KurvyKate
Magistrate
I posted this on DA but as an experiment. I wondered if I might not write it, as in simply imply the idea rather than actually risk offending anyone sensitive enough to be outraged and bring the DA purge gestapo crashing down on me. So does it make sense? If anyone fancies it, take it anywhere you want. We're all friends on CF right? Have fun...........
The Governor was never a likeable man, avaricious, ambitious and arrogant, he’d arranged for himself the life he craved at our expense. He paid his mercenaries, his gangsters, to frighten us and divided the town into those who where with him and those who were not. We paid to be allowed a precarious, resentful peace. He was fat, uncouth and it must be said, profoundly unattractive!
So why did she marry him, this elegant, graceful creature? Was his power so terrifying that she sought sanctuary at its heart, safety where others could not go? But what safety was that? There were rumours, tales of depravity and horror hinted at in hushed tones, gleaned from traumatised young women too scared to tell the whole truth. Had his soldiers come for them while they slept?
I have her now. I have the Governor’s wife, his whore, her who sold herself. She will be judged but not by due process in the legal sense because we had no law, simply the Governor’s “protection”, something she’s now denied.
Where is he? Goodness knows. He’s fled, escaped, run if the slob he was could carry himself that fast. It only matters that he abandoned his claim to the town when the simmering discontent we suffered flared into open rebellion. We have the town now, and I have her.
She’s standing in my house, making her choice. Yes, I have given her one, not unlike the one her husband gave us. She’s shackled by the blacksmith’s worst. He took no money for his work and gleefully riveted the iron collar round her slender neck. Her delicate, privileged hands are trapped, her arms folded in the small of her back in cuffs secured by more rivets to her collar.
Her cascade of curls, the glossy mane her wealth maintained is now dull from the smoke and filth she was dragged through in the blacksmith’s shop, burnt from the fire he needed. Oh how the mighty fall! She’s still dressed, dirty and torn but sartorially intact, but I’m sure she knows time will not be kind to her. Should she stay or should she go? That’s her choice.
“Why did you marry such a brute my dear?” I ask her, meaning why would an angel as lovely as you suffer such degradation in his bed? “Was it worth all that money?” I ask, standing close to her, really close. I want to intimidate her by offending her and I’m standing toe to toe, face to face so I can see right into her defiant eyes. We‘re breathing the same breath, I can smell her as I call her “Whore”.
Her teeth are clenched, she’s trembling, through fear or hardly tempered rage? She says nothing. We stare at each other, I can feel her breasts brush mine gently as they rise and fall.
“What did he do to you?” I ask, noticing flecks of soot in the sweat on her face. Her eyes narrow. Is she suffering from pride, is she denying defeat, gambling with threat? I am threatening her.
“You wanted it didn’t you, that ordeal his evil perversion put you through?” I taste her breath, heavier now. Have I touched a nerve? “You slut.” I growl at her, watching for the flicker of understanding she won’t be able to hide.
To stay is submission, to accept a new subjugation. Does she need to hate me first, does she want to? Is he playing some dreadful game? To leave is to take her chances outside, to risk being ripped apart by the fury of those her husband oppressed.
My house is on the market square, the adjacent taverns are filling. Soon the drunkards will prowl the darkness and every one knows who she is. “Are you hoping your hero will step in to save his damsel in distress when they’ve pinned you to the ground spread wide open?” I ask her, taunting her with that certain fate. What would I find if I reached between her legs now? “They’ll thrash you raw first.” I tell her. Oh I see what that means to her!
Then I open the door out onto the square and she turns to face it, contemplating her choice for a moment. She leaves but not before we trade another heavy look into each other’s eyes. “You think dignity will save you?” I ask as she passes, terrified yet upright. I‘m astonished to see her take her place in the centre of the square to wait for her future to unfold. What does that last look back over her shoulder mean, watch me suffer? Is it “You did this to me”? Is she making her choice mine?
How long will I leave her out there?
The Governor was never a likeable man, avaricious, ambitious and arrogant, he’d arranged for himself the life he craved at our expense. He paid his mercenaries, his gangsters, to frighten us and divided the town into those who where with him and those who were not. We paid to be allowed a precarious, resentful peace. He was fat, uncouth and it must be said, profoundly unattractive!
So why did she marry him, this elegant, graceful creature? Was his power so terrifying that she sought sanctuary at its heart, safety where others could not go? But what safety was that? There were rumours, tales of depravity and horror hinted at in hushed tones, gleaned from traumatised young women too scared to tell the whole truth. Had his soldiers come for them while they slept?
I have her now. I have the Governor’s wife, his whore, her who sold herself. She will be judged but not by due process in the legal sense because we had no law, simply the Governor’s “protection”, something she’s now denied.
Where is he? Goodness knows. He’s fled, escaped, run if the slob he was could carry himself that fast. It only matters that he abandoned his claim to the town when the simmering discontent we suffered flared into open rebellion. We have the town now, and I have her.
She’s standing in my house, making her choice. Yes, I have given her one, not unlike the one her husband gave us. She’s shackled by the blacksmith’s worst. He took no money for his work and gleefully riveted the iron collar round her slender neck. Her delicate, privileged hands are trapped, her arms folded in the small of her back in cuffs secured by more rivets to her collar.
Her cascade of curls, the glossy mane her wealth maintained is now dull from the smoke and filth she was dragged through in the blacksmith’s shop, burnt from the fire he needed. Oh how the mighty fall! She’s still dressed, dirty and torn but sartorially intact, but I’m sure she knows time will not be kind to her. Should she stay or should she go? That’s her choice.
“Why did you marry such a brute my dear?” I ask her, meaning why would an angel as lovely as you suffer such degradation in his bed? “Was it worth all that money?” I ask, standing close to her, really close. I want to intimidate her by offending her and I’m standing toe to toe, face to face so I can see right into her defiant eyes. We‘re breathing the same breath, I can smell her as I call her “Whore”.
Her teeth are clenched, she’s trembling, through fear or hardly tempered rage? She says nothing. We stare at each other, I can feel her breasts brush mine gently as they rise and fall.
“What did he do to you?” I ask, noticing flecks of soot in the sweat on her face. Her eyes narrow. Is she suffering from pride, is she denying defeat, gambling with threat? I am threatening her.
“You wanted it didn’t you, that ordeal his evil perversion put you through?” I taste her breath, heavier now. Have I touched a nerve? “You slut.” I growl at her, watching for the flicker of understanding she won’t be able to hide.
To stay is submission, to accept a new subjugation. Does she need to hate me first, does she want to? Is he playing some dreadful game? To leave is to take her chances outside, to risk being ripped apart by the fury of those her husband oppressed.
My house is on the market square, the adjacent taverns are filling. Soon the drunkards will prowl the darkness and every one knows who she is. “Are you hoping your hero will step in to save his damsel in distress when they’ve pinned you to the ground spread wide open?” I ask her, taunting her with that certain fate. What would I find if I reached between her legs now? “They’ll thrash you raw first.” I tell her. Oh I see what that means to her!
Then I open the door out onto the square and she turns to face it, contemplating her choice for a moment. She leaves but not before we trade another heavy look into each other’s eyes. “You think dignity will save you?” I ask as she passes, terrified yet upright. I‘m astonished to see her take her place in the centre of the square to wait for her future to unfold. What does that last look back over her shoulder mean, watch me suffer? Is it “You did this to me”? Is she making her choice mine?
How long will I leave her out there?