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Within Clarissa
by Urs (fenrissilvern@yahoo.com)

***

Nick meets Clarissa. Clarissa is submissive. Clarissa 
needs humiliation, Clarissa needs pain, Clarissa needs 
torture. This is the story of their relationship. 
Written in a pulp-fiction style chockfull of cheesy 
metaphors no less. You HAVE been warned. (MF, rom, ws, 
bd, tor)

***

It was a bad year. I hate when people say that. It 
sounds pretentious, it sounds know-it-all. 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 under-slept, 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 months, 
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'm 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. Lacey 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 stage name 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. 

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. 

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 phone calls. 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 practicing 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, willfully 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 the world's 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 panties 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 practiced 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 wasn't, 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 relationship, 
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 
reveling 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 fulfill 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 
neurons 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 bull's-eye 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.

"P-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 his 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 high school 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 face slaps, 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 one 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 judgment 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 woman, 
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 it was 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 than 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 his 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.

"P-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. 

"P-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 spiraling 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 too 
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 red 
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 doggy style 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?

END

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 30