Divided life

The room was dimly lit. She stood before me, suppressing sobs. She wore only one shoe; her other foot was bare, resting directly on the floor. The ropes binding her mercilessly, digging deep into her flesh, carving deep grooves; the flesh between the ropes bulged slightly, a sign of my complete possession, a reminder of her utter submission. Her arms were bound behind her back, her elbows elegantly tightened and disappeared, only her fingers protruding at her waist. That is, her right hand was visible on her left waist, and her left hand on her right. Now, her ten fingers were limp and powerless, bluish-purple, and slightly swollen. These fingers now conveyed submissive humility, and the expression on her face was pitiful and helpless. And she conquered me with this helplessness and inaction, making me panic, hardening me, driving me mad, causing me to lose my reason, and disrupting my peace. In that sense, she seemed like the conqueror. I quickly reached out and pushed her left shoulder hard. She understood, turned around, and faced the coffee table. I pushed her neck again. She put her hands behind her back, struggling to maintain her balance as she shifted her body until she carefully leaned onto the coffee table. I sat on the carpet, facing the end of the table, which was also facing her feet. I took off her only remaining shoes. Now both her feet were bare, the arches, heels, soles, and toes all facing me, the arches of her feet fully exposed, revealing the various curves of her arches, soles, and toes. The smoothness and curvature of each curve varied, and the different concave and convex surfaces had their own unique rhythms of transition, thus reflecting varying degrees of light. In the dim room, these fleshy feet were of moderate thickness, and in terms of length and width, they were slightly long and delicate. I picked up a shoelace and tied her two ankles together, leaving her toes untied. With my left hand, I lifted her bound bare feet, clamped her ankles, and began sucking on her toes, from big toe to little toe, little toe to big toe, then jumping around, sucking haphazardly. She endured this gentle assault. My right hand reached under the coffee table and picked up my usual ballpoint pen, a semi-transparent, light blue, hexagonal pen—very ordinary. I began scraping the tip of the pen back and forth on the soles of her bare feet, carefully feeling the different directions and spasms of her toes in my mouth. She laughed through her tears. She was suppressing her anger. She writhed restlessly on the coffee table, convulsing and swaying her head and tail, excited and erect, like a large maggot. I quickly increased the pressure of scraping the soles of her feet, and her twisting resistance intensified accordingly. Her screams rose sharply, off-key and chaotic, like someone trying to play a trumpet for the first time without knowing how. Her tender soles must be about to give out. What would flow out if the maggots were torn open? She laughed maniacally, fiercely, but couldn't clench her teeth; her face flushed as she cursed at me, each time she opened her mouth only to let out a spasmodic laugh. One second she was furious, the next she was crying and begging for mercy. She switched rapidly between rage and submission, her mind splitting. Her feet rubbed back and forth in the confines of her shoelaces, desperate. I heard her ankles rubbing against each other, bones clattering; clearly, one foot was willing to crush the other to escape. Her toes clenched fiercely, as if she wanted her entire foot to close shut like a mimosa. I tasted an extra amount of salt on my tongue. Her feet were sweating. Perhaps other parts of her body were sweating too. Her soles were now a jumbled mess of scribbles. The two feet pressed together resembled the scribbles of a schizophrenic, depicting mania, violence, capriciousness, nuclear explosions, calculus, and candlestick charts. Ten toes were now curled together at an unbelievable angle. This lump of flesh before me wasn't human. And that was exactly what I wanted—I wasn't human, and I loathed the mundane world. I turned her over. Now she lay flat on the coffee table, bound, staring at me expectantly, panting, drool on her cheeks, tears in her eyes, her hair damp with sweat. Then I noticed her navel was different from others. Most people's navels are concave, but hers bulged slightly, like a grayish-white rubber bud. Had she always been like this, or had she only bulged it out because she was about to be fucked to death? I untied her shoelaces and released her bare feet. She cried, crying about her past, crying about her tragic future. It was me, and herself, who humiliated her, but ultimately, it was genetics. Unassailable, divine intervention is ever-present, fate is unpredictable. Sobbing made her gasp for breath, crying made her sweat, released excitatory hormones, and after crying, she felt numb, light, and relaxed all over. Crying intensified her guilt and humiliation, which accelerated the release of endorphins in her brain; endorphins caused her to lose control and orgasm in front of the tyrant, making her feel even more humiliated, thus forming a closed loop; the rotation accelerated, spinning faster and faster. The act of crying itself had become another kind of orgasm for her. She secretly enjoyed being insulted. She wanted stimulation, so she sought out someone to be promiscuous, and when she attracted unexpected humiliation, she cried with extra joy. For a cunt like this, fucking her to death would satisfy her desires, but she felt nothing for any treatment that pleased her. What she wanted was the unexpected, adversity; she meticulously sought punishment, this was her destiny in this life, and that's why she traveled across the ocean to find China. I deliberately refused to give her the punishment she craved. She said, "Tie me up," but I refused. She wanted to sleep, so I deliberately deprived her of sleep. She wanted an orgasm and came to me, so am I some kind of Good Samaritan? I deliberately gave her only half, abruptly cutting off the supply every time she was about to reach her climax. That's called pleasure deprivation. And when she begged me to punish her with orgasm deprivation, I deliberately gave her continuous stimulation, making her so high her legs were numb and she still couldn't stop, but I couldn't let her body truly collapse. When she was in unbearable agony and couldn't take it anymore, I snapped the hand that Death was holding onto her, forcing her to live. She was a hundred thousand times more miserable than that little white mouse, Sewerynb, who was pleasured to death, so she was a hundred thousand times more joyful; we played with each other, challenging each other's limits of collapse, like slicing meat on a balloon about to burst, like harassing a high-voltage power line barefoot. Fighting wits and courage against collapse and death, that's the real pleasure, like sharpening a knife while testing its edge with your hand, cautiously, your heart swelling and filling with the anticipated tragedy, the sweetness rapidly escalating. We are impeccably dressed and upright gentlemen in public, but when we go home, we enter our roles and meet each other in a ferocious manner. We quickly adapted to this divided life and were quite content with it.

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Divided life

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