well I think I can say I was not her type at all. Because she seemed not to have

any type of men she was interested in. She was the shyest, quietest person I

have ever met. She turned out to be my age even though I thought she was several

years younger, probably due to the fact she was so shy and soft-spoken.

It's incredible. Looking at her now... She accepted everything I demanded. To

dress like a slut just for my pleasure. Lace underwear and black stockings. High

heels and see-through tops. Black make-up and silver jewellery. Insults and

threats, pain, torture, confessions, spit, semen, my strange British sense of

humour. Everything. Clarissa can take it all. I have yet to find out whether

there is a limit. I am a little scared. There might not be a limit to her. Will

I know my limit? Will I? Fuck, Nicholas, you might have bitten off more than you

can chew here. But I love every second. I have not felt this alive in years.

Ever since I was a child, in fact.

I was actually amused that she never ever heard of me. Used to hanging out with

art-types, artists, musicians and other earthly scum, after a while you

automatically assume that everyone knows you. OK, we were never huge, but our

combo has had its share of moderate success in certain circles. Of course, it is

more than mere coincidence that I was used to moving in these circles almost

exclusively. It does feel good to be recognised and praised even though, deep

inside you are aware that there's nothing but back-scratching there, nothing but

free drinks, ego-massage, drug sessions, sometimes amusing, sometimes dull,

loads of shags, sometimes positively inspired by the fact that your stagename

precedes your real persona, loads of fake talk about creativity and endless

plans for the future...

All of this is crap, of course and I was always aware of that. Unlike Gothboy,

music was never all my life (or, in his case, peripheral effects that come along

with making moderately recognised music). After the tour we had planned was

washed down the loo, due to his HIV incident, I just had to get used to the idea

of finding jobs to keep myself out of the red. Well, this is not really true, I

still had considerable savings but, without Lynn around and without work to

devote my time to, heaven knows what kind of thoughts I might have started

entertaining... So it was back to the drawing board. I almost forgot how bad it

is to work from home. While I worked for the company I bitched without end about

having to get up and go to work. But ever since I went freelance, I understand

what a curse free will is. There is no one around to check up on me, to make

sure I am indeed working on my contracted job, instead of masturbating or riding

my X-box, or just smoking green and watching zombie flick DVDs. It, of course

turned into a series of near disasters, with accepting to do design for client

after client and then just fucking around until the deadline would be nearly

upon me and then working hours on end in a rush of adrenaline and shame and

fear. I managed to just get away with it, because, contrary to all logic, I am

somewhat talented for this. But, I know my talent is horribly wasted because

there is no discipline to me to ensure it is used to its full potential.

However, I don't care too much. My talent is wasted anyway on boring jobs for

unimaginative clients who want nothing more than to sell their fucking products

at a faster rate...

Clarissa disturbed this ordeal to a dramatic extent.

I think that it was a combination of her shyness and the fact that she had no

clue of who I am that attracted me. The last hundred or so ladies I have been

intimate with all had different amounts of knowledge about me before we actually

met and it's safe to say that none of them would count being shy as one of their

pronounced character features. This is not to say they were all groupie sluts

(nor, of course that there indeed was anywhere near to a hundred of them. I

exaggerate, like all men). Artistic pretensions in our music, the

semi-intellectual white crowd we became associated with, all ensured that we

were never a target of desire of the same ladies who lost their dignity over Kid

Rock or Justin Timberlake. But there was enough action to keep us going, yes.

However, before meeting Clarissa, I never knew that the word 'slut' is really,

really overused.

Ah, damnit, I think you could say I saw it as some kind of perverse challenge. I

had no real aims in life at that point and nothing to actually look forward too,

so I guess setting absurd goals to see if they can amuse me enough to keep me

going yet another day seemed like a logical idea. If there ever was a woman that

looked less likely to just jump into bed with me for one night, no strings

attached, wham-bam-thank-you-mam style, less interested in being just a fucktoy,

than Clarissa, I have yet to meet her. And that was intriguing in a way. To see

if indeed I can be sufficiently bad, evil, dirty, cunning, lying and charming to

crack her shell.

On top of that, I have to say I was impressed by her intelligence, her

personality, that was shining through despite her shyness. At first I was almost

sure that this was a girl I have no chances with.

However, things started changing with time, in quite a strange way. I actually

expected Clarissa to grow bored of me quite quickly as I didn't think my type

was quite her favourite fantasy. Not emotive or intellectual enough to be a

prince, not aggressive enough to be macho... But I made her laugh quite a few

times I think and I started noticing... There was a change in her gaze... At

first I thought I was imagining it but then I decided it was true. She started

looking at me with some kind of affection and, maybe even loyalty, and... and

some kind of strange servitude. And it got more pronounced with time. Clarissa

laughed in my presence and I think she felt more comfortable with time and her

way of responding was to become more and more servile. She wanted to do things

for me, she wanted me to be pleased with what she did, and when I'd thank her

and call her a good girl, the look in her eyes'd give me the shivers.

In retrospect, I understand all of that. I think I understood it well enough

back then too, but was unable to put it in words. I can be slow at times.

The first time we had sex. Now I think about it and call it "Point of Entry" in

my head. It was initiation, nothing short of initiation for me and, I guess her

as well. I truly know this in my heart: I was a different man after that. I may

have not realised it immediately after, maybe not tomorrow morning either. But

now I know. Old Nick was left behind that night. A new one was born. One I never

knew was there, waiting to emerge, fully formed, defiant, powerful.

* * *

"Are you still scared?"

Her response is soft.

"yes..."

The fucking thing tastes dreadfully. Fuck!! I forgot this was one of the reasons

I never really got into heroin. Oh, sure, I was never too crazy about having to

inject substances into my organism and I was not too interested in the whole

heroin-subculture that inevitably follows more frequent use of the powder. So I

never turned it down when offered because, shit, this thing is expensive and you

just don't turn offers like that down and, admittedly, there are experiences to

be had and paths to be explored there, and I sometimes purchased small

quantities to use at my leisure, but I was never big on it. And the fact that it

tastes awful in the back of my throat after inhaling it is probably what puts me

off the most. I am not a junkie, I just don't have that mindset. Peace brother,

but I prefer spliffs and beer.

But, what do you know, there was a small package in one of the drawers, I was

almost shocked to find it there. I don't even remember when it might have been I

bought it. It was not Lynn's, she never liked the stuff... It must have laid

there for maybe two years. God, I am laughing to myself nervously, when Kevin

had his little incident with the old Bill (or as they call it 5-0 in the

projects here) and was investigated, I was feeling all righteous and mighty. It

never occurred to me that the cops might have knocked on my door, taking a lead

from him or someone else and they would have searched the place thoroughly as

they are taught at school and then I would have been busted for a stash of smack

that I don't even remember buying in the first place... Ahh, blessed are the

meek...

The reason I decided to have a sniff is of a practical nature. Clarissa needs to

be fucked especially long and hard today. Heroin is good in these cases. It

makes me slightly number than normal and I can literally have erection for

hours. It becomes considerably harder to cum but reaching mere orgasm is not my

main objective today. I already had one. It was amazing. Now I need to have

Clarissa fucked until she is exhausted and begs me to stop, and then some. It

will be her punishment and her award.

Not just yet. Currently, she is kneeling in the corner, blindfolded. Her hands

are tied on her back. She is wearing a very sexy black teddy and a pair of

slutty stockings, accompanied by the most over the top high heeled slippers I

could find in this town. I picked them myself and I remember Clarissa blushing

in the shop when I made her try them on and parade in front of the salesgirl in

them. Of course, I made her put on a show and it was quite obvious to the girl

that us two are not just mere partners. I informed her that Clarissa loves them

but never let Clarissa speak her mind. I could see her embarrassment and her

excitement when the girl casually used the word sexy to describe the slippers

and I agreed. We were both looking at her and I made a passing remark that she

looks a little like one of the sluts from downtown. The girl laughed because I

made it sound like the most innocent joke ever (that IS a virtue, you know) but

I could see Clarissa's breathing stop for a second. She begged me to fuck her

after we got home, she promised to do everything I could want. And she did. It

was amazing, she was doing the things almost unimaginable.

Alright, I admit it, I am a pig. I quickly slipped into the habit, shoot me. It

is just too convenient to have Clarissa do the housework on occasions when she

is around. It is all a part of what she is. And I am just lazy. So we are a

perfect match .

I had her do the dishes today, all dressed up like a slut. I also produced a

loveball that I bought as a surprise for her and had her shove it into her cunt.

She was embarrassed and begged me not to make her do it, but I knew she wanted

it, I knew she really wanted to be a slut for me so I forced her to do it and

made sure she pushed it deep inside her. Then on went her stockings and teddy

and slippers. I made her parade around the room a bit, first on all fours,

showing me her tits and spreading her pussy with her fingers for me. Then I made

her walk around and bend over tables and massage her breasts for me. I knew how

this all must have aroused her as my cock was very hard fairly early on into the

session, but I took my time and ordered her to wash the dishes. I told her that

she was useless and that I might as well find another slut as she has stopped

turning me on and that the only thing she is good for at the moment is the

dishes.

She cried and apologised and begged forgiveness. She begged to be given a chance

to prove her loyalty but I made her do the dishes all dressed up and I

remembered to use my hands and the whip on her ass from time to time, just to

make things more interesting. She moaned and I knew it was equal parts pain and

pleasure. The loveball in her cunt, the words I was using, the slutty outfit,

the task she was given, the humiliation, all have combined to turn her on. And I

told her:

"I know that you are a slut and I know you are loving this, aren't you? I know

you are squeezing the ball in your cunt right now, trying to bring yourself to

cum, aren't you, slut? Listen to me, carefully: you are not allowed to cum and

don't you dare cum, bitch. This is meant to be your punishment, not your

award!!"

I made her apologise and promise that she will not cum. But I made it hard for

her. I continued spanking her arse and I pinched her nipples, pulled her hair

and whispered into her ear. And, when I couldn't take it any more, I pulled her

away from the sink, by her hair and forced her to her knees. Out came the cock

and I had her suck on it while I pushed her head forwards. God, it was

earthshaking. I thought my heart would break out of my chest and rocket to the

sky.

And I had to fuck her right away, despite wanting to take things easily. So I

tied her hands on her back with a very nice black rope that I bought exclusively

for these purposes. And I sat myself on the sofa and ordered her to climb onto

me. I took the loveball out of her cunt that was literally dripping with her

excitement.

"Open your mouth, slut!" I said and had her accept the ball into her mouth.

Tasting her own juices is a sight to see and I know how humiliated she must have

felt. Then I ordered her to sit on my cock and reminded her she is not allowed

to cum once again. And then she started riding me and rocking me and, God, I

nearly lost it. She was so aroused it was unbelievable. And I squeezed her

breasts and sucked on her rock hard nipples. But she needed more, she deserved

more so I reached for the drawer, not having her stop fucking my cock for a

second. Out came the clips and in seconds I put these small, nasty looking

metallic things on each of her nipples. Oh, how she cried, but her hips danced a

wilder dance even.

"It hurts, Clarissa, doesn't it? It hurts, you cunt, you deserve none better

than this!!" I insulted her and degraded her any way I could think of, telling

her she is not allowed to cum and that she better watch it because only then she

will be in deep trouble. And I buried my middle finger into her anus. It just

slipped in, she was so wet from everything. And it just happened to her, she

lost control and she orgasmed right then, moaning and screaming and her cunt

muscles squeezed my cock so hard that it just took me over the edge right there.

I pumped her full of sperm just like that, unable to control myself. I wanted to

shout at her something threatening and tell her that she will pay for this, but

I just moaned like a girl, the pleasure was just too great. So much for my

authority.

Thus, I had to take all to another level and I explained to her that she broke

my order and that she is to be punished further. She apologised and looked

genuinely unhappy and I wanted to give her a big hug right there but decided to

play the game. So I blindfolded her with a thin silk scarf and ordered her to

knee in the corner, her hands tied behind her back. And to wait for me to become

interested in her again. I took my time. I had a drink, smoked a joint and

decided that this was a good moment to use that stash of smack I found.

So she awaits. She is silent because she is not expected to talk unless spoken

to and I am not speaking to her. I do a few phonecalls. It's business, nothing

more than that. I didn't have to do it right now, but I want her to feel like

she is the most unimportant thing in the world to me at the moment. I fucked her

and I came into her and then I discarded her like a condom. This is how I want

her to feel. This is how she wants to feel, I think. That's how she likes to be

treated. I think. I don't know. Not for sure. I believe true Dominants know

this. They feel this. I don't. I am guessing all the time. I believe this is as

scary for me as it is for her. Maybe even scarier. She is a true submissive. She

has no second thoughts about it. She is fully submitted when she submits. It is

I who has doubts and thoughts and fears.

Finally, I make my move.

She is in the corner, blindfolded, kneeling in her sexy garments. Her hands are

tied on her back with black piece of rope. Bondage is an art, not just a skill.

It has physical, psychological, symbolical and aesthetic implications. It took

me a while until I realised this. At first, I'd only use bondage to restrain

her, to make her feel helpless and used. Then I started reading about the topic

and felt ashamed at my lack of imagination. I was pretty impressed with Japanese

bondage and the fact that it absolutely isn't about just tying a model in ropes

as hard as possible. It is also about making a sculpture out of her, a work of

art.

Of course, I am too lazy to seriously get into this, I am just a pothead with

attention span of a three weeks old kitten. But I started practising on my own

at first and then on Clarissa and I noticed her reactions were more than

satisfactory. It does fill me with pride today to restrain her in some visually

appealing way and see her go into this dreamlike state where she stops being a

person and turns into an object. It is just one more of the amazing things about

her and her nature.

So, her arms are pulled back, rather cruelly I might add, and are tied with a

series of knots, starting from her thumbs and fingers, going up her wrists and

forearms. It hurts her to have her arms tied together like this, I know that.

She is loving it. I think I know that.

I turn up the volume, the music is not just ominous any more, it's positively

threatening. I made this mix specially for sessions like this, assorted pieces

by masters of claustrophobic listening: Ligetti, Stockhausen, Kiraly, even Aphex

Twin. Clarissa can not see, she can not move and now she can not hear me either.

All she can hear is an avalanche of alien sounds and voices. She knows I am

paying attention to her now, she is not stupid. But I will let her wait a little

more, let the fear build up.

And when I do approach her it is slowly, without a sound. She looks so helpless

yet so graceful kneeling in that corner. I have no erection yet, the smack

kicked in and in fact, if this was just about fucking, I doubt I could be arsed

to do it. But it's more than just fucking, Clarissa is more than just a fucktoy,

even though I keep calling her that.

And I am upon her, one hand grabbing her tied fingers, the other one put over

her mouth. I move my lips to her ear and whisper in the lowest, most threatening

whisper I can command. While I speak I squeeze her fingers. I know she is

scared, I want her to be scared. I am close enough to be able to feel her

heartbeat accelerate. She is scared. I tell her things about her that would make

anyone cry or scream in rage and frustration. I tell her of things I will do to

her. I tell her how I will use her mouth to get an erection, how she will be

required to take my penis into her mouth and swallow it down her throat until

it's hard enough that I can put it into her cunt. That's the word I use, "cunt",

it's not "vagina" or "snatch" or even "pussy" , I want her to be aware that hers

is just a fuckhole that needs to be filled with flesh.

"And then I will fuck your arse, whore, I will fuck your arse until you scream

and until I fill it with my sperm. And then you will take my cock into your

mouth and clean all your filth. Do you understand?" I am still holding my hand

on her mouth so all she can do is mumble and I repeat: "Do you, bitch?". She

nods and I release her mouth.

"yes", she whispers and I can barely hear her through a sandstorm of demon

voices in the room, "yes, Sir."

* * *

There was a girl back at school. I had a huge crush on her. It's one of those

things you have in your childhood years and remember all your life even though

to someone looking from the outside it wouldn't look like a significant thing at

all. I was completely mesmerised by her. The fact that I knew very well I could

never have her only made me dream more painful dreams. In those dreams in broad

daylight I had hundreds of different paths for me and her to take, but they

always crossed at some point and always the impossible happened. Always. She'd

always recognise me for what I really am and appreciated what she saw. Of

course, dreams are just that, dreams.

She was a bitch, really. We didn't use that word back then so lightly as

everyone seems to be throwing it around nowadays, but this is what she was. She

was the prettiest girl in class, alright, but that was not it. That was not what

made me go through nights of imagining her body next to mine and a thousand

masturbation sessions. It was her personality, her mind. She was the smartest

girl in class in a way. She was way more mature than me or anyone else I hung

out with at the moment. And she was so dumb at the same time. I couldn't

understand it then. How could she be so bright, so sharp, so cruel to others

slower than her and at the same time be so dumb, so blind, to let herself be

used by some of the older lads. They had no respect for her and still she clung

to them and ignored those who respected her. Those who had to work hard to

conceal their burning desire and childish loyalty to her. Me.

It took me a while to work things out. Hm, it took me years and decades. You are

slow, Nick and weed is not making you any faster, you know that?

It took me a while to work things out. To understand her passion, to understand

the hunger she felt, the need to feed the fire in her belly. I was just a kid. I

am sorry now, I really am.

But I was a disciplined kid and I knew how to shut herself out to my eyes and to

my thoughts. It took months but it worked. I was free. I was not victorious, I

was not a conqueror, not a killer holding a smoking gun, not a football star

raising his arms after scoring, but I was free of her. Of her name and face and

voice and scent. I was free to look at others and look for others.

The ironic thing is of course, that I spent most of my life from that point on

looking for her. Not for her in particular, I was too ashamed, but for her, for

traces of her in other women, for that look on the face, for that vibe in the

voice, for that mixture of strength and auto-destructive urge.

If only it wasn't for that letter...

Sometimes I fuck Clarissa's ass without any lubrication. It hurts me but it

hurts her more. Sometimes I want to hurt her, not just because she enjoys it.

Sometimes I just want to hurt her.

Stupid fucking Gothboy. Fucking Jimmy redneck and his celebrity lifestyle,

product of a celebrity mind. You are no celebrity, fuckhead, you are an

AIDS-bucket and you are dying. And no one cares.

The letter.

It arrived after months of dedicated fasting. She was banished from my eyes and

from my thoughts. I was occupying myself with music and porn and glue. Those

were good days in fact. I had no worries back then except to forget about a girl

I could never have. I was free to explore all the pleasures my body and mind

offered and I did it, I drank from the source, ate like a pig, swallowed porn

and glue and weed and cider and lager and I masturbated furiously.

And before I was aware, I was free of her. It became possible to think about her

and not experience just pain. I stopped caring. A good thing.

And then, the letter.

"I know I have to thank you, you taught me how hard it is wishing just for the

only thing you can never have."

The only thing she could never have.

She could never have.

Never have.

Me.

It was like a bad pulp romantic novel. I could smell the glue, the cheap paint

on greyish paper, the pages stuffed chockfull of cliches and stereotypes, the

characters made of cardboard moved through situations painted with careless,

impatient moves. It didn't hurt me less because of that. But I stopped caring,

right? And I never ever did anything. Never.

What I can not figure out is this: I was looking for her all my life since then.

All my life. And Clarissa is not her. She is not, I checked. I can't smell her

in Clarissa's breath, I can't see her in Clarissa's eyes, she is not there. She

has never been in this body. Clarissa is something completely alien to me. Like

something out of this world. I don't understand. How did we come together?

Maybe this isn't me any more. Maybe I truly have become someone else.

* * *

The first time is always special, isn't it?

This is how it was:

In all honesty it was seduction. Oh, alright I did rape her, technically. But it

was seduction: I was seduced to rape her. She was seduced to be raped, wilfully

taken and fucked. I was seduced by her shyness, her eyes always avoiding mine,

her little smile always looking nervous and fearful that I might be insulted by

whatever she said. What it was about me that seduced her I still don't know.

File under alcohol, I don't know. She was somewhat drunk. I was too. It was the

first time she ever came to my place and I insisted she sleeps over. She

insisted she had to get back to her place out of town, but I was more persuasive

or at least more bullish. Another girl would probably get pissed and walk out

and slam the door and get out of my life for good, Clarissa just accepted.

I don't know what we were at the moment. We weren't lovers. OK, we touched each

other sometimes, but it was just something two people close to each other do.

It's not like we kissed or something. I am oldskool, to me kissing still denotes

transition from one state to other. The status of lovers. So we were friends but

I never had a friend like her before. Sure, I had some female friends and some

of them I wanted to shag (and in one instance it happened even), but it was

never like it was with her. Never so intimate and so secretive.

So, three or so drinks in there and I am starting to lose reference points for

straight thinking. We already had some drinks downtown and it's not like my

thinking is terribly clear even when I am sober. I deliberately put some

extremely dirty and insulting hip-hop on. Good thing about this part of town is

I can really blast my music as loud as I want even at night without the fear of

having neighbours camp at my door. I never thought of it, probably because Lynn

was not that loud, but it was also good that no neighbours were close enough to

hear Clarissa scream. Then and later.

So, the music was blasting away, the big bad black males were boasting about

fucking hoes and getting blowjobs in exchange for crack, that sort of thing. Fun

stuff. Clarissa was obviously rather ashamed for being subjected to this but she

didn't complain, she just looked down whenever I looked at her. And I laughed at

her. I laughed at her before too. It was not malicious, it was just a part of

our relationship. She expected me to laugh this laughter of dominance and she

accepted it with her shy smiles.

And I kept drinking and the world kept getting blurred. At one point I realised

I had no idea what time it was. The night was stretched from the beginning of

time to the end of eternity. And the only thing sharp enough in the landscape

made of cotton-wool was this girl on my sofa.

I had erection. I never tried to deny this, I was attracted to Clarissa very

early in and the only thing that prevented me from trying anything was that I

felt I wasn't her type. That I felt she was too nice to just say no but that

she would never truly fall for me. So I took what was there and spent time

around her. And this evening took it all further. I was looking at her and every

movement she made, every gesture and facial mimic was just too sexy. Part of me

argued that this is just me and my friend the bottle and months of abstinence.

The other part of me kept typing in big fucking red letters in front of my eyes:

"SHE IS SCREAMING AT YOU: FUCK ME!!! CAN'T YOU SEE?" It was a conflict of epic

proportions, an inner battlefield of instincts, desires and fears. I tried to

put out the fire with more alcohol but it only made flames burn with increased

fierceness. The bigger the feast, the bigger the hunger. My cock was painfully

swollen and pressed against the fabric of my jeans.

So when she dropped her glass it was like the heavens cracked open and a thunder

descended down to earth to give me instructions. She dropped it on the carpet

and it didn't break. A little of the stuff spilled and she looked at me in

shame, red in the face. The fucking carpet, I can't remember when it was the

last time it was washed, I was a boy living on his own, regular vacuuming was

the best I could do. So I put my arm around her and said something that

surprised even me:

"So, tell me, why is it that you keep teasing me all night?"

I think she was frozen in a second. Fuck, I was frozen that moment. What did I

just say? What?

But she knew. It was all part of a ritual, wasn't it. We knew which words needed

to be said, which gestures had to be made, regardless of the time and place and

circumstances, we had this planted in our minds for a while. Not knowing

consciously, but knowing for real.

"What are you saying?" Her voice almost inaudible.

And I just pulled her closer, using force. Yes, force, it was not an assured,

confident gesture of a great lover, it was force.

"You keep teasing me. Don't deny it. I can see what you want. Don't deny it. I

see what you want."

She tried to deny it, but I pulled her hair and her head shot back.

"Don't." I said.

"No... Don't"

I kissed her. It started as a kiss and turned into... Into feeding, devouring. I

sucked her inside, I breathed her in, I ate her. She struggled, she did, that

much has to be said to her credit. She didn't just give in. But all the same,

when our lips parted I looked into her eyes, I took a really deep, deep look and

asked her:

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Please, please don't, I don't want this, please", her voice was trembling, at

the edge of tears.

"Why? You want this, don't you? You can't lie to me any more, Clarissa, I see

what you want."

And before she could answer I started kissing her again and this time I didn't

stop so soon. I kissed her lips and used my teeth and sucked her and chewed on

her tongue and kissed her neck and smelled her hair and I pulled her even closer

to me her body felt so hot and fragile my erection about to burst I started

biting on her neck and her shoulders I ripped her blouse open and left red marks

on her skin.

All the time she was begging me to stop in that soft voice of hers, brought to

the edge of panic, edge of screaming. And when I ripped her bra off in one

swift, violent gesture, her nipples were rock hard, painfully erect, inviting,

obscene.

"Look at this. Look at this. Clarissa. Look at this"

I started squeezing her breasts and I placed my lips on her left nipple and I

squeezed and sucked. She let out a deep, long moan. It was like a singing from

another world.

"Don't lie to me!" I was almost out of breath and even though she kept repeating

"no no no no no", I couldn't stop. "Don't lie, you want this, you need me to

fuck you, you always did, don't lie to me!!!" I was chanting my mantra without

threat in my voice, without aggression.

Her nipples were hard and the taste was rich, bitter and mesmerising. The beats

in the room were hammering on my skull. My eyes were open but my field of vision

felt so reduced.

Underneath her skirt, the heat was scary.

"Oh, Fuck, Clarissa, fuck, is this it? You are so wet. You are so fucking wet

and you pretend you don't want this. Why? Why?" I was murmuring these words

right into her ear, drunk and lost as she was moaning. My fingers were pushing

her soaked panties to the side and penetrating her without patience. She was

wet, she was open and eager. I could not be stopped. I would not be stopped.

This was so unlike anything I knew before.

She did try to push me back, the final lines of resistance, and I just pushed

her down and whispered, smiling, sure of myself, surer than I was for a long

time:

"You know you want this, don't lie to me. You know you are a slut and you

couldn't hide that."

And she screamed "No!! Nooo! Please!!" and I might have stopped there, her

helplessness and pain visible and convincing, weren't it for her body that

danced a dance of hot nails under the conduction of my fingers in her wet,

soaked, hungry pussy.

I slipped her panties down her thighs, down her legs. I brought them close to my

own face, smelled them, held them up like a trophy. They were a proof, my proof

that I was right and that she was what I insisted she was. A slut in dire need

of dick.

"You little slut, look at this and tell me you weren't trying to seduce me. Look

at how wet you are, how bad you need to be fucked!!" I still managed to keep

control even with the smell of her cunt juices on her panties playing havoc with

my brain.

"Open your mouth, come on."

She looked at me, begging me, her eyes the most beautiful thing I can remember

ever seeing by that point.

"Open your mouth."

She waved her head left and right, her eyes filling with tears. She tried to

pull back but she was lying on the sofa, me on top of her.

I pinched her nipple, hard. Harder than I ever did it to anyone. She cried a

painful cry.

"You are making me hurt you. Is that what you want? You want to be hurt?"

"...no." she whispered

"Then do what I said, open your mouth. Be a good slut and open your mouth now."

She opened her mouth and I stuffed her panties, squeezed into a tiny wet ball of

fabric, smelling of her excitement, I stuffed her panties into her mouth. Tears

started rolling down her face. And I felt like I just grew a pair of big, strong

wings.

"Can you taste it? Can you taste your own cunt, Clarissa? Can you feel how wet

those panties are, you dirty whore, and still you pretend you don't want this."

And she was crying in shame, pinned down beneath me and I knew I couldn't wait

any more.

Her eyes shot wide when I ripped my jeans open. My cock was happy to taste fresh

air after everything that happened so far. It was swollen and red and wet with

precum. I felt such a relief and such power. Seeing her eyes fixed on my

throbbing cock made me feel so... strong, so masculine. I was preying down on

her and there was nothing anyone could do about it. This was right, this was

what life was designed to reach. She knew that too, she wanted it, I was sure

she did.

I spread her legs wide and lifted them up high. Her pussy was wet and dark red

inside and the smell was making me even more drunk than I was. Entering her was

like stepping into fire. She was trembling, she was burning and she was crying

through her gag. But those were not cries of pain, no. Fear and humiliation

maybe, but not pain, her agony couldn't have been physical, she was so wet, so

slippery, so in need of cock. I started thrusting forth and back, falling deeper

into her with every subsequent move.

I am not worlds greatest lover, OK. But I am aware that it takes two to have sex

or even make love and it's always about giving as it is about getting. Those are

simple things you learn once you manage to step outside the occasional sex phase

in your life and step into the regular sex one. I do try to make my partner feel

good, I do care about how it is for her, mostly because that way I make her care

about how it is for me.

But not this time, not here. It's ironic. I just wanted to use her, I just

wanted to fuck her. She was the most intriguing woman I have met so far and I

never planned this to happen and now it was happening I just wanted to fuck her,

not make love to her, not have sex, just to fuck her. To fuck. I was impaling

her and thrusting into her, fucking her the hardest I could. I squeezed her

breasts and spat on her nipples. It would never happen again. I will probably

never see her again. I just want to fuck her. I just want to fuck her. Fuck her.

And the orgasm almost broke my back. It was so strong, so powerful, so scary. It

was her flesh embracing and caressing my cock, seducing it and making it burst.

I shot my semen all over her, I remember watching it fall on her breasts and

face and cheeks and nose and eyelids, her forehead and her hair and asking

myself is this possible, could it be I have so much cum inside of me?

The fucking thing stayed hard. I swear to God, it was like being 15 again and

watching porn all night, masturbating several times in the row, my cock staying

erect throughout. I came more intensely than I ever hoped I would and I was

still hard. And Clarissa beneath me was the image from dreams and fantasies. She

was in tears, her panties still in her mouth, covered with my semen, humiliated

and fucked. And yet in her eyes there was this look I can't name. She was

accepting. She was forgiving. She needed more. She needed to go deeper.

The rest is like something out of any number of wank-fantasies I had during my

lonely months. I never seriously imagined I could do something like that. I

believe that, at this point I decided that there are no rules any more and that

the night is about to finish soon and that I have to take everything I can carry

now or never.

By her hair, I pulled her up, only to force her down to her knees. She was

crying but she was not struggling any more. She accepted whatever I had in stock

for her and this only turned me on more. She was ready to take anything.

Anything.

I tied her hands on her back with her own bra or what was left of it. I forced

her to spit her panites out and take my cock into her mouth. Dear God, I tremble

just remembering the sight of it: Clarissa on her knees, wet and humiliated,

helpless and tied up, sucking my cock that I was pushing in with hard, impatient

thrusts. I didn't know I had it in me, but, fuck I did, I do, I don't know.

That was not to be all.

Once I bought this thing for Lynn, it was more a joke, she once complained about

me touring and her being without sex at those times and said something along the

lines of me having to buy a dildo for her or accept that she will be sleeping

around while I am away. Now, what she didn't realise is that I didn't really

care too much what she did while I was away, most of the time. But a night in

town with the boys makes you do silly things. In those days I don't think I'd

just walk into a sex shop and purchase a dildo on my own. But with a bunch of

merry lads fuelled with beer and weed, it was all just one big joke, just macho

posturing and embarrassing sex remarks.

I took it out of the drawer where Lynn left it when she bailed out. I guess this

way she was informing me that I was not that hard to get over after all, heh.

I stuck it to a hard wooden chair, the rubber sucker on its bottom securing it

in proper position.

Silly thing, this sex-industry.

"Do it. Do it or I will have to hurt you. I will hurt you, swear to God."

She did. My God she did.

Clarissa rode that dildo for me, rode it for my viewing pleasure, she fucked

herself, her wrists tied on her back, her legs spread, that thick red thing

penetrating her every time her hips went down. Her cunt was making wet noises,

her breasts were bouncing up and down. I was glad I made her spit the panties

out as I wanted to listen to her.

And she was screaming. God, she was screaming when I took my belt and started

lashing at her buttocks.

I am not a religious person. But, even though they say faith is everything, I

figure, if there is heaven and hell, it makes no difference whether you believe

it or not. If there indeed is hell, I think I have one five star pit of molten

lead booked and awaiting my inevitable arrival. If there indeed is a God, he

knows I deserve it.

I don't know how and why. I just wanted to hear her scream. I wanted her to do

it for me and I painted her skin red with my belt, lashed at her sensitive ass

and encouraged her to scream.

And this dear, dear girl... She never once stopped fucking that dildo, despite

my lashes and insults, she just once turned to look at me over her shoulder and

I could read it in her eyes. I could see it. She wanted it, she thought she

deserved it. I swear I saw that as clear as I can see my own hands on the

keyboard right this moment.

So when the screams became a mantra, when her skin was burning and her pelvic

movements became spastic and nervous, I put the belt down and I grabbed her. Her

anus was tight and her moans developed another shade of pain and as I fucked her

she fucked me and her dildo and screamed and there were no words any more, her

head bowed down, her hair concealing her face. And her orgasm scared me. I will

never forget the sound she made, I thought her body was bursting, for a second I

thought she was dying, honestly. She came, violently, unstoppably, she came

after being humiliated, tied up, fucked, tortured and degraded to a mere object.

Her hair was wet with her sweat and my spit, wet as if she'd just had a shower.

Her pelvis was thrashing so hard, her spasms were so violent that it brought me

to orgasm a lot sooner than I thought it'd happen.

She was still cumming, her belly-muscles twitching uncontrollably when I pulled

out of her anus and grabbed her hair and forced my cock into her mouth. And I

started coming the very same instant. I was filling her mouth with sperm and she

was swallowing, I swear she was. Even in this moment she was thinking about me.

Just as she was the whole evening, I realised. Just as she was the whole several

months, I realise now. But try as she might, she could not swallow it all, it

dripped from the corners of her mouth and fell down on the carpet. She was

sucking and licking me, her eyes closed, even when there was no more semen

coming out. My cock was smeared with sperm, saliva and, I realised, blood. It

was like a hallucination but it was there. No denying, she spread the semen on

her face, rubbing it against my cockhead and blood came with it. It was her lip,

she bit right through it. It must have happened while I was whipping her, or

while I was savaging her from behind. Christ, what have I done.........

But then, and then, and then...

She opened her eyes and there was nothing in there, nothing but the deepest

gratitude I have ever witnessed. This was the purest thing I have ever seen. I

felt honoured. I still feel honoured. I didn't deserve this. I don't deserve

her.

So that was our first time.

* * *

How come assholes always have all the best women? It was an interesting

philosophical question for the good part of my youth. It bugged me, it hurt me,

I was so easily driven to tears those days. I used to wear glasses. I

masturbated like hell. I wanted all those girls and they all seemed to fall for

guys who were not worth any respect. I thought they weren't. I was such a child.

I wasn't worth any respect back then.

Anyway, one matures with time. Providing time doesn't kill you. I matured. I

grew up to be an asshole, just like those I hated in school. I worked really

hard, it took me decades of effort. I practised being insincere and slick. I am

pretty good at it right now. My haircut is excellent and I wear extremely fancy

shades.

I am not saying I am getting all the best women, though. Come on, let's be

realistic, being slick and reasonably famous within a specific social circle

helps, but we are talking real life and real people here. But I can't complain.

I did well over the years. I was even able to sense more than few jealous

glances drilling their way through my skull trying to melt my feeble brains and

leave a smoking puddle inside. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel flattered.

Because I understand now. I am not a better person than anyone. I am just ready

to do more than many people to get sex, it's as simple as that. I want sex. I

need it. It's my obsession and hobby, it's a way to pass the time. It can be

magic sometimes. I need magic sometimes. I am grown up now but I do. Most

important, I do not fool myself. I have been with quite a few women knowing that

it is just sex I am looking for. It was clean and neat as far as I was

concerned.

I sometimes look at Clarissa when she is not aware I am watching. Those are rare

moments because she puts in a lot of effort to be at my service whenever she is

around. But sometimes she is busy with whatever it might be at the moment and

she is so devoted to the task that I can play my little voyeuristic game,

knowing that she is not conscious about the way she presents herself to me. I

try to detach myself from all knowledge I possess. I try to look at her as if I

have never met her before. To look at her, consciously, not just see her as an

object I have grown accustomed to in my environment. Those are rare moments and

I try to soak myself in them, not just devour her with nervous, hungry looks. I

try to be the other guy. Not the uninvited, confused one who has clumsily torn

through Clarissa's innocence and shyness and found himself as surprised and

frightened as her. I try to be the outsider, the one who was never aware of her

nature, I try to look at her and imagine how it would be to have sex with her. I

try to feel "proper" sexual desire towards her, try to push dark and violent

movements and pulsations of my mind as far into the corners of my skull as

possible. I try to look at her as at a girl I have barely just met, I try to

understand what I'd feel towards her.

Because, you see, she is different today. She is not the way she was back when

we met. I have shaped her. It is scary. I never thought I'd shape a human being

before. Not me, not Nick. Not me, I could never have a puppy when I was a kid as

my parents told me I wasn't responsible enough. Fuck, I was, I kept losing

stuff, forgetting promises and appointments. And I shaped her. And, yes, I was

shaped by her too. This is the strangest aspect of our relationship, I stand

back and witness myself being someone else. I sometimes wonder if the guy in the

mirror understands that I am not sure about him any more. She has changed me.

Deeply.

And I have changed her. She was a handful of silent sighs and nervous glances

and she was white embraced by black. That much I could understand and work with.

Black was always the colour to dream in and wander through. It was the colour of

people who made their choice, the colour of mystery and threat and promise and

all those concepts you find goths of this world waxing lyrical about in their

journals and online blogs. Quite predictably, I have always had an affinity

towards black. I make no apologies for that, the colour has always been so

widespread through the spectrum of fashions that I never felt like my cover will

be blown and everyone will find out I was always after looking like heroes of my

youth in all those comic books and films...

So it was not a great departure after all. She used to wear black before. The

black that concealed and made the edges softer, the black that was polite and

somewhat rigid. I made her wear black that is obscene and sharp, the kind of

black that is mysterious but suggestive, shiny and piercing. The black that

marked the change in our relatioship, the change in her and, yes, the black that

painted the thoughts and images in my head for so long, the black that matched

my new face, my new name, my new eyes and ears and tongue and liver and hair and

fingers. It matched my clothes as well.

It was an effort, a matter of passage of time, a part of the development of our

relationship, a portion of her training. She dreamed of it. I made her say it

loud more than once.

"i am a slut... i always dreamed of being a slut... someone's slut. thank You,

master, thank You for forcing me to be what i am, a slut, a whore for Your

pleasure."

The soft yet dedicated voice. The words that make my skin crawl.

She did, she accepted it. I have always had a thing for sexy clothes. I guess

decades of conditioning by porn have had an effect. Clarissa just slipped into

the role. Not overnight, of course. Consider this: she was only searching for

her true self. Searching, looking for directions. And I knew that there is much

more to be gained from a series of small victories rather than one huge violent

takeover. I guess there must have been some guilt there too, following the

circumstances our first lovemaking went under. My problem IS that I am still not

sure about any of this. So I took it slowly, step by step. Making her accept it

one step at a time.

Clarissa, my Clarissa... I look at her and I see the black in her hair, the

silver in her ears, the white and black contrast on her face that I have imposed

on her. Her eyes and eyelashes. And lips. I have always found black lipstick to

be extremely sexy. Sadly, few of my girlfriends thought it is more than a joke

and those who did usually put me off by taking about inner energy and preferring

vampire over zombie films. Clarissa's lips are black whenever I want them to. I

shiver just thinking about burying my cock into her warm mouth, seeing her black

lips stretched around my flesh, her black fingernails on my skin, caressing my

balls, my inner thighs...

She accepted it all: stockings and suspenders. Just for me. High heels. My slut.

She made my fantasies come true and, unlike paid prostitutes every one of us has

to deal with from time to time, it made difference to her what it did to me. She

put in an effort, she wanted my reality to be better than my fantasies. She made

sure she is a slut for me, a whore to make all whores of before pale in my

memory. She transformed. The clothes transformed her. Her lust augmented by her

slut clothes. Her character shaped around her looks. Her poses, her movements,

her voice and looks and the words she spoke, everything.

When I bought a tiny silver chain for her ankle she nearly fainted from

excitement. I explained to her that this was to be a symbol of my dominance over

her. The chain to mark her as my property. The collar for my bitch. She

understood.

"thank You, Master. i will wear it always. i will sleep with it and shower with

it. i will never take it off. i will never ask permission to take it off. i will

always remember who my Master is. i will never take it off"

And, yes, she was so frightened when she was having her belly button pierced but

she accepted it as yet another symbol. And she was brave throughout, and when

the woman asked her whether she is getting other ones soon, she blushed and

couldn't look me in the eyes.

There haven't been many women in my life who'd do these things for me, without

demanding so much in return. Clarissa always had in mind only one thing: my

pleasure. It is selfish being aware of this and revelling in it. It is selfish,

I am selfish. And when it's the middle of the night and she is crawling in front

of me, her soft mouth working on my genitals, all dressed like a whore in her

stockings and high heels and her black make up and her chains and silver rings,

when she is humiliated and hurt and described as worthless and when she is

denied pleasure, when she is denied orgasm, despite the fact that she has been

pushed near the limit with dildos and balls and my own flesh and whips and

bottles and harsh words, when she is craving to cum and yet she knows that she

mustn't, I know that is when she needs me the most, when she is most grateful to

me for giving her what she needed so much. My selfishness... noble and selfless.

It is not easy to understand even now...

It's like a scene from a dream...

She is only in her stockings, standing on her toes. I find it incredibly sexy,

her feet and her legs strained from the effort to keep her body as high in the

air as possible. There are small details that I take time to revel in. The

silver ring on one of her toes shines the light back into my eyes. I bought it

for her and made her beg and offer me her anus before I let her have it. She was

pleading, begging to be whipped and fucked in the arse, begging to be humiliated

and used so she could be marked with another symbol. The silver ring... The

silver chain on her ankle. Her feet are curved, it's so sexy... Her toenails are

black and shining.

Her body shivers from the effort. It glistens with silver of her sweat. It

trembles and pulses. I am not sure how much more she can take. I am a bit scared

too, but I'll be damned if I let her see that.

Her breasts are red and swollen. Her nipples are huge, purple in colour. I used

the black rope to tie her hands behind her back, really tight. The arms are in

an uncomfortable position, but I am guessing that right now this is the least of

her worries. I have used another pair of her black stockings to tie her breasts

up. I made her kneel when I was done tying her arms and I made her bow forwards,

so that her breasts hung down. Then I encircled both breasts with one stocking

each and tied them really tight. The stockings went around three times. It must

have hurt her, but that was only the beginning. I left it like that for a couple

of minutes until they grew really large and red. I told her she looked like a

slut. She was in pain and my insults were adding to it. I made her beg me to

fuck her breasts. She was in pain and she begged me to stop and let her off the

hook, she promised to grant my every wish if I make the pain go away, but... I

knew what to do. I knew what it is she really wanted. And I didn't give in,

despite her begging and despite her eyes giving my belly spasms. I made her beg.

I pinched her nipples and pulled her hair. She moaned and I laughed. She begged

in the end, she begged me to fuck her tied and swollen breasts, she begged after

being forced to beg by use of pain and threats. I fucked her breasts and she was

instructed to open her mouth so I can dip my cock in with every thrust. She

obeyed and her breasts... they were so hard and so hot...

Then I took another piece or rope and tied her already hurting breasts together.

And, ah, then I tied another long piece of rope to it and looped it over the

roof bar. Yes, I did, I swear I did. And I pulled. She begged. She knew. She

understood what it was I was doing. She saw what was coming. She begged me not

to. Her voice was cracking with fear, cracking with pain. She begged to be let

go, she was panicking, she was begging. And I pulled, forcing her to stand on

tip toes, to avoid pain, to avoid damage. And I left it like that, securing the

rope, so that she had to stay in this position.

"This will definitely keep you on your toes, Clarissa."

I was waiting to use this punchline all night. Ahh, surely, somebody else would

have come up with something better.

I listen to her scream. "nnnnnoooooooo" and "pleeeeeaseee". It is heartbreaking.

It is so fucking exciting. I have such a fucking hard on. I am such a bastard. I

hated assholes when I was a kid. But I am an asshole now. More than that, I am a

bastard, a piece of scum who tortures his girlfriend with sadistic efficiency

and, God help me, I find it so arousing. She is helpless and in tears, her body

trembles, her legs are so beautiful, strained and hurting, her face, the mask of

pain, the face I love.

"Be still for a moment, slut", as the camera goes off, clicking and clicking. I

want her to wait a bit more and, more importantly, I want her to be aware that

the moment of her pain and disgrace is being caught on film, preserved. Yes...

The moment of her humiliation and agony, the moment of her beauty, the moment of

her utmost femininity... Clarissa. You have given me things I never dared

imagine.

Her shame and her pain go on. And on. She is crying, the thick, black dildo in

her anus shoved deep in. She is crying. Her words are a series of sighs and

choked exclamations. Breathing in between cries.

"please... please, Master, please, i can't take it any more... please, sweet

Master, please, let me go, i can't take the pain... i will do anything... i will

be the best slut my Master ever had, just make the pain go away, please..."

Cry, Clarissa. I can not feel your pain, I can but stand breathless and watch

you in your agony, pleading to be saved, listen to you beg. I am listening very

carefully, but the word doesn't come. I am half expecting, half hoping she will

use the word. Because I am scared. I am scared she will allow me to hurt her, to

damage this sweet, this sacred body in front of me, rather than use the word and

admit that this is just a game.

This is just a fucking game. I am putting her through hell. She is going through

hell. This is her hell - designed for her, custom made and delivered with

attention to detail. She needs it, she sinks deep into its fiery pits. She never

uses the word. You fucked-up, silly girl, you fucking unbelievable creature,

please be brave, please hold on to your sanity as the worst is yet to come.

In this nightmare she is the victim.

"This is what you deserve. This is your punishment."

This is her punishment. This is her nightmare. This is her fucking dream come

true. This is her dream of fucking come true. This is her nightmare. This is her

award.

I whip her breasts. I place nipple clamps on her already unbelievably swollen

nipples. I taste them first. I have to, they are something from beyond this

world. I taste the very flesh of sin itself. It's hot and throbbing. I can taste

the pulse of her heart.

I whip her breasts as she stands on her toes, helpless and crying, hanged by her

breasts, her hands tied on her back, her nipples cruelly crushed by metallic

clamps. Designed to hurt.

My Clarissa.

The word. She never says the word.

I shove my fingers up her cunt. No. nononononono. God. God. God. After all the

pain, after all the torture. She is leaking, her cunt is dripping with juices.

Clarissa, how can you? Clarissa, what made me the one to deserve this? What made

me the one?

"You are dripping with excitement, slut. You fucking whore, what do I have to do

to break you?"

She is on the edge, her body can not take much more. I am sure about this, it

has to be true. She is in agony, clutching at the last atoms of strength. And

she begs. And she never once says the word. She...

"please... please, Master..."

"What? What is it, whore? What is it you have to say that I could be possibly

interested in hearing? You fucking slut, you just need cock, that's all, you

bitch, you'd fuck anyone, anywhere, just to have your fuckholes filled. You

disgust me."

And her legs are now trembling, visibly. It's a matter of minutes. I have to be

careful. I can't have her collapsing. No, I won't think about it. I can't have

her hurt like that. I have to end this soon.

She has the word to use. To use it the very moment when she is aware she can not

take any more. The word is not a usual word, it's not something she'd say just

like that, something she'd spit through her lips when pain is inflicted upon

her. The word is special and the word is intimate, it's just between the two of

us. She has to make the conscious effort to use it. If she was to use it, I'd

stop whatever it is I am doing at the moment. I, her master and tormentor. She

has this power over me, the power of one tiny, two syllable word. And her gift

to me... her gift to me is her decision never to use it. She never used it. She

is not using it right now. She is placing her body, her body and her spirit into

my hands. She surrendered everything. She gives it all to me. To use it as I

please, to hurt or mutilate her if I please. She is giving her self up to me.

She is not using the word. I have to end this soon, Clarissa, I have to end this

soon to save you, Clarissa. To justify your trust, your surrender, to

demonstrate I am worthy of your gift.

But not too soon.

"So, slut? What do we do? You have any suggestions? Try and tell me why is it I

should stop punishing you for being such a whore."

And she is on the brink. I can only imagine the agony she is going through.

"please... please, Master, please, Sir Nick, please, punish me, i deserve to be

punished for being a whore, i am unworthy of You, i am a cheap, no good slut,

unworthy of my Master..."

Oh, God, oh, fucking, fucking God... Fucking Jesus Christ, can it be you're

saying this after all I already did to you ?

"Unworthy? Yes, you are, because you'd fuck anyone, you don't care as long as

your dirty cunt is filled with cock."

And she takes the cue. God, thank fucking heavens...

"please, Master, You know it is only You who I want... You are the only one this

slut needs..."

"Fucking prove it slut. Tell me what it is you want."

And then I whip her breasts in the sadistic encore, I whip her breasts, I'm sure

they hurt beyond the threshold my imagination dares not cross. I whip her

breasts and listen to her begging me to fuck her.

"oooooh... yes, please, oh, hurt me, i deserve it, oh, yes, please Master, fuck

me, fuck this whore right now, fuck me like only You can, give me Your beautiful

cock, please, fuck my unworthy cunt, break me with your hardness, i need Your

flesh inside of me... please, fuck me and bathe me in your cum, make me swallow

and choke on your cum..."

The lashes are equally nasty, regardless of what she is saying. But I stop,

mercifully. I stop and tell her:

"So, you want it? You want me to fuck you right now, you whore?"

"yes... please, i can't take it any more, i need you so bad right now"

God.

"God. You're such a slut. I can't believe you. I'd like to fucking whip you

until you shit yourself, slut and then fuck you in your own filth, if only you

weren't disgusting me so much. I'd like to have a gang of fucking niggers right

here now to let them fuck you in your shit while I watch you, I bet you'd love

that BITCH!"

The last word is screamed with very convincing rage. I scare myself even but I

play it to the end. I can only give her few more seconds.

"i'll do anything You say, my good Master, just fuck me, please, i am begging

You..."

She is speaking through tears, her legs probably burning with unbearable pain,

her breasts going darker every minute.

"You'd fuck anyone I tell you?"

"...yes..."

"...you'd fuck a gang of black men with monstrous cocks?"

"...yes, Master... for You i would..."

"You'd swallow their cocks and drink their sperm? Would you?"

"...yes, just for You..."

"You'd fuck a dog, wouldn't you?"

"...yes... i'd do anything for You..."

"Because you belong to me. I own you."

"You own me, Master... You are my Master, i am Your property... do anything You

want with me..."

Anything..... Clarissa

"I think I will have my name tattooed on your tits, just to make sure you never

forget. You'd love that wouldn't you?"

And her eyes go wide. And my heart goes fucking boom boom boom boom. She looks

into me, deeper than ever before this long evening. She whispers. It's scary.

"...yes."

You. I... I don't believe this... I... I believe you. I do.

But no. No, it's not happening. No, I can't do it to you. I can't. I still may

turn out to be your biggest disappointment ever.

And I cut her down. I'd love to kiss her gently but that will have to wait. I

force her head down and her arse up. I slam into her with my erection from

fucking Babylon and her moan sinks everything in red.

* * *

So looking at her as someone else would. She is one sexy thing. She is. The

mixture of slutty clothes and makeup and her natural shyness is what gets me

going. Even if I didn't know just how slutty she can be. Even if I didn't know

how shy she really is. It's a mixture straight out of male fantasies inc. I know

she gets attention from guys wherever we go. It's guaranteed and it makes me

feel warm inside sometimes during long cold nights. Or something.

But, of course, thoughts evolve. Slow I may be but I am moving. Being an asshole

is not just a state of mind, it's a dynamic, interactive thing. Being an asshole

all by yourself really has no significance. You are only so much of an asshole

as others see you. I decided to. It was a long way coming anyway. She knew it,

damnit, she is smarter than me in these things. Even I knew it. I think. Maybe I

did know all the way from start but couldn't cope with the knowledge. After all,

it all proved to be almost too much for me and my barely-there sanity.

I decided to. I decided to do my part for the community finally. All those

jealous looks on the back of my head, all those undergrad students and college

kids devouring Clarissa with their eyes and hating me for being the exclusive

proprietor of that body, that face, hating me for all the imaginary blowjobs and

shags they had sketched in their heads. Not even knowing it was way better than

they dared imagine. Fear not kiddies, Santa is here.

I didn't tell her about it. I mean, I did tell her frequently that I will make

her fuck anyone and everyone I tell her to fuck. It worked well in our sessions

of sex and torture, it made her unbelievably excited. But up to this point, to

me it was just another tool in making her excited, aroused, humiliated, another

way to demonstrate I own her. I wasn't meaning any of that shit. What the fuck,

I have done some bad things in my life, but I have never pimped my girlfriends

to other men.

So actually deciding to do it was a real issue for me. And, let me tell you, it

wasn't even carefully planned and then executed. No, sir, old Nicky-boy just

plunged into it headfirst when something in his green brain clicked and it was a

decision made in split second, another person born in a crash, another world

scrawled on a wet Kleenex tissue...

Because, you see, I couldn't really stand to face it. I didn't even dare really

think about it. It was a forbidden area in my mind, secured by razor-wire and

guarded by pitbulls kept on a steady diet of yoghurt and lettuce for longer than

it was enough to make them bloodthirsty in the literal sense of the word. I

didn't dare step there. I knew I'd do it once, but I couldn't bear thinking

about it before it happened. Sure as shit, I wasn't going to sit down and

imagine Clarissa doing it with other guys and see all the poses and all the

juicy details. It's funny, because I understood perfectly well that pimping

Clarissa to others would only confirm my complete ownership of her, present a

final triumph of my will over hers. But still I couldn't hold my thoughts on the

subject for more than a second, before they'd slip off and run into any other

direction.

So it happened. I let it happen.

* * *

It was a confusing evening. The wind was high and my lips were dry and I was

completely fucked out of my head. I drank and I smoked and the green made my

mouth dry so I drank more. It was hot inside with all the bodies in the room,

with all the motion and all the music and smoke and drugs and voices and

laughter. Young people having fun. A room with no visible limits, with shadows

serving as a transition area between reality and imagination. Young people

engaging in rituals of social entertainment, complex body talk and sex innuendo.

Older people out to hunt and kill and devour young prey. Junkies and drag queens

as necessary to identify this world as home as air and water and forests and

concrete are. Even a couple of pathetic glue-sniffers to remind me of my

estate-days back in the depths of my youth spent in Londra. It was a usual

maelstrom of faces and clothes and breasts and furry eyebrows and nostrils

hungry for yet another white line, gold chains and silver rings, smiles and

seductive gazes. I was surfing on top of this wave even though I was aware this

was no ocean, more like a pool of stale piss, really. But I got used to it a

long time ago. I know it's all about grace and style, not about making it in the

open sea. I lost that ambition a long time ago.

In any case, Clarissa was there with me, fragile and black, shiny and somewhat

out of focus. Her outline against the backdrop of changing faces and clothes and

bodies and lights and shadows was just a black cut out, like something out of

comic books. She was all sharp edges and straight lines. God, she looked so hot

in that short, short, short skirt and her stockings and her dangerously high

heels. She turned heads with her legs and cleavage and her black lipstick and

her black eyeliner and her black nails and her silver chain going through her

navel-ring, looking so sexy under her short top. She was approached by many a

bloke, sometimes even while I was right beside her. She did that to guys, she

made them lose it over her, because she looked like a slut. And she did, she

looked like she was there out looking to get laid. Looking to be fucked hard,

not really important by who. Many of them blokes decided it was worth trying

their luck and some of the opening lines shot her way I have overheard were

embarrassing. Holy shit, some other time and place and I would have cracked

someone's head open. I mean, really does it ever work? Do you ever get laid when

you come up to a lady and tell her in no uncertain terms what you'd do to her

using toilet language? It seemed that most of the guys who tried to talk to

Clarissa felt the need to use the first 30 seconds of their conversation to

explain how hard she needs to be fucked and what they plan to do about it.

And she was so sweet, this little girl of mine. Looking like the horniest slut

out there, but acting like the shyest schoolgirl, she confused them all. Some of

them got really angry but none of them got aggressive which is always a bonus.

Though I did feel like fighting to some extent. It's been a while since it was

me vs. the world and I was drunk and reasonably grumpy. But it was just a series

of Clarissa's face going red and her eyes going down as she replied in her soft

voice. I couldn't make out any of her replies but she turned down each and every

of them. She probably told them she was here with someone and some of them were

sober enough to identify this someone. I met their angry, pissed off gazes. They

were jealous. They knew she was my slut and mine only. Fuck you, dickheads, she

is mine. Those were small victories, really unworthy of going down in history,

but at this stage in life you take what's there.

However it changed that evening. It changed just like that. I seem to be making

most of my major decisions when drunk. That should worry me but any time I get

worried I tend to start drinking. It's a vicious circle. It's negative feedback

to the max. It's a crash course to oblivion.

So I was nearly passed out in the back seat of this taxi, riding back home. The

wind has brought his friend rain along and even if it wasn't as bad as it can

be, there were some distant thunders in the sky and sporadic drops of rain

travelling downwards from a place better than we have ever known. Clarissa was a

happy warm breeze at my side, radiating confidence and joy. I bet she was wet. I

bet she was, so many guys recognised her for the slut she is that evening, so

many lips forming the word "fuck" and shooting it her way, deadly accuracy,

target destroyed over and over. She was happy and warm at my side, waiting to

get home to fulfil the final part of her slut role, to be a slut just for me, to

please her master, her owner.

And that's exactly when it clicked. At three A.M. With rain trying to decide

whether to go down in style or just to fool around a little bit more. With

cracking neurones of lighting carving their insignia into my retina. The taxi

driver was one lucky bastard. He was unshaven, his skin dark as far as I could

see through the haze pulled over my eyes. His English was rather poor. He must

have been 23, no more than that but already sporting marks of old age on his

face. The life was not kind to him. Well, has it been kind to any of us? Fuck

that, I just felt generous.

Clarissa never asked me about it later. And that's because she knew. Obviously,

I wasn't out of money. Well, I never said I was. I made an offer to him. An

offer he could not refuse. Oh, it's not like he didn't try. He struggled and

pretended he didn't understand well. He explained that he is married and told us

about his daughter. Poor sod, a five year old child at his age. Immigrant, but

not like me. A true, sad, desperate one, doing a fucking graveyard shift giving

taxi rides to drunken fools and aggressive jocks and couples with no money to

even rent a room to do their thing.

And he wasn't even going to get money for this ride, no. But he couldn't refuse.

I bet looking at Clarissa made his intestines melt. I could see drops of sweat

on his dark forehead as his panicked look shot from my shitfaced mug to Clarissa

and back. She must have looked like something out of a dream to him. I

improvised around this thought.

"...at her, boy! Have you ever fucked such a hot slut?"

Her hand clutching my arm was almost completely white against the black of my

clothes.

"She is dying to suck your cock, nephew. She loves sucking cocks of men she

doesn't know, it makes her feel like a complete slut."

And near my ear I could hear her, just above the level of awareness.

"...please, don't, please, don't, Nick, please..."

But it was a tiny voice, like a recording played back on small headphones

someone took off and forgot.

"Look at her and tell me, honestly that you can turn her down. I bet your wife

won't even have sex with you these days, does she, money? You have to deserve

it, don't you? She just lets you have some of that pussy on special occasions

and even then she's just consenting, isn't she, handsome? None of the ol'

enthusiasm you used to get before the little miss came, right?"

He was cracking, I could tell. And Clarissa was trembling. I could feel her

whole body tremble as her mantra of whispered pleas lost any sense and became

just another layer of music playing in my head 24/7. She was begging but it

meant nothing to me. I couldn't feel anything but the words I was saying. They

were big, ugly chunks of burning wood and I was spitting them out one by one,

hitting the bullseye each time.

The poor fucker still refused to play ball, but we all knew where this was going

to end.

"Let me be honest with you, boy, ever since I have made this slut my property, I

don't even bother taking money with me to pay for rides. All the other guys seem

to think it's fair deal she sucks their cock in exchange for a ride. Man, I'm

telling you, she's trembling with lust, she needs your cock in her mouth. Come

on, you know you can't turn her down, don't be cruel, she needs you to ram your

cock down her throat and make her swallow it all."

I took a quick look at Clarissa's face and she was on the verge of tears. Then I

looked at him again.

"Come on, nephew, ask her if you don't believe me. She will do things to you

your missus never could think about, things you'd never dare ask her." He was

shaking his head but he couldn't take his eyes off her face any more. I knew he

was looking at her lips, a stroke of black against white canvas of her face.

"Come on, slut, tell him, can't you see the lad is shy."

And she did in that soft voice of hers. The voice that gave me many a hard-on.

"please... please let me suck your cock..."

My hand was resting on her thigh, as I was showing her qualities to him. My grip

became tighter and she got the message. At least she thought she did, her voice

became a tad louder, her words...

"please, i need your cock in my mouth, i need you to fuck my face, to cum inside

me and make me swallow every single drop"

The three last words said as if each of them was a sentence in its own right,

lower in tone and more seductive than the preceding one.

"i will make you cum like you have never cum in your life, please, i need your

cock, i'm so wet i'm going to cum just by sucking you off"

Oh, yes, my grip on her thigh was tighter and tighter, but it wasn't just me

showing her who is the owner here. No, it wasn't.

Man, this was my girl. My girl telling a complete fucking stranger what she

wanted him to do to her. And I made her do it. Oh, yeah, you need to be talented

to make situations this complicated. I am a talented bloke.

Bowing down, she was a creature from dreams and imagination. Her perfume must

have hit him when he made that one deep breath. It must have gone straight to

his head. You can't stop breathing now, money. That won't do. He surrendered

just a minute ago and she just climbed over to the front seat, like a cat. No

turning back for either one of us now.

She took his cock out and I heard her make the sexiest, sluttiest sigh of

pleasure when she felt how hard and wet he was.

The way I remember it now is awkward. It's a series of frozen polaroids. I don't

remember how long it lasted. But it could not have been long. It wasn't long.

The guy, bless him, had such a hard-on that I actually thought he was going to

cum even before Clarissa had the chance to put it in her mouth. The bastard had

a bigger cock than me. Ouch. You asshole. You freak.

It must have lasted a minute or something, which I think was as good a time as

we could have hoped for.

His voice went up a few notes when Clarissa slowly lowered her head and accepted

his throbbing, swollen flesh into her mouth. I was shivering. I felt my skin

crawl all the way down my back. It was unreal. He was moaning like a girl, he

was completely lost. He must have been wondering where's the catch, are we going

to kill him afterwards. But he just let it go and his hips moved uncontrollably

up and down. And it was unreal. She was doing it the way only she could. I have

never seen her do it from this perspective. She was repeating the same

movements, the same noises, she was having the same expression on her face, it

was like having an out-of-body experience. Except that the body she was working

on was not mine. And the noises of pleasure and lust she was making were muted

by someone else's flesh. And when she took it out of her mouth, to suck on his

hairy balls for a second, the penis in her hand looked so much bigger than mine.

I honestly can't recall if I had erection. I can not force my mind or body to

fully get back into that night. I might have had it. Then again, I might have

not. My head was a mess of excitement and curiosity and misery and drunken

stupidity. Fuck, maybe I even cried. Honestly I can't recall. But I do recall

encouraging Clarissa to suck his bone with selected lines learned through

decades of dedicated porn-watching. She was a slut doing it for her pleasure. I

made it blindingly obvious for both of them. The embarrassment he must have felt

was probably nothing compared with profound shame that was doubtless raging

through her. The sounds she was making were not a playact. Her excitement was

bigger than his.

"Ooh, you are a slut. Suck his cock, come on, swallow all of it, bitch, show

you're a good whore, come on. Eat his dick, take it all in, let him fill your

slutty mouth with his cum, come on, you know he's expecting you to swallow it

all, take it down your throat, you whore." And so on and so forth, I was telling

her all kinds of degrading stuff I could come up within the space of seconds I

had at my disposal.

I remember now what it was that made him last a whole minute. He was probably

nearing the home stretch when his mobile phone rang. Man, how he jumped in his

seat. The pathetic sinewave rendition of Mozart probably never sounded so

threatening to him. Well, yes, at 3 in the morning, it could realistically be

only one person in the whole world. Even in my drunken ugliness, I had a moment

of lucidity and realised.

"Well, come on, money, it must be the missus, innit? Come on, pick it up, tell

her you are nearly done and that you'll be home with her and the kid in no time.

Hell, let her hear you're having a good time while we're at it." He was

panicking and completely confused as to what he should do. And Clarissa played

it just right even without me having to so much as lay my hand on her. She

started sucking his cock even more eagerly, swallowing it all, burying her nose

into his bush of pubic hair, salivating over his balls with every thrust of her

head. The veins on her neck showed me the effort she was making to let his

manmeat go down her throat. She was moaning and making sucking noises that would

turn a whole battalion of saints into sinners. The poor fucker, about to lose

the erection when the phone rang was taken to a whole new level. He cracked, one

last shred of his dignity burned in fire of demonic passion. The phone kept

ringing and he put both his hands on the back of her head and pushed her down

brutally. The fucker made her take it all in, he was not concerned with whether

she enjoyed it or even whether she could breathe, he pushed it all down her

throat. And she was all the slut he could ever have imagined.

I still don't know if she was just faking the orgasm. I still don't know whether

she did it to amuse me and him and to feel like a slut or... Or indeed being

forced to be a slut, being forced to pleasure a stranger, degraded to a level of

street slag, forced to perform in a filthy taxi parked in front of my house,

being called all kinds of names, indeed it all made her come, without even

touching herself down there.

What I do know is that it pushed him over as sure as the devil has a tail. He

was screaming. He was coming straight into her mouth, down her throat and she

was swallowing it all. Well, to a certain point, at least. He had way more sperm

in his little storage made of wrinkled skin than one would rationally expect. I

guess I'd been right about his wife not really being down to do it most of the

time, poor lad. The cum was dripping from Clarissa's mouth, there was too much

of it, and when the pressure of his hands on her head decreased, she moved back

and started jerking his cock off, her face still only inches away. In a very

dramatic fashion a nearby lightning bathed the whole scene in white, surreal

light. I saw a spray of sperm shoot from his cock and fall on her face, the

shadow it made against the dashboard, like in slow-motion. Then another and

another, and another, her face was covered with his sperm as she was jerking him

off and repeating "yes, yes, yes, yes", a slut to put sluts to shame. Her hair,

her eyelids, her lips, covered with thick, white slimy pearls.

She obeyed me. She did.

He was moaning as she was sucking his cock clean.

"You don't want to leave this nice man a mess, whore do you?"

I sounded positively cruel. Maybe I am.

"You made a mess, bitch, now clean all of it. It serves you right he sprayed all

of your face in his cum, you deserve nothing better."

She was obedient, her eyes closed, her mouth efficient, collecting slimy fluids

off his cock, licking swallowing.

"Slut"

"Whore"

"Slut"

Slut

Slut.

When I remember that night, it's still just isolated images, like a photo-story

from any old porn mag I held under my bed, her eyes closed, her lips around his

cock, her makeup mixed with his semen, her hands being gentle and caring. I

could cry right now, man. It was divine. She was majestic. I could cry now. I

was a brave little soldier right there. I was scared shitless and shivering, but

I was a brave little turd right there. I could cry now.

* * *

She was just a highschool dropout. Sixteen and a life of adventures in front of

her. As it often turns out, the first real adventure almost destroyed her. She

was just white trash, looking to charm and cheat and fuck her way through this

existence. She was fucked, alright.

The newspapers were full of the story for a couple of days. The headlines were

screaming in disharmonic unison for a while, excited black exclamations trying

to outdo each other with condensed stories of terror and depravity. For a couple

of days I felt like every headline, every news announcement, every hyperlink on

every website was taken out of a pulp porn novel. Of course, it had to do with

complicated racial and social structure and relationships of this society. Put

bluntly, Rachel (as her name was) was white, fair-haired and pretty damn

attractive. The difference between her photos of "before" and "after" that media

generously recycled for our comparing pleasure was telling. "Before" was showing

a blonde smiling for the camera, sixteen and carefree, invulnerable and

immortal, nasty and irresistible, she was a natural flirt, one would say. A

natural slut, if you want. Oink. "After" was a sorry mess of skin and bones with

bags below her eyes and a gaze in her eyes suggesting that eight weeks of

imprisonment and exploitation made her grow older than she ever imagined she

would.

Media were alternately raining tears over her unfortunate fate and righteous

rage over the fact that the society we live in allows such perverts to breed.

Media were calling for mobilisation against evil ones that walk among us,

unnoticed, concealed by their everyday appearance and good manners. It was a bit

of a scandal, really, Rachel was not just held prisoner and repeatedly raped by

some unnamed bunch of scumbags, truck drivers and unemployed blacks, she was

rented, borrowed and generally made available for certain amounts of time to

some of the respectable members of our community. Businessmen, even the odd

politician were also part of the picture. Some heads rolled, some resignations

were made. It seems we're all one big family when it comes to gangbanging:

racial, class and cultural boundaries erased in a storm of faceslaps, insults,

fistfucks, cigarettes extinguished on skin, anal bleeding, nipples almost ripped

from flesh, swollen, purple lips...

Thousands of Mexican and Venezuelan and Chinese girls and women who suffered

similar fates never got into the news the way Rachel did. It was funny, talking

to some Hispanic people at some party, I was amused at how shocked they were

with this story and how eagerly they demanded the justice to be done. They were

trying so hard to blend into the white, suburban, middle-class picture that it

was absurd. I was a bit drunk as usual and I didn't mind telling them that they

were a sorry bunch of hypocrites and that they got brainwashed by the media

designed by The Man, lost to the fact of how many women of their kind failed to

make the news with similar or worse stories. I was called racist by the end of

that conversation. Hell....

But I digress. Normally, this story wouldn't have made much of an impact on me,

another grim tale from the bowels of uncaring metropolis, they come a dime a

dozen these days.

But, you know, normality is not where I hang out these days. You won't usually

find me there, no sir.

* * *

"You are nothing."

She hurts in relative silence.

"You are nothing waiting to be destroyed."

I usually do not gag Clarissa during our torture sessions. I love to listen to

her: I have always been turned on by female moans of pleasure or pain. When I

was a kid I was of course confused and unsure whether the difference existed at

all. Adulthood generally brings wisdom in this area, yet with Clarissa near me,

I am confused again. With her, the difference is blurred. Does it even exist?

Hell, I don't know.

Another reason I preferred her not to be gagged is of course because I wanted

her mouth to be available at all times. Forcing her to give me oral pleasure not

only made her feel degraded and used, it also made me feel big and strong and in

charge. Everybody's a winner, right?

But she hurts in relative silence now. I have gagged her as I suspect this is

what she wanted. I can still hear her muffled moans and screams of pain/

pleasure/ pain, the fact that they are coming through and around a piece of

cloth brutally tied around her head (none of those fancy industry standard mass

market ball-gags for me, no thank you, I am DIY at heart) makes it all a bit

more interesting really.

"You are a worthless nothing. I am disgusted looking at you wallowing in your

filth."

She was forced to drink a lot of fluid this evening. First it was wine and then

just water, glass after glass. When she couldn't take any more and tried to

refuse, she was punished with breast-whipping and some nipple twisting. I have

learned to switch my mind off in a way. I am an epitome of efficiency, a model

tormentor. She drank more, she spilled much of it but swallowed the rest. She

begged me to stop and eventually I did. Then I fucked her.

She was whipped and fucked hard. Her breasts got tied. I fucked her arse and her

mouth, I fucked her swollen, painful breasts. I made her suck me, gently, like a

teenage girl in love for the first time, while I hurt her breasts. I fucked her

in the arse, pulling her hair back so hard she was screaming in pain. I whipped

her arse. I made her suck my cock, swallow it, clean it with her tongue.

"You are despicable. You make me sick, cunt. You dirty bitch. I am going to get

a bunch of horny cops to fuck all your holes, to tear your dirty cunt apart, to

ram their truncheons down your arse. I think I'll sell you to them, so they can

have their own slut to rape as they please. You'd love that wouldn't you?

Wouldn't you?"

She moans, she says some words, they are hard to make out, but I know she is

telling me she loves me as her only master, I know, despite all the pain and

agony I am causing, she is swearing allegiance.

I came twice and my cock is red and hurting, I came all over her face and hair,

I made her clean my cock. She didn't come once. I made sure I interrupted her

every time I felt she was nearing climax.

As a result, one of the results, she was about to explode. The constant

attention her cunt was getting made her equal parts desperate to cum and

desperate to pee. She begged me to let her use the toilet. Yeah, like that would

happen. I did take her to the bathroom. But just because I didn't want her

ruining my carpet. I mean, anyone in my position would do the same, right? I did

take her to the bathroom, I did drag her to the bathroom, tied her wrists to the

pipe feeding off the sink, spread her on the floor. I made her do it there, on

the floor. She cried and begged and she shivered with humiliation, but it was

stronger than her. Finally she cracked and, tears flowing and all, she let her

urine on the floor, and I moved closer in to take better photos of a golden

stream coming out of her body. She was crying uncontrollably by the time it

finished, and it lasted, it lasted a long time. I laughed at her and called her

names.

"I bet you'd suck every single of their truncheons and beg them to ram them into

your dirty asshole, wouldn't you, bitch? You'd love to be fucked that way, I

know. You'd beg them to force fuck you, three or four at a time, am I right?

You'd beg them to feed you with their sperm and to piss all over you, right? I

see how much you enjoy bathing in your own piss. You'd beg them to let you fuck

their dogs, slut, you'd never get enough, you'd suck and fuck each and every of

their German shepherds. You're a bitch, a true bitch and you yearn to be fucked

by dogs."

Where do I come up with this stuff? It works, though. It does, she is shivering,

but this is a different kind of fever to the ones I know first hand.

Her stockings are torn and tattered, I was rather harsh today. She looks even

more attractive that way. High heels, her chains and a big black dildo shoved up

her ass. I whip her some more. I spit into her hair and whisper more insults and

threats into her ear. I place clamps on her nipples. I light a candle and take

the time explaining what I'm going to do with it. I drip hot wax over her

breasts, over her belly, thighs, around her cunt. I take the dildo that is

buried in her ass and fuck her with it, grinding her clit between my fingers

simultaneously. She is about to cum, but not yet.

Not before I take photos of her. I even use some additional light, I want them

to look good, not just the usual Internet homemade porn smut. I want every

detail of her degradation, of her agony, of her horniness, of her beauty, of her

uniqueness to be captured. I have a plan for her. But she doesn't know about it

yet.

* * *

There's a little tormentor in every one of us. Kids torture bugs and cats and

dogs, don't they? There's a little master in every one of us. Who wouldn't want

to have a personal slave to use and abuse as one pleases? To torture and punish.

To own. Completely, without any reservations.

To protect.

There is a little slave in every one of us. To be owned, to be possessed and

fucked, to be helpless, degraded, devoid of will.

To be protected.

There's a little master in every one of us. There's a little boy in every one of

us. In me, at least.

Not everyone is able to live up to their own wishes and dreams.

"silver in her gaze

gold in her fist

red in my eyes

down,

don't you dare

you are not supposed to be brave

suffocate

over and over

forever and thankful

please

once again

I will crawl

I promise

I will"

I used to write poems when I was in secondary school. Some of them were

influenced by dreams. Some of the dreams were influenced by alcohol and glue and

later by cannabis and acid. Those were not great poems by any standard and I did

well to pursue my path in visual area rather than literal. But some of those

still make me shiver when I read them. I brought some of those all the way

across the ocean. Some of those are smarter that I have become through decades.

Some of those are prophecies. I don't believe in prophecies. Which means that

part of me, that unconscious part of me back then was perfectly aware of my

potentials and needs and wishes. It nailed it all down. It feels uncomfortable

to know that a boy tripping on a mixture of lager and acid and THC back in the

old dirty East London could understand a 30-something graphical designer fucking

lost in Illinois more than half a lifetime later...

The problem with dreams is that they make sense only as long as you're dreaming.

Once the REM phase stops and you wake up and try to live the dream, you are

defeated by the lack of substance. Is the dream to blame, or is it you?

I know it is me, through and through. And I am sorry but that's the way it is.

At least I realise that. A 15 years old London punk in a leather jacket with a

fucking crush, emailing his poems through a time tunnel helps me realise.

"my mother was a dog

my mother was a dog

my mother was not a bitch

my mother was a dog

what am I?"

* * *

Clarissa was reborn in her shame. She was a work of art divine. Her eyes closed

around his cock, still huge, still bigger than mine.

Clarissa was so wet and warm later that night. Or it was some other night? It

had to be another night, right? I was washed away that night, right? The

original night, I mean. I was drowned, wasn't I? I don't remember throwing up,

which could have done away with some of the alcohol still hanging around my

intestines and not yet breaking and entering into my bloodstream and ultimately

brain. I don't remember throwing up, and I sure as hell don't remember growing

up, no. I don't remember getting up and walking but it must have happened. She

was so warm and wet that night. Not sure which night, sorry, it's all a mess in

retrospect, but she was reborn in her shame, glistening like a star, she was

begging to be punished, crawling like a dog with broken legs.

And punished she was. I think...

I don't remember getting up and walking, but I think I remember standing up and

talking. Maybe it was a dream, but maybe not.

"...able to close your eyes. No matter how much you cry. I will nail your hands

to the floorboards. You won't be able to move. I will spread your legs as far as

they will go and then some until you scream and beg for mercy. And then some

more. You will feel your body pushed over the edge. You will. You will feel the

heat and you'll beg me not to burn you. Then you will beg me to fuck you because

you're a slut and you think this will save you from further punishment. You can

hope but I will teach you to abandon hope. I will tie your breasts 'til no blood

is able to get in anymore. I know you will cry. And you'll have to watch. All of

it. I will shove a candle up your arse and light the part sticking out. You will

feel the heat and you'll beg me not to burn you. You will beg me to fuck you.

You will beg me to fuck you. But I will not grant you your wish as you don't

deserve it. You will be whipped, your cunt and your breasts and your face and

your thighs, you will be whipped long and hard until you piss yourself. Then I

will release the dogs. You will get your fucking. You will thank me. And I'll

make sure you are the bitch I always knew you were. And I will leave you to

them. Nailed down, spread, punished."

Or something like that. Maybe it was a dream.

* * *

"Oh, God, no... That's not me..."

I can hear her voice racing through a whole range of emotions in just a brief

moment it takes to pronounce those six words.

"It is. That's you."

"No... God..."

Her face is like a cloud of smoke going through endless metamorphosis, a

thousand different images in one second, some of them really there, some of them

only in my eye.

"Oh... my God..."

She knew I was taking those pictures. Still, she is shivering. She is shaking

her head in disbelief. She is looking at them for the first time. The counter on

the website says there have been eleven thousand something visitors before her

and it's only been up a couple of days. I didn't want to tell her about it

before. And she never asked about those photos, the good girl. The good, good

girl.

"Nick, I..."

She is looking for words but are there any? What do you say when you run into

someone else's dream and find yourself there?

I am proud. For a while I will be proud.

I worked very carefully on those pictures. It was a labour of love and

dedication. For a moment, even, I felt like an artist, not just a designer. It

was a labour of love and dedication and passion. And hate and fear and passion.

I worked very carefully to capture the very essence of her submission, of her

agony and her humiliation. I worked very carefully to conceal her identity in

case her children or anyone else knowing her runs into this. You don't expect

your kids surfing private porn websites, but, hey, you don't expect yourself to

wake up old and dying one day and still it happens even to the best of us.

I sculpted her with light and shadows, using filters not to enhance the photos,

but to give them a dreamlike quality. Clarissa, a fantasy made flesh, a flesh

made light and darkness. Her body on those photos, an endless possibility of

shapes and textures. Where does it end, where does the imagination begin, eh,

boy? Her limbs, restrained and long, strange angles, suggesting pain but not

just pain, submission, but not just submission, there's more to it. There's a

sense of her being someone else there, something else even.

Contrasting tones of her stockings and her skin, her jewellery and her red, red

velvet between her lips and between her lips. Her eyes, black and bottomless,

closed on all the pictures, caught only one at a time, almost unimportant at

first glance, essential, truly essential. Her neck, her ankles and feet, high

heels, ropes, chains of silver, ring and black nails. Marks of punishment on the

skin, red, looking as if they were carved into her to stay there forever. Her

lips around the gag, dark and smeared with sperm. That's the only part of me

visible on those pictures. A golden stream between her thighs. Her breasts large

and dark red and so swollen from the rope, her nipples, clamped and so juicy

looking. God, I could eat them. Her anus, savaged and penetrated, stuffed with a

black, shiny dildo. Her skin and red wax.

"Oh, God... Oh, God".

She is panting.

"Oh, God, this is me... This is me."

This is her, alright. This is you, Clarissa. This is you.

Eleven thousand people have seen what we see now. Eleven thousand people have

witnessed her most intimate moment. Eleven thousand people able to carefully

examine every detail of her humiliation, to marvel at her pain, to explore her

tortured body. Eleven thousand people seeing Clarissa being herself.

Of course, out of those eleven thousand webcrawlers, there's a fair number of

guys specialised in one-handed surfing: eyes fixed in eternity only a foot away,

lips forming words the throat never vocalises, one hand clicking away forever,

the other pumping the flesh. I point this out as if it wasn't obvious, but

Clarissa closes her eyes for a moment, listening. Just for a moment.

Then, there are two-handed ones. They prove this by leaving their comments. Not

that you can't type with one hand, but the one-handed type rarely wastes time

and effort on trying to type. That's the other type, the ones with two hands and

a need to communicate the message even if its one-direction only. I haven't

explained anything. I haven't given them much information save for her name and

a few facts about her character: her needs, desires, dreams. I haven't asked

them to do anything. I have just provided space for them to comment. And comment

they did.

Like a pack of wolves, like piranhas sensing blood spread through the water,

they all storm in at her and bite a piece off each. It's a mess of improperly

typed messages of desire, frustration, disbelief... Insults, invitations,

promises, brags, pledges... It's a men's room wall crossed with schoolboy's

poetry notebook. There are some well written, downright intelligent decent

messages there. There are repulsive chunks of language halfway between animals

and demons, misspelled, lowercase, scary, pathetic, hilarious, exciting. Someone

who claims he's a thirteen year old boy describes what he'd do to her and how

she'd like it. Someone who claims he owns his own consulting company and a

university degree has left his email, just like hundreds of others, but his

message is even charming to an extent. There are some messages written by people

claiming to be female, praising Clarissa or the photos and in some cases the

photographer (why, thank you, I am honoured). Some are even taking time to

explain how disgusted they are with the images and how Clarissa needs to get

some help if she allows this to be done to her. Usually I find those idiots to

be really troubled since they actually had to work to get to this site (it's not

like I advertised it by spamming random recipients through email) and then they

look at it and feel the need to piss righteous rage all over you from their high

moral stance. But in this context, they are really welcome as they serve the

purpose well. I know their words of harsh judgement do the same to Clarissa as

do the words of raw sexual desire she receives from others.

"You.... You didn't tell me..."

I didn't. This was meant to be a surprise. She can not take her eyes off it, her

face bathed in the artificial light of the monitor screen. Her eyes are wide and

she is panting, clicking through photos, through messages, forward and back.

This is a small, insignificant, badly built shrine. But it was built for her,

built through a joint effort by me and thousands of believers who left their

footprints in there. This will leave a mark on her, I know.

And when she finally manages to turn her head away from the screen, her face is

a battlefield of conflicting emotions and instincts. She looks at me and I

manage not to move any part of my face. She is breathing heavily and her eyes

are wet with tears. Her lips are trembling. And she stares into my eyes, so

deep, so deep. And when she reaches out for me I almost fall from my chair.

"please..."

She is falling into the voice again.

"please, please Sir, fuck me now"

What? Now?

"please, I am so wet, please, Sir, this slut wants to eat Your beautiful cock

right now, please I need You to fuck me hard as only You can"

How the hell does she do that? How the hell she manages to remain so shy and so

fucking dirty at the same time? I close my eyes just for a second. Someone is

going to get hurt. Someone.

I know what she is thinking.

"I know what you're thinking."

All those eyes devouring her body on those photos. All those words typed with

nervous, violent, sloppy keystrokes.

"Don't count on it, bitch. You are a no good cunt and you don't deserve it."

I know what she is thinking. Right now in her head...

"...I bet you are fucking all of them, sucking their cocks and riding them, and

swallowing their sperm, aren't you?"

Isn't she?

"It's not happening, bitch. You fucking, fucking slut, you are so turned on by a

thought you could fuck dozens of strangers just like that."

"please... i want You. only You. take me, Master, please, take me now, I am a no

good slut, please teach me to be good, please..."

Her words spiral off into grinding white noise as I unbutton my jeans and grab

her hair. She says she wants only me right now, but I will make her admit she

wants to fuck each and every of those people. Then I will make her apologise and

make it up to me. Then she will swear with her life that I am the only man she

will ever want, the only man she will ever fuck. She will describe herself as

worthless and thank me for being good to her. It's going to be a long, painful

process, I think. Hang on, my lady. This is going to hurt. A little. But... I am

a big boy now.

* * *

I ran another crash test before deciding to go through with the Plan. Theory is

theory, but you can't really tell if the car will break down until you give it a

ride across some harsh ground.

I like to think I handled it well, but who knows really. I try not to think

about it most of the time. Well, in any case, I was sober this time around so I

can't blame the demon alcohol for painting the picture in unrealistic,

unlifelike colours. She WAS there, kneeling on the floor of that filthy little

back room, sucking this guy's cock and making her sexy, catlike noises. Her

earrings bounced back and forth as she was accepting his cock all the way in and

letting it all out again. Yes, it was just like that, him saying "oh, yeah,

baby, yeah, suck my cock, you whore", twenty dollar bill in his sweaty hand. It

was just like this: she leaning on the box as he pounded her from behind with

all the force he could muster. It was not like it was a hard fuck by any

standards she got used with me around and shit, but she was still screaming her

lungs off and I really and truly believe she had two orgasms in a space of mere

minutes that took him to complete his sweaty race and, howling like a wolf, fill

her cunt with his semen. Between the two of them, a slut goddess out of a porn

comic book and a cheap bike-mechanic, they made so much noise as if they weren't

aware of the fact that just behind one tiny door and a short corridor, there was

a bar full of people. I didn't even tell her to do anything after he came (and

during the intercourse, I restricted myself to simple pimp one-liners like

"Yeah, boy, fuck her hard, she can take all you got." and "Fuck that pussy, boy,

make the slut scream"), she swiftly turned around and took his cock into her

mouth, her cunt juices, sperm and all. She sucked on it as if her life depended

on it and the guy nearly lost his balance.

He left her on all fours looking up at him, money pushed into her blouse, her

tongue licking her lips. I knew what she was thinking but I couldn't do it. No,

sorry. I could have found another guy right there and then, God knows the place

was crawling with drunken, horny males, but no, this was not the way I wanted

it. This was just a test and I passed it. With grace, I'd like to add, but

really I just passed it and I would like not to speak about it any more if you

don't mind, thank you.

* * *

So on we went.

The apartment I rented was really a little better than a cave. The paint was

peeling off the walls, the furniture was more than halfway to oblivion and the

neighbourhood reminded me of some real bad parts of London I used to visit as a

nipper. Which made it cheap and almost perfect for the Plan.

It took me a couple of weeks to sort out the email I received after I posted the

invitation on the website. Of course it came in spades, my inbox was snowed

under hundreds of emails from guys eager to fuck that women, that girl whose

pictures were teasing them for weeks, whose intimacy and sluttiness were

generously displayed for their wanking pleasure for over a month.

Of course, I could have made it harder by setting high standards for the guys

and that would have made the sorting part a little easier. Or maybe not, God

knows we like to lie when answering these ads... In any case, I left it open

ended as possible, within certain boundaries I had in mind. I wanted every

sleazeball with a hard on and enough fuel to get here to be a possible

contestant. Just the best for my girl.

I didn't tell her anything before I made the choice.

* * *

Unlocking the door and leading them in, I meditated for myself about the fact

that they don't know what they will see inside and that she doesn't know what

she will see when we walk in.

Here's what they saw:

Clarissa was on the bed, wearing her sluttiest stiletto high heels, black

stockings, dark red see-through panties and a matching bra, her eyes under heavy

make-up, her lips black, silver chains, dark red finger nails, a dog collar

around her neck, a chain attached to it, long enough to let her move freely

around the bed, yet not allowing her to stray away from it.

I allowed her to play with herself while she was waiting for us to arrive and

the small room, all windows closed, was full of the rich aroma of her

excitement. A selection of dildos and other toys on the table.

Here's what she saw:

Come on, Clarissa, admit you didn't expect it. You knew there were to be two

guys. But you never ever imagined they would be twins, did you?

Dressed in tight black shirts and black leather jackets, those two fuckers were

bursting with strength. I have to admit I didn't really like them from the

start. I guess they looked too healthy to really be dirty on one hand, and too

simple to be refined perverts on the other. But the fact they were near

identical twins was appealing and meant they were not dismissed right away, and

through those two weeks of sorting, they made it through all selections and

finally were triumphant. Their nude pics, well, let's just say I was glad to see

they had normal size cocks (meaning not significantly bigger than mine) and that

I felt generous. The fuckers were some kind of gym junkies if you ask me, 700

one-armed pushups sort of thing, as their bodies looked like some of those

ancient-Roman statues: hairless, as if sculpted by a master of his craft. They

had identical haircuts consisting of several molecules of hair, blue eyes,

strong jaws, and fucking muscles all over.

The dog was a black, big demon of a Doberman, at first acting really nervously

in a small room filled with people. But they managed to convince me Lupo was an

experienced, healthy animal and that was what I was looking for. Why they

decided to give that dog a name meaning "wolf" in Italian is anyone's guess,

however.

It's weird.

No real introduction took place nor was it needed. After all, they have seen her

body on so many pictures, they probably felt they knew every inch of it by

heart. Besides, the lights in the room were dim, it was dark-ish and thus she

looked more like a fantasy taking shape out of thin air then like a woman

chained to the wall. She was an object to be used. It was clear to them. It was

clear to her.

Yes, it was clear to me.

Normally, the pimp takes the money before the act commences. That way you ensure

the customer understands that, if he isn't satisfied with the service, it's his

fault. However, I didn't do it this way. For a reason.

The twins were horny and as I placed myself in the armchair and informed them in

my business voice that they are free to fire at will, they began commenting on

Clarissa in no uncertain terms. They were in no hurry as this session was not to

be time-limited, so they started removing their clothes slowly, taking time to

grab their crotches and feel the swollen members resting in their pants. They

were going to take her, she was completely at their disposal. They were going to

take everything she had.

* * *

I made her apologise. I didn't want to interfere too much as the lads were

supposed to have all the freedom to improvise they needed, but a well placed

intervention from her master could only do good to Clarissa. I made her

apologise and beg forgiveness from Julian (at least I think it was Julian, him

and Andrew switched positions so many times up to this point that I bet their

mother couldn't keep track of who is who were she to accompany us) and she did,

through tears. She explained everything about being a worthless cunt and how she

will try harder. The asshole was shoving her cock all the way down to his balls

in her mouth, in her throat, fucking her face while using his fingers to hold

her nostrils shut. She was fighting for air and she nearly threw up. He slapped

her hard a couple of times and I made her apologise. All the while, his brother

was fucking her hard in the arse, not stopping for a moment, big, black dildo

shoved into her cunt. Her hands were tied on her back and her breasts were hurt

in more ways than one: they used their teeth and fingers on them, they used

nipple clamps made of metal, with screws in them, they used a leather belt, they

used candle wax.

She was to thank them for everything they did to her.

For every subsequent act of cruelty, for every fresh supply of pain and

humiliation she received from the twins she was expressing her gratitude.

I have never put my fist into her pussy. They both shoved their hands into her,

taking turns, spreading her sexy stockinged legs as wide as they would go, they

fist-fucked her brutally, mercilessly.

"oh, please, oh, please, it hurts, oh, please i can't, oh..."

Julian (or Andrew) grabbed her collar and pulled her up cruelly:

"What's that, cunt? Did I hear you resist? Do you know what you get when you

resist?"

She knew.

"please. i can't.. you're breaking me, you're breaking my little pussy..."

She knew. She fucking teased them. Oh fuck, I can't believe this.

And of course Julian (or Andrew) was infuriated and he knew she knew what she

was to get so he grabbed her throat and squeezed as his brother kept pumping her

cunt with his fist.

"You fucking cunt! You dare play games on us!! You want me to cut your fucking

tits off?"

He was choking her. Right in front of my fucking eyes, with a fucking Doberman

tied to the table walking in small circles like mad.

She managed to shake her head.

"Then tell me what you want us to do to you!! Tell me how we should punish

you!!!"

His grip on her throat loosened but she was still struggling for air.

"Come on say it!! SAY IT!!!"

Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this, I have to get up from the chair right now,

fuck, now.

"please, punish me, i am a bad slut, please, whip my dirty cunt, please dear

Sirs, make me learn to be obedient"

Hear screams made Lupo break into sharp barking. Julian (or Andrew) whipped her

labia and her stretched pussy with his belt. One, two, three lashes,

sixseveneight, fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Her lips, her thighs, swollen and red, Andrew (or Julian) pushing three and then

four of his fingers into her ass, the other one moving to make her suck his cock

again. And she was thanking them.

"thank You, thank You Sirs, You made me a better slut, thank You for punishing

me, please don't stop, this slut needs to be taught well"

And stop they didn't. Even after they both had come three times each. Her

breasts were tied tighter than I think I ever did, the brothers made her eat

their assholes, switching between sitting on her face and spreading her legs to

stuff her cunt and arse with minced meat I have bought. She was a mess: her

labia swollen and red, her ass stretched and smeared with cum and blood, her

body covered with red, blue and purple marks of their belts, fingers and teeth,

her breasts dark red, covered with wax, her face a mixture of guilt, sperm,

sweat, ecstasy, horror, makeup. Finally, they pissed all over her as she was

crying. Like true twins they pissed as one, pissed all over her hair, her face,

her swollen breasts, her belly and her cunt.

And then it was Lupo's turn. And God knows he was more than eager to

participate. A deep, guttural growl, his nostrils nervous, his canine penis

ready and willing.

One of the brothers attached his belt to the ropes binding her breasts and

detached a chain from her collar. She was lead, by her breasts, on all fours,

off the bed, around it, across the floor, towards the Doberman.

"please, no, please, no, PLEASE, no i can't, please, have mercy"

She was begging. Begging not to be forced to do it with a dog with three men

watching. In the past three hours she was restrained, beaten, fucked, tortured

and pissed upon, and yet she was still trying to preserve whatever she had left

of her dignity.

But it was not to be.

"Shut up, slut, I know perfectly well how long you have been dreaming of fucking

an animal while being watched. So quit pretending and get down to it!"

The brothers were busy with preparing the dog to have sex with a woman he never

met before so it was my duty to get her into the groove.

So it was decided that she was to give him a quick blow job first. "To get them

to know each other better" as I explained.

"please, don't make me do it, please, please, i'll do anything for You"

I knew that. But she already did.

"You already did, slut, you are so cheap and filthy right now, you deserve

nothing better than to be fucked by a dog."

And as Julian (or Andrew) was talking to the animal, Andrew (or Julian) pulled

her down and she took that thing into her mouth. And she sucked that dog's cock.

She did. She sucked him in slow motion, with love and passion, with care and

with excitement. She sucked him the way she'd sucked me a thousand times

before.

Appetiser out of the way, she was made to take the position on the bed. She was

on all fours, in piss, in heat. The brothers had convincingly enough experience

in this and the animal was bursting with eagerness to fuck my girlfriend. They

positioned him and before I was ready to even think about it, he was inside of

her.

The big black dog was fucking Clarissa and she was moaning and she was rocking

her hips. And he was thrusting his cock into her faster than I ever could,

stuffing her, growling, fucking her the way she needed.

She needed it. Yes she did. She needed him to fuck her. She came once,

completely losing control over herself and after Lupo came and stayed in her for

a little while, she came once again, rocking her hips, letting his swollen knot

lead her to another orgasm. She was a slut. A dog's slut. She was a slut for

that dog and for the three of us watching. She was cumming from being fucked by

an animal and from being watched. A slut.

They took the animal off the bed and he was surprisingly calm and uninterested

after all that happened. Clarissa was left there, lying, motionless, broken,

like a ragdoll discarded after play.

It took at least another forty five minutes until brothers left the apartment

and we chitchatted through those like old friends, while they were washing up

and dressing. We discussed Clarissa and her performance as if she was an actor

on stage we'd watched. We cracked a few jokes. I even laughed a bit. They wanted

to give me the money, but I told them to just throw it on the bed next to

Clarissa and they did, two one-hundred dollar bills landed on piss and

sweat-soaked sheets.

Then they were gone and I took the piece out of my pocket and returned it to my

bag. Then I turned to Clarissa, still almost motionless on the bed. It was time

to untie her breasts, they will hurt as hell. It's a good thing I remembered to

turn the water-heater on in time.

Officially, she was a whore now. And I was a pimp.

* * *

As far as reunion shows go, this one was surprisingly good. Maybe I just missed

it. Maybe I just missed standing up there, mashing buttons, mangling samples,

making the floor shake with my bassbomb. Maybe I just missed a sea of faces

bathed in smoke and random lights, a dark hive of bodies and limbs, smell of

sweat and ganja.

I saw Kevin smile quite a few times during the gig, I swear I did. The man in

black smiled. His hairy face actually allowed the grin to surface for a few

seconds here and there. He missed it too.

We were good. We were anarchic and noisy and sloppy and charming and cheesy, but

we were good. It felt really good to be there. Fuck, Jimmy, you could have been

there with us.

But he wasn't, it was his decision, if you can call random madness a decision,

he was unavailable, lost, fading fast, surfing on the wave of fear and guilt and

panic and self pity month after month after month after month. He was dead to

the world, a zombie, he was falling apart in his head, long before his body

started falling apart. He was beyond. The virus was eating him and his sanity.

It would move on to his body if Gothboy leaves any body for it to devour. Some

people cope with it, some people kill themselves. Jimmy was not brave enough to

kill himself and he couldn't cope with it. He was our friend but he was dead. We

were dead for him and he was dead for us. Dead friend. Dead friends. You usually

remember them with affection. Kevin and me tried not to remember Jimmy as much

as we could help it.

"Man, we fucking rocked."

Kevin was sweaty and smiling through his beard, his earrings like beacons in

changing darkness of the venue.

"I told you, man. I told you. We fucking rock, man, we rock hard. We own this

place, man."

Yeah, it was good, it was better than I thought it would be. It was good,

healthy fun. It was two men slapping each other's back and giggling and speaking

like schoolboys. I felt so high. I felt so innocent. I felt so... right and

purposeful. It was good.

* * *

"No, please, STOP IT, PLEASE, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW, PLEASE!!! KALI!!!"

No. I am afraid I can't stop now. She used it. She used the word. But I can't

stop now. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck, I can't stop this now, no. I am not in

control any more. It's happening and I am spiralling down like a goose shot in

mid-air.

The first time she used the word. She is screaming in such fear, in such panic,

were I able to stop this, I would. I swear I would. I am sorry. I truly am

sorry. I didn't mean this to happen.

But it is too late to be sorry now, the noise grows in volume, the confusion

grows in complexity. I am almost blind, there's something red over my eyes and

when hands grab me (dozens? hundreds?) and throw me to the ground, I lose sense

of time and place. The sound that is repeating, I know it: it's fists colliding

with my skull, blunt, loud noises of bone against bone. Then enter the kicks.

Everywhere. Fucking hell, it hurts so much it hurts so fucking much. I assume

Clarissa is still screaming but I can't see, I can't hear. Fuck. This is going

to stop. I know that. It always does. If it just didn't hurt so much, I could

cope with the humiliation...

The humiliation is what gets me. Despite all it's what gets me. I wish Clarissa

didn't see this. Oh, OK, I agree, it would also help if the whole club was not

there to witness me being thoroughly beaten and thrown out, but if I had only

one wish to be granted by cosmic powers that be, it would be for Clarissa to

have not been there. But she was. And she was begging me to stop, long after

there was no way in hell for me to stop it. Even though I wished I could.

As it is often the case, it started with me trying to impress a woman. The

extent of idiocy created by male attempts to impress females is scary.

So, we are in this club, OK, and this big, blonde guy starts talking to me about

me pimping Clarissa to other men. Now, I admit it, I am not what you'd call a

role model for young people to look up to, but I swear I wasn't going around

bragging about me making Clarissa a whore and taking money for that. Among other

things, I'd really feel insecure telling other men about these things. Fine,

don't believe me if you don't want to, it is true. I only felt comfortable

mentioning this in front of women. It makes me look cool. It makes me look

strong and dominant. Damnit, it makes me look sexy and powerful doesn't it?

So this guy heard it from another guy who heard it from another girl who heard

it from Sandra. Uh-oh. Yes, I did tell Sandra about it, it was a good evening if

I recall well and I was feeling fine and drunk and when the subject came up, it

felt only natural to talk about it. And I did. There's nothing wrong with that.

There is nothing wrong with that.

Now, this guy, I know him from here and there and around. We're not friends, not

even acquaintances, I don't know his name. He knows mine, but many people do,

OK? So he starts talking and I talk back. This is what going out in the evening

is about isn't it? Just being there and swimming in the sea of noise and

conversation and alcohol and bodies.

But the conversation soon takes a turn I don't like at all. This guy sounds to

me as if he is out to prove something. And I don't feel comfortable around him.

He tells me about his experience with "whores" and I leave a decent impression

of listening to him with polite attention. All the while I am hoping to spot a

crack in this dialogue and get the hell out of it. He makes me feel dirty and

cheap and I don't want to feel this way, I have come to groove and have a few

drinks and smoke a joint and grab some of Clarissa's arse in front of all those

people, I haven't come to discuss women being raped and exploited.

Now, he says things I wouldn't even dare pronounce. He tells me what women

really want and need and how he's come to know that. He tells me what he did to

this and that woman. He's bragging and he's fucking annoying me and I wish I had

told him I am not in the mood to talk when I could. He tells me about how he

went to Kosovo as part of an expedition of journalists and he tells me about

brothels down there and about what they did to slaves working in those brothels.

Am I supposed to admire him? He tells me he nearly bought one of the slaves from

her owner and brought her back with him but decided that paperwork would be too

much trouble which would effectively kill the advantage of her price being just

200 dollars. Before I comment, and I am not even sure what I'd say, he goes on

to tell me that owning slaves is not new to him and then explains all about

"this slut" he had met and then made his slave and what he did to her (and some

of it makes me shiver, is he trying to impress me?) and how he sold her after

growing bored of her.

"She used to be a school teacher!!", he exclaims, triumphant and self-important.

I hate this jerk by now. What I see as a secret, as something to share with

selected persons only, in whispers and allusions, he laughs and brags aloud

about. What I feel like a fistful of burning embers in my intestines and what I

still do not dare name is just a pastime to him. Call it my insecurity, no

problem. No problem at all. Just the thought of him laying one finger at

Clarissa fills me with rage and fear. And raging fear. Because, she... She

might... Oh, no, no, come on, come on, be serious, how could she, come on, be

realistic, could she?

Couldn't she?

I try to control myself. I really do. I want out of this situation, I want out

of this place and I want to go home and I want Clarissa to be near me. The

simple things. The things I can control. I don't want this fucking redneck

breathing his crap into my face.

I tell him that what he described sounds like fun but that it's not really my

bag of beans.

He looks down at me as if I just told him I have a vagina in the place where my

manly snake should be.

He tells me I haven't seen nothing until I have seen a "whore" raped and beaten

up begging to be hit again because she is scared what you might do if she

doesn't. I tell him I'd rather skip that. I believe I even use the expression

"pretty fucking disgusting".

He tells me that I am full of shit and that I should be the one to talk.

I tell him that he has no fucking idea whatsoever about me and that he shouldn't

be making assumptions he might be sorry to discover are wrong.

He tells me that I should cut the crap. He tells me I should get off of my high

horse, that we, the Brits have invented concentration camps. He tells me that we

have done things in India that were worse than anything Nazis came up with. He

tells me we are natural exploiters. He calls me a fucking bigot and a racist.

What the fuck?

What the FUCK??

What did he just call me?

My mother was Indian, my mother was from Bombay, you idiot. I received so much

fucking racist insults from skinheads when I was a kid it's not fucking funny.

He tells me that I think I am better than him. I don't know. He calls me a

faggot. He tells me I am dickless. He tells me I masturbate looking at other

guys fuck Clarissa because I can't get it up when left alone with her. He is out

to fight. I can see that clearly now. It is not too late. I see what he is about

now. I can see his wish to prove his manhood and his dominance, I can see his

stupid schoolboy act and his simple mindset. It's cool, I see what he is about

now. It is not to late. I can get out of this unscarred. I understand it. I can

walk away now.

And then I punch him in the face with all the helpless anger and frustration I

can muster.

Seconds pass as I wait for the noise to subside. Seconds pass, hours pass, years

race by, fucking lifetime spirals down the drain, making an obscene sound. They

don't seem to get tired as they keep kicking and punching me.

Next time, I will use a bottle and I will be out before anyone understands. Next

time I will be smarter. There will be no fistfights. I will not be the victim.

This time however, he is indeed better than me. By the time the security guys

descend on us, he has already spilt enough of my blood to make the whole scene

resemble something out of Halloween flicks. My fists leave no visible marks on

his face or maybe it is just my vision betraying me. By contrast, my hearing is

fantastic and, regardless of the fact that the music has not decreased in

volume, I can hear his and mine breathing, I can hear Clarissa scream.

"No, please, STOP IT, PLEASE, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW, PLEASE!!! KALI!!!"

Too late, too fucking late, the word, the word, she used it, I can't, no, I am

sorry, sweety, I am sorry I have betrayed you, I am sorry, sorry sorry sorry

The security guys are big and look scary and I would never pick a fight with

them. But they have seen who started this, everyone has seen me attack this

asshole with my fists, everyone has seen my impotent rage at work. And they know

I need to be taught a lesson.

They make so much noise, God, when will this stop?

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

Please forgive me.

* * *

The miracle of DVD burning.

The DVD is meant as present to Clarissa.

First time, however, I watch it alone. I have strapped my self to my seat, I

have put my crash helmet on, my fire extinguisher is ready to be used and a

bottle of Vodka is riding shotgun by my side. Just in case. Just to keep my fear

at bay.

The miracle of DVD burning. The miracle of digital technology. The capability of

making your own films at home: your digital camera bought second hand for one

third the price, your cracked editing software and cheap video card in your

computer, your DVD burner locked and loaded and - puff you're off: one man

Hollywood out to conquer the world. What once took tons of money and heaps of

people and arcane technology is now available in portable form. One night of

sweaty sex and sweaty editing, one morning of burning and next afternoon your

new masterpiece of homemade porn hits the streets. There are people who will pay

for this, there are many of them out there.

But this one is not supposed to be commercially available. The brothers have

made it for her. Oh, they say it was made for me, but it is clear enough who it

was made for. Isn't it?

It was something I couldn't say 'no' to.

I was aching. I was miserable. I hated myself. What else is new?

But seriously, I could refuse. I could have said 'no'. I had a choice.

The twins, Julian and Andrew got back in touch one weekend and they had a

proposition. They were very polite in their email and it was obvious they were

experienced and could be trusted. They asked about Clarissa joining them at

their place next weekend. They actually asked whether I'd allow her to join

them. They thought about inviting some friends around and having an exciting

weekend. Of course, I was more than welcome to join in, they actually sounded

very friendly, as if we have become close and somewhat intimate through the fact

that the two of them and their dog fucked my girlfriend out of her senses. Aw,

they were friendly and they were very polite and I was an asshole, as usual.

They said that they will, of course, understand if I say no, as Clarissa's sole

owner and master. I was free to say no. But, they said, they were hoping I

accept their offer as the time they had with Clarissa was "very intense" and

they felt she had the potential to provide even more. I was free to say no.

I was aching. I was smashed up and glued back together again, I was good for

nothing for more than three weeks, slowly recovering from the severe beating

that I deserved/ caused/ called upon myself. There was no way in hell I could do

this. I was free to say no. I didn't even have to mention this to Clarissa. I

was free to refuse. I had every right to do it. I was recovering from beating, I

was hurt and fucked up. I needed to rest. I couldn't stand a thought of spending

two days watching people fuck and torture my girlfriend. I couldn't stand a

thought of seeing her please them. No.

I didn't even have to mention this to Clarissa. It was a polite request and I

could have rejected it politely. I didn't have to mention it to Clarissa.

Her breathing got heavy almost within seconds. Her face went red. Her eyes were

watching in disbelief, asking, begging, promising.

"But... You won't be there?"

No. No way. I couldn't do it, please don't ask me to do it. I'd rather be

anywhere else than there.

You don't need me. The panic takes me over as I repeat this in my mind. You

don't need me.

"You don't need me." It still hurts when I try to grin so I have to make this

just a small smile, but I make it twice as convincing.

You don't need me to have a good time.

"You don't need me to have a good time. I am going to be busy next weekend and

you know I am good for nothing as it is."

She does, there is no dispute here. She has seen her Nick, her Master beaten to

a bloody pulp and she knows just how helpless I was. I am still just as

helpless, I just make an effort.

It takes some time, but I know she will accept. I can't take this away from her,

no. I can't be that selfish. This is her dream coming true. This is her chance

to live what she just read about in that story about Rachel being abducted and

raped and tortured. And she read it without breathing, she read it without

blinking. This is her dream becoming reality. I will not be an asshole this

time. I will not. Just this one time. I can do it. I can.

* * *

Kevin has never played the UK before and he found the difference between these

and American crowds to be significant. I asked if that meant that he is

displeased with the way UK audiences reacted to our music, but he was quick to

dispel that notion. He said it was just... very different. I made a point by

saying that we are also very different now. It was obvious and needed no

explanation. We haven't played live for quite a while and we were not a

three-piece any more. It was just me and him, bouncing ideas off each other,

improvising around each other's sounds and accidents. We were together for a

long time and it worked like a dream. We sounded a lot tighter now, even for all

the obvious fresh chaos in music we were making, the absence of Gothboy's stage

antics probably contributing to this significantly.

But we were really good. Really good. It was a new entity altogether, a new kind

of beast we brought into life, new energy, new blood. It felt good. It felt good

coming back home and then just doing this amazing music. Kevin wasn't sure about

this and I wasn't sure about this either, but Martin insisted we give it a shot

and I desperately needed something to do, something to occupy myself with. I

thought that just coming back home after a decade and then some, would give me a

lot to work with, impressions, memories, old friends, old places and new,

especially in the state I was in. But, of course, no. You need to do something,

you need to occupy yourself with something to prevent yourself from dissolving.

So the result was new music and lots of it and they seemed to love us.

* * *

The DVD was made from two days worth of video footage, edited down to just above

two hours. Which is just as well, some more of it and I wouldn't have been able

to sit through. I'd run out of gasoline, the bottle was dangerously low on fuel

the way it was. I was low on self esteem, the way it was. The way we were. And

all that.

It was a rough, homemade cut, unconcerned with subtler ways of video editing,

abundant with abrupt jumps and cuts, awkward angles, bad lightning, grainy

sound... I held my eyes closed through parts of it and the sound itself reminded

me of any abstract tape-splicing composition done by any number of noise artists

in Japan, America or Europe back in the eighties. Sounds concealing their

sources, words half-forming in the air but cartwheeling around the room and

escaping understanding, human-made noises begging to be recognised as

expressions of pain? pleasure? fear? fun?

What it lacked in subtlety, the footage made up in mercilessly clear narration.

The order of events was chronological and just plain logical.

It starts with Clarissa being presented to the posse. A loud cheer and noisy

appreciation from a group of people. Maybe ten of them, maybe less, maybe more,

can't tell for sure, the people operating the camera never bother with doing a

shot of the whole room. There are people of both sexes there but I think it is

safe to say that males prevail.

The camera jumps from Clarissa to the group in the room and back. Clarissa

stands there, smiling. The movements of the camera are jerky and I can't be

sure. The smile is there, I know she is scared. I know she must be scared. She

must be scared.

Clarissa stands there, bowing her head. Clarissa stands there smiling. I have

seen this DVD only once, I am not sure how well I remember.

Clarissa is getting an enema. She is being cleaned inside in front of all those

people. The experienced hands lead her to the bathroom and attach the gadgets to

her as others watch and chat among themselves. A tall, dark, longhaired guy

orders her around and I can see her looking at him with such mixture of fear and

adoration it hurts me. He explains all about her being filthy and how they need

to do this to make her even acceptable for what they will do to her later. He

asks her whether she understands and she responds in the softest voice I know.

The low fidelity reproduction turns it into something straight out of the

forties, the lines of text edited out of Bogart's films, left unheard, censored,

haunting the dreams of all of us who always imagined them there, pasted them

into empty spaces.

Clarissa is being filled with liquid. She is being plugged. She is being

exhibited for all to see. She is being mocked and degraded. She is naked and

barefoot in a house full of people still fully dressed and pointing at her.

I hear her saying that there is too much fluid in her, she says that it hurts

her. But she is obedient.

I don't know how long they leave it inside her as the video jumps straight to

the moment when she is made to spread her legs around the toilet seat and take

the plug out. I hear her moan when the dark water gushes out. It's a moan of

relief, isn't it? Ah, well, one can fool himself when there's no one around to

point out the obvious.

Fastforwarding is not an option. I will sit through all of it. I don't want to

miss something important.

Actually, I lie, I'd love to miss it. I'd love to have never seen this, but it

is not an option either. Seeing it is bad enough. But not seeing it and then

spending time thinking about what might be on that DVD would be worse. It's a

pick-your-torture situation, just like in all those jokes with people ending up

in hell. It's probably funny when you are not the one being joked about.

Clarissa is made a servant for a while. The merry guests at the twins'

fuck-party sit and stand around chatting and drinking and eating. Clarissa is on

all fours. She is collared. She is wearing a pair of thin, sharp high heels (I

bought those for her. I DID!), her silver ankle chain and make-up, nothing else.

Her anus is filled with a large, thick butt-plug. A chain is attached to her

collar and one of the twins (I decide to stop trying to identify them and will

continue calling each of them just "a twin") leads her around the room, and she

is crawling on all fours. The twin approaches one group of his guests at a time

and demonstrates how obedient his puppy-girl is. He makes her do things for

their pleasure and amusement. She lies still when he orders her. She licks his

feet when he orders her. She hurts her own breasts when he orders her. It is

amazing to see how viciously she pinches her own nipples, how savagely she

squeezes her own breasts when being watched.

"What a slut!" a female voice exclaims from out of the field of vision lent to

me by the camera.

Of course, the people were not invited to watch only. They express their wish to

participate and to be pleasured. Clarissa is not just an exhibition item here.

She is to be used.

She is ordered to beg and she does. She crawls up to a guy standing with another

guy and a girl and she looks up to him and begs him to let her suck his cock. He

teases her and makes her beg more and more and more. He makes her say awful

things about herself. He makes her kiss his shoes. He steps on her head and pins

it down to the ground. The camera manages to catch the expression on her face,

despite the bad light. Her eyes are closed, she is completely motionless, under

his foot she awaits further instructions.

The next several minutes are a mix of sucked cocks, caressed balls, licked

assholes, kissed feet and toes. Clarissa sucking one guy and jerking the other

one off. Clarissa sucking two cocks alternately, then both of them trying to

break into her mouth at a time. Clarissa sucking a thin, high heel while the

owner of the shoe is making out with a guy whose cock Clarissa just had in her

mouth. Clarissa being sprayed with semen over her face and breasts. Clarissa, on

the bathroom floor, sucking one guy off, her head turned back at a very

difficult angle, her neck strained as she makes an effort to pleasure him,

another guy between her legs, thrusting into her, again and again and again.

They come, one at a time and they are replaced one at a time, while her hands

are getting busy preparing another pair of guys to fuck her. More sperm on her

body. Then an abrupt cut to a close-up of a pussy being spread with male

fingers. For a second I am terrified, but I realise this is not Clarissa, no,

they haven't had her clit pierced, this woman is a bit heavier than Clarissa,

obvious when the camera zooms out and then the pussy starts leaking. A stream of

piss is quickly followed and when I see where it hits I close my eyes for one

painful moment. I open them, hoping that the dream is over now, the nightmare is

over, the dreaming is over, but it's not. Clarissa...

Her mouth is open. Not all of it gets in, as it is difficult to aim with your

pelvis while you're standing, so most of it falls on Clarissa's face and hair

and on the floor, but her mouth is open, inviting, obscene. She is held down and

she is moaning in humiliation. And her mouth is open.

I take a sip from a bottle. I take a long, painful sip from a bottle. My eyes

fill with tears, fucking Russians, what the fuck is this anyway, how can anyone

in their right mind even think of drinking this. This shit is poison, it's

liquid fire, it burns me, burns my mouth and my throat. It hurts. It's poison.

It doesn't cure anything, it's poison.

Clarissa's ass is being fucked by several people in the row. She is receiving a

lashing before the first guy penetrates her, a cane is used to stripe her ass. I

can barely make her words out due to the fact the camera is focused on her arse

and that she is speaking through cries of pain, but I can hear her thanking

them. She is begging to be punished. She is thanking for the punishment. She is

a dirty slut, worthless and nothing, she is only worth if the punishment brings

them pleasure. A hand pulls the plug out of her anus and sticks it in her mouth.

Then the first of the cocks impales her. There is no KY, no lube, just a bodily

motion that forces it in. He pulls out after a couple of thrusts, spits into her

open anus and then pushes back in.

By the end of this particular episode, I have taken a couple more long sips of

poison. Clarissa's arse is read from the lashing she received and her anus is

stretched more than I have ever seen it before. Someone pulls out of it and

sticks his two index fingers in and then pulls into opposite directions. I don't

know if I hear Clarissa cry in pain as the noise around the camera rises with

everyone cheering. Her asshole is stretched, wet and slippery from precum and

sperm shot in and around it, the camera almost sinks into it. It's obscene, it's

scary, why the fuck am I watching this?

After multiple cumshots, she is finally given a chance to rest, but not before

she collects as much of the spit and semen off her ass with her palms as she can

and then licks it all off.

She is given a chance to rest, but not me. Not me. The video cuts to something,

without a pause. Motherfuckers, didn't anyone teach them how to do blackouts?

The video cuts to something on the floor and for a second I can't tell what it

is I am watching. But I am drunk by now, seriously drunk. It doesn't help.

I realise it is people, the twins and some other people pulling back to let the

camera catch the event on the floor. It is Clarissa, doing it again, God, again.

It was probably not easy making the animal accept it this way and therefore the

video cuts directly to action. Clarissa is doing it again, she is fucking the

Doberman, only this time, she is lying on her back and he is on top of her. It's

interesting, I say to myself in absolute horror, the doggystyle position should

be more degrading, right, but seeing her lying on her back, her arms around him,

her legs around him, I see her embracing him like her lover, her lover of

choice, her partner, her lover from hell, her partner in sin. It's strangely

surrealistic, it's horrifying, it's beautiful and disgusting, sweet mother, how

can she... And I hear her moan. And I see her sucking his cock until he comes

into her mouth and the camera catches every single detail of her in the effort

of licking his cock clean and gathering all the semen from her lips and cheeks

and swallowing it. The camera zooms in into her face and I just can't describe

the expression on it. I can't.

The day two is signified by Clarissa having more clothes on. It breaks down to

stockings and suspenders and a set of bra and panties that get shot away fairly

early in. They do so many things to her that I can not even remember them. It's

all one chaotic painting in my head now. Bodies on bodies, fluids and colours,

textures and shadows. She is lying on her back on a bench obviously made for

this kind of thing. Her legs are spread and her ankles tied down. Her head hangs

down over the edge of the bench and one after one, men take her head in their

hands and fuck her mouth. Others come from the other side and fuck her pussy and

ass, brilliantly exposed in this position. She is being fucked and whipped, her

breasts are being tied and tortured with clips and pins and wax. She is being

pissed upon and cum upon. I don't remember how it ends.

* * *

So.

I told Clarissa that the DVD is fantastic. I told her she will love it. I

promised we will watch it together. I promised that she will get what she

deserves for being such a slut. She laughed over the telephone. She was...

happy? Is that the word?

Anyway, it all happened pretty quickly from that point on. It's either that or

my memory is blocking out the details, either way, I remember only main events

and don't seem to recall anything else.

We never watched it together, of course. Be serious. I assume that she has seen

it later, after all, it was a gift for her, I could not deny her the gift that

was made for her. I am not that selfish.

It's funny me saying that after what I did.

In any case, I wasn't planning any of it. It just happened.

She agreed that doing blood tests was a reasonable thing to do. I told her that

I trusted the twins but you never really know and she agreed. Better safe than

sorry, with all the VD's shooting around, right? Besides, I was doing mine as

well, and she'd accept to do hers without any explanation had I demanded so.

Lou was a friend for a long time. So she called me first. You don't do those

things normally, a doctor-patient relationship means certain levels of privacy

and discretion, but Lou called me first, we knew each other for almost a decade

and Lou knew I needed protection. Oh, not that men usually admit that, but Lou

knew I needed protection, she was a woman after all. We were never a couple or

anything of the sort but she knew. So she called me first.

Initially, I thought the room was shaking. But it was just me. It was morning,

not early morning, I admit, but I was fresh out of bed, taking my time getting

ready to go to the hospital and pick up our results. And I thought the room was

shaking but it was just me. I stood there for God knows how long and then asked

Lou:

"Are you sure?"

It must have been a funny voice.

No, she wasn't "sure" but she was pretty sure. Further tests will confirm what

she already knew.

"Does Clarissa know?"

My voice was controlled by something else at the moment. My mind was just

frozen, marvelling at the fact that my mouth continued to produce coherent

noises.

"Did she tell you about it?"

Of course she didn't, you stupid woman.

"Then she probably doesn't know, it's probably very early."

It was a dumb conversation. I was unable to say anything intelligent. I told Lou

I'll come over to the hospital a little later to pick up the results and that

we'll discuss it then. I told her I have to call Clarissa as well.

But I didn't do either.

Instead I just picked up my passport and a bag. I am not sure what went into it,

I was stumbling around the house, unable to make rational decisions. I took

money and credit cards and keys and my laptop. I hobbled out of the house. I

never even paid in full for it.

I caught a coach and then I slept at the airport, I assume my mobile phone was

ringing away furiously by the time I got on the plane, but I left it home.

The hours on the plane just went by in stupid repeating of the same circle of

thoughts in my head.

I fucked up real bad by moving to America. I fucked up real bad.

Clarissa was pregnant for the third time.

Perhaps it wasn't me. Perhaps it was me. Statistically, it was probably me. Does

it matter? She was pregnant. She was going to have a baby. Does it matter whose

baby? It's hers. It is her child.

* * *

Ruth is laughing as I describe the way me and Gothboy broke into the store in

the middle of the night in some godforsaken part of the west back in 1995. I am

trying to get used to the British weather again. The dampness, the depressing

grey skies. Racer X races around the park chasing the birds away and making some

children scream in excitement. She is still a puppy, technically, but she is one

big dog, eight months of life have brought a vast amount of experiences and

impressions to her and have had her grow up to be a beautiful long haired German

Shepherd. She is barking out of pure joy now.

I could never have a puppy when I was a kid.

Ruth says she is glad I am back. She has seen one of our performances last month

and thinks we are really good. Not that she'd know, she couldn't tell our music

from random noise if her life depended on it, she is 34 after all, one divorce

behind her, but she makes an effort and I appreciate it. I am not sure what we

are at this point. We were an issue a long time ago, sure, but we are different

people now, aren't we?

"It's funny", she says "I have been to the states so many times and I have never

once thought about visiting you."

"That's cool", I say, "that country changes people anyway".

"I'm glad you are back, though. Really nice to have you back."

"Thank you, Ruth." I say as I watch Racer X digging furiously at the base of a

tree. I wonder whether someone will fine me because of this. "It's nice to be

back." I am silent for a moment. "You know, it all looks so much more real here,

you know? As if everything over there is like being in a dream." That sounds

really pathetic. "It's good to be back, period." I conclude.

But I know better than that. Someone is back. But I am not sure if it is me. Is

it?

The End