Metamorphosis

April 1

She is beguiling. The tightness of the short black dress she is wearing draws all of my attention to her breasts. Caught in a mix of jealousy and longing, I admire their impressive size, their perfect round shape and the snug cleavage they create. I want to put my face on top of them, underneath them, between them, feeling them make space for me while enwrapping me at the same time. I want to caress them, sliding my hands simultaneously along the outsides down to the bottom where they come to rest with all their weight in the palms of my hands. I want to lick and suck her coral red nipples as they soften inside my mouth, feeling their warmth, enjoying the comfort they offer.

Then my eyes wander upwards, meet hers, and my breath catches. An ice-cold stare ruptures my reverie and makes my body, my heart and my mind tense up. She doesn't hide anything, why should she? There is no need for her to seduce or delude me. I have been placed at her disposal to do with as she pleases. Neither hate nor envy can be detected in the way she looks at me. Nor do I irritate or annoy her. She is aware of my being there but instead of a person I am a commodity to her, her entertainment my only purpose. How I wish I could convince her of my qualities, make her sense how much my heart is pulling her towards loving me, and get her to finally feel pity for me.

With a stinging slap to my face she ensures that I understand the hopelessness of my situation. This slap isn't playful or reprimanding or passionate or excited. It is functional. Impersonal. Selfish. And so my t0rment begins. She laughs a hollow laugh when I squirm under her pinching nails; As my face disappears between her legs, my mouth becomes a tool, my existence a mere afterthought; It's not the colour, accuracy or lastingness of the welt marks covering my breasts, stomach and legs that keep making her add more but the mania she sinks into while battering me with canes, whips, whatever she can find; Derision accompanies her every move when she fills my holes with objects that she knows will tear me apart. All this she does in a sober, almost bored state. Only when she detects anguish or sees tears drop down my chin, a hint of excitement flashes over her face.

The germ of an idea appears, then grows. Transformation is thinkable.

Unbeknownst to her I would have to change her bit by bit. If successful, the dress softens around her shape, letting both breasts glide over its seams, allowing me to marvel at them to my heart's delight. Her hands cup my cheeks and chin as she blinks her eyes reassuringly and offers me a caring smile. The intensity of her pinching now builds slowly, giving me time to adjust to the current level of p@in it causes to then ready myself for the next. She notices the various parts of my mouth, my lips, tongue, teeth as they get to play between her legs affectionately, eagerly, teasingly. Each lash is her attempt to make me ask for more, push me further towards losing myself in the rush of gratitude for and faithfulness in her good intentions. My holes open up to her, accommodating whatever she presents with a curious grin.

And then I remember.

Endearment cannot spring from a heart steeped in bleakness. Benevolence cannot be imagined by a dispirited mind. The sparkle in my eyes fades as hope is replaced by disillusion. I drop my head and let out the deepest sigh, resigning myself to more t0rture and the ensuing emptiness.

Still, the seed has been planted. It is thinkable.

Edited April 1 by jinxed