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Postulating Petronilla

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Fossy

SEXPIOGENTUS
For those of you that recall the 6 Act Series written and published by my delightful writing partner @Peony and I, "Journey of a Pain slut ...", you will realise that it is almost 2 years (yes in those Pre-Covid days) when that saga began. Although it continued unabated for over 6 months, it was still so long ago that both @Peony and I felt it was time we wrote together once more. This first post contains a piece from both 'The Guy' and 'The Girl', but from here on in we will each post our own pieces in turn. Who knows what this might grow into, but for now our intention is to create a stand alone tale for your enjoyment. My delightful Little Girl is a busy, busy bee and so responses and additions may not always be quick, but if you enjoy what we do then make sure that you are 'watching' this thread, so that you can be certain not to miss out ...

Historical Note ... Petronilla de Meath was a so-called Irish Witch in the 1300's. Accused of being an accomplice to her mistress, Alice Kyteler, in the death of her four husbands, she was arrested and charged with witchery and black magic. Her trial was one of the first ever to be recorded for Witchcraft and the outcome, following a series of savage floggings, was that she was found guilty and would be burned at the stake ...

A little more reading for those that are interested ... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petronilla_de_Meath


KEY WORDS: stalker, student, naked, torment, torture

POSTULATING PETRONILLA ...


The Guy


I need you.

I didn't realise it until I saw you two weeks ago, walking down the street with those eyes. You were a vision, a kind of epiphany for me. I had been alone for so long and I was just fine with everything. Settling in, accepting just being alone.

Then you.

The way your hair moved in the wind and your bright eyes shone. Your hips moving in sweet rhythm, constrained as they were beneath the fabric of your always tight jeans.

Pia is what they called you, and it was easy to find out that stood for Peony … you were named after a beautiful flower, how apt, but I preferred Pia. It’s much more chic … eminently more fuckable.

When I saw you in the library I smiled, but you didn’t even make eye contact, just kept your head down, reading, ignoring, whatever. But it wasn’t you that fuelled my heightened lust, not as such, it was the book that lay unopened by your side, its cover staring up at me. The picture sowed the seed of what I wanted … from you, and quite possibly what you desired from me, though quite frankly, what you wanted was not on my list of priorities in any way, shape or form.

It feels like I have known you forever, but it was only two short weeks, three days, six hours and seventeen minutes since we shared a table in Starbucks on the High Street. I will be forever grateful that there were no empty seats that day and we had to sit together.

“Do you mind …” your smiling face and pleasant voice had asked as your gaze directed itself at the available chair.

Mind? Fuck no, I didn’t mind at all? I would be delighted. But my response was actually limited to a polite nod and a brief “Please, help yourself.”

But you had already made your mark on me, and I spent the rest of that time nursing the dregs of my latte and glancing surreptitiously up at you. Your face, your hair, the tight t-shirt that spread so deliciously across your chest …

That was the first and only time I had engaged with you. For over two weeks I had followed you, learned about your movements. Until the library encounter. A student living alone. Post grad. A Masters girl … maybe. Intellectual … quite possibly.

And that book. The one in the library laying unopened by your side.

‘The First Witch Burned at the Stake’ was its eye-opening title, and the cover picture of a half-naked woman screaming out her agonies as the flames tore away her clothing has remained embedded in my mind’s eye ever since. Well, actually that’s not quite true because, in my imagination, I invariably find the anonymous, figure on the book’s cover replaced by you … Peony, Pia, the girl who might just possibly become turned on by this sort of provocative violence …

Oh, how I hope so.

I had done my research. I knew that the woman on the cover was Petronilla of Meath. A poor innocent from the thirteenth century, accused of witchcraft and stripped, publicly flogged and executed at the burning stake. Was this tome somehow related to your studies or was it waiting to be read in the masturbatory solace of your bed, in a more social setting?

Please let it be the latter.

So now here you are. On your way home from evening study. It’s not late, but it is dark, and you are alone. I slip silently from the shadows so that I can stalk you in a manner that is as casual as I can muster. I don't have a lot of experience in this kind of thing, but it's easy enough, and too dark for you to have semblance of knowing who I am.

Your tight ass sways and arouses my senses as you walk slowly, provoking my desire, and all I have to do is follow a few dozen feet to your rear. I don't even know what I'm nervous about. In the library I was invisible when I stood in front of you with a wide, genuine smile. Why would you see me now, walking slowly behind you expressing nothing but an anticipatory smirk on my lips?

No. You're not going to see me. Especially with this rain, as it begins to fall heavier now. You're not going to feel how hot my blood is … not until my skin is on yours. This is probably what you want. You want to be followed home, have your fantasies forced upon you and be tortured savagely by a nameless, faceless man.

Tonight, you're going to get what you want.

PP Image 01.jpeg


The Girl

It was Emma who brought me here.

Slammerkin and feminism and my female me. And right now she's in the bag over my shoulder along with photocopied pages of Holinshed and Seymour on Irish Witches.

But, in the middle of my dissertation, it's Emma who's really responsible.

And it's Emma who's sent me 'Looking for Petronilla'.

My mind's fixed on that cover in the library and that image. But we don't know her really. Just that she was young and spoke Gaelic and Anglo-Norman and was a poor girl with one white shift, filthy now as she stands chained to her stake, a shift that was a gift from her mistress, Dame Alice Kyteler. Other than that we know nothing about her, but I imagine her to be pretty and dark-haired.

Like me.

And now the rain runs down my forehead and along my nose, dulling my senses, and the dark swallows me and my boots echo on the soaking pavement slabs and somewhere behind me I somehow feel I'm not alone.

Home's near. My room and my bed and my laptop and maybe a message from Esme and maybe we'll meet up later. And maybe not.

Maybe I'll write up my notes and I know what I'll be thinking. I know where my fingers will drift and the picture that will not go away and I know I won't want it to.

There really is someone following me, I'm sure ...


To Be Continued ...

Footnote - The 'Emma' referred to by 'The Girl', is Emma Donoghue, the writer who wrote the novel 'Slammerkin'.
 
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Fascinating, certainly a good theme for our Forums. I've not come across Petronilla of Meath, I'm surprised I've missed her in all my seeking for such stories, and Co. Meath isn't far from me across the Irish Sea, though her ordeal was in Kilkenny, a bit further distant. It's indeed a very early case of its kind: note that she was condemned for 'heresy', which was a source of horror and anxiety to the church at that time, being a witch wasn't, in itself, a crime in the eyes of the church yet.
 
Fascinating, certainly a good theme for our Forums. I've not come across Petronilla of Meath, I'm surprised I've missed her in all my seeking for such stories, and Co. Meath isn't far from me across the Irish Sea, though her ordeal was in Kilkenny, a bit further distant. It's indeed a very early case of its kind: note that she was condemned for 'heresy', which was a source of horror and anxiety to the church at that time, being a witch wasn't, in itself, a crime in the eyes of the church yet.
A premise spawned from the academically distinguished mind of my co-writer :)
 
The Guy


Your steps are more even now, slower if anything, less rigid in posture and movement. We are getting close to home. I have watched you enter and exit the apartment block before, but tonight I'm looking forward to being inside, for the first time ... inside both it and you!

The rain eases a little, but my hoody feels wet. Yet the downpour was a good thing because it disguised my presence even more, if that was needed at all.

I have a little bounce in my step and a smirk on my face that is rapidly turning into a smile. I pause in the foliage to the left of the entrance way because I can watch you go in from here and then move around to the side to see into your ground floor flat.

It's dusk enough to lurk like this, and so I observe you through the window and confirm that no one else is home waiting for you. Tonight, Pia, it will be just you and I. But right now, I am so excited that I stop caring about the details. I just stare at you through the partially closed blinds, never taking my eyes off you for one second.

Just one room, a bed-sit. That’s all you have. A double bed, queen size I think because you haven’t got the space for a larger one. Then a corner desk with a laptop and piles of books. You even have a small cooking space … I know the layout, I’ve peered in many times while you were out.

PP Image 02.jpeg

From my current vantage point I cannot see you, not quite. I know that you are on the bed, maybe even under the covers, keeping warm, reading about the burning witch, how she was stripped and whipped … does that excite you like it excites me?

I watched you change out of your clothes. Touching myself when the tight denim fell away from your body and the shirt was pulled up over your head. You wore no bra, and your panties were pink, lace girl-boxers. I liked those, loved them in fact. But even tonight I didn’t get to see your nipples … that is a pleasure I have yet to enjoy.

It’s the best foreplay I've ever had. Better than small talk, buying a drink for a girl, listening to her aspirations and expressions. Being forced to concentrate on you without having to talk, is so much better. My cock strains to the point that I consider releasing it, but I know better. Not here. Not yet. I know that if I did, having convinced myself that I just need a quick touch, maybe a jerk or two, I will end up pleasuring myself to the end. I can’t do that. No Pia, my little cunt, tonight I am saving it all for you … you lucky, lucky girl.

Time passes by quicker than I could ever imagine. It's been a while. The rain started up again, briefly, but now it has stopped, leaving everything damp, dulling even more the sound of outside noise.

I see you again through the gaps in the blinds. Fuck. Your sleep shirt is cropped, pulling away from your breasts as the firmness of youth pushes at the thin fabric. It rides up your back as you bend over, the tightness of your skimpy sleep shorts wedged into the provocative space between your ass cheeks.

“Oh Pia, you teasing little whore,” I whisper to no one but myself. By the time you turn out the light, and twist the blinds fully closed, I've taken you a dozen times in my head.

But now it is time for the main event …

I wait thirty more minutes to give you time for your eyes to close and your breathing to regulate. Checking my phone, I see it is almost 10 pm, and my motor is revved and ready to go whether you are ripe for it or not.

I see you in my mind’s eye and I sigh. Oh, my beloved little thing, did you read more about the witch tonight? Did you touch yourself as her clothes were ripped from her body” Do you wish it was you?

I quickly make my way to the keypad entry point. Memorising the number into the block had been easy, but the real skill came in silently jacking your lock with my credit card, in such a way that doesn’t disturb a hot young girl, alone in her apartment in the dark of night.

I can smell you as soon as the door opens. Your scent … and then I hear the soft sounds of your exhalation … I have an aching hard-on for you Pia, and now I am ready.


To Be Continued ...
 
The Girl



Home. In my room, my little cosy room. Desk light on, laptop on, coat off. Hair towelled. Whoever it was… well, it doesn’t matter. I’m home. Fuck, it pisses me off. Every day there’s someone. Staring at me in the library, glancing as I cross the street. Always the same. Always that invisible leer. It’s always the fucking same. Fuck them all.

Esme’s messaged. Busy. Extra hours in the pub, all welcome now that lockdown’s done. Never mind. Cute photo. She knows what I like. Maybe tomorrow. Kisses.

A coffee and slump down and pull out my papers and think. That book cover makes me. That story. It’s not letting go of me. Men. Always the same. So Alice was too rich and too powerful and they decided they had to destroy her. But they couldn’t. She outsmarted them all. And vanished. Like a ghost. But they had to destroy her ghost. How fucking Derridian of them. Or perhaps they were just channelling their inner proto-Shakespeare or Marx. Afraid of the spectre that was always going to haunt them. The powerful woman. The cervix and vulva. Our lovely ‘lack’. If only they knew what fun we have…

And Petronilla was their perfect ghost. Not even her name. Given to her when her family sold her into servitude. What was she really called? What did she look like? Like me I think. A little like me.

I pull off my jeans and shirt. Faintly touch my nipples. I like me. I like to touch me. And Esme…

Lie back on the bed. They destroyed her. Alice’s ghost. By making her the Devil. By turning her into a spectre who danced with the Devil. By witching her.

And I suppose that made sense. With their Norman church. Their oh-so-male church. Not her’s. Not the Irish one, with its softness and fairies still dancing on the sidhe with their long fair hair and gold bands and princes and wind in the reeds and mist. Their church. All men and coldness and priests and the Bishop of Ossory. And still… In the town they all walked, Irish and Norman, with the souls of the departed. And the bells tolled and the monks walked in line, heads bowed, to pray in the chantry chapels.

And the Devil was real. For the Normans and for Petronilla. And if they made her a witch then they created something powerful and something they feared and poor Petronilla, I think she knew that…

Time to sleep. Or time to touch. And cast about for dreams. In my sheets. Just the power light on the laptop for company. And my fingers. Touch me. And imagine. Her. When they took her. In a cold cell, in a basement. Lost, confused, but somehow aware. How they stripped her and chained her and threatened her. How she slept on the filthy straw. How the morning light made her eyes blink. How they took her to the chamber they had readied. How they showed her the instruments. How they questioned her. How she stood, dumb. But somehow knowing that through the pain to come she would become powerful. She would master them all. She would be remembered. How they tortured her. How did they, I wonder? The strappado, perhaps? Thumb screws. Horrible thumb screws. Hot irons? I think I would be hanging from the strappado. I imagine the feeling of pain and nakedness and I stroke myself.

It's always been this way for me I think. I always imagine. Myself. I always have. Naked and in pain and… I imagine myself like her. I feel myself coming. I feel my back rise. I grab at my breast. I’m gasping for my little death. For a moment I’m her.

Then I’m me. On my bed. In my bedsit. And I’m not her. I am so very very far from her. And I wish…



To be continued
 
Wonderful writing from both @Peony and @Fossy ! I’m hooked.. and enjoying the stream-of-consciousness style, and the way the contemporary narrative interlocks with the fourteenth-century tale... is that derridean? :confused:There’s another new word.. yesterday’s was “bustlebondage” :thinking:
I've not come across Petronilla
Not easy finding a subject outside of @Eulalia ’s ken! Congratulations for that also. :ARMS1:.
 
Wonderful writing from both @Peony and @Fossy ! I’m hooked.. and enjoying the stream-of-consciousness style, and the way the contemporary narrative interlocks with the fourteenth-century tale... is that derridean? :confused:There’s another new word.. yesterday’s was “bustlebondage” :thinking:

Not easy finding a subject outside of @Eulalia ’s ken! Congratulations for that also. :ARMS1:.
Derridian...after Jacques Derrida, enfant terrible of 'deconstuction'...and ever so fond of uncovering hidden binaries...and ghosts lurking in texts...
 
The Guy


I stood silently, inhaling the smell of her. I traced my fingers along the back of her small two-seater couch and cushions. My heart was beating like a drum but my breathing remained controlled. I heard a noise and stopped dead in my tracks, a creak of the bed. I needed my little slut to be asleep when I surprised her. It was not part of the plan to have her see me before I am truly ready, and things must go according to plan – my plan!

I turned towards the desk where the blue glow from the Broadband Hub offered scant light to the books scattered around the open laptop. It was there, the story of Petronilla … and she had marked certain sections with little yellow adhesive arrows.

I swallowed hard as I touched the cover and let my finger trace around the image of the naked witch’s body, writhing in agony as her flesh was consumed by the flames of her supposed sin. Fuck … I was rock solid in all my phallic glory!

Another sound. A creak, a sigh and then a contended breath. Was she dreaming, my little bitch? Was this very story in her head right now?

I opened the page marked by the first arrow and slipped the faded white sheet nearer to the glow of the Hub to make out the words that the small sticky post-it was pointed at.

‘We are damned my sisters … The accused moved slowly, unveiled to the waist, her unkempt hair blowing in the slight breeze. She had a heretic cross stitched to her naked chest, and as she neared the place of her torment people blessed themselves …’

I read the words once then twice, and it was all I could do to stop myself from emitting a quiet groan, so erotic did I find the sight described in that short narrative. But even more stimulating was the fact that my little girl quite obviously found the same words somehow significant … that thought caused an already aching shaft to pulse with need.

My breathing was temporarily suspended as I gazed down at her. My girl, my slut, my body … lay on the bed curled on its side, facing away from me. Pia, her nubile shape covered only by a thin sheet, dark hair contrasting against the white pillow. A floorboard creaked as I moved nearer and she moaned, squirming a little but, crucially, she remained fast asleep.

I reached out with tension fuelled care and pinched the sheet where its edge curled over her softly rising chest. As I eased it down, she continued to take slow, deep breaths, but my own breathing quickened as I ogled the slow reveal in the flesh.

The sliding sheet revealed her naked back where the cropped top had ridden upwards, then the smooth curve of her fabric covered buttocks and finally the totality of her sleek, lithe frame.

As I stared my lips went dry. I ached to spread her legs and fill her completely.

My finger touched her toe and then slowly, very slowly I began to trace her calf, over her knee and up her thigh until I reached the bottom hem of her tight, skimpy shorts. A quiet moan emanated from her gentle throat as my tender ministrations no doubt invaded her dreams.

Outside the storm had switched up a gear and continued unabated as a loud thunder crack exploded into the night sky.

PP image 03.jpg

To Be Continued ...
 
The Girl

…that I was her.

Stripped and chained and frightened. My mistress Alice has fled. I am alone in this awful place. And I know they will come for me.

And they do.

I touch myself, my bed is warm. I am calm. I am waiting.

They come and raise me and demand things of me in the Latin tongue that I do not understand.

They shout. They accuse.

I am afraid.

“Confess vostre sins! Cea vo iés un heretic!”

I am standing, bound and naked. They touch me. Touch my breasts and my cunny.

I touch myself, my bed is warm. I am calm. I am waiting.

She answers them:

“Cha do rinn mi dad! Chan eil annam ach seirbheiseach.”

(I did nothing! I am just a servant.)

They spit. They do not speak her language.

They touch her more roughly.

They pull at her.

I touch myself. I want this.

They pull at her hair. They pull her legs far apart.

They bring a brand. They burn her hair from her cunny.

They tell her what to confess. That with her mistress she used ointment to make wooden sticks fly. That they flew across the country. That they met with the Devil. That He had intercourse with them. That they took him in their mouths. That they cut the throats of cockrels at the cross-roads. They tell her to confess.

They tell her how they will torture her. With ropes and with pulleys and with water and with fire and with whips. They show her the instruments.

“Tha eagal orm mun phian, ach chan eil eagal orm romhad. Cha do rinn mi dad.”

(I am afraid of the pain, but I am not afraid of you. I have done nothing.)

She knows what will come.

I touch myself. I am imagining her. In this moment I want to be her.

It’s the 27th of October. In eight days time they will kill her.

I want this. I want to be her suffering.

They start.

They fix her wrists behind her back. They raise her. Her body arches. Her head pushes down. Her arms twist backwards. Her feet leave the stones of the floor. She moans.

“Confess!”

“Faodaidh tu mo ghortachadh, ach chan eil eagal orm”

(You can hurt me, but I am not afraid.)

She knows that she can be strong. That this is the start. That in the end they will make her confess. That she will suffer.

But now she knows she can breathe into her pain. That she can embrace the pain. That the pain she suffers is a mark of their weakness. That she is the stronger. That she can be their witch. That she can be the one they fear.

I want this. I want to suffer like this. I touch myself.

I sigh.

I want to keep this dream. I am thinking of the games I play with Esme. How we sit, legs entwined. How we fix clips to each others’ nipples and lie backwards until they tug at us and how we close our eyes and come together. How we run sharp knives over each others’ softness. How we kiss. How we enjoy our pain together.

I want this.

But, in my half-sleep, I sense something. I feel something.

I am dreaming.

It’s cold on me, like a blade.

I am dreaming.

It’s touching my skin.

I am dreaming.

It’s pressing just too hard against my side, running along me. Finding the warmth of my breast.

I think I am dreaming.

It’s circling my breast, circling my nipple. Pressing.

I think perhaps…

I am not dreaming.

I am here. And so is someone else….



To be continued…
 
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The Guy


I lick around my lips and run the sharp blade of the knife down the side of Pia’s neck.

She shivers as her heavy eyes flicker.

“Wakey, wakey …” I whisper with deriding intonation as my little bitch hums a barely discernible moan.

“Do you like the way the cold steel feels my sweet little girl, huh, do you?” The point of the knife just barely presses against Pia’s shoulder, enough for her to feel it, but controlled enough to leave no mark.

“Oh,” is all she says, or rather utters, when her conscious mind returns.

“No, fuck please … what?” Confusion abounds, her eyes fluttering closed. It all adds to my feeling of power over this gorgeous creature.

Without another word I drag the blade down her arm until it catches on the bunched material of her sleep shirt, the smallest, most delicate drop of scarlet left behind in its razor-sharp wake.

"You would be wise not to open that slutty mouth of yours to scream girl, do you understand?"

Pia offers up a desperate nod of her head and gasps, the intake of breath forcing her cleavage to expand from out of her sleep shirt while her dark eyes widen.

“Do you like this my sweet little bitch,” I say with a mocking undertone as I press the point into her flesh and bring the blade to rest over her heart.

“Please …” She repeats.

“Because I was under the impression that you wanted to get fucked sometime tonight?”

“Oh God …” Her choice of exclamation turned me on. Should I take her clothes off before I cable-tie her or make their removal part of the process? Decisions, decisions …

“Spread yourself.”

“What?”

“Now, you little cunt. Do it!”

The raising of my voice and the speed with which the knife point navigated its way to her throat made my sweet little captive move quickly, but very carefully, into a position whereby she could easily have star-fished the sheets.

With a chuckle I cable-tied her ankles wide, leaving her thighs open, the beginnings of a soft folded pussy lip visible from the small gap in her sleep shorts, now that she was appropriately positioned.

“Good girl,” I complimented her as I secured both of her wrists either side of her head with the thin, hard plastic ties.

She was docile, I knew that she would be. The shock, the terror, my blade at the ready … all contributory factors in rendering her inactive.

Or maybe it’s simply the fact that she wants what it is that I have to offer.

Now that her body is bound and open I move my attention to her abdomen. With a whimper her stomach contracts and makes it easy for me to roll down her shorts just a little, not so much as to reveal her secret, tight little slit, but enough to reveal the thin, dark line of neatly trimmed pubic hair that adorns her, what appears to be, otherwise shaven mound.

I move the knife point around her smooth skin, up and down, back again, writing, inscribing but never cutting … not yet.

“Tell me what I just wrote.”

“What?”

“On your body with my knife.”

“Fuck. Did you just cut me?” Pia strains her neck deliciously to see and then collapses back with an outward sigh of relief.

“Pia is my whore …”

“What the fuck …” she says with an amazing resilience underpinning her words given the precarious nature of her predicament.

“That’s what I wrote on your body.”

“Sick fuck!” There it is again … spirit, sass, character. I love it, and I will love breaking this little bitch even more.

I run the blade along Pia’s inner thighs, first the left and the right, watching hungrily at the way her breathing becomes more ragged. My cock twitches with anticipation … there’s something amazing, satisfying, about having power over a little angel like this.

Standing I move away to her desk and pick up the book.

“Interesting?” I hold the tome up for her to see. “Do you like reading about the tortured girl who was burned as witch and a heretic?”

I pause as her head slowly turns towards me.

“Does it turn you on, reading about the things they did to her? What about it turns you on the most Pia? Does it make you wet?”

I hurled the book at her head and shouted the words again. “DOES IT MAKE YOU WET LITTLE CUNT? DOES IT? TELL ME!”

PP image 04.jpeg


To Be Continued ...
 
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Wow, I’m generally uncomfortable with rape fantasy and knife play, particularly in modern settings, but this is very erotic. And obviously Pia’s apparent desire for it really helps. It’s definitely borderline for my comfort zone but the way you two write is keeping me thoroughly engaged. I’m all in (and obviously am most identifying with Pia as is my usual modus operandi to identify with the victim)

Great stuff, @Fossy and @Peony (first read of your work, Peony, but I’m loving what I have read so far)

Thank you!

:fighting02: :applaudit:
 
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Wow, I’m generally uncomfortable with rape fantasy and knife play, particularly in modern settings, but this is very erotic. And obviously Pia’s apparent desire for it really helps. It’s definitely borderline for my comfort zone but the way you two write is keeping me thoroughly engaged. I’m all in (and obviously am most identifying with Pia as is my usual modus opera Di to identify with the victim)

Great stuff, @Fossy and @Peony (first read of your work, Peony, but I’m loving what I have read so far)

Thank you!

:fighting02: :applaudit:
Great, as always, to have you on board 'Loin. You will discover, to your liking I believe, that this becomes far more than 'just' a rape fantasy :) ...
 
The Girl



“No, fuck please…what?”

How? I’m alone, but I’m not. There’s a blade against me. A man against me. A man that I somehow know…

He tells me what he wants. “Spread”

It’s not an invitation.

"How the fuck?"

I think through my still dreamy sleep. I can kick, or…

I do as he asks.

He’s tying me to the bed. Spread out. What the fuck is happening?

He’s cutting my night-clothes away. Making me naked. Running the knife around me. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to be sliced open, right here, right now.

I feel the blade on my belly. Tracing.

He reads it out. “Pia is my whore

Fuck, he knows my name. This is so fucking sick.

He’s going to kill me.

He steps away. He says he’s going to fuck me.

He picks up a book from my desk. That book. He looks at it and at me.

He wants to know. Do I like it? Do I want it? Does it make me wet? He shouting at me.

I’m thinking ‘yes’. It makes me wet. I want to be her...

I need to tell him about her. I need him to stop what he’s doing…

I’m thinking that if I told him he’d do it to me…

“Please, please, don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you.”

He pauses, just enough…

I tell him. It’s about feminism. About creating ‘the other’. About a worthless girl finding agency. Like Anne de Chantraine[1] like Mary Saunders[2], like Grete Minde[3]. He’s no idea who they are. Why should he know? I try to tell him. That not resisting, but owning their suffering, that being the tortured girl, that being tied to the stake – that it’s a sort of becoming. That they challenge misogynism by facing down the accuser. By becoming the witch they fear. By becoming ‘the other’ and staring into the eyes of the man.

He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t.

But he listens.

And with widening eyes, I wonder.

I’m thinking: am I afraid? I am…But… Maybe I can become her. Maybe this is why he’s here. But…what about me? Do I want this? I think somehow I do. But all of this? And what about me and what about Esme? Do I really want this? With this man? He’ll kill me. Do I want this?

The problem is that in some way, in some part of me, this is just what I want…I’m afraid of the pain, I’m afraid of dying. I am afraid of everything. But part of me wants not to have any choice. To give up my choice. To demonstrate my power by surrendering. To be someone’s to use, to torture, to kill. I think I’ve always dreamt of it… I can’t believe I’m thinking it… But I am… And when I look at him I somehow think he knows…




To be continued…



[1] † 1622, burned at the stake after prolonged torture, Warren-le-Chasset,France, aged 17
[2] † 1764, burned or hanged, Monmouth, Wales, aged 16
[3] † 1617, tortured and burned at the stake, Tangermunde, Germany, age not known
 
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