Divided life

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

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 and soles, the toes and toes, all their curves fully exposed. The smoothness and curvature of each curve varied, the different concave and convex surfaces each having their own unique rhythm of transition, thus reflecting varying degrees of light.

In the dim room, her 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.

I lifted her two bound bare feet with my left hand, clamped her ankles, and began to suck on her toes, from the big toe to the little toe, and from the little toe to the big toe, then jumping around, sucking randomly. She was enduring this gentle assault.

I reached under the coffee table with my right hand and picked up my usual ballpoint pen—a translucent, pale blue, hexagonal pen, quite ordinary. I began scraping the tip of the pen back and forth on the soles of her bare feet, carefully sensing the different directions and spasms of her toes as they twisted in my mouth.

She laughed through her tears. She was suppressing her anger. She writhed restlessly on the coffee table, her body convulsing and thrashing, excited and erect, like a large maggot.

I quickly increased the pressure of scraping her soles, and her resistance intensified accordingly. Her screams suddenly rose in pitch, off-key and chaotic, like someone trying to play a trumpet for the first time without understanding the technique. Her tender soles must be about to give out.

What would flow out if the maggot were torn?

She laughed wildly and fiercely, but couldn't clench her teeth; her face flushed as she cursed at me, but each time she opened her mouth, it was only a spasmodic laugh.

One second she was furious, the next she was begging for mercy in tears. She oscillated rapidly between rage and submission, her mind twitching.

Her feet rubbed desperately against the laces of her shoes. I heard ankles rubbing against each other, bones cracking; clearly, one foot was willing to crush the other for survival. Her toes clenched violently, as if trying to close her entire foot like a mimosa. I tasted an extra layer of salt on my tongue. Her feet were sweating.

Perhaps other parts of her body were sweating too.

The soles of her feet were now a jumbled mess. On these two feet, pressed together, lay a picture painted by a schizophrenic: mania, violence, capriciousness, nuclear explosions, calculus, candlestick charts.

Right now, ten toes were curled together at an unbelievable angle. This lump of flesh before me was not human. And that was exactly what I wanted—I am not human, utterly disgusted by 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 and chin, 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 it 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 loosened 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. It couldn't be defied; the gods are always watching; fate is unpredictable. The sobs made her gasp for breath, the crying made her sweat, made her release excitatory hormones, and after crying, she felt numb, light, and relaxed all over. The crying intensified her guilt and humiliation, which accelerated the release of endorphins in her brain; the 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. Crying itself has become another form of climax for her. She secretly revels in being humiliated. She seeks stimulation by provoking others, and cries with particular elation when unexpected humiliation strikes.

For a cunt like her, fucking her to death would satisfy her desires, yet she feels nothing for any treatment that pleases her. She craves the unexpected, adversity; she meticulously seeks punishment, it's her destiny, hence her journey across oceans to China. I refuse to give her the punishment she desires. She says, "Tie me up," but I refuse. She

wants to sleep, so I deprive her of sleep. She wants an orgasm, so she comes to me, am I some kind of Good Samaritan? I only give her half, abruptly cutting off the supply just as she's about to reach her climax. This is called pleasure deprivation. And when she begs me to punish her with orgasm deprivation, I give her continuous stimulation, driving her to ecstasy with her legs trembling, but I can't let her body truly fail. When she's suffering unbearably and can't take it anymore, I sever the hand of death that's holding her, forcing her to live. She suffered a hundred thousand times more than Seweryna, the lab rat who was literally pleasured to death, and therefore a hundred thousand times more; we played with each other, pushing each other to our breaking points, like slicing meat on a balloon about to burst, like harassing a high-voltage power line barefoot. The real thrill was the battle of wits against collapse and death, like sharpening a knife while testing its edge with your hand, cautiously, your heart swelling and filling with anticipated tragedy, the sweetness rapidly escalating.

In public, we were impeccably dressed and upright gentlemen; at home, we transformed into our ferocious selves. We quickly adapted to this divided life, quite content.

[The End]

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