Wolves which batten upon lambs, lambs consumed by wolves, the strong who immolate the weak, the weak victims of the strong: there you have Nature, there you have her intentions, there you have her scheme: a perpetual action and reaction, a host of vices, a host of virtues, in one word, a perfect equilibrium resulting from the equality of good and evil on earth. -- ClÈment, in Justine, ou les Malheurs de la Vertu (1791)
Thin the single shaft of light slips through the curtains.
Quicksilver smooth it slips along the floor, up between her parted thighs, over the soft white flesh, and carves an outline of breast and nipple before it stops at the apex of her collarbones, illuminating the soft white flesh of her neck.
I sit on the divan behind her. The brandy is swirled dregs coating the snifter as I take the final draw on a Romeo y Julietta # 3. I could sit here for hours watching her breathe. I am fascinated by her breath. Sometimes I give her a draw on the robusto so I can see the swirling eddies of her expended breath.
My jacket hangs heavy on the left side. Below the inner pocket, below the pen pocket, below the label that bears my name, lower, in the watch pocket is that which weighs my jacket down. A small simple coil of black wire.
She breathes slowly, steadily, peacefully, almost meditatively. Perhaps too peacefully. It is time to do this before she drifts to sleep.
The first time I did this with her she resisted. One look at the garrote and she blanched.
Garrote. The word originally referred to a Spanish execution method. A post and a metal hoop. A screw to tighten. It worked by dislocating the cervical vertebrae. The merciful version had a blade that severed the spinal cord.
The word later grew to be used for any strangling technique using a cord. Applegate knew the value of the garrote. He described its use in "Kill or be killed." Later that became the Army's Combatives manual. As late as the 1971 version the use of the garrote was included in the manual.
The new version fails to mention it. Edited away by a lawyer who has never smelt the sweat of an enemy.
No matter. I learned from the old way. Uncle taught me many useful things.
Never trust a single source is one of the things he taught me. And so I branched out. Research.
The first time she blanched. Ran. Fought. Resisted.
And so I chose the Italian method. First a smackdown. A slow steady systematic beating until she lay sobbing on the bed.
From behind.
Italian style I call it.
Manual strangulation accounts for about ten percent of homicide. The tools are close at hand. Ligature strangulation, with the rare exception of domestic cases typically involving lamp cords, is almost exclusively the domain of two classes in the West.
From behind, the organized crime assassin.
Italian style.
I slapped lube on her ass. I'm a sadist, not a psycho.
And as I pushed and shoved and slam fucked her tight hole, I felt her responding the way she does after a beating. Felt her respond to cock. Heard the moan. Felt her hips lift as her fingers found heated slickwet cuntflesh.
The wire was close by. It was easy to slip it around her neck.
Grip the ends.
Rotate my wrists outwards.
Tighten the cord.
I heard the wheezing as it clamped down.
And felt her sphincters tighten on me like a hand. Damn it took all I had not to come. That wouldn't have been right. This was education.
Tighten.
Loosen.
Tighten.
Loosen.
Again.
And again.
Until she came.
She doesn't resist anymore.
It's time to do this. I lay the cigar in the ashtray next to the snifter and look at her. If I'm quiet I can hear her breathe. I stroke an errant strand of her hair back into place. Her hair is beautiful, long, black silky. There are days I want to use it to choke her. But for tonight's purposes it is in the way.
"Lift it."
And she obeys, hands gliding up her naked flesh following the dancing light. She spreads her arms wide as she lifts her long black hair yielding, giving access. I stand in front of her, cock swollen, puling a fraction away from her lips. The cord goes around her neck easily.
This is my favorite way. From the front. Ligature strangulation, we know, is almost exclusively the domain of two classes in the West.
From behind, the organized crime assassin.
But from the front, the rarest, almost exclusively the domain of the sexual predator.
I know why.
Control. Infinite control. A rheostat of suffering. And you can see.
A little tension, a little panic.
Amp it up. Clamp down. No air. No blood flow. The look on her face is priceless.
She used to panic. That was before she understood the nature of sacrifice. I rub a finger in the dregs of brandy, dip it in the bowl of sugar, and anoint her lips. She sits arms holding her hair out of the way waiting to worship. The cord rests lightly, noting more than potential pain.
There is a sacrifice to be made first.
Applegate learned part of his craft in India, fortunately south of the Nebedda. The southern region adhered with greater strictness.
She demands sugar and anointing of the pickaxe. I press my sugar coated fingertip against the dull red ember of the dying cigar, brandy and sugar sputter to flame. The pain is pure, sweet white. Yes. Research. The old ways are best.
Caramelized sugar searing my fingertip, I push my hand down to my cock and smear the gooey pain on the tip of my cock. Sacrifice and anoint first.
I whisper as I draw the ends tight. " Durga. Bhowani Devi, Sati, Rudrani, Parvati, Chinnamastika, Kamakshi, Uma, Menakshi, Himavati, Kumari."
Her eyes are open, fixed on mine. She no longer resists. I clamp down and she gasps, sputters, then is silent.
Release.
?Breathe. Breathe"
"Don't breathe."
It is time. I push her back on the floor, mount her. Her cunt is hot, hungry, demanding. She puts her hands on mine and pulls them apart, choking herself. Her legs wrap around me, her nails rake and claw as she fucks back, wild, frenzied.
Arms, legs, tits, ass, cunt, whole body writhe fucking, moaning insensately screaming for more, then silent as I clamp down again with the garrote. And then the release and the writhing embodiment of creation and destruction.
Orgasm. Birth of pleasure. Death of passion.
We lay sweaty gasping locked in embrace.
Thin the single shaft of light slips through the curtains.
Quicksilver smooth it slips along the floor, up between our conjoined thighs, over the soft and hard white flesh, and carves an outline of chest and nipple before it stops at the apex of our collarbones, illuminating the sweat gleaming flesh of our necks.
Research. Worship.
The old ways are best.
