Working for the Beast

I'm writing sadistic porn for the Beast. He likes me, it seems, or perhaps merely enjoys my suffering. So I have been assigned to serve his literary appetites, with the chance that he will put in a good word for me with the sadist.

The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.

We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.

He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...

I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.

So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.

He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.

We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.

One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.

Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.

I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.

Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.

And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...

He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.

1. It will take time.

2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.

The sadist must heal.
He must recover.

The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.

So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.

Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.

Especially about all this.

Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.

And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.

This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.