Love me kill me

Text originally published on La Férule, laferule.com.

 

- Want to watch a movie, honey?
- Not now, I've got something to do. A surprise to prepare, in fact.
- A surprise? Ah, I love surprises! What's the surprise?
- You know the answer: if I tell you, it won't come as a surprise.
- Now I'm forced to finish reading, so...
I pretend to be immersed in my book, but the staccato of my fingers on the pages gives me away. When our eyes meet, Anton hastily turns his head away before slipping away into the bedroom.
Wham! The door slams in his wake.
- I try to read, thanks!
I bet that, from the other side of the partition, Anton is blowing me a kiss and whispering "Râle, râle, mon amour!". I imagine him enhancing his lips with red, slipping on the pumps I've given him. Their heels rock her ankles to the point of pain, turn her legs into dancer's compasses, swell her rump and arch her loins. He must gloat with discomfort and satisfaction.
Then there's the little red dress, a marvel purchased at a high price. Cut to the knee, slit at the back and adorned with a gray bow at the front, it seems to be cut from a chic fabric that, up close, turns out to be latex. It takes a good fifteen minutes to get into, but the result is well worth the struggle.

- Back again... Anton minces, wobbling on the spikes of his heels.
- What an outfit! Wonderful idea, darling! You look... stunning.
- Really, do you like it?
- I don't like it, I love it. Closer, closer! Nice necklace. Padlocks, hearts, a whole program... Oh but tell me, are you at least wearing panties?
I can see it in her face, my sweet inflections turning her stomach.
- You know I'm fascinated by your ass? This is gonna be your party, baby. Take off your clothes.
Anton struggles to get out of his dress. Quick, quick! Out of patience, I grab a strap and pull. The latex gives way.
I watch, incredulous, as the crimson gap lacerates his chest. A blindfold to mask the disaster and quickly, an order:
- On your feet!
I take hold of a dragon's tongue, a cruel instrument I've hitherto been reluctant to use on my lover. The strap whistles. Anton challenges me with his chin. I nail his calves in retaliation. He cries out in surprise and pain.
- Silence or I'll gag you! No, worse: I'll stop.
Okay, okay, Anton promises.
He promises to bite his lips as a small smile twists mine,
he promises to contain his evasions, not to flinch, not to move, not to think, not to exist,
he promises everything I want, even the worst, as long as I continue my delicious torment.
Pain is his trophy, a magnificent offering to his tormentor.

- You're a quick study, aren't you?
Without warning, I pull the strap down over her rump. It makes a dull sound. Between her flesh and the leather, between her submission and my ardor, the latex eases the burn.
- Stand up straight!
The strap wraps around her thighs, her buttocks, her stomach, her chest. Once, twice, ten times. Hard, irregular commas punctuated by pauses, hollows of nothing that sharpen her senses by combining them with fear.
When will I strike? Where? How?
Desire.
Fear.
Melt.
Stiffen up.
Hope.
Keep quiet.
Beg for it, but don't show it.

- So, darling, do you like it?
Yes. Anton loves like mad. At his temples his blood pulses with abandon, at his neck hearts and padlocks beat the charm. Anton is no longer himself, he's another in a circle of fire.
Red, purple, blue... These are the colors of his submission, the palette of a moment beyond the moment, the rainbow of intimacy where, more than ever alive, we merge in blood.
Red, purple, blue... These are the colors of our pact, the one we steal from others every day to put on a brave face. They don't know why Anton grimaces when he sits down. He and I know.
We know the whythe because and how.
We know the room, the whip and the strap, the intensity and the madness.
We know enjoyment, fusion and gratitude.

- Keep moving!
Anton sketches a pas de deux, the ultimate figure in our secret dance.
Will against will, he opens his shoulders to offer himself further. Not once will I apologize for going too far. I know that for Anton, my "too far" is a "too close". That crying is nothing, especially not surrendering. So he won't say "I'm crying, but please go on", but "Mark me, I belong to you".

One shot. Another.
Anton falls, skinning his knee. I crouch down to drink from his wound. The blood forms a second mouth, gaping in amazement and delight.
- Enough for today, darling.
- No! No!
He crawls, gripping my ankles, kissing my feet. I grabbed him by the hair, arching him from shoulders to loins.
- So you want to be punished? Really punished?
I slap him on the fly. He drools on the floor the confession that chokes him: " Bend me, my love, and fuck me... Oh, fuck me!"
- What, darling? I can't hear you!
- Fuck...
Her plea turns into a gurgle. My nails lard his face with crimson, my fingers clutch his neck. Anton suffocates, bent over, stunned, showered with my sweat and my words:
- Slut, whore, bitch!

Pressure on her throat. Heart, padlock, heart, padlock, heart. Anton's necklace chants my tough love.
Padlock, heart, heart... Anton is my toy, my beast to cum, my receptacle, my adversary and my slave, an empty then full shell adoring my violence. If I strangled him, humiliated him, knocked him out, hit him, he'd bellow "YES!", YES to everything, the better to be reborn in my arms, bruised, blued, soiled and splendid.
- Yes, yes, YES, YES !
Anton shouts his submission, hurtles down its currents to the point of vertigo to reach the shore that, alone, he would never dare approach, plunges into the abyss that sucks him in only to spit him out better. An abyss that would kill him, perhaps, but so what? I can love him and kill him, kill him because I love him or love him because I kill him.

He rolls limply in my arms, then coughs until he vomits. When I release him, padlocks and hearts fall harmlessly onto his lap. Anton sketches a shaky parody of a smile. I stick a pointed heart into his nipple, then dislodge it, only to plant it again.
Anton screams. What's wrong? I can't remember. Maybe nothing.
When my cock lacerates his belly, he bawls out his happiness like a cat whose throat has been slit. His strength, all his strength contained in the pulp of his fingers screaming at me "I love you to death".

Epilogue.
Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, Anton cherishes his bruises. They're his trophies and reminders, the derisory ornaments of our bond and the hope of seeing it last. I, his She-Devil, made them for him in a vertigo. Anton can leave me, yes. But he can't forget me. In him, I opened a door just waiting to be pushed.
If the marks of my whip will fade from his flesh in a week, mine will never fade from his memory.

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Madame Lule, may not be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.

Photo by Loren Aprile ; model : Désiré.