I love the sound of pain. Screams, sobbing, the crack of leather, the clinking of chains. And its smell. Sweat, urine, burning flesh. These are the things that console me since my fall from grace. That comfort me in my exile from paradise. I'm a man with simple tastes.And my belly is growling tonight.
Not a virgin, of course—those are so hard to find these days. But uninitiated to the taste of leather. That's almost as good.
I found a nice little morsel shivering on the corner, with her kohl-lined eyes, Manic Panic hair and tattered fishnets. (Don't any of these kids have the least bit of imagination?) She looks much better with the clothes ripped off, the kohl running down her cheeks, and the red welts on her back and tender buttocks.
I pause to catch my breath, sip my Bordeaux, and let her wonder where I am and what I'm planning next. I love blindfolds.
Oh, what am I in the mood for now? She shivers in the cold dampness, her hands cuffed to the bar hanging from the ceiling, her feet shackled to the bar that spreads them apart. I look at all the whips, paddles and canes hanging on the wall, but nothing strikes my fancy. I want something low impact, but intense.
Needles. Yes, needles. . .
I shake the box of needles, and her muscles tense. She flinches as I run my hands over the welts—hot, pulsing with pain. The screams have long since turned to hoarse whimpers.
I pinch a bit of flesh over her left breast, slipping the needle through slick as glass and mercifully quick—I want her to relax, tell herself it's not so bad. Give her a false sense of security before I shatter it again.
Am I sadistic? Oh, yes. And without apology or remorse. It's a perfectly natural instinct. Haven't we all seen how the cat toys with its prey before the coup de grace?
No blood is drawn by the first needle, but there are plenty more to come. The next five needles each go in successively slower, and her face contorts with pain. She gasps with each penetration, and flinches with every sound and touch around her. A light sheen of sweat covers her body, and it isn't warm in here. One drop of blood trickles down, weaving between her breasts, before dropping to the floor. I trace the path with my tongue. Blood and salt.
We are far from done—I want to break my personal record today. Could there be enough skin on her waif-like body to hold 500 needles? A thousand?
I guess I'll just have to find out.
Now I mix the slow, excruciating piercings with quick little bee stings, so she doesn't know what to expect next. That's the worst—not knowing what's coming. That's what some call psychological warfare.
That's what I call a mind fuck.
And no one does it better.
Her left breast is full of shiny silver now, but there is room for one more. As I pull her nipple roughly, she sobs in fear of what she knows is coming.
"Oh love, we're just getting started. . ."
Her scream echoes through the darkened room as I thrust the 16 gauge steel through her engorged nipple. What a lovely sound that is. But it needs some accompaniment.
Perhaps a little Bach? No, too perky. Wagner? Too grandiose. Ah, Beethoven. He weaves the perfect balance of beauty and pain, a most sublime combination. Yes, a love sonnet by Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata. How appropriate.
After all, it is about love. And I love her, at least at this moment. That's all that really matters isn't it? Isn't that purer than the feeble vows of eternal love that barely last through the honeymoon?
She does not scream when I fill her right breast with needles to match her left. If I looked under the blindfold I would find her eyes glassy, her gaze drugged. Endorphins. She's flying high now—higher than anything on the street will take her.
The only other scream I get is when I pierce her clitoris, but it is weak and trails off as she loses consciousness. But only for a moment, till I wave the ammonia capsules under her nostrils. Always be prepared.
I would have made such a great Boy Scout.
Imagine the badges I could have earned.
I remove my muse's blindfold and she looks at me with such love. Love I'm sure she has never felt before in her life, and never will again. She will come back again, and beg me for more, like all the rest that linger in my shadow. I take them where no one else can. I love them like no one else can. I teach them the beauty of the pain, the freedom of submission, the transcendence of the corporal.
When I am finished, 1100 needles form an intricate design on her pale hide. But wait, I'm not quite done. I wrap strands of silken thread around the needle hubs in her arms and back, and tie them to the ceiling and the floor, weaving an intricate pattern. Like angel wings. Now she has really learned to fly.
Such art. Such pain.
Pain is art.
I am the Michelangelo of Hell.
About the Authoress:Diana Price is a photographer and a writer of horror and
dark eroticism. A former journalist and public relations
whore, she is new to the world of fiction and poetry.Diana is working on her erotic horror novel The Rape of
Angels, and a photographic series on religious/Catholic
fetishes called Whores for Christ. The excerpt from The Rape of Angels in this issue is her first published
fiction. Visit the Garden of Unearthly Delights.
About the Artist:
Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.
