She was smiling, she was excited and eager. She was fully aware of what she was getting into and though the smile was a little sheepish, it was put on. I could see that she was scared, maybe just a little, though she did her best to hide it. Behind her perfectly timed smiles, her unseemly girlish giggles and her steady intent gazes. But I found the fear, I attacked it, she avoided it.
I could feel her resistance under my fingers. Her skin buckling and curling despite her constant and deliberate attempts to relax she was uncomfortable. She was giving into the fear, she cautiously avoided my gaze each time I looked at her. When she finally did look at me, I saw her unclench her fists and the fear staring at me.
I drank it, her eyes becoming calmer by the moment. Her breathing less laboured. Her flesh less unwelcoming.
I will never forget that first scream, she’d been fighting it for so long. Trying to grind her teeth and persevere. Trying to shake her head and ride it out. Closing her eyes as if the pain would disappear without sight.
Silly girl, as if her strength lay in silence, as if my pleasure lay in silence.
So, when the scream finally ripped out of her, I was as surprised as she was. She thought she had broken, I could see it in her face. But I knew that she had only just become real.
Screaming over and over again she eventually learnt not to regret it. She closed her eyes and retreated to a safe space in her head. A place where despite her predicament she could let out her pain. I could see that tear-soaked expressive world of hurt in her face, In the little twitch of her cheek. In the strange quiver of her lip. In the full bodied voice of her deep throat-ed screams.
That voice, her real voice, it was not just coming from within her but from all around her. All the pain of everything that could hear her was latching onto her voice and expressing itself through her.
She was the voice of everything. But nothing was the voice of her.
For a while, her sobs and shrieks became like the melody that plays silently in the background, I communicated with her flesh. Less than perfect by the expression of my will. Yet perfect by my stand as a spectator.
Like a child I was compulsively filling in a colouring book, wanting to leave naught one inch uncoloured.
I would have bloodied her with my crayons had I not turned to see the tears rolling down her face, unceasingly. All over it.
I wanted to push past it, I wanted to take her to numbness and then nirvana. I wanted to tear her to pieces and sew her back together. I wanted to dismember and recreate her. The urges inside me were uncontrollable. They were making me tremble and shake in excitement. I was right at the precipice of introducing her to my insanity when I was pulled back. Back from the edge great temptation, profound profanity and infinite indulgence. Back to my real ground before him. Back to my world, where my torture, my cruelty and my desire were his whim.
Back where she was his toy, and I was only being allowed to play with it.