by Willow Sears
But Ariadne can see my weakness for her and clearly considers the chase more fun than the capture. I’ve seen how cruel she is and she wants to bring her spite down on me, just for the fun of it. If I sing to her tune I will be done for, she will make sure of that. Imagine the glistening clear blood on perfect white skin. I remember I told a bitch about a dream I once had. Well, not a dream, just one flashing image of “me” beating the bare arse of an unseen female with the flat of a broadsword. It must have been a fragment of a memory from one of my past lives. In it the bottom is young and pale, the pussy just visible between the closed thighs. The owner of the bottom gives three snivelling sobs as my blade lands splat, and then the image disappears. I don’t know who “I” am, who I am punishing, or why. The only other details are that the skinny bum is smeared with dirt and that the air is cold. A crow caws once in the distance, I can feel the chill on the breeze, and on my third stroke a puff of condensation billows into view, presumably from my mouth.
When I told the bitch about it she begged me to do it to her. I didn’t have a broadsword so I used the samurai sword. I gave her maybe five or six short slaps with it but the blade was so sharp it nicked her skin every time and left trickles of blood running down her buttocks and thighs. I remember having to put the sword down before I got carried away, and of plunging into her with a fat dildo and fucking her hard with her blood sticky between us. The red had looked good on her pink skin, but nothing compared to how it would look on this snow-white geisha.
How can you hate someone and love someone and yet not even know them? How can someone have such sway over you when they only take up fractions of your life? I cannot walk away because Ariadne will not let me. I have to make her pay or she will defeat me. I have to control her or she will use my weakness to torment me forever. I could make the lotus bleed. As I push a little harder and faster into my geisha I could lay a lattice across her back and see the red trickle out. I could destroy Ariadne and be rid of her forever. I could cut this perfect pale bum; feel the stickiness on my thighs. She’s up on her elbows now, trying to give me more access as I increase the power and speed of my thrusts. Her long hair has fallen to one side and I can see the flat of her slender white neck tempting me. One clean slice and it would finish...
But had Ariadne just wanted me to see her? Was it her way of letting me see her naked because I just wouldn’t make it happen? What if she was dying to show me her lovely cunt and that was the only way she could think of without actually giving ground? Perhaps she knew the sight of it would make me feel as desperate for it as I now am, and that this would surely bring about the end result we both wanted? Perhaps soon I will be fucking her as hard and deep as I am fucking this geisha girl right now. Perhaps she will gasp and squeal and sigh in the same lovely, cunt-wetting way. Yes, that’s it! That’s what she is trying to do: reel me in, not drive me away. She wants me to slap against her gorgeous bum and make her come as hard as this geisha is. She wants to beg me not to stop too, to wiggle her rear and jam her swollen clit against the edge of this couch, to drench my thighs with her lovely free-flowing juice.
I’m calm again and all I can hear is her heavy breaths. It’s funny, I was thinking of bleeding her and slicing her into bits. The sprite inside very nearly broke through to take its fun. Yet to her, behind the safety of the blindfold, there was no sword or impending danger, only some gentle pussy-play followed by a nice relieving first come, followed by a slow, deep fuck building to a hard, shuddering climax. All she would have felt is softness and comfort and gentle safety by being my possession. It will probably be the most memorable sex she ever has. I couldn’t even remember to untie her. I went to bed and wanked furiously over images of Ariadne bent over my couch, finger-fucking her own arse as I dildoed her from behind. When I came down in the morning the geisha was obviously still there, bound to the couch by her wrists. I took off her eye mask and she smiled at me with adoration. I rubbed her clit in small circles and she pissed herself, unable to contain the press on her bladder. I spanked her, softly at first, then building to hard slaps until she came, wriggling her crotch against the couch. Her bottom was red and spoiled, so I untied her and made her dress. She wanted to kiss me so I let her, but I told her as she left that I would never see her again. She cried! I cannot wait for next Friday. I cannot wait to see Ariadne again.
***
Do you know what a confabulation is? No, it’s not what you receive from friends when you pass your driving test or announce a forthcoming marriage. It’s actually a chat, a conversation. You confabulate all the time and so, apparently, do I. In psychology the term means to fabricate imaginary experiences, usually as compensation for lost memory. This may be due to some form of amnesia perhaps, either caused by psychological or physical means, or maybe because you have been guzzling a bit too much atropine (as you do). Or it may be because you have a thiamine deficiency and you have developed Korsakoff’s syndrome (why can’t these people with syndromes not just keep them to themselves?). I have actually had my thiamine levels checked and they are fine. I haven’t had any brain lesions or any operations for that matter and I certainly can’t recall any bouts of amnesia. However, according to medical science I must have had one of these or similar along the way because it is the only sane way to explain past-life memory.
Any tests carried out have shown that the subject has not in fact lived before, but has somehow or other (often through suggestion given by their hypnotherapist) made it all up. I have been aware of this scientific standpoint for some time but I’m letting you know now because it would be nice to have some of you on my side. Obviously I can see how anyone I come across might think me deranged, bordering on psychotic, or at best just a raging sadist. Please know that I am not. I realise scepticism about past lives is bound to be rife and medical science can point to many disprovable cases. But I have had these dreams for years and they do shape me, despite my efforts for them not to. I am not trying to increase them or glorify them, merely escape from them. I know that Harvey is a sneaky fat bastard but I do not believe that I am feeding off his suggestion. In, fact I rather believe that while I am babbling on in the voice of some ex-aristocrat, he is over in the corner, completely disinterested, jerking himself off.
However, scientists don’t seem to be studying the bigger picture. They are looking to disprove any karma-generated pre-existence within a body, as if to negate theories of a human soul. They say any historical evidence from the subject has been absorbed along the way–sometimes subliminally, sometimes actively, although the subject may well have forgotten learning it, so it sounds new to them too. The information is very often brought out by people unqualified to judge the validity (i.e. by hypnotherapists not psychologists), and is gleaned by a series of leading questions (what is your name? where do you live? and so forth) which force the answer rather than have it come naturally. The subject’s “evidence” is often later proved to contain historical inaccuracies, and thus is, to give it it’s proper technical term, a load of old bollocks.
But what if it is something different? What if the memories are fragments of someone’s soul from another life which gets passed down genetically along with innate instincts such as fear of height (which infants all carry despite being unable to grasp the concept of impact from falls, or danger, or death)? What if these soul fragments have energy of their own which can force or trick your body or mind to act the way it once did? It would be like a possession–not a devil as such, but a spirit in some form. It might be malevolent, it might just act the way it always did without thought or need for goodness and morality. Who says the spirit inside was a historian? Who says that some orphan in a debtor’s prison has any knowledge of the outside world? Who even says the spirit in you wants to be unearthed? Is it not possible they might feed poor information in the same way that we lie or distort truths every day to suit our own take on a given situation?
This is my theory and I’m sticking to it, especially since it helps absolve me of most of t
he blame for being a hurtful spank-happy bitch, and I would be very grateful if others supported my idea! By the way, during my last session under hypnosis I told Harvey that I was a Hungarian soldier called Fennick or Fenech, that I was at a place or fortress called Szigeti, the year was somewhere around the mid 1500’s, and I was dying with a lance or spear through my back during an assault by the Turks led by Suleiman the Magnificent. It seems the spear was driven through me with such ferocity that it went right through my chest and pinned me to a wooden table, along with some poor young chap from the armoury. I suffered a slow, hateful death. I was trapped and unable to move, perhaps through the force of the lance, maybe because of internal or even spinal damage from the impaling. The lad was trapped beneath me, crushed to the table by my weight and speared through his shoulder. His wound was perhaps less mortal except that he might eventually bleed or even starve to death unless I could somehow prise myself free. Discovery by others, friend or foe, was unlikely to help us; did I mention that at the time the spear went through me I was busy sodomizing the armoury lad?
Fenech was pretty cagey, it has to be said. He seems to have been very bitter about his demise and just mumbled about how he couldn’t move, how the lad kept sobbing and begging him to get off, even how the feeling in his lower body was draining away and, sure he was to die, he tried to continue his arse-fucking and take some pleasure before he slipped away. There seems to have been some erection or lack of sensation problems at this point which had him/me snarling incomprehensibly and spitting at Harvey within my trance.
Fenech was convinced he was to die. They had been under siege for many weeks. The fortress was ablaze and had been under heavy cannon fire since dawn, ceasing only to allow the Turkish assault. The defenders had been given the order for one last fight, to go out and confront their attackers where possible. It was certain death. Fenech had gone to find more weapons and had decided, with adrenalin raging, fear at fever pitch and death just around the corner, to take one last joy from life and rape the lad. His main gripe seemed to be that the lance was probably driven home by one of his comrades, no doubt so disgusted at witnessing the unchristian act, especially when this was supposed to be a Holy War against the pagan Turks. He spent his last hours trying to finish what he started, dying by fractions, cursing and hating everyone and everything, knowing he was on his way to hell and taking the wretched, constantly blubbing lad with him.
Not the best bedtime story but at least Harvey is still going in the right direction–backwards, that is, back through time to the root of my problem that is the Executioner’s Girl. Anyway, I was far too content to be worrying about disgusting Hungarian rapists! I was looking as hot as a sizzling twat on a hot tin cock but still managing to be exceptionally demure, avoiding falling into the Ariadne trap. With Harvey making such progress I have been feeling a renewed surge of belief and excitement which has given me the strength to play a bit of hard-to-get with the blue-haired goddess tonight.
It was Horse and Hounds Night at SaMmy’s so there was a good open theme to work with. Dog and pony costumes abounded amongst the subs, whilst the Masters and Mistress concentrated mainly on hunting dress. I wore skin-tight black as a base, along with tight knee-boots in patent leather. My hunt coat was in red latex with brass buttons that, if you looked close enough, displayed the side profile of a fox’s brush sprouting above a curvy human bum, with the words ‘FOX FUCKER’ around the image. It’s all in the little details. At my neck was an authentic white silk stock held by a silver pin in the form of a crop to match the real one in black leather that I carried. I had my hair in a long pony tail down my back and I took my riding hat, but I dispensed with this once I got there as it is a tad cumbersome.
So I felt good. Ariadne was also in pseudo-hunting dress but didn’t look as fine as me, even if she was topless under her coat. I had built a good entourage around me and I had received an invite from Master Vincent to go on to a party at his place, which meant I could relax and let someone else provide the entertainment for once. Also helping my ability to avoid being drawn into the usual games with Ariadne was my sudden preoccupation with cocks, particularly small ones. I think the sight of Blueberry’s erection was having a weird effect on me. I had awoken for the past few nights from dreams in which it featured–not as such attached to him, more sort of just there, with me reaching out and touching it, wanking and even kissing its tip, and trying to ready my pussy for its insertion. I woke up without any of the feeling of revulsion I experienced when seeing it in the flesh, more a sort of warm affection for it, like it was my friend and saviour.
All this was brought back to mind by the sight of Blueberry himself amongst the shadows on the periphery of the group at my table. He had made almost no effort on dressing for the occasion, simply and laughably just adding a black hunt coat and riding helmet to his usual Blueberry costume. The phrase “ridiculous, pathetic cunt” could seldom have been used more appropriately than on him. I decided that I had to rid my mind of his strange influence and keep him away from me. The best form of defence is usually attack, so I thought that taking a leaf out of Ariadne’s book and feasting my eyes on a couple of giant members would be the order of the day. Bisexual Master Vincent would no doubt ensure there were plenty of vast pricks on show at his party.
Ariadne was trying to get my attention but I was having none of it. She sent a minion over with an invitation for me to join her table, although this was surely an effort to separate me from my group and power-base and bring me under her influence, so I politely declined. Later on, when I finally went to the rest room I saw her hurriedly put down her drink to pay a visit too. Sometimes it is so difficult to remove your costume you hold on until your bladder is nearly bursting before you finally decide to go. These are dangerous times. If a Mistress catches you before you get the door closed she can easily take advantage of your dire need in order to make you perform dirty or humiliating acts. Even if you had made a solemn promise never to lick a girl’s arse-hole you will probably think twice if you are being held in a simple embrace that you cannot break and you are seconds away from losing the fight with your muscles and pissing your pants. Even if you manage to get your costume down, a determined Mistress can easily spank or wank the piss from you in a huge humiliating burst before you have time to sit down. I have been known to prey on lots of girls in the toilets on fetish nights. I therefore made sure I got in quick and bolted the door behind me before Ariadne made it in.
She had obviously been waiting for me with an aching bladder and crossed legs. She found my cubicle and asked me to let her in but I would not. At first she asked, then banged on the door and commanded, then finally pleaded (but only quietly, hoping no-one else could hear). I steadfastly refused her entry. My costume was still on and I wasn’t safe until it was around my ankles and I had relieved myself. In the end she had no option but to talk through the door and, since she was in dire need of using the toilet too, her conversation was stilted and hurried. Soon enough she had to give up and take to her own cubicle, and I was long gone before she made it out again. And when I say long gone, I mean it. Master Vincent had already left and several swingers were making tracks for his place. I knew Ariadne would be there so I wasn’t worried about leaving. I picked a couple of my entourage out to accompany me.
As I was about to leave Blueberry came forward and offered me a glass of champagne. I took it, of course but told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off and leave me alone, and made it quite clear that he was not coming to the party with me. He said, “I worship your elixir.”
I worship your elixir! I couldn’t actually recall him ever speaking a single word in my presence before, and then he came out with that! It was such an odd phrase, one I thought I knew but couldn’t place.
I struggled for some kind of reply, some put-down witticism to counter his ludicrousness but my mind scrabbled around aimlessly, the thoughts just emptying out until it just seemed like a big white space. In the end I was just staring at him, my mouth
open but soundless, my big empty brain refusing to find anything to throw back at him. Eventually I said, “OK, you can come–but don’t speak to me again!”
I don’t know why Ariadne didn’t show. She is usually a party freak and there is no way Vincent had not invited her. She had pulled a couple of new, big guys so maybe she was raring to get them home and put them to good use. I felt more than a little bit sick with the nagging thought that she had stayed away because of me. Imagine if I had just blown my one chance. Playing hard to get is one thing but playing unobtainable is another. No Domme is going to risk her reputation and status by putting herself out there for you to take too often. If she thought her fingers had got burnt I could guarantee a pretty frosty reception from her from now on.
I must admit I drank way too much champagne at Vincent’s. I had a couple of girls polishing my riding boots with their knickers and then sucking my toes. I was telling them about my Fenech dream, the one which came the night after I had revealed the character to Harvey, about how I could feel my cock in the boy’s rectum and the lance through my back. I told them in rather too much detail about the setting of the Szigeti fort and how the year was 1566. It seems the battle was not actually as obscure as I had imagined and had a place in Eastern European folklore as well as history because, although the fort garrison was eventually wiped out it held out for many weeks, long enough for Suleiman the Magnificent to die within the shadow of the walls, perhaps partly through the strain of the siege. Epic poems were written about it and it has been referred to as the “battle that saved civilization”. I told my slaves all this! I might have told them that I even had vague inklings of it and perhaps came across it when studying the Hapsburg Empire at university. I didn’t tell them that my dream faded and blurred into a vision of me wanking a tiny erect prick, quite probably belonging to the fat fruit sitting behind me ensuring my champagne glass was never empty.