His Damnation is Her Paradise
It had been he. Once it had a name. Now it was a thing, an object. Sensation – undiluted agony – replaced selfhood.
She met him, brought him to her bed. Her orgasm was only a prelude. A superior joy would follow.
She did not hate the man. She obeys an appetite more imperative than lust or hunger. He must suffer.
Hurting men was a necessity. No one faults a spider for eating a mate. The need was inherent in her being. She felt neither guilt nor shame.
Post coital vulnerability made his binding effortless. He expected a sex game.
The first lashes were light. She teased. The fifth blow made him scream. He cursed. Later he would beg. His journey from man to object had begun.
Erasing ego, obliterating identity is a long process. Hope is stubborn. She is glad. Lingering over prey forestalls the next search. The final hours fulfill desires no sadist confesses.
Nothing new happens in these sessions. She loves her whip. She never tires of pins, clamps, and the tiny bottle of acid. The rack, pillory and stock.
Her art is more than inventory. Variation. Pauses. Manipulation and timing enable her to extract much from her prey.
She does not laugh. She watches his responses. She is rapt. An iron delight grips her. You and I can never know the ecstatic afterglow. His damnation is her paradise.
His shrieks diminished to moans. Writhing subsided to involuntary twitching.
Genital torment comes last. Stretched and broken fibers. Nerves pierced.
Past and future die. There is only the calamitous now.
His mind dims, flickers, goes blank.
For a week or a month, she feels peaceful repletion. There will be more men. More objects.