SSC 2004  Quite Contrary  (Picture: A Sculptor's Model) by Ouchigirl


The days here are long, slow, and hot. They melt one into the next.
Anyone or anything making them pass more quickly is counted a blessing.

To hurry them along, I use what I have: I use my body.  And so do
others.

It's not the money.  I don't need the money. It's the diversion. And
it's the acts themselves. Forbidden fruit always drips the sweetest
juice.

They come to me because I let them hurt me. The truth is that I like
the ones who hurt me best.

There is one who comes often. After many months, I found myself
watching for him, waiting for him; fearing he would appear, fearing he
would not.

He is powerful and quiet. His hands are rough.  He is very skilled
craftsman. His stroke is steady and his aim sure. He beats me in
silence, always in silence, savouring the gasps and cries as I shudder
in the whip's embrace. When I can no longer stop the scream, his arms
surround me and he gathers me to him. He breathes in the sweat and salt
like spicy perfume, tastes them, rubs his face and hair against my
nakedness, soaking himself, until there is but one essence between us.
But he had never touched my sex until today.

It was very early. The sun had not fully heated the air when he
appeared and yet he was hot, fire in his eyes and in his touch. He
smelled of the wine that stained his clothing.  He made me stand before
him and turn away. He stared at the stripes on my backside, some faded,
others bright. Some stripes he knew full well he had laid upon my
flesh, others he merely believed were his marks. I let him believe.

This time he did not reach for the whip. Instead, he confessed that he
himself longed for the lash, that he envied me its sweet sting. He
wanted to hear it licking at his skin, to feel it cutting and cleansing
him, humbling and reforming him, taking him to a place far from here.
Anywhere but here.  He would do anything to escape this time and place,
this seemingly endless and desolate hell on earth.

I do not often oblige those who ask, but this one is different. I
wanted to give him some peace of mind, even if it meant violating his
body.

He bared his back and stretched out his arms. I beat him long and hard,
until he began to cry out my name over and over and over again. At last
he turned and caught the whip, knotting its tongues in his fingers. He
pulled me to him, took me quickly, easily, and then, oddly, he wept. 
He fell into a deep sleep from which he has yet to wake, but just
before it overshadowed him, he whispered something that made me smile:

"My mother's name is Mary too."


(488 words)
nb: see also Ernst's "Die Jungfrau"