The Scars of His Love

She dreamt of freedom. The cool ocean breeze felt refreshing against her skin. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, releasing all the tension from her body. She broke into a run. Her feet smacked on the wet sand with wild determination. The setting sun provided a spectacular array of colors. Rich hues of orange and splashes of scarlet painted the darkening sky. The salty air intoxicated her. She breathed in deep as waves crashed along the shore. She was free.

Just then the euphoric image went blank. A sharp nudge at her side instantaneously woke her from this peaceful slumber. It was then that she remembered where she was.

The room was a semitransparent haze. Bizarre pictures of torture covered the walls. Each one is more disturbing than the next. A sour smell of blood mixed with her own bodily secretions burned her nostrils. One would think she would be used to this by now. One would be wrong. How long had she been here anyway? When was the last time she bathed? When was the last time she saw the setting sun?

She lay on the bloodstained bed, her arms and legs tied and bound. Tears returned as reality set in sending her back into the arms of her master.

Her body ached and bled, her breasts were marked with cigarette and wax burns. When he first came to own her, he pierced both nipples and clamped them together, pulling the skin tight, just the way he liked it. Her arms and legs were covered with deep red slashes. Her armpits were raw.

But her face...her face was that of an angel - flawless, completely untouched. That was a silent agreement they made. Her hair looked like dirty rain on the soiled pillows. Her once dancing and vibrant eyes lost all light when she chose to walk through his chamber of darkness.

He stood there like an artist admiring his masterpiece, his property. His dark hair was greasy and tousled. His gray eyes reflected those of a man gone mad. He wore a pair of worn black jeans. The rest of his body was bare. Remnants of his self-mutilated madness were drawn on his chest, back, and arms. Hundreds of slashes. Then there were the tattoos. Each design is more intricate than the other. Swirls and spikes wrap around one arm and end at the small of his back. Scarlet on Black, just the way he liked it.

He stood there looking at her. She proved to be a good little bitch with great strength and endurance. After all, anyone able to withstand his agonizing manipulations had to have the blood of a survivor. He thought of himself as a surgeon and she was his patient. A patient in need of special and secret treatments only he could provide. And she proved to be a star patient indeed. That's why he always made it hurt so good.

Holding a sharp instrument, the kind a surgeon would, he gently pressed it into her side breaking what little unmarked skin remained, and watched in awe as the blood seeped out. A spark of life returned to his otherwise dead eyes. He needed to hear her pain. Her moans sent shocking waves of pleasure to his groin.

He removed his jeans and stood naked before her. His hand touched the fresh wound and as the blood poured out, he smiled. He brought a bloodied finger to his lips and licked it, tasting the essence of her. He became so aroused and started masturbating right then and there. As he jerked off with one hand, the other, which still held the sharp instrument, inflicted another wound into his thigh and then dropped it on the floor. The sounds of her pain made him even harder. He worked himself until the white-hot liquid exploded all over her beautifully battered body. Her body, now covered in blood and semen, looked irresistible to him. His mouth watered in anticipation of what would happen next. Surreptitiously he moved closer to her darkness.

His snarls, grunts, and scratchy whispers told her something awful was about to happen. But it didn't matter. You see, it was she who came to him that night so very long ago after learning of his torturous rituals. It was she who wanted to enter this world of unspeakable darkness showing her a new kind of pain, that even now, she could never live without.

She looked down and examined her branded body. Some of the wounds would heal, and some had already started to form scabs. Some were still bleeding, which was a comfort to her, knowing he was still near. And some were too deep to ever fully heal tattooing her body with scars. You see to her they were the scars of his love.