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The Petit Mort of Cassie Onassis (Part 1).

March 31, 2013

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Part 1. The Station.

Cassie exited the toilet cubicle, adjusted her clothes and tousled her rust red curls. She tugged her fingers through the mass, meeting resistance where the wind had swept and twisted it around itself.  Her face contorted with each tug, wincing as her fingers snagged in the strands. The tiny station toilets, which they laughably called ‘Restrooms’,  were freezing cold and smelled of piss and pine. Leaves, blown in through the door that didn’t close ,eddied around, skittering over the dried, dark, silty footprints on the red-tiled floor. The light in here didn’t work and everything was infused with the dull grey hue of winter.  Cassie couldn’t imagine a less restful place.

Her exhalations made delicate plumes of vapour in the cold air as she regarded herself in the full length mirror on the wall. She moved closer and studied her face through its grime spattered surface. Her fingers brushed lightly over her face, dusting away excess powder that concealed her true skin beneath. Her index finger traced delicately over a scar on her forehead whose origin was long forgotten, checking that it was adequately covered.

She rummaged through her tote bag to find her lipstick. He said that the ‘Claret’ was his favourite shade. He liked the colour on her and he liked it when it smeared over his shaft as he fucked her mouth. Her guts tightened at the memory of the last time when, completely lost in her reverie, she had opened her throat to him and tried to swallow him whole. Hungrily she drank his cum, and drained him until he had to forcibly remove himself from her face. Her punishment for being  such a greedy little cum whore had been ten strikes with a cane across her thighs.

She lifted the hem of her green velvet dress and, for the fourth time that day she studied the marks on her thighs, the pattern of stripes now faded from their original, glorious shade of apple red. Lifting the hem higher she studied her neatly trimmed triangle of  chestnut coloured hair. and the asymmetry of other marks and scars that surrounded it.  He didn’t particularly care for girls who shaved themselves bald. He would tolerate it, if this was their preference, but he said that it brought to mind the pre pubescent and, while this fantasy had its merits, he preferred a more natural look on a woman. The mature and self-assured were infinitely more attractive to him than any shy, pigeon-toed trainee. Breaking down the psychological and physical barriers of an experienced, battle hardened partner presented him with a far more exciting challenge.

Yes, she had plenty of scars. some were the result of incidents and accidents that occurred in the early, experimental days. Some were his work, others were not. These scars were never concealed with make up. These scars were her trophies – badges of honour and proof that she had undergone a rite of passage. So, why after all these years had she never been properly rewarded for her efforts? Why was she still struggling to achieve the one thing that she truly desired?

It seemed to come so easily to others. She had heard countless tales of the nirvana that she so fervently sought. Heard it from those less experienced and, to her mind, less deserving than her. She learned, to her amusement, that some actively avoided the experience out of fear and ignorance.  She suspected that, for her, years of chemically induced highs, which produced myriad, lovely psychoactive states had artificially increased her tolerance and her ability to reach the natural high that she needed. But promises had been made; hers was to never again seek relief from psychoactive drugs, his was to show her a better way.

 She had endured scene after scene, labouring as he so carefully tended to her. Burned, whipped, shackled, spanked, slapped, constricted, contorted, shocked, caned, cut, deprived of her senses and breath. The list went on and she had revelled in every magnificent moment of pain, filth, humiliation and depravity. Yet, she had always been starkly, rudely sensible to it all. Never had she felt more than the faintest hint of detachment from herself, or her lover, or her lust.

Subspace. That place of altered  ‘otherness’. It called to her as she slept or daydreamed; and she wanted to know it. perhaps this time he would take her there, as he had promised he would. Perhaps she would find herself separate and free, drifting outside herself as she witnessed the truth of their indecent partnership.

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2 Comments
  1. Part 1? Can’t wait for part 2!
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