The Hill and the Shadow

He is a god; she thinks deliriously. There's no other answer. She is weeping with pleasure; her cries and sobs echo back to them from the valley depths as he thrusts deeply in, forcing pleasure from her. She feels him expand and contract, buried deeply inside. She opens her eyes. He no longer wears his mask; his head is next to hers, so close that she feels the skin of his cheek; she feels the sweat that runs down his forehead, mingling with hers. He moves his head, staring deep into her eyes, as if practicing surgery upon her buried soul. Light refracted from her eyes glitters within his. He wears the grimace; the intense expression of concentration of those immersed totally in the task at hand; of those who know that to fail in their mission is to commit the ultimate dishonour. He is whispering to her, his voice low and sensuous, but she can't hear what he is saying.

She can swear she feels how sharp his nails are; they score lines down her back with each thrust of his manhood inside her. And even as she cries out, she wonders how this could be, when his hands, in their leather gloves, felt like wet silk a few seconds ago. Then, she sees his clenched fingers ripping lines down her breasts, towards her nipples.

The pain is a fearsome sensory amplifier; she feels the pleasure he gives her as obliteration. Screaming, she tosses her head back and forth, then drops her head to her chest.

Blood trickles slowly from her collarbones, down to her breasts.

He soars, he glides, he loops. Several times, he has stopped all motion, deep inside her, and contracted his pubococcygeus muscle in a slow rythym, as if in orgasm. When he does this, his eyes narrow and a demonic expression of determination comes over his face. And when he does this, she feels the expansion and contraction of him deep within her, and is overwhelmed by sensation, crying out again and again.

Slipping into and out of consciousness, the tied woman moans, half aloud. She is losing touch with physical reality; the combination of pleasure and pain is something she feels as mystical; it is as mystical as a physical trial can be.

She is panting, gasping, moaning, trying desperately to catch her breath. She is tossed on the storm of her own sensation for some time before she realises that he is no longer with her. Her breathing rate coming down slowly, she tries to focus her eyes; fails. Breathing heavily, she tries again, and this time she succeeds. She looks around, trying not to strain her abused neck; nothing.

She looks again, in the only other direction open to her: beyond the fire.

Other shapes cavort beyond the low flames. It could be her imagination (which she no longer trusts), but she fancies that she sees several separate beings beyond the fire.

As she watches, a collective awareness seems to invade the formless mass beyond the fire. All activity ceases, mote by mote.

This fills the tied woman with more foreboding than she had expected.

A young girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty, appears from behind the flames. She advances slowly on the tied woman, sinuous and snakelike, insinuating her way forward instead of walking.

It dawns on the tied woman that the girl is naked. She wears a porcelain mask which covers her face but does not conceal the handsome sweep of her long hair, which is the burnished colour of ox-blood. Hers are the breasts of late adolescence, and they are beautiful; small, pert and undefiled by time. Swinging loosely from one of her hands is a dressage riding whip.

The tied woman cannot see her eyes.

Another young girl appears from behind the fire. She is slightly shorter, and her breasts much smaller. Her blonde hair is tied in a simple ponytail. Curiously, her nipples are overlarge, resulting in her breasts appearing to be more nipple than swell. This would cause embarassment in most girls her age, but she appears, like her companion, frighteningly impassive.

Another girl appears, and another, and more keep appearing, slowly and unhurriedly, from behind the fire. All appear to be subtle variations on a theme, and none appear to be older than twenty. All are masked, and all carry weapons of some kind. The tied woman counts twenty of them, and she cannot be sure that more are not waiting, out of sight.

Forty eyes regard her from under baby-doll masks of translucent white porcelain, yet she cannot see any of them.

She sees movement over to the back. Someone else, someone not female, at least a head taller than the tallest girl, moving forward. The man who has pleasured her so savagely makes his way unhurriedly through from the back of the assembled throng, who stand as if in wait. The tied woman watches, her rational part thinking to herself: God, he's scary. He moves like his feet are an inch off the ground.

She groans, half in the physical world, half beyond. She focusses grimly on the man.

"What's happening?"

The man stands two feet away from her. He narrows his beautiful, cruel eyes as if in reproach.

"The true reason for your being here. The revelation of your conviction." He steps forward, reaching his hand out to gently stroke the hair away from her forehead. His hand, in it's leather glove, is wet. She scents the essence of her sex, mingled with the stickiness of his semen, and moans half-aloud in pleasure as she remembers him inside her.

"I could give many answers to your tiresome stream of questions. That I heal pain. That I'm a genie, granting wishes. That I'm a roving gypsy who practices magic. But all these would be fatuous, facile, facetious." He grips her chin, compelling her to look at him. "Pay attention, woman."

The tied woman looks fearfully into his eyes.

"There's a simpler answer, and it's the only true one: you called; I answered. You seek a Master to serve, and I am here to fulfill that wish."

He stares deep into her eyes. The cold fire flares.

"And now, I would be served at my leisure."

The man stands a comfortable distance away from the tied woman, his arms loosely folded.

He never voices his instructions, but it is clear that the girls are watching his every move, his every impossibly subtle hand movement, obeying orders with the perfection of programmed automatons.

The tied woman knows that night that she exists to please her Master, for it is a dear price she pays.

Now, he stands close, watching with a satisfied smile as one of the girls - a tall, whipcorded beauty with large breasts - administers repeated blows to the woman's buttocks with a flexible cane no thicker than a pencil. And he watches as another girl - also tall, but with the bronzed skin of a Mediterranean - slowly licks the wounds, making sure no blood remains.

He watches as three girls work in concert. One kneels in front of the tied woman, one behind her. The third wraps her strong hands around the tied woman's neck, massaging her carotid arteries with powerful force, while her assistants lick, suck and insert fingers into the tied woman's pussy and anus. He watches with clinical amusement as the girl working the tied woman's pussy slowly inserts a fist - and begins to hand-fuck her. Soon, the tied woman's eyelids are fluttering from the slow oxygen deprivation, and she is groaning under the assault of sheer sensation, kicking and thrashing in her bonds, trying to escape.

And he watches as his most overt signal - one finger wrapped loosely over another; sends the smallest girl, a supple, well-muscled young hellion with the grace of a ballet dancer and no breasts to speak of, climbing the gumpole with sinuous ease. She eases herself into position, wrapping her thighs over the tied woman's shoulders, daring her; inviting her to drink the nectar of arousal between her thighs. And as the tied woman does so, more blows - from a girl who wields a small bullwhip - lash her shoulders and upper back. The tied woman shrieks, shaking violently in her bonds. At the tenth blow, the punishment ceases, and the tied woman slumps in her bonds, exhaling - only for the supple girl's thighs to wrap mercilessly around her head, sealing off her mouth and nose with her pussy.

For sixty slow seconds, the man watches as the tied woman's struggling - at first extremely fierce - begins to wane as the denial of air takes it's toll. Her movements slacken to barely noticeable strength as she begins to pass out. Then, the supple dancer releases her grip, and the tied woman draws in an agonized breath, her chest heaving painfully in and out.

The ordeal continues; new combinations, new tortures; the products of a mind dedicated to fiendishness of a beautiful, artful purity. It is an unrelenting assault; designed to break down resistance and defences, to turn the strongest-willed being into utterly pliable, softened putty in the hands of it's captor.

Sometimes the tied woman could swear she has been unconscious; at other times it seems like she has been awake through an ordeal lasting several days. How long has she been here? When was she tied, and when would she be released? She does not know; she is sinking slowly into a state of utter dependence on the man in leather with the hypnotic eyes, who stands before her now, cradling her face gently in his hands, whispering:

"Don't hurt yourself. Let everything go; let yourself be free. Let it be; let it float; let it be free."

She is awake, and her wrists and ankles throb with pain. She is assailed by a sudden rush of dizziness and nausea. She tries to move, but is totally disoriented. She turns her head - but it feels impossibly heavy. She feels she might fall, then realises - she doesn't know which way is up.

"Shhhhhh."

She is lying supine, her head cradled in a man's lap; she feels the wire-wool of hair and smells the unmistakeable scent. Her head is being stroked with absolute tenderness.

"Shhhh... don't worry yourself."

It is the velvet voice of the man; the wraith. She opens her eyes slowly. She is greeted by the sight of his face above her.

She is still disoriented. "Where... where am I? What happened?" she asks faintly. She tries to sit up, but cat's claws of pain rake her from the inside out.

He still strokes her head tenderly. "What happened doesn't matter," he says.

"Who were they?... I saw... I saw girls. Girls wearing masks..."

"Puppets," he says.

She is in no fit state to understand, and just stares up at him in absolute bewilderment.

"Mere puppets," he says. "Spirits who roam the plains, trying to forget themselves... in pain, mostly. I take them, and make them my own. For a short time, I give them respite."

She is coming back to life, and slowly props herself up on her elbows; looks around. It is nearly dawn, and the sun is peeking over the horizon. A cold wind blows upon the dead ashes of the fire, and the girls stand in a circular formation around the man and the woman. Arms akimbo, they all stare straight ahead. All still wear their masks.

She looks as closely as she can, and sees something that disturbs her; though she is shaking with cold, the others follow the same pattern as their enigmatic Master; their skin is cold goose-flesh, but none of them are shivering.

"They wouldn't dare," he says mildly. "All of them know the debt they owe. A debt of discipline; a debt still to be repaid."

She looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"The extraction of pain and pleasure from another; it's something they must now return twofold." She watches in disbelief as he produces a thin cotton blanket; apparently from nowhere. He wraps it around them.

"And the Master's debt is something I now owe a disciplined pupil."

Under the blanket, he makes slow, blissful love to her; inside a year which has been hard and relentless, she nearly perishes twice from joy. Wrapping his body around her as if wanting her to be part of him, he covers her face with kisses. Slowly, and with infinite care, he licks her wounds. It is a gesture of animal tenderness, which ensures her wounds will heal without trace. They roll over and over, buried in one another, whispering words of a religion akin to love in each other's ears.

And now, she sees what is perhaps the most disturbing thing she has yet seen.

As he makes love to her, the girls all stand akimbo, machinelike. They all stare straight ahead, and though dawn has broken, she cannot see their eyes.

And, as she watches, the chest of each girl - sculpted rigidly in gooseflesh, the nipples tautly raised - hitches with the gasps and sobs of grief.

And as she watches, tears stream down the face of each emotionless mask.

She begins to understand the price each one has had to pay for taking pleasure from her body.

* * * *

"Equality and duality; the principles of natural balance," he had said to her. "One can freely take what is not rightfully one's own - but the debt must always be repaid... even if it is repaid several lifetimes later."

They had sat side-by-side, facing the rising sun, as he held her and she snuggled in his protective arms.

After making oblivious love to the wraithlike man, she had surfaced from beneath the flimsy, yet strangely warm blanket, and had been surprised - and more than a little disturbed - to see no trace of the strange girls who had tormented her for so many hours.

"Their time for retribution is over now," he had said quietly. "They cannot torture themselves constantly, or they would face a miserable death. Created for them, by themselves."

She cannot understand the elaboration of such a scheme. "But I was the one being tortured!"

He is infinitely patient. "And yet, you derived pleasure from every moment, did you not?"

She cannot argue with such incontrovertible logic. She merely nods her head slowly.

"In a simplistic way of explaining; you volunteered your body for them to gain what small measure of satisfaction they can, while you shared in that satisfaction.

They came to gain from you, while giving nothing in return. Play now, pay later.

Your philosophy is the exact opposite; You gave first, finding pleasure in the giving - and reaped a reward many times greater.

The power of true submission is great indeed, young woman. It can never be underestimated."

She sits up straighter, looks to his face. "But... I still don't understand. Who were they? Where did they come from?"

His eyes are far away. It is as if he has asked himself this question many times before, and even with the power at his disposal, been unable to answer it.

"They come from many places, and have many names. Briefly, they are many different women. They all seek a common goal: to take without giving.

"I have met many of them." His eyes narrow, as if focussing on a distant target. "I have long ago stopped counting how many. It is their sincerest belief that they wish to serve - but they do not.

"They roam ceaselessly from place to place, seeking others who can serve their fears. But those fears cannot be served for long; they corrupt their parents; break them; drive them mad.

Slowly, day by day, they lose themselves in empty imagination about what might be; they never stop to consider that pain and pleasure are two halves of the same whole.

Instead, they renounce pleasure, without realising that they have done so.

"In time, they come to embody only two things: resentment and regret.

They resent others who choose the joy of selfless giving - and regret the times that they themselves have been unable to take the same path."

He takes the woman in his arms, holding her tight.

"Pain and pleasure; sorrow and joy; giving and taking.

All these are mere cycles, joined hand by hand, taking turns with their opposites.

Cycles may be speeded up, or added to; both actions enhance the joy of life. But one cannot sever a cycle, seeking only it's pleasurable half. To do so is violation."

He looks at her as if she were the most treasured possession he had ever bartered for.

"A servant who knows the worth of her servitude is not just valuable, but formidable." He kisses her gently.

"There was a man who once said: 'You owe more than gold to him who serves you. Give him of your heart, or serve him.' This is one of the philosophies by which I've been shaped."

He shrugs the blanket off, and stands.

She grabs the edge and huddles into it. It is a typical, bitterly cold autumn morning in the Lesotho highlands, and there is a keen wind howling across the mountaintops.

He is naked. Yet, watching him, he either does not feel the wind, or does not care about it.

He strides easily, lazily, to the remains of the fire he had lit; all she can do is watch the play of muscles across his back.

He stoops to take a handful of ash from the very centre. He rises slowly, bringing it back to where she lies.

He motions for her to sit.

Cupping her chin gently with one hand, he traces the contours of her face with fingers blackened by ash, leaving a delicately proportioned design which she cannot see. And he talks to her with a voice which speaks of an ending, and looks upon her with eyes which convey more than mere ownership.

"When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you, yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you, believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the North wind lays waste the garden.

And think not you can direct the course of love,

For love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course."

He stands slowly, turning and moving in the direction of the path. He does not say goodbyes, and deep inside, she knows why.

But as a small smile materializes on his face, he looks back toward the place where she sits.

"There is truth in everything we encounter, woman. Even if we encounter lies."

She does not reply. She merely looks up into his face; the face of a vengeful young mountain god.

"There is powerful truth in the gift you have given. Open yourself, and that truth will reward you."

And with a few steps, he is gone.

He does not simply vanish into thin air, thus proving him the wraith she has suspected him to be.

But she is grateful even for small favours.

* * * *