ILLO TEMPORE
This is an excerpt from my upcoming femdom noir novel.
She had a bell. Found it round the house, an old bronze servant bell. She would sit at her desk in front of her laptop, typing furiously. And when she yearned for tea, rang the bell.
Daniel barged in. Stood respectfully before her, and looked eager to please. She liked to order him about, and reduce him to a state of mental and physical undress.
“Stand there. Look in the mirror. Turn around.”
And he did it all. He warmed under her commands, like a toy that’s finally found it’s purpose: being used by the Goddess of strife. She caressed his contours, dug her fingers in his flesh. Hurt it a little. Checked the merchandise. It was fun to squeeze a reaction out of him, so sometimes she’d say harsh words like:
— you like being my puppy? You’re nothing but a puppy. I’ve a husband.. And a puppy. And she walked behind him but observing his reaction in the mirror. His brief flash of pain. Mental pangs of horror, under the surface of his doe eyes. Then she’d grab his hair and pull his head down towards her. He was taller than her on heels.. But somehow it felt like it was him the smaller. Between her hands, his flesh, his feelings, became clay to play with.
— what will you do to me?
— to you? I don’t know. I don’t know.
One day he was gone for three days. She spent them on the sofa day dreaming with the music blasting. Her incoming tidal waves of desire hard to control, steamed windows through which the world disappeared. She texted him: when you get back, remove your clothes and wait for me in the living room. So on his train journeys back home to her, his heart beat like a caged animal trying to get out; and she danced through the house to appease the tension. Passion making her dizzy with the lust of the kill; she felt a ravenous desire to take, to consume. Violently.
These soul dimensions were in her before, but not like this. Something like a vague feeling of feline predatoriness; graceful internal lusts. But this boy was catnip. Thoughts of his docile Prince Charming silhouette were a red flag to the beast within. Incensed and alive. Fireworks exploding, constellations of lust configured in her mind, impossible to resist. Luring her on a path of delirious excitement, a tunnel. And she knew it was wrong. But she was on an island. At the edge of something. So it didn’t matter. You don’t say no to these things. You’ll lie on your death bed sorely regretting if you do.
Meanwhile, the world was turning. Really through the ignored old television sets in the house came news of an upcoming apocalypse. A bit of this, a bit of that. More deaths. When Daniel arrived, before carefully undressing and folding his garments in a neat pile next to the sofa, he texted Eris that university was closing down. Eris got the message from across the wall in the bedroom. Shrugged it off. Somehow reality wasn’t very real. The murmur of evening news was more like a prop in her theatre of Eros.
He was a flower that blossomed just for the right girl. She was the right girl. She played Pulp from her phone while he waited in the living room. English band, independent songs of despair and love and all things romantic.
