THE SCREAMS OF THE DOVE
by V.P. Viddler
Part One
It struck him, as he heard the screaming, that it would not be himself
only from whom information was to be sought; although it was obvious that with
him would be employed no such physical crudity. Still, it was not to be put
down, that frisson of trepidation for himself and of horror for that other
whose sounds of profound agony continued to ring out, hardly muffled by walls
dividing him from its -- intentionally, no doubt -- proximate source.
Now, as the screams went on -- for they did go on, almost continuously,
ringing out again and again, shrill, horrific, carrying such burdens of
unendurable, unsupportable anguish that his blood ran chill -- an additional,
and hardly admissible, emotion swam to his consciousness, an emotion no sooner
known than -- as much as possible -- cast out. But it would not stay out.
Listening, it was not to be put away, that stirring of his blood, that small
but significant tumult in his loins. For it was indubitable that the screams,
such loud, such awful screams, so insistent in their unrhythmic but unceasing
repetition, could only come from a woman. A woman, probably, from the sound of
it, young. A woman, most probably, innocent of anything calling for such
torment; for any information in such possession could without question be
extracted by far less extremity. A woman, thus, probably attractive, on whom
was practiced such arts of persuasion, appropriate or not, by which her
inquisitors would gratify such lust for pain and for the thrills of knowing her
agony as -- it must, it would be admitted -- he himself, hearing, listening,
could not stop his mind and his blood from absorbing and even, alas,
envisioning.
No doubt she was young, no doubt attractive; no doubt, at this moment, as
the screaming burst forth with fresh horror or torture, in a position of
restraint, in which such twistings and strugglings against the bonds of her
captors as would necessarily, on her part, be brought forth, would add to that
lustful, lubricious happiness with which those madly obsessed and uniformed
characters would watch her. Thinking of it, again a stirring of his loins
partly dismayed, partly aroused him, and he could not but think of it. The
woman would be, must be, unclothed; in shameful nudity must she be hanging, or
tautly lying, or sitting, bound, in a chair of pain; twisting, writhing in
horrible, insupportable submission to that form of punishment -- they would
call it persuasion -- which had been utilized for this purpose.
Was it a whip? He could not, try as he might, but ask. A knout? A
branding iron? Or some possibly unknown to him instrument, causing that pain,
that anguish, that his aroused imagination saw as producing that struggling and
straining and lubricious, almost wanton writhing the picturing of which so took
him from his own plight as that unknown victim screamed and screamed and
screamed...
And it may have occurred to him, upon his awakening from a sudden loss of
consciousness, that his arousal was just the point of his having found himself
in a position to witness, aurally, that which had passed so near to and so far
away from him. It was that his captors, divining his proclivities in that
direction -- hardly, truth to say, unusual -- had, on him, utilized a
particular form of persuasion -- at least, a first or initial stage of it -- in
tandem with, if not simply as the principal spring for, that more obvious
persuasion inflicted on that horribly, thrillingly screaming victim.
For now, as it surprisingly imposed itself to his awareness, he was not
still solitudinous. With him, sitting in unstirring calm to all outward
appearance, was another, and a woman. Startling as this was, he at first almost
thought of it as an apparition, a lingering vision from his until just now
slumbering state. But no, it was truly as it may be said to have been seen,
though by him only.
His first thought, upon realizing this fact, was such a mental inquiry as
might only naturally, if irrationally, occur, as to the possibility of this
being that very, that same woman whose agony had only this morning saturated
the room, through the walls, in which now they both sat. Nothing in that face,
nothing in that posture, indicated such a conclusion; and still that inquiry
was unstilled. This woman, upon whom for a long portion of time, as it struck
him, he gazed, and who only sat, unmoving, unspeaking, still as that chair that
held her, and yet also pulsing with a kind of living vibration which must at
least now go unnamed, gave no outward show, now, of discomfort. Not, he further
thought, looking still, in a physical form, but possibly -- that thought had to
go fractional.
This woman was, no doubt, young -- to his judging, not more than
twenty-five, nor less than twenty. And most assuredly was she, to his thinking,
attractive, with a strongly oval face in which were situated a most pleasing
and, he thought of it, striking an arrangement of features. Most striking of
all, perhaps, her dark and soulful eyes, gazing at him, at what at any moment
they saw, with at once a profound calm and a most vivid vivacity, a
contradiction which struck him as absurd as it still struck him as singularly,
exquisitely right. The calm diluted with a consciousness, as it might be said,
of all that was vivid, also had its cognition in her carriage, her posture, her
figure in all.
Still he could not forego that thought of this woman as embodying for him
that same imaged victim so brightly in his mind that morning. That body was now
fully clothed, and unbound -- though he had no illusion of liberty, for her or
for himself, beyond the boundaries of that room -- and that body, thoroughly
still, thoroughly elegant, thoroughly poised, called to him, in a way, his way
of looking at it, across that room; the long dark hair also was a part of that
elegant charm, swaying so slightly, so softly, with no definite causality; but
was that body the body upon which that horror had played which had resulted in
such recalled, such agonized screams? He was burning to know; that question was
on his tongue's tip, so compulsively that the impossibility of asking it
translated him to silence as to anything to say at all to her.
It was, finally, she who spoke first. "I am sorry to disturb you this
way," she said, in a tone low but clear, and as with all of her, calm but still
vivid, "but you must understand that it is not my choice. I am put here, and
must stay as I am put."
It was not to be said why, but having her speak, or perhaps what she said
or how it was said, magically almost totally lifted from him that inhibiting
access of compunction which kept him from voicing it all, anything. If he had
again allowed a chance for thought, that moment must have absconded with
alacrity; but out it came, and as he said it his blood was rushing, to his face
and to his loins. "Was it, then -- was it you -- this morning -- that I
heard..." Trailing, horribly, off, he saw look into his those dark fathomless
eyes, that calm yet all-acknowledging face.
"Screaming?" The eyes did not drop, the voice did not tremble. "Yes. It
was I."
And that was all. All, that is, for many moments, in which again his
burning, his importuning curiosity, pushing itself gradually, insinuatingly
forward, won its slow ground, its hard fight, against such propriety as still
hung on in him. She sat, as it were, waiting, knowing that he must ask.
"What did --" He had to draw breath, as if drawing blood. "What did they
do to you?"
She was still, and at last, from, as he saw, that profundity of pain
impossible to face, only shook her head. But waiting, his stillness matching
hers, he had finally a word, and that word was the most chilling sound of all.
"Nothing that they have not done before."
Nothing, she might well have said, that they would not do again; and in
that soft, calm, unwilling yet helpless knowledge of hell he found a horror
unknown, unknowable, unthinkable; and at once an arousal, a rabid animal lust
for just that horror, as caused him, once again, to black out...
Drugs certainly, it had to be drugs, as floating once again to slow
consciousness it was brought to his mind, slowly, how difficult it was to move
his limbs. At last he found floating to his sharpening mind a realization that
it was his condition of restraint which was the difficulty. His arms, his legs,
tightly roped at wrists and ankles, pinning him, lashing him, into the chair he
sat in, making him, so to say, a part of it, immobile as itself. Nor was that
all of shock that was brought home to him; for it was with nothing less than
total, than all-encompassing shock that he discovered his body devoid of that
clothing he had worn, of, not to put too fine a point on it, any clothing, that
is, at all. With this twin shock he had hardly begun to struggle as he swiftly
bethought himself of that other with whom his colloquy had only how much
earlier passed -- he did not know. But swiftly glancing, in his shame and
almost dread, across the room, he colored to his roots to find her still
sitting in that chair, still quiet, still gracefully elegant, still watching
him. Unlike him, her condition was not changed; that vision was still unbound,
still clothed.
Having caught her eye, he must most quickly look away, in such confusion
and embarrassment that all realization of her fellow captivity was almost as it
had not been known. But as to that, it took only her first words, in reply to
his stumbling ones, to bring it back, and that most fully. "I -- I'm so sorry,"
was his awkward beginning. "I hope you will not -- I can't think why they
should -- it must be --"
But she was shaking, again, that graceful head. "You mustn't apologize.
Do you think I don't know that you have no more control than I of what is done
to you now?" As he was again starting to speak, she quickly went on. "Wait. I
must tell you --" And now for the first time she did not look at him, but cast
her dark unfathomable eyes on the hard floor. But that soft slow voice was, if
tightly so, unfaltering. "It is I who must apologize to you," she said, adding,
"They told me I must. Now. And they told me that now I must answer, fully and
without stint, anything you may ask me. That I must tell you, if you still wish
to know, what they did to me this morning. So that, if you ask me again, I will
do so."
It struck him all in a muddle, and it took him a time to sort it out;
during which she again raised her look to his, though with no betrayal of her
thoughts, or emotions, which might in any way affect his. But, but, his could
not help being wafted, on that look, as on a monstrous flood, or rather a
whirlpool; for it was with no fixed, no singular direction that they moved.
Round and round was this frail, listing boat carried, round in a circle of
horror, of terror, of curiosity, of lust, and all in all, of the memory of that
morning's screams. Looking at her watching him, amid whirling thoughts, it was
this he heard.
"What," he said at last, not looking away from her, not knowing why, "did
they do to you -- this morning. When you screamed."
That look did not change, that gaze did not flinch, and he could not have
said what it was that almost, in that short but profound split second only in
which she hesitated, almost made him put up a hand, had he one free, to stop
her. But "almost" was what it was. If that voice, as it began, was a bit lower
than its previous wont, it was still most clear, most in control. Which, again,
could only rouse all that contradiction, all that confusion, within him.
"I was hung by my wrists," she said, so calmly, so shatteringly, "with my
ankles bound widely apart, so that I was stretched, straining, to my limit of
endurance. In this position, many things can be done to a woman. On this
particular occasion, when you heard my screaming, pins were being used on my
body. I was, of course, naked. Pins -- long, thin, sharp pins, with small wood
bottoms for handling -- were slowly stuck into various parts of my body.
Particularly into my breasts. Mostly in my nipples, but not only. This
procedure is most painful. I can bear pain -- I have had to learn to do that. I
can absorb a good deal of it if I must, without making a sound. Which is why
they are always turning to new ways to bring me pain. It inspires them to find
original ways to destroy my will. Always they do that. Always. And this
morning, no doubt, they wanted me particularly to scream. Most particularly.
Thus the pins. And so what you heard was my unstoppable agony as they stuck pin
after pin into my body, pin after pin, slowly, sadistically, pushing them in,
further, always further into my nipples, twisting, turning, pushing --" With a
gasp, suddenly, she caught herself up, going on more softly, as in fascination
and a terrible lubriciousness he sat watching, listening. "And so I had to
scream for them. I always do at last. Scream and scream for their pleasure.
Until it stops."
And stop was what she did, now, and was still; and it was now obvious
that this narration had aroused him -- all too obvious, to his humiliation, by
that stiff and throbbing part of him which now stood tall from his crotch,
asserting for all -- but alas, she was all the all -- his reaction, his
uncontrollable flood of arousal at what she had said, to all that she had told
him. And the woman sat watching, as it appeared to him, unsurprised, unjudging
of this truth, simply accepting it as to be a natural thing, as if, yes, it
would have struck her as unnatural had it not been so.
And as his impulse again to apologize was at war with his impulse to ask
her about further things, to ask dark, horrific questions which, as she had
told him, she was bound to answer -- at this point a door was swung open, and
the military, in the body of a man in a captain's uniform, was in the room.
"It was thought, and is now known," said this arrival, "that the agony
and victimization of a woman, such as this, would find you --" smiling at that
stiff proof of what he said -- "not unamenable."
"What is it that you want?"
"But, sir, you know that. But wait -- it is not time just now to discuss
such things. It is most obvious, sir, that Miss Lorna's narrative is not, to
your mind, disgusting. If you wish, I will ask Miss Lorna to go on with that
narrative, and to amplify it in such a way that it will affford you still more
fascination. Miss Lorna, I would ask that you recount to our friend the details
of what took place on that day not so long ago, on which you first offered that
most beautiful body of yours to me, to use as I would."
"No," was on his lips, if not in his heart; but the woman paid with her
docility only the uniform.
"I was hanging by my hair," was what first she said, again now without
looking at him; but at once that military visitor -- for so he was thinking of
that uniformed arrival, though this situation was truly that of his playing
host to the two individuals who had, all unwillingly though it was, anticipated
him in that room -- had made it known, with what was introduced as a polite
suggestion, but one which, our man was fully cognizant, had the authority, or
threat, of a command, that it was his wish that she should not avoid the sight,
the look, of him whom she was addressing. On this the woman again raised her
eyes to his, going on with that soft, tight, vividly calm voice, in and beyond
which lay such a limitless growth of dark impossibilities as to almost not
allow him, on his part, to go on gazing at her steady, dark, immeasurable eyes.
"I was hanging by my hair," she began again; and if, as he thought, in
the slight, almost imperceptible hesitation that followed, her throat just
barely had signalled a swift, involuntary swallowing, no sign of that was in
that voice as it, not hastily but forthcomingly, continued. "It was most
painful. Which, of course, was its point. In such pain, a woman will do almost
anything. And --" again that hardly catchable pause -- "perhaps not almost. To
hang that way is worse than -- I had hung, that morning -- that first morning
of the day I was brought to them -- by my wrists. Not, as I told you I was this
morning, with my legs bound also, but just hanging, with all my weight on my
wrists. For hours. That, I had thought, was the worst that could possibly
happen. I cannot tell you all the agony of it. Hanging that way, all of my body
pulling, straining. For hours. I couldn't pass out, not hanging like that, I
couldn't. And all that time, the men. Soldiers. Watching. Just watching. Not
touching me. Not yet. Just sitting and watching. I was not then naked. I was
fully clothed. Still, they watched. It was my pain that was the attraction, I
know now. Not my body. My body was an attraction too, certainly, but not as
much as my anguish, my awful suffering, which excited them so much. So much.
And their anticipation. Of my broken spirit. Of my submission. For it was from
the first certain that I would submit. To anything. To all of it. And I did.
Submit. But that first morning, that waiting, that watching, as I hung before
them, not knowing what I must do to stop that pain. And I was, oh soon, aware
that I would do almost, as I said, anything. Was I to beg? Was I to offer --
what? I had no valuables. I had no information to give. I had only, I knew, my
body. I could not offer that, although I knew it might be taken. I could do
nothing but cry. I could do nothing but moan. I could do nothing but, at the
last, scream. I had not been touched. I was not nude. I was not -- not then --
tortured in any way but by hanging as I was. And I screamed. Until I couldn't
scream any more. And I knew that I was lost, I was nothing, and that to avoid
that kind of pain I could be made to do anything. I told them that, finally.
When I could not scream any longer. Begging. Babbling. I told them that. I
would, I said, do what they said to do, if only I could know what that was.
Saying it over and over, and hanging, hurting, crying."
"Stop." It was the captain, cutting into that rising voice. "You grow,"
said this individual, "boring. Was it boring for you? Was it?"
"I am sorry." And it was with that old calm that she said, though
possibly not with that calm alone, "It was not boring. It was not at all
boring. It was hell. I had to stop it. I couldn't, and I must have known I
couldn't, no matter what I did. But I had to do it. That noon I was taken down.
Unbound. And told to take off all of my clothing. I cried. I couldn't do that.
They said I would be put back up. To hang. Until I did it. I cried. And I did
it. Standing before them and crying and shaking, I did it. I took my clothing
off. All of it. I was not touched. I was told to go down to my knees. I did.
And I was told to crawl. On my hands and knees. And I did that, too. Crawling
around on that floor, on all fours, crying. Until I was told to stop. I knew
what would come. I knew I was to be raped. I was not hurt at that time. The
torturing did not start until the following day. The whippings. The burnings.
The racks. The pins."
The captain almost, again, spoke, but found it groundless, for that
signal was not unnoticed. "I -- I was waiting, that first day, to be raped. But
I could do nothing. If it was to be, I must bear it as I could. Physically, it
could not be worse than what I had gone through. But spiritually, it was the
most unimaginably horrible thing of all. I was a virgin. Of course. I was a
virgin. But I was a captive, and put to awful pain, and if I was to be forcibly
violated, helplessly taken, I could do nothing. Nothing. But I didn't know.
What I would have to do. For him."
"Him" was, obviously, the captain, that slim and still military visitor,
who now took in her words with rapt, glittering eyes, smiling slightly,
watching her, watching him, watching, too, him watching her.
"I was told," the woman was saying, "told by him, that I was to give him
my body. Not to have him take it, but to give it to him. Willingly, as he said.
Voluntarily. I was, in truth, to ask him to take it. Ask him, humbly, to
possess me, to destroy, as he put it, my virginity. I was to ask him to do
this. And to assist him. To do things for him. With him. To him. And, of
course, I couldn't. It was simply not possible that I should do that.
Horrifying. Unthinkable. And so I was hung up by my hair."
"It was a sight," now the captain put in, "to rouse any saint, any angel,
any castrato. Dangling by that long dark hair, that body twisting, swaying,
those legs kicking. But I interrupt. Our friend is far more fascinated, Miss
Lorna, by your narration than by mine. Do go on."
"What must I say further?" that lady said. "It was, simply, unbearable.
How long I was that way I do not know, but at last I was utterly, thoroughly,
completely broken. I was broken. I was his. I was theirs. I don't know how I
was able to say anything, but what sounds I made were sounds of submission. I
said I would do what he wanted. I said I would do it all. I asked him to take
my body. I promised to give it to him, to do it for him. I begged him to rape
me. I begged all of them to rape me. I promised I would do all the things that
would give pleasure. I was -- I --"
"Thank you, my dear," the captain said. "Thus far, as you can no doubt
discern, your tale has had no diminishing effect upon our friend's passion. To
the contrary, obviously; to the most contrary. And now, sir, if you will, you
and I may discuss that small business for which you find yourself in this
involuntary but I think not totally displeasing position."
"Why should you think I would impart to you anything at all?" our man
watchfully said. "You will not put me to harm."
"No, alas," and the uniform was profound in sorrowful courtesy. "But such
information as you possess would be so practical in our hands. And to you it is
nothing. While, as it is so undeniably to all our sights, your -- may I again
say, passion -- is not, at all, nothing. And, as it was our beauteous Miss
Lorna who, so to say, brought it so unmistakably to light, it should be Miss
Lorna, do you not concur, sir, who should act as its modus of satisfaction?"
Looking now, unavoidably, at the woman of whom he spoke, our friend saw
the paling, a drawing in of lip, a shifting of eyes, which if anything
contributed its own odd thrill to that most general thrill which what had been
said had sent through his body, through his soul.
"What is it that you say?"
Smiling was our captain now. "I say, sir, that, to begin with, that
mouth, that sexy mouth, Miss Lorna's own most attractive mouth, which has
narrated to you, for your edification and to your delight, that rousing story
of her submission -- a partial story, thus far, though a true account -- should
be -- and will be, if you will allow us that bit of information so important to
us -- only that -- will be, I say, the instrument, the receptacle, if you will,
for your discharging it."
He could but stare. "You say that --"
"I do, sir. I say that at that moment in which that information is in my
hands, I will ask Miss Lorna to use that mouth on your so longing, so aching
stiffness. Must I, sir, put it more vulgarly?"
"No. Not at all. But why would -- what makes you think she would --"
"Can you doubt that now?" He was, smiling, astounded. "Ask her, if you
wish."
But he could not.
"So? Allow me. Miss Lorna, my dear, if I should ask you to use your so
fine mouth to bring our friend to satisfaction, would you not do so?"
Waiting, both waiting, they still watched. But the woman said nothing.
"Miss Lorna?" Smiling. Waiting. And the woman said nothing.
"Ah," our military man said at last. "But, you see, sir, I say she will.
I give you my word on that. I promise you she will. I promise that. On my
honor. I can promise it absolutely."
"And if not?"
"And if not," the captain, still smiling, said, "it may call for a bit of
persuasion. Just a bit. You may, sir, wish to watch that persuasion. You may
wish to watch it for a long time."
"I may," he said, "wish to participate."
"Ah," the captain sighed. "That could probably be arranged. No doubt it
could."
"All right." And now with this, finding himself a traitor, and all
uncaring, he looked straight at the girl. "I will do it."
Looking at that dark gaze he saw all of it, horror, fear, submission, all
that calm, his now to do with as pleased him. That swallowing of the throat now
was not surreptitious. And the woman got up from that chair in which she had
sat from his initial sight of her, got up slowly, and stood, straight, elegant,
graceful. So clear was that voice now. So high that head. So almost still that
slim body, but only for the tiniest, slightest tremor.
"Do you wish me," she said, "to undress?"
Her military captor was making the most of this, to him, victory. "Do you
mean," he said, drawing it out for her, for him, for our friend, "first?"
"Yes," she said, and her look was still on him. "First."
Our captain, now, in triumph, deferred to him. "Sir?"
Considering, watching her, waiting, he was all in all.
"Can she still," his inquiry to our military friend went, "later?"
"Most of course," said that party. "She will be, sir, at your disposal."
"Ah. At my... disposal?"
"For as long," said the captain, "as you wish." And now, only now, the
girl closed her eyes, standing still as she could, before him, waiting, but now
not looking at him, at anything.
"Then, no," said our friend. "Do not undress."
But without looking she could not go on, and those eyes met his again.
Moving slowly toward him, that elegant carriage as arousing to him as was that
awful dark gaze and that softly rounded mouth, she stood just in front of his
chair; then, slowly still, went down, her body sinking with an awful grace to
the floor, and she knelt for him. He caught again her eyes for a last long,
lingering look, and then that head bowed to him, that hair was touching his
thighs, those lips closing with his throbbing instrument, and as he found
himself arching his body toward that lowering mouth, arching with anticipation,
he suddenly lapsed, sitting still, wanting her to go after him, wanting her to
do it all. And now, with a groan, he was taken as that soft, soft mouth found
him, took him into it, and her lips closed around him, and soon her mouth was
moving, moving, and as the captain, watching, took down in his book the
information, it was for him as though his world was swaying, rolling, and that
mouth, which had told him of her awful agony, was, although forcibly, giving
him such joy as had not in past days been known to him. Now, shouting, he
erupted into that still taking mouth, filling it with his awful joy, as he
heard again in his mind that morning's screams, knowing he would hear that
sound again...
THE SCREAMS OF THE DOVE
by V.P. Viddler
Part Two
"And now you know, sir, why I am in this position. And why I was
instructed to tell you my story."
"Yes. So that that account of your brutalization, your victimization,
your submission, and your agony should stir my blood to a point at which my
lust for you -- and for your pain -- would conquer my patriotism."
"That is what our captors had in mind, I am certain."
"And, as you to your misfortune know all too well, that plan was
successful, was it not?"
"It was, sir."
"Your performance was most enjoyable, I must say. Truly -- if I may --
delicious."
"I will not, sir, thank you for that compliment, for any skill I may have
demonstrated in regard to that humiiating act was acquired with as much
compulsion as was my doing of it."
"I know that. But I cannot but marvel that suck exquisite joy, such
almost fantastic pleasure as that which was given, however forcibly, by your --
if I may -- your truly luscious mouth, could have come about as a result of
that most horrible anguished pain with which you have so arousingly -- the
accout of which, I should in fact say -- so arousingly entertained me."
"But you must know that it is the truth, sir, for as I have said, and as
our captain has corroborated, I was, prior to my arrival at this place, utterly
virginal. That long and, as I would have thought, truly insupportable course of
training -- which is what our captors are pleased to call it -- training, or
persuasion, or anything but what it is -- torture, horror, inhuman suffering
and degradation -- that awful training has taught me, most forcibly, to be
skillful at what I must do, always. For it is intimated, if not said outright,
that the giving of pleasure will limit, will minimize, that agony to which I
must always look forward. Of course, that is not always the case. At times, no
matter how I try, no matter how skillful I am at satisfying all their lusts,
all appetite for debasement and humiliation and submission, still that yet
stronger appetite, that hunger for my pain, my agony, that desire to watch my
helplessness and suffering, will not be put down, and all my efforts to assuage
are in vain. And still I must try. I must submit, always, to do what they want
of me; for it is unthinkable, impossible, that I should not grasp at any small
chance, any tiny possibility, of avoiding, even of postponing, any part, any
small bit, of the things that are done to me; that fact rules my life, my
brain, my soul. Of what is done to my body, you have heard part of it in
detail, and part only in summary; and part of it you as yet have not known;
although I have no doubt that I will be told to recount it all to you in time.
This is why, sir, I am able to acquit myself with such skill as I may, in acts
such as that which I was required to perform on you."
"And that, if I may be so bold, is why I was told that you will do for me
-- anything. Is it not?"
"That is why."
"And will you?"
"You put me, sir, in a most difficult position. It is, I must suppose,
obvious to you that if my choice is to submit to you in all things or to be
again put to torture, I must, as you know, submit."
"As I have known."
"As you, as you say, have known. That, indeed, is why our captain could
promise you my docility. I shall, I must, do anything, I stress again to you,
sir, anything to avoid what will be done to me. And thus, sir, if it is my
docility, my obedience, my subjection you wish, you shall, as you are told,
have that for as long as you want it."
"That is most gratifying, I must say. Most gratifying, and most tempting.
For it is not to be gainsaid that your charms are most attractive. You are a
beautiful woman, Miss Lorna; and no man would fail to desire your favors. Your
face is a vision of angelic loveliness; you possess an elegance and a grace
which stir a man's blood, if I may so say; and, although I am not, alas, in a
position to fairly appraise the glory of that luscious body, I am most positive
that it, too, is a repository of delights that would warm any man's blood. I am
sure of that."
"As for that, sir, I cannot say. You will, no doubt, if you wish, find
that out for yourself."
"Indeed, I might have found it out, as you say, earlier today, when you
inquired as to whether you should undress, if you recall, previous to your --
doing what it was that you did."
"That is so."
"And I suppose I could find it out, for that matter, now, if I wish to do
so."
"That is so. For, as I told you, I am, sir, in your power. I have no
alternative."
"Again, Miss Lorna, I must say you afford much gratification. And yet, I
must tell you, it is not only your body which is arousing to my thoughts -- to
my lusts, if you will forgive my bluntness -- in this strangely unusual
situation in which you and I find ourselves. It is, that is to say, not simply
the fleshly delights, sumptuous and fabulous though they most indubitably are,
which attract my strongest curiosity; not just carnal satisfaction which
arouses my blood and, I must admit it, allows me, if not compels me, to play
into the hands of our captors, and to furnish them with all that information
which they would extract through this unique ploy. That, assuredly, has its
temptations, but it is not my main, my central, my overriding motivation. What
that driving motivation may be, I am sure you will have, by now, an idea."
"I am afraid, sir, that I can have no doubt of it."
"Of course. And this idea, I can well understand, cannot, shall I say,
fill your soul with joy."
"Hardly, sir. In fact it fills me with, as I'm sure you know, horror,
terror, and dread -- to put that in ordinary terms which cannot truly be told
in any words at all. It fills my throat right now with such awful fright that I
can barely talk. And yet I must. It is so horrifying to my mind, to my spirit,
and to my body, that if only I believed it would do any good, have any possible
effect upon your decision, I would plead with you, with all my strength, to
consider what it is you say. I would, sir, go to my knees and most humbly, most
abjectly beg for your mercy. I would promise you anything you desire of me,
anything I could do, could give, could in any way bring about to please your
smallest whim -- except that you have that of me now; and nothing I can do or
say will, I know to my most profound horror, give you pause. I am, sir, yours."
"You are correct, Miss Lorna. I must ask you to forgive me if you can;
but the fact is that from that instant, this morning, when I, sitting in this
room, heard you screaming; heard, to my, I must say, guilty but excitedly
appreciative delectation, those shrill, agonized, frantic, desperate,
ear-splitting yet absolutely delicious, to my mind, sounds of pain, anguish and
truly inhuman torture; from that moment, I say, that sound has remained a part
of my consciousness; has rung in my brain with that melody, rhythm and harmony
usually associated only with music, music of the highest and most rarified
spiritual essence. That shrill music of pain will not abscond from my thoughts,
or from my blood. It has filled my soul with but one single thought, a bright,
particular craving, to which all -- all -- is subordinate. Patriotism. Honor.
Gallantry. Consideration. Sportsmanship. Humanity. Nothing, nothing will stand
up to it. You know, do you not, Miss Lorna, what that importunate desire is."
"I am most afraid I do, sir."
"It is, Miss Lorna, nothing more -- or I should say nothing less, for
undoubtedly there is, will be, more -- than to hear that sound again. To hear
those screams, those marvellous, awful screams -- again. And again. And again."
"That, sir, is just as I had thought. Is there, sir, I must ask you, is
there nothing -- nothing at all -- that I can do to allay, even to diminish,
that wish?"
"I am most sorry, Miss Lorna. Hypocritical as that must sound to you, I
am truly sorry for you. But the fact is that, having been given by our captors
this unmatchable opportunity to absorb, to witness, to participate in such pain
as I may wish to impose upon you, I find it impossible to pass up. It is, as
you know, your pain that I want. It is your frantic agony that I look so
forward to experiencing, and this time in an activist position. Nothing in this
life, Miss Lorna, has made me as ecstatic as your screaming has done; and
nothing but that ecstasy can satisfy me now."
"I could, sir, if it is my screams that so pleasure you, scream for you
on command. I could scream for you any time you may wish, and my screaming, I
promise you, will sound as painful, as agonized, as shrill and frantic as you
might wish. Thus any necessity for actually putting my body to torture would be
superfluous."
"Alas, I do not, in all truth, feel that in that circumstance your
screaming would have that authentic, that realistic sound which --"
"Oh, sir, it would, I swear to you it would! I will scream, I will shout,
I will emit such sounds of horror and unfathomable agony as to sear your soul.
I will, sir, cry, sob, plead for mercy, so that if you should close your eyes
you would think yourself back in this room this morning, listening to my
anguish; and, sir --"
"Please do not go on with this; I assure you it can do no good. For you
will surely understand, Miss Lorna, that my lust has soared beyond just
desiring that sound again, however sweet that may remain. For as I sat in this
chair, listening to your marvellous shouts, I could not but envision what was
happening to you at that moment. And, further, when, later, you narrated to me,
as that captain had commanded you to do, the details of that morning -- that
violation of your body with the pins, which you recounted so accurately and so
thrillingly -- and then your narration of all those other things that you had
undergone -- that hanging by your hair; that binding of your wrists and legs;
that talk of whipping and burning; that account of you, in your anguish,
finally constrained to bare your body, and to submit, nay, to ask for, and to
participate in, your own violation, shame and degradation -- all this, most
naturally -- or unnaturally, if you will, it is not for me to say -- all this
could only build up in my soul an overwhelming lust to be myself a part of such
a scenario. I must, Miss Lorna, I must and I will, watch with my own eyes,
watch and listen and enjoy, as you hang in agony from your bound wrists; watch
as your body, naked, helpless, whip-marked, swings from that taut rope,
straining, twisting, writhing; kicking vainly; listen as you, in the midst of
that wonderful screaming, beg and plead with frantic, frenzied desperation for
surcease, for a moment's pause, for mercy, which is not, Miss Lorna,
forthcoming; thrill as I, I myself, push the long thin pins deep, deep into
your aching nipples, or press the glowing red-hot cigarette against that soft,
vulnerable, squirming flesh. Again and again and again. And only then, Miss
Lorna, only after many hours, after you have gotten hoarse from pleading so
frantically, so vainly for mercy, for surcease, finally for death if nothing
else; only at that time will I allow you to show your, as you call it,
docility; will I allow you to please me with your body, at my command; will I
allow you to utilize, for my entertainment and at my whim, that fine, skillful
mouth which I have today found such a soothing source of delight; as well as
those other parts of your luscious body which I have not as of now partaken of.
Can you understand that, Miss Lorna? Can you resign your body and your soul to
this difficult vicissitude?"
"I can, sir, understand; but, alas, I cannot resign myself. Not, as you
know, that I may choose. But, sir, have I not shown you today that I will
submit myself to your lusts; that my body and my will are at your command? Did
I not perform for you, and with the captain looking on, that most humiliating,
shaming, spirit-breaking act? Did I not offer of my own will to take off my
clothes for you; and did I not go down on my knees to you; and did I not most
totally serve you with my mouth, my lips, my tongue, and my throat? And did I
not, as you gave up to me that fruit of your passion, swallow it down, swallow
until I had drunk it all? What more must I do, sir, I ask knowingly in vain,
but what more can I possibly do to abase my spirit, to make of myself nothing
but a slave, a plaything for your pleasure?"
"Nothing, Miss Lorna. There is, as you say, nothing."
"But still you will --"
"But still I must have your pain. To the utmost."
"I see."
"I know you do. I'm sorry. But do you know, Miss Lorna, your astounding
recapitulation of your actions on that occasion has awakened my importuning
lusts once again. As, I think, you could discern if it were not for that
tearful mist which you appear unable to dissipate. That recapitulation has,
unsurprisingly to my mind, aroused a most strong urge to have you do that
again, all of it, just exactly as you did it earlier. Can you wonder at that,
Miss Lorna?"
"No, sir. And, if you so wish, I will, of course, do it again for you."
"I do wish it. But, I think, with one variation. I do wish you, this
time, to undress for me. First. Do you recall, Miss Lorna, how, when you saw
that I had given in to our captain's terms so that I could gain my will of you,
and saw that to obtain any possibility of escaping instant persuasion, you must
do as our captain had promised me you would, and had thus so reluctantly but so
gracefully and proudly risen from that chair and stood before me -- do you
recall how you then asked, hardly showing an iota of your shame and
humiliation, if you were desired to undress? And do you recall how the captain,
wishing to draw out and to emphasize your submission, and to further mortify
your spirit, said, as in reply, Do you mean, first? Thus bringing out into the
air, so to say, the rhapsodic fact that now you had shown yourself prepared,
forcibly though it was, to submit to that act at which you had at first
hesitated. And do you recall how you, for your own reply, knowing that you
were, perforce, acknowledging that fact, that submission, lifting your head,
lifting your eyes, said, splendidly, Yes. First. Do you recall that, Miss
Lorna?"
"I do."
"The captain, having thus gained his triumph, passed your inquiry on to
me. I then, not wishing at that point to burn all my bridges at once, put, in
my turn, a question to him. Do you recall what that inquiry was?"
"I do, sir. You asked him if I could still -- later."
"That is the form my inquiry took, that is right. And what did it mean,
Miss Lorna? I ask, you understand, simply for the pleasure it gives me to
oblige you to answer."
"I understand that fully, sir. It meant, as I took it, that if you did
not command me to undress at that time, you would wish to retain the option of
making me do so in future."
"That is quite right, Miss Lorna. And, our captain having given this
assurance, I chose to enjoy your ministrations with your body still fully
clothed. But now -- stand up, please, Miss Lorna."
"Is this satisfactory, sir?"
"It is. And now I would like you to ask that question again, just as you
did earlier."
"Yes, sir. Do you wish me to undress?"
"Do you mean -- first?"
"Yes. First."
"Ah. Thank you, Miss Lorna. This time my answer is yes. Yes, I do wish
you to undress. I am now anxious, most anxious, I will say, to look at that
body naked. To watch you as you take that clothing off for me, baring yourself
to my sight. Will you do that for me now, Miss Lorna?"
"I will, sir, if you wish it."
"I know you will. Reluctantly, though, is that not so? Unwillingly?"
"Indeed, sir, yes. But I think you will enjoy it all the more for that,
will you not?"
"Of course I will. How perspicacious of you. I will thoroughly relish
every moment, every move, every inch of bared skin as you strip that body as I
watch, knowing how degrading it is for you, knowing how you, by your own
actions, are allowing your spirit to be ground into dust, knowing how you
debase yourself in front of me in vain hope of pardon, knowing how your mouth,
your body, will labor to bring me joy with your own destruction, all to
postpone that time of screaming, writhing, helpless torture to which I look
forward, and the ecstatic vision of which will turn in my mind, and the
shrilling sounds of which will ring in my ears, as you bow to me and caress me
with that fabulous docile mouth. And now you may begin."
"Yes, sir."
"Slowly, please. Ah. Such skin. Such breasts. Such nipples. Such legs.
Such thighs. Such calves. Such buttocks. Such a body."
"It is, sir, yours."
"I know that. To hurt."
"If you wish, sir."
"Kneel. As you did before."
"Yes, sir."
"That is good, Miss Lorna. That is wonderful. Slowly, please. Just do it
slowly. And as you do, I want you to think of what I'm going to do to you. I
want you to think of hanging by your hair. Screaming. I want you to think of
hanging by your wrists, first with your legs spread wide, ankles bound far
apart, body straining, taut, stretching, throbbing; and then just hanging free,
kicking, thrashing, twisting, as I push those pins into you, painful, agonizing
pins sinking so slowly, so relentlessly into your breasts, again and again, as
you scream and squirm and shout and writhe and yell and twist, so good,
screaming, yes, take it, begging me to stop, now, do it, swallow it, now,
screaming for me forever, AH AH AH..."
