Chapter Thirteen – Sandro.
Did she remember? Did she remember what remembering was?
Time was irrelevant; there was no past, no future. Just this one moment – stretching tighter, winding up to a point of breaking, but never breaking. Her skin rippled as her spine arched. Hunger consumed her, but it wasn't for food. The gasping throats of her flesh needed filling of a different kind. Gaping holes they were, not just the obvious ones, but every hole she had, down to the tiniest pore. She wanted them stretched to the limit, needed them to be drowned in boiling liquids.
Come was the word... cummmmmmm.
But she never came, although she was always almost there... always almost. Her cracked nails clawed, her mouth drooled. Night fell, and darkness swallowed her. Cold stone chilled her burning skin.
***
For Evelyn Connors, moments of clarity were rare. They shone like steppingstones, strewn across a sea of darkness. But clarity didn't give her peace of mind. All it brought were pangs of reality. And the bitter taste of doubt.
Steely-blue eyes were forever on her mind, forcing her to forget the little refuge inside her, the tiny tranquil paradise beyond the treacherous pool of black ink, spreading. A row of steppingstones might lead her there. She had to find her way back, fight for it, didn't she? But the blue eyes made it so much easier to slip off the stones and drown in the black pool of forgetfulness. They forced her little girl's feet away from her sweet inner haven into nightmares of rape.
Whenever she fell asleep, an army of demons invaded her mind, feeding on her blinding lust. Time and again they dragged her to pinnacles of ecstasy, cackling and screaming while she tottered on the brink of a climax – just to dump her again, and throw her into the stinking maws of frustration.
In those moments of cruel clarity, ugly dreams paraded before her mind's eye. For a very short instance, she was stripped of her perverse arousal – making her sink into a cesspool of shame. Ah, shame – eluding sign of sanity. But, even crueler, those clear moments brought happy memories too, though scarce and far between. They grew dimmer with time: a naked girl racing through wind and woods and springtime sweetness – a girl on a huge throbbing creature, rising and falling between her bare thighs. Those moments were desperate pinpoints of innocence, lit up behind her eyelids. Through all her misery she tried to hold on to them, cursing the futility of her efforts.
When time (time?) went on, the slippery stones of awareness became smaller. They sank under the surface of inky waters, engulfing her feet. Eventually, she would sink and drown, she knew, and the thought should frighten her, but it didn't. After all, not going through those moments of clarity anymore, meant no more nightmares, yes? No more painfully sweet memories.
She had no choices left but to trust the woman, had she? In the end, the blue eyes would save her from these cruel moments. Wouldn't they? She herself ran back to the woman, remember? She submitted herself to her on the sundrenched driveway. She'd sunk on her bare knees into sharp white stones and offered her hairless body, her mindless soul. And the blond Norse goddess had gracefully welcomed her back. She'd accepted the excuses Evelyn laid at her feet – the true ones mixed with the half-lies. And most of all, she'd touched her shaven head and lifted the numbness off her senses. Life had returned when the woman's tongue opened her mouth while cool hands cupped her face. Feeling her body respond, she'd wanted to melt into her. She was her guardian angel, wasn't she, saving her from hell? Ah, yes, maybe. But would she save her from purgatory?
As righteous angels do, they claim their vengeance.
"Of course, you're welcome back, little darling," the woman had said, sweetness oozing from her words, "but you'll agree that I'll have to punish you." In the bliss of her return, the words had hardly registered. They'd been wrapped in marshmallow, dripping with honey. Muffled by the storm in her head, Evelyn didn't know if she should rejoice in being welcomed back, or cringe with fear for the added promise.
Had there been a choice either way? The woman's words sounded – reasonable. Evelyn had run off, offending her, betraying her hospitality. And now she took her back, didn't she? Back in her home of fragrant meadows, where sweet horses roamed. She'd been saved from her zombie life, her limbo existence and allowed back into a place echoing with an innocent child's memories. So, there was only one choice left, really, wasn't there?
To drown in the black ocean and be accepted.
***
In her private hell of jingling chains and scary nightmares, Evelyn recalled her first clear moments. She'd found herself chained in a large, empty stable. The straw was clean, and a warm scent of horses hung around her. For maybe days (and nights) she must have lain there, alone, on and off visited by hellish cravings – cravings she could only endure, while praying not to lose her mind. A cold metal chastity device denied her even the sad and lonely comfort of rubbing her sex.
She got food and water in a trough, never seeing who brought them. Once, sleeping, she woke up from a sharp sting in her thigh. It seemed to start a fire that smoldered and spread. The heat entered her cunt; then it circulated all through her body, making her shiver with a bittersweet desire. From that day on a thirst grew, a well-known aching thirst that she didn't know how to slake.
The third (fifth? eights?) day the door opened. Dressed in an elegant gown, the tall blonde goddess with the calm blue eyes entered the dusky stable. It was the woman she'd crawled back to, bald and defeated. That same woman now made her shrink back with awe. She smiled, though, as she said she came to visit her loving pet before leaving for a party – just to see how she was doing. Evelyn, her head buzzing, groveled at her towering heels. She knew she begged for something, anything, but her words were garbled, her voice cracked with disuse.
"It surely would improve our conversation if I understood what you're saying, sweet slut," the woman mocked, pushing Evelyn away with a patent leather shoe-tip. "I guess there must be some begging in it, somewhere." Then she turned on her stiletto heels and left.
Perfume lingered in the air.
A next clear moment must have been quite a few days later. The air had turned stuffy by then, the straw smelling of piss, and worse. Clouds of flies buzzed and landed on the her grimy body. It had been a while now since she swapped at them or even noticed their presence. Her world had shrunk to a circle, its diameter defined by the length of her chain. She slept most of the time and spent the rest in a stupor.
Once in a while, sudden stings shook her out of it. She supposed they were injections that induced awareness and nightmarish dreams of impossible intensity. In one dream she heard a growl from the darkness behind her. Rough bristles chaffed her skin. Hands (claws?) pulled her up and spread her ass cheeks. A stiff cock filled her bowels, burning its way inside. Overcome with helpless arousal, she just closed her eyes and moaned as her body responded. Anything to get off; anything now. She humped against the burning spear. The lights were low, but over her shoulder she saw a garish snout and mean little eyes of... what was it – a giant boar? An ape? A demon? Its tongue dangled between its jaws. It whined in high-pitched ecstasy. Then she felt the flooding of boiling semen.
Insanely aroused, she almost came.
It must have been a nightmare – not real for sure. How else could there have been these ghosts on another night of enhanced clarity – these black in black, hardly visible silhouettes? They rose around her, grunting and laughing. Then they drowned her in steaming rivers of pungent urine. Vomiting, she again tottered on the edge of an inconceivable orgasm.
Whenever a hot needle induced the mind-fucking combination of arousal and clarity, Evelyn croaked for forgiveness. But no one seemed to hear but the monsters of her nightmare, and they only growled. So, she slept a lot; and she dreamt a lot. Her mind turned to mush; her memory became a dark, deep tunnel. At the far, far end of it shone a pinpoint of light. It was the bright Italian summer sun, for sure. The sweet hot light that had welcomed her when she returned, in the humming car, an eternity ago – a sun that had wrapped her in its sweltering embrace as she knelt in front of the woman.
But the light dimmed, and the tunnel fell in upon itself.
