Love's Wiced Craft

Significant Others

"There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable."

―

- Mark Twain

*****

1

It was another night, with another one of Catherine's perfectly prepared dinners on a finely set table; candle lit, the red wine poured: when Frank was offered another opportunity to have a civilized conversation with her. Cat still believed that the guy she'd met a year ago was still somewhere inside there: the guy that was easy going, smart and had nice things to say and did nice things too, just for the sake of doing them.

They ate their Friday night dinner in silence, just as they'd had the night before and the night before that. Frank made short, quick work of his stuffed pork chop and roasted potatoes, eating the way he fucked, while Catherine shot hopeful, furtive glances in his direction, slowly cutting slices of her meat, carving her boneless chop into the shape of a diamond. Whoever he's turned into might hate me, but he sure doesn't hate my food.

Frank popped another chunk of meat into his mouth, and sighed wearily as he chewed. Catherine watched him looking over her shoulder into the living room. And there he goes, she thought, even if there was a remote to turn me on, he still wouldn't be as interested. Is this who you really are Frank? What about me? Who am I with you? Where did the me I liked go?

Catherine knew her authentic self was hidden somewhere between her good cooking, her work as a secretary in a dental office and the growing distance she felt in the small apartment she'd rented. Cat couldn't express herself freely. She felt lost in her own home. Frank's more regular anger and hostility had gagged her; woven a sprawling web of tension, the threads of which he'd drop long enough at night to coax her into sex, only to pick them back up in the morning.

Yes, work was hard, every day, day in and day out. Yes, people could suck, suck really bad sometimes, but why did she have to be the one who suffered for it?

Was Frank really that superior to Catherine? Did he really deserve the latitude it took to criticize or demean Catherine the way he did? He came from being a friend, just as Hannah was, had been, a friend. What had Frank exploited in Catherine that Hannah never had? Hannah never played the superiority card or mocked her in public. Oh you're so needy Cat, he'd say. But, when he wanted his dick sucked, he'd do some house hold chore or tell her he loved her. Then, when he got what he wanted, he'd start avoiding her all over again.

Frank left his seat, flicked on the TV, and then returned with the remote.

"Are we still on for your sister's tomorrow?" Cat asked, breaking the silence as she reached for another slice of bread.

"What?" answered Frank, looking at Catherine as if she'd suddenly appeared before his eyes, "Uh, no. I actually have to be on a job site tomorrow. Boss says we have to use what good weather we get to get those foundations in Montbury poured."

It was just as well. Frank had absolutely nothing in common with his brother -in-law and Catherine was relieved that she didn't have to stomach Marina's not so subtle digs and slights. God, where had they come from? Neither Frank or Marina's mom and dad were like that, at least not when they were all together anyway; though Mrs. Pompano definitely seemed like she had a mean streak she could pierce her husband with when no one was looking.

"Ease up on the bread Cat, would ya'?" Frank requested between bites of potato.

Frank hadn't even looked at her as he made the remark. Cat stopped mid chew. The liquid churning in her gut suddenly seemed loud enough for them both to hear while the acid of his words bubbled their toxicity, leaving yet another corrosive mark on her already disintegrating self respect. Frank was like Hannah that way: we should only be talking about me; we should only be doing what I want to do; you should only be telling me what I want to hear.

Catherine wondered When exactly she'd given up trying to exert some level of influence on the prick. When did I stop trying to express my needs and wants? When he stopped believing they were important, was her answer. Retreating from the world became important to Frank. Refueling with food or relaxing through sex he'd coerce Catherine to have with him had become the top priorities. And now the weight gain; slowly but surely mounting. It wasn't that Catherine suddenly stopped looking good. She wasn't ignorant to the fact that she was still being noticed by other guys. But, the extra fat looked its worst when she was undressed, and all Frank seemed to notice were the few more pounds and all the other things that set him off.

Casually, Catherine placed her fork by the side of her dish, and then took her glass of wine. She drank three good gulps before setting the glass back down. Frank continued to watch TV as he stuffed a chunk of bread and a wedge of potato into his mouth. This has to be my fault, she thought. No other man, her ex-husband or the two other men that followed, didn't stay around long enough to become like Frank. I found him. I found Hannah. They didn't find me. Hannah- Another layer of regret, sickening her, washed over the radiation of Frank's remark. Hannah and Cat worked at least. She might not have ever said that she appreciated Catherine through words, but Cat couldn't count the sheer number of times Hannah had expressed it with her eyes or through the gesture of a small gift or favor.

"I bought the bread for you because you expect bread on the table." Catherine intoned, casting her eyes down at her plate, "Otherwise, I wouldn't have it in the house."

"Okay then," replied Frank; boring his eyes into the top of her head, "So don't eat anymore of it."

Catherine winced, and took a deep breath. Just as Frank had devolved into some vicious prick, he'd turned Cat into someone else. She turned into someone who said she liked or disliked or held the opinions he held. What if I don't, she thought. He'll get worse. I keep trying to please him, but he's only getting worse. It was if a chain reaction of desiccation had started in the still smoldering ashes of her lust and starved the roots of her soul, drying it so that the stems and petals of it pulled away from her consciousness, drying and cracking into a shell of its former self.

Who knows? Maybe he's saving his nice guy persona for the other woman he's fucking. How had he devolved into such an asshole? No, Catherine thought, he skipped ass hole and went right to mother fucker. Her apatite totally lost, Cat got up from the table, and brought her dish to the sink. She scraped the remains of her meal into the trash, and found herself suddenly remembering exactly why she'd stopped jilling off with Hannah all those years ago.

She was home, back in her parent's place, alone, doing the laundry. No one else was home. The washing machine was vibrating in its way, so Catherine decided to take off her jeans and undies, and get on for a ride. She discovered that if she straddled one corner just right, eased her clitty thingamabob forward in just such a way, that what Hannah had showed her how to do would just about make her drool. And it did. It did make her drool, a thin line worming its way down and off the middle of her bottom lip. Her dad could have snuck out just as quietly as he'd walked in and found her. He could have told her mom what he'd seen, and asked her to talk to her daughter about it. And Cat might have become quite discreetly self satisfied on a regular basis, if her mom had addressed it in a different way than the way she had.

But, as it happened: Mr. Wisneuski chose to shout "What the holy fuck Catherine" at the top of his lungs, which caused her to simultaneously jump, scream and shoot a thick stream of urine; which made it so that she slipped off the washing machine, landed with her naked ass smacking the hard cement floor, only to roll over to expose her bruised buttocks, and the backs of her thighs, to an extensive spanking from Mrs. Wisneuski, with what she seemed to recall was the long handled cast iron shovel they used to clean the ash out of the fire place.

"Hey Cat; take a break." Frank told her, "I'll clear the rest of this up."

No; Frank wasn't stupid. It was true; he had a certain knack for making you feel guilty and indebted to him. It was probably one of the major tools in his repertoire when dealing with people on the job, and probably what put him where he is today. So Catherine could do nothing but feel obligated to give him what he wanted, especially when he reminded her of this or that nice thing he did or got for her the week or month before. It was remarkable, how the look in his handsome face, his impressive stature and those suddenly, briefly, pleasant, words he spoke could literally change her feelings and emotions, drown out her self respect and kindle the chemical fires she needed to get horny again.

But, tonight, Catherine suddenly didn't feel so much like pretending. She didn't shrug or acknowledge him in any way, other than to simply go back to the table and fill herself up another glass of wine. She realized that she'd been loving him in secret, giving her body to him in total silence, a peace offering, white as the dove, and as clear as the sign of the olive branch. And Frank, Frank was the flood, the deluge Cat's friends and family saw still rising in spite of her best efforts. Catherine never asked for Hannah's advice, but she gave it, once, an honest, clear warning: "I don't like that look in his eye Cat. Use him and lose him." And that was that. It was rare for Hannah to give more than she thought she needed in the way of words.

So there Catherine was; trudging through cluttered emotions, forced down by the weight of her guilt, never bringing Frank back around when she met up with her parents, sisters or when she used to meet up with Hannah. And even then, Frank was never a topic of conversation. Frank was nothing. He was unfit, and Catherine felt totally stupid for it. Another year of my life has been wasted. I'm done.

The acid churning in Catherine's gut suddenly felt hotter, and seemed as if to rise. She thought the wine was coming back up, and then she thought again. She stepped out of the kitchen, and felt the heat rise higher, like molten lava, pass her throat, pause behind her eyes, tickle her tear ducts, and then crawl up into her mind. Catherine gulped her wine as the heat inside her head turned into a hive of wasps; a swarm of at least a thousand, busily working their scat into a big shit nursery of ten thousand safe little holes for their maggoty little babies and for their pampered and protected little queen.

Finished in the kitchen, Frank poured himself another glass of wine before finally heading into the living room. A moment later, Catherine came back down the hall. Stepping into the kitchen, she took the bottle of wine from the table, searched the drawers and cabinets for a few more items, and then made her way back down the hall. Ten minutes more and Frank was asleep on the couch, as was his Friday night protocol.

His routine was predictable: come home, eat, watch TV, drift off into sleep, wake up at around a quarter after ten, take a shower, get into bed, and start tapping determinately on Catherine's ass. Tonight though: Frank's schedule was thrown off. He woke up a little earlier, nearly a quarter to ten. Golf was still on. Catherine wasn't there to commandeer the remote during his sleep, to lower the volume like she always did and put on something about cooking, interior design or chicks who wanted to be loved unconditionally.

Then he noticed it, a rank undertone to the remnant odor of the stuffed chops and the roasted potatoes still emanating from the kitchen; their former fragrance fowled by some horrible odor. Had the toilet backed up again? Frank had tended to the repair the last time, no thanks to Cat's landlord, and he'd given her shit about it for two weeks straight. He had to keep calm this time. That was two weeks without head. He wasn't making that mistake twice.

"Uh, Cat!?!" called Frank, "What the Hell is that smell?"

Catherine didn't answer. Frank headed down the hall. He stopped in the bathroom, flipped on the light and stepped inside. Lifting the toilet's lid, he found nothing. Maybe Cat went and just didn't leave the fan on long enough. It wouldn't be out of character. She never left the fan on long enough. Frank stepped back out of the bathroom, and moved down the hall. Grimacing in response to the stench's sudden intensity, he knocked on Catherine's bedroom door.

"Cat?" Frank repeated, starting to actually be concerned about her welfare, "Are you okay?"

Frank pushed the door open, and covered his mouth; not only because he'd hit a virtual wall of God awful stink, but because he was completely and utterly astonished. Catherine was laying, propped up, and on her side of the bed, entirely naked, with her ankles crossed as she casually flipped through one of her women's magazines. On Frank's side of the bed, spread parallel to Cat's hip, was a red and white vinyl table cloth, and folded neatly up in quarters. Upon the checked cloth was a clean white serving plate. Collected neatly on the plate, taking up most of its circumference, was an artful arrangement of a brown sauce drizzled, meat ball and sausage link presentation of Catherine's shit. Placed perpendicularly between Cat and her shit was an extremely large and pointy kitchen knife, and a dessert fork.

Reaching for her glass of wine, Cat regarded Frank coolly. He's too surprised to yell. That's good, she thought as she set her drink back down. Cat then took her magazine, curled the pages she'd already read under the pages she had yet to read, and then tucked the magazine under her left hip.

"What the fuck Cat!" Frank exclaimed as Catherine reached for her knife and fork, "What are you thinking!?!"

"I was thinking you wanted dessert." Cat answered flatly as she plunged her fork into a particularly juicy end of log and proceeded to cut it away with the knife.

Frank stared in disbelief as Catherine raised the chunk of shit at the end of her fork, and held it before him.

"So here." She continued, "Come and get it."

"Cat!"

"Frank. I decided that I've taken yours long enough. So, here's the deal: you come over here and eat my shit for a change or..."

"You're out of your fucking mind Cat!" Frank shouted.

"Lower your voice mother fucker." Catherine hissed through clenched teeth as she raised the large knife in her other hand, "Or-"

Catherine paused, taking three breaths through flared nostrils. Frank stepped back, his hands over his nose.

"Or," Catherine went on, "You can take what you need right now, and go back to your mother's house. You will find the rest of your stuff in boxes on the front step tomorrow afternoon. Don't bother leaving the key. I'll be changing the locks.

"But Cat-"

"But Cat nothing mother fucker! You see this mouth?"

Catherine brought the chunk of shit toward her lips. Then, as Frank looked on in bewilderment and horror, Catherine poked the morsel into her mouth, chewed and swallowed.

"Don't ever think that your dick is ever getting back in here bitch. Now go."

It was another five minutes before Frank slammed the door to her apartment for the last time, and Catherine was alone with her scat. She knew the laxative would be effective, but didn't expect it to work as quickly as it had. She regarded her feces for a moment, lingering her gaze along the composition of its arrangement. Fork still in hand; Cat used it to cut another piece, just one more piece. Cat smiled to herself as she recalled the look on Frank's face. She suddenly felt very good, though the taste in her mouth was as awful as the smell in her bedroom. But, her effect on the man was priceless. Are you nuts? It's not the kind of meal that can ever be even half bad.

She put her fork back down. Although; maybe, she mused, only to head off the thoughts before they got any darker. Again, Catherine looked at her shit and sighed as she ran a finger along one of her longer logs; pushing down the crinkles of it to make a lengthwise depression. She thought of Hannah again. Not that playing with shit or eating it reminded her of Hannah, but because being treated like it had. Catherine consulted the zodiac on her plate. Let me take this as a sign that I need to make a change. I think I'll start going to the gym myself.

2

Dressed in only her watch and a stainless steel collar, Hannah lay in the plush carpet of Chase's sowing room. Otherwise, she was permitted a thick pillow for comfort and Chase's tablet for passing the time. Her mistress demanded total silence during the latter hour of their after care, so Hannah used the time to study. Chase sat in her sowing chair, an extra cushion between her bruised bottom and the seat; her pain dulled for the moment as she busied herself with the crafting of a new costume for her slave.

She was a good dome, Hannah thought, though she had no comparison. But wasn't a bad doom or dome bad because they didn't dominate often enough or play hard enough? She was reading everything she could about the world of kink through her tablet, but she still didn't have an answer as to whether the pain was its sweetest through surrendering to it or through resisting it. She'd watched Chase climax under the effect of her weighted nipple and clit clamps. But still; seeing her tortured ecstasy didn't reveal anything about what sort of war raged inside her mind.

Hannah would pose the question to Chase when the time came. As for herself, there was an element to her autism that caused pain, physical anyway, to be not so painful. Chase's open hand smacks to her bare ass, the whacks with the wooden ruler and even the pinches of the staple remover, were phantom like in their intensity to Hannah, like tepid drops of rain. Or was it more psychological: the dom or dome coming with the pain as they resisted it and the sub coming with the pain as they surrendered to it because it reflected their scene personalities?

Hannah listened to Chase breathe softly as she carefully fished fabric under her machine's needle plate and feed. She checked her watch. Ten silent minutes more and they could talk. Hannah focused her attention to her tablet's screen. She opened the attachment of an e-mail from Chase; a copy of the mistress and slave contract. "I, Slave, with a free mind and an open heart; do request of my mistress that she accept the submission of my will unto her and to take me into her care and guidance, that we may grow together in love, trust and mutual respect. The satisfaction of her wants, desires, and whims are consistent with my desire as a submissive to be found pleasing to her. To that end, I offer her use of my time, proclivities, and skills."

It was a scene prop, of course, a toy to take as seriously through pretending as the two parties cared to. Once Hannah signed the document, it would still have no legal validity; unless of course it was submitted as evidence in a court of law, concerning some crime that occurred as a result of just such a relationship. Yet, it was a contract of consent, a signifying of a slave's commitment to the risk of scene play and the dangers of falling in love. If someone got hurt or killed, it wasn't because someone else played too hard; it was because they loved too hard or were hopelessly insane with jealousy or psychological hurt.

"Further, I ask, in sincere humility, that My mistress accept the keeping of my body for the fulfillment and enhancement of our sexual, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs. To achieve this, she may have unfettered use of my body any time, anyplace, in front of anyone; to keep or to give away, as she will determine." Hannah read her favorite part over twice. It was its fear factor that she found both tantalizing and repulsive. Yet she was perhaps more intrigued by the mystery than she was afraid of the consequences of future play, the unknown of it holding a certain appeal for her. Ultimately, it meant that Hannah would have to make her greatest leaps of faith; giving Chase the kind of trust she'd hadn't given anyone in a very long time.