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By Urs (fenrissilvern@yahoo.com)


It was a bad year. I hate when people say that. It sounds pretentious, it sounds know-it-all. Most people I know can't even remember so far back. But they still say shit like that. They always do. That way they sound wise and like they actually have a perspective on life and time and their position in it. Bollocks to them.

But it was a bad year. I'll remember it as a year of disasters. First, Lynn left. She walked out on me, lowercase style. There was no big Hollywood drama, no passionate scenes to mark the end of a relationship. Shit, it hurt me. I like to imagine I am not that easy to drop. Of course, we had our fights and we had our sessions of screaming at each other and it's safe to say the final months of our relationship were as dramatic as it gets. It's safe to say I was an asshole for most of that time.

But I make no apologies for that. I am an asshole, that's just what I am. And I didn't feel Lynn's constant bitching and sarcasm demanded to be received with anything else but a solid dose of well rehearsed assholism and I ignored most of her babble in the greatest tradition of unmoved males. Thank God for the X-box, I say. It would have been tough those last several months if it wasn't for Bill Gates's little box of dumb, earthly pleasures.

I think what made Lynn extraordinarily pissed was seeing me at 7 in the morning, in my underwear, unshaven, obviously under-slept, my gaze fixed at the screen, twitching at the controller like a spastic nine-year old. You know it is sad when you find a box of circuits designed by the richest asshole alive more exciting than a woman you actually invested great efforts in getting into your bed a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, they never stay in bed. Boys will be boys and we never learn.

I didn't even feel like having sex with her most of the time. Well, it comes with the territory, doesn't it? Move in with the most gorgeous kitten out there and find yourself tomorrow morning staring at your 59 years old neighbour with her breasts hanging down to her belly, wondering how it would feel to give them a little squeeze.

We did have sex, quite regularly still, because those were the rare occasions when I felt I actually had an idea what to do with her and she was wise enough not to bitch and moan about my horrible character features whilst doing it.

Not the greatest sex of all time, for sure... But still, it's your good will that counts.

And then she just decided that this was not the life she wanted to lead and soberly told me this was going nowhere and that she is leaving, that she will test her luck elsewhere. She didn't even accuse me of anything in the end. Ouch. It hurt. I had a mouthful of cereal and, quite honestly I wasn't even listening to her when she started speaking.

I seem to recall I was contemplating pros and cons of a corporate sponsored remake of 'Day of the Dead' and was getting ready to spend another day just lying around and doing nothing. And she just calmly explained her reasons as if she was speaking about a not very interesting TV programme she saw on cable last night. She never said it was my fault or something of the sort. And she made me feel so insignificant that, I swear, my throat tightened and I felt like crying for a moment right there. So she left, carrying only one bag and I realised that we never really lived together. It was an extended overnight stay for her, nothing more than that.

Then Gothboy discovered he was HIV positive. Stupid fucking idiot. I'd rip his head open and spit into his brains if there were any to start with. But anyway, the lifestyle of his will take care of everything sooner than later. Some people discover they have caught the ol' HIV and they radically change their life, look at those optimistic joggers at 6 in the morning, drinking healthy water and vitamin pills by a shovel, hoping to postpone the inevitable. Not Gothboy. I think he hasn't even sobered up once since he got the news.

He cried a river of tears that first day or so I'm told. I only saw him next day and sure as hell his face was red and swollen, but it might just have been the side effects of JB's or whatever other form of alcohol drink he's been consuming by a gallon for the last 20 or so hours. I was mad as hell at him. I wanted to come across as sympathetic and to give him the support he dearly needed, and all that, but he just pissed me off. He made me mad.

Looking at that asshole who effectively tossed his life away, fucked other people's lives up along the way and then could do nothing but drink himself stupid made me angry and bitter. I told him a million times, but did he listen? No. Ol' Jimmy Gothboy just shared his needle with whoever wanted to be his friend at that moment.

He always wanted to be a star, an autodestructive celebrity, to replace his white trash persona with an aura of danger, mystery and open possibilities. Hence his stupid stagename, hence his habit of offering anyone in hearing distance to shoot up with him. Nice one, Gothboy, nice one, you shot up your own fucking death, hope your veins feel happy now, you sod.

Honestly, I couldn't stay there for very long. If I did, I'd probably ended up smacking him and Laura who was crying uncontrollably. Too late for that, Laura, your big brother just used up all of his free coupons. She, of course never once thought about probably dozens of girls her age he passed that little virus of his to over the past weeks or months. She just saw her big bro trembling with fear, unsure what to do, not even daring to think about the options.

As one thing leads to another, I was actually more angry at Gothboy for fucking the plans we had together up. The tour had to be canned. Kevin wouldn't dream of hitting the road without Gothboy, Gothboy couldn't even be brought to his senses to discuss the possibility of him doing the tour, as his life was pulverised in one swift move. And I was angry at both of them.

I was looking forward to this tour. Martin really did wonders this time around and booked us with some excellent dates. We were to perform at really decent venues this time, sleep in hotels and get a handsome amount of money each if all goes well. And it would have gone well, the agency we were going through was far more professional than any of the enthusiasts that we have been dealing with in the past and the advertising and pure hype would have done the trick.

Hell, some of the dates we were supposed to be on the same bill with Matmos, my favourite gay couple in business. I was looking forward to meeting those guys. This tour could have been a good career move and healthy fun. But, no, Jimmy had to screw it all up because Jimmy needed his heroin addiction shared with whoever was the closest person at the time.

All this meant I had to find some work to do. Which depressed me beyond belief. I was counting on that tour to provide enough dough to last for several months, maybe a year. Without Lynn to spend money on, it could have lasted for a year. A year of cereal and applejuice and X-box games. It could have been great. Alas it was not to be.

But then there was Clarissa.

I am still wondering. Is this supposed to be some kind of cosmic-balance type of thing?

Clarissa...

It could have easily happened that I never met her. In fact I do have certain moments, usually late in the night, after smoking some green and listening to too much fucked up UK electronica/ vintage dub/ whatever ritual music I might happen to be into that week, moments when my paranoia breaks out of its bounds and I actively imagine, no, I KNOW that there is another me out there, another me who never met Clarissa, never knew of her existence. I feel sorry for this another me and I shit myself because I am afraid that one day I will wake up to discover I really am this other me.


"Now put your hands on the back of your head."

She does. Slowly. Just the way she knows I love. She manages to radiate a myriad of impressions at the same time. Obedience, uncertainty, acceptance... She places her palms at the back of her head and her fingers hug each other.

I circle around her slowly. I feel calm. There is no hurry, I am taking my time. She is standing in front of me, scared, fragile, obedient. Putting hands on her head makes her breasts go up. I like the way her armpits look in this position. They are very sexy. There's only the tiniest trace of black there, just to suggest that these are indeed regions of mystery and power on the map of her body.

She is silent and her eyes are lowered, she is staring at the ground. With her hair now dyed jet black and dressed only in stockings, suspenders and high heels, her hands up on her head and her gaze avoiding mine, she is a picture of beauty and strange innocence. A slut can suggest innocence. I made Clarissa my slut, I designed her to befit whatever my sexual tastes may be and through all that she remained innocent. I am as surprised as anyone. 33 odd years of on and off art and music and bullshit and this proves to be my only masterpiece.

"Now get down on your knees."

I am speaking in gentle soft tones. There is no need to shout or be aggressive. Clarissa knows that she will obey or be punished. She knows that beyond any doubt. Sometimes she chooses punishment. For now, she obeys.

It is not easy to get down on your knees with hands on your head and standing on ridiculously high heels. But she does that with grace. She has accepted her training with passion that surprised me more than I thought possible. She is eager to please me. She makes me drunk with power sometimes.

I play with the whip for a while, walking around her, speaking to her, explaining to her the level of her unimportance in the great scheme of things. Basically I am bullshitting. I am telling her how dirty she is and what she deserves for that. She is not allowed to sit on her heels, and she knows that, so she's kneeling, her hands still up, like a statue of a slave. She listens to me but speaks only when spoken to. Because those are the rules.

I never even had to impose those rules on her. Probably for the best, I'm not the worlds greatest master. In fact, I have never been a master, never thought I'd be one. I am still unsure if this is real me, if I am not just embarrassing myself. But Clarissa makes everything worthwhile. The embarrassment never felt so sweet.

"Do you understand?" I ask.

"yes." Her voice is soft and it never stops giving me hard-ons.

"But you still don't want to change your ways, do you?"

She takes a couple of seconds before she replies. Then it comes out, even softer: "no."

"Even though you know I will do all sorts of things to you? Why? Why do you want to be treated like an animal? Why do you want to be humiliated and punished over and over again?"

There is no answer for a couple of seconds. Then she raises her eyes and looks into mine. A true master would punish this blatant disobedience. But I am just transfixed by her gaze, enchanted and the best I can do is stay calm, keep my face a mask of stone.

Finally she whispers, "Because I want to please You. "I'm Your slut. Your animal to humiliate and insult. Your whore to fuck and use and discard after. You don't need her anymore because You take pleasure in fucking Your slut, pumping her up with Your semen and throwing her away like a used condom."

I am clutching the whip harder as she speaks. I am also becoming harder. This is what we were born for, I swear, there is nothing that makes more sense in life than this.

But I grin: "You say all the right words, but, tell me, why should I believe you, slut? How do I know you mean all this? How do I know that indeed, deep inside you do not harbour hope to be free once again? How do I know you are not dreaming of fucking someone else? Of being a slut for whoever might want to fill that dirty cunt of yours?"

And she looks positively hurt by my words, the darling. Her black hair dances graciously as she is quick to shake her head, to convince me.

"no, please", her voice almost on the brink of tears, "sir Nick, You are the only one this slut wants to please. my pleasure is unimportant, it is Your pleasure that I have been born to provide."

And try and not love the girl who says things like this, kneeling on the floor, exposed, dressed like a porn actress.

"But, you'd still fuck someone else, is that true? If I requested you to do so?"

This is a repeated game we play. I am not sure I'd want her to be fucked by anyone else at this point, but the very idea makes her breathing go heavy.

"I'd do anything to please You, sir."

I know she would.

Slowly, I touch her face and shoulders and her armpits with the whip. It looks convincingly like a horse whip jockeys use, even though it's more like a toy replica. But it can provide pain. But there is time for that.

I touch her face, her eyelids; trace her eyebrows with the tip of the whip. I touch her lips. They are painted red. I order her to open her mouth and she obeys.

If there is anything more erotic than this, then the universe is indeed an impossible place. Seeing Clarissa close her eyes and lick the whip is entrancing. She uses her tongue on it slowly, like it were an extrasensitive male organ. I can see passion on her face, surrender, ecstasy.

"Clarissa, I have never seen a woman act like such a slut before." I tell her. And this is not just part of the game. It is the truth. I have never seen a woman so surrendered, so focused on being obedient, so lost in her sexuality, so aware that she is being observed and so turned on by it.

And she takes the whip into their mouth, she starts sucking it and she starts making noises, moans and sighs. I know that down there she is already dripping wet, but there is time.

I hit her over the breasts and her little scream is a mixture of surprise and pain. But I know there is excitement in it.

"Did that hurt?" I ask

"yes.", she whispers.

"Do you want more?"

Silence...

"...yes."

"Are you sure? You want me to hit you over your tender breasts with a whip?"

"yes.", this time the answer comes more quickly, it has more conviction.

I hit her again, harder this time. The whip leaves red marks on the white skin of her breasts. Her scream is half-muted this time, because there is no surprise, just pain.

I watch her nipples becoming incredibly hard. This never ceases to shock me. She's loving it. She is in pain. She is in heaven. I am becoming more and more aroused as well.

"Why? Why do you want that? Why do you want to be hurt?"

And she looks at me again. I see tears forming in her eyes.

"please," is the only thing she manages to whisper.

I carry on. After a while, her breasts are painted red, covered in marks. I make her suck the whip, the tool of her punishment, the source of her pleasure. I hit her again, over the face even. Fucking Christ, never in my wildest dreams I have imagined it would be like this. Her tears. Her screams.

I need her to suck me right now, I need it really bad. And I grab her hair and force her mouth open. There is no hurry and she will be thoroughly and methodically punished and humiliated over the next couple of hours, but right now, right now I need to feel her warm, dark mouth embrace my cock.

Her face is hot as I rub my cock against it and her eyes are wet with tears that I spread all over her face, along with her mascara.

"Open your mouth wide, Clarissa, I want to put my cock in." Her mouth is already open, I forced her to open it with my fingers and I know it is as far as it will go, but I still have to say this.