The Perfect Whore

Do you know what "primus inter pares" means?

No, i don't.

Good, let's keep it that way.

What? Why is that?

It will keep you less intelligent than me, which is where we want you, darling.

And so begins most days with this man. She glows under the weight of her own trap, an intricate design of knots and webs covering her freedom. This man, he is maybe 20 years her senior. He'll "save her" she thinks. She follows him, dragging her knots behind her. Like the long train of a bridal gown, like a red carpet to purgatory, heaven and back- she carries her crippling bondage with such pride.

"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever."

He is whistling as they pass city after city on the train. Memphis. Nashville. Richmond. DC. The trees whizzing past them outside the windows. Her hand in his lap, his hand on her thigh. She looks to him. Guide me. Make me into something else. I hate who this person is. She is too young. Too plain. "I will" he says.

They glide through Washington Square Park, into and out of alleys and buildings. In morning sun and darkness falling, covering everything in blue light they tour this enormous city. They crawl to breakfast, to bed...into one another. Into this other world away from rules or expectations except those which they place on each other.

"The force that drives the water through the rocks Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks."

"What does this mean?" she asks. He smiles and pushes her under the bath water again. She can barely breathe, but manages. He pulls her up again. "I am scared now." she begs. He smiles again, "I know sweetheart" and plunges her head under again. "She would follow me anywhere", he thinks. His hands filling with her soft flesh, her neck so pale and fragile. Sometimes, just touching her is so difficult he literally feels as though she were made of hollowed egg shells, just that perfect and young. Her flowing hair knots around his hand under water. Her eyes open and she shakes her head. Bubbles from her nose. So pretty, like what she lives in- like the bubble she dances in for him, and him alone.

Coughing. Gasping. He stops. He dries her off and lays her on the bed. She is very limp, drained of all of her power and strength. He touches her chin. Her breasts...traces his fingertips along her sides, deep between her thighs. He spreads her open, moving his face closer, smelling her cunt. He rubs his nose in her wet folds ravenously, like a man devouring a smell in a city, tracing it down to his favorite restaurant. "God only knows my darling, how much i need you." he whimpers into her skin.

"Make me over, Master." she half asks, half demands. He reaches to her mouth and covers it with his hand. "Shhh darling." he whispers. He stands and goes to the dresser and fumbles through cotton balls, finger nail polish, perfume..."Ah what i want", he says under his breath and pockets a tube of lipstick. He then ties her gently to the bed with thin cotton rope and then roughly pulls his knots tighter and tighter until she reacts with pooling tears. He pulls her legs apart and ties them to the elastic mattress handles on the sides of the bed. Wrapping around her thighs. Around her ankles. Across her chest. She thinks "i would follow him anywhere." and begins to cry. It can be that way sometimes. Her crying, him getting more and more intense. Sometimes a woman's tears intensify a man's lust, or anger, or love. She is obedient as he tells her to close her eyes. "Open your mouth, darling." he demands. "Wider, please" he asks. She opens her jaws so wide they could almost pop out of place. He presses his fingers on her tongue, pulling her bottom jaw down more. She cries out in pain.

"The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime."

Everything like last summer, moving to this big city, the trees and plants and flowers through the train windows. The splashing color across her memory. Everything moves like this now with him. She is ahead of time and suspended in time, also. She is caught and freed. Taken, brutally used, and yet carressed and perfectly spoiled. He slowly drags the lipstick across her neck tracing a straight line down to her navel. She winces and quivers intensely. "Slut" he writes on her lower abdomen. She writhes in anticipatory pleasure- and fear. "Whore" he writes on her breasts, smearing a line uner the word as to underscore the point, the meaning. He puts the lipstcik to her lips. Her mouth so open, drool and saliva everywhere on her face, cheeks and neck. He begins to rub it all around sloppily, coating her mouth deep, slick red. He wipes it across her face and down to her chin. He begins to touch her. He closes the lipstick tube and inserts that into her. He kisses her and quickly, roughly slaps her face, striking just below her high cheek bones.

"The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars."

"I have to cum, Master" she begs. He smiles at her obedience, her total compliance and fervor. She is so magical like this. "I love this girl." he thinks. With his thumb on her clitoris he masages, presses his thumb into her and rubs and grinds until she is screaming out in ecstasy. He begins to move the lipstick tube out and his fingers in, pushing deeper and faster.

"And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm."

The neon signs illuminate the room spilling green and red to the floor, onto the white sheets, his face and her body. The city sounds filter in; car horns in the distance, sirens miles away, faint dog barking- but they are soft and silent. The sound of a train rushing through them is all they hear. The sound of blood pulsing through veins. The second hand suspended on the clock. They do not move. They cannot. Minutes later he rests his head on her thigh, reading a Dylan Thomas poem aloud:

"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever..."