A story from the Basement
In the basement of the formaldehyde jars and disintegrating curtains. There lied a body. In the corner of the main room with tied up hands and body in bondage. It was still and barely breathing. The master had its go. My heels where unsteady on the surface of an old concrete floors and she was squealing, crying and begging for it to end. She was reaching for my cross and begging to hold it.
She never had a chance. No forgiveness. No words. No contact.
Her flesh turned red and blue. She started to smell. The sweat was covering the black leather “stool”. The desperation was so overwhelmingly inviting. The way she tossed and turned on the black leather with tears in her eyes. The way ropes skunked deeper in to her flash. The way she reached out for the cross. The way body was getting heavier and heavier. The way she begged. The desperate, reaching out sweaty palm.
There was no turning back. There was no way out.
Even when stop means stop. There is always a way around it. Tide up and crying she was given a chance to rest. I was a hunter, and she was my victim. The eyes where full of surrender and pain. Oh, how she wept. How she begged. How she clutched her finders in the leather. I watched. He punished.
She thought there will be comfort. That her beloved Jesus would come off the cross attached to my rosary and save her. What a stupid little cunt. When she said yes – we said kneel. And from that point on, she was no longer a person. She was . . .
The rush from her struggle was manically tasty. I washed my hands. Applied fresh red lipstick and tasted the fresh nicotine that was licking my lungs.
And in the end off it all, Edinburgh was asleep and basement was locked once again.
Good night and god bless,