She slowly regained consciousness, trying to understand why she couldn’t see anything. Trying to open her eyes, thinking to at least see something, she realised that they were already open. Her vision hunted around, hoping to see something, some glimmer of light, some difference in the shadow, but there was nothing, just the dark.
Realising her nakedness, fear rose up inside her; she had no memory of getting undressed. Who had unclothed her, why, what had they planned? She felt exposed and vulnerable, lying there on the strange bed. She could feel the sheets, cool against her naked flesh, the air chill but not uncomfortable; the cold caressed her body like a lover’s touch, her nipples hardening to soft taut peaks, her skin tightening, sensitised to every movement of the air.
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]]>He let out a gasp and jumped in his bonds when the door crashed open and the woman swept in. He’d been certain that he would recognise her but no, he’d definitely never seen her before. He would without a shadow of a doubt have remembered it if he had ever set eyes on her previously because she was quite stunningly beautiful, a dark-haired Amazonian vision beyond compare.
She had exotically high cheekbones, a straight nose, generous lips, and big hypnotic eyes the colour of mahogany. Her black hair was soft and shiny and hung straight down to her shoulders. She had a lush body, with a big frame and a sumptuous well-proportioned figure. It was displayed to great effect by the extremely short, almost see-through purple dress that she was wearing and underneath which she was obviously naked.
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]]>“Damn that baron Skailurker.” He mutters under his breath. For he is finding it hard to choose between these three darlings. Two of them are to be made companions of, leaving the one remaining for their first meal.
He surveys them with the trained eye of one accustomed to the appraisal of potential suitors for well over a hundred years now, but still he has difficulty. Perhaps, he muses, the standard has increased in recent decades, since it was never this hard. See, regard their differences. Neophyte number one is pert, and wears her bonds well, the silken wrists by silken rope together and held out in front, the noose around the neck like lace; she looks up at him with pearly grey eyes, not pleading at all, resigned to whatever the goddess Kismet has granted her; her thin, white frame is not bony, not skeletal, her bottom exaggerated accordingly, her breasts small and firm. And then eyes follow rope along at the neck to virgin number two, an exotic beauty from across the Siriun sea, perhaps from the rich kingdom of Lirania, has a look of defiance on her face, and tugs at her ropes now and again, and her teeth have become jagged from repeated attempts at biting through those wrist-bonds; when her lord looks down at her she looks up in defiance, her black eyes speaking for her gagged mouth. Her dark brown skin gleams beautifully in the torchlight, her generous curves catching flames in the dark. And the third, she looks up wistfully from time to time, as if pleading; such a temperament is one in which the master does not delight, but she is easily the most comely of the three. Her thighs are well firmed and her calves, in his opinion, have just that right mass of muscle to give her real strength while still looking light, her back is smooth and sculpted in two by her slender spine, and the eyes, blue, blue as the sky he once gazed upon when he was alive. And she also wears her bonds well, he thinks, does not struggle but slips into them, becomes accustomed to them as if she had been fitted into them by her own personal tailor. Yes, he thinks, perhaps I shall be her own personal tailor.
]]>I am Bellderine, I have ended up in the body that I now inhabit, and now which binds me to the earth in a more solid form as a response to Raedwald’s pleads to his God that something be done to cure him of his evil and sinful imaginings. However, the only thing that can stop his deviant imaginings increasing in magnitude in his mind is if he manages to act them out.
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]]>I never forgot reading about that experiment, which is why I suspect that I am now being set-up. I’m supposed to be interrogating the mark. According to the file I’ve been given to read, he’s one of our guys. He got involved with a sexy young girl who was an enemy agent.
The mark (code name ‘Ivan’) sits behind a two-way mirror. We can see him, but he can’t see us, only his own reflection. He’s attached to a wooden chair by thick leather straps around his arms, legs, and neck. His testicles are wired up to a socket in the wall. We get the truth by sending a painful current through the wire, controlled by a dial on the desk at which I’m sitting.
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Can the cross be beautiful? Can a crucifixion be aesthetic?
Of course not, if you consider the historical reality of the punishment of crucifixion in ancient times. The brutal, and furthermore state-ordered killing of a human is in my opinion one of the most disdainful facets of human civilisation, of which we still haven’t freed ourself. The dying of a person is rarely “beautiful”, rarely “aesthetic”, let alone erotic.
It is likely that the fascination with crucifixion stems from its apparent historical remoteness (we believe ourselves free of such barbarism, even though recent happenings keep on contradicting that), while at the same time having a strongly subversive presence in a Christianity-orientated society. Even little children know about the the way and circumstances of the death of Jesus Christ, grow up with the depiction of the crucified, without being able to properly process this. The suffering is endowed with an aspect of the godlike, the impalpable, which is further strengthened by the teachings of the church. The cross becomes something to aspire to; one “bears the cross with joy” and “follows the saviour.” The cross is praised with near lustful intensity—especially in the scriptures of medieval mystics—and the pictures of Christian martyrs more often than not contain the expression of sexual ecstasy.
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