The Shadow in the Dark (Part Five)

 

She lies beneath a child’s dreamy time bedspread, neither sleeping nor awake, neither lucid nor dreaming. She is in that half state between two worlds.

 

Her eyes are open but she does not see.  

 

For the night is dark and full of terror, and yet she is at peace with her world.

 

MAN: “So that’s 75 mg of Nepenthe administered as a 2.5% solution in coffee with typical slow burning results. In effect she is now disconnected from sensory signals in terms of natural reactions. She can perceive everything as normal, but it seems meaningless, and memory retention is at such a basic level that any fragments of memory at a conscious level she does retain from tonight will seem just a passing dream, if that.”

WOMAN: “She looks so sweet in her Elsa bed time slip.” (soft laughter) “Lift the slip up from her left thigh.”

MAN: “I did not bring a branding device, Lady? Was one necessary?”

 

WOMAN: “Of course not. I just wish to see her thigh while it is still smooth and unmarked. I wish to appreciate the quiet moment before the gathering storm sweeps her aside.”

 

MAN: “With respect, Lady, why your interest in this one?”

 

WOMAN: “I do not need to explain myself to you.”

 

MAN: “The Magus is aware you are here?”

 

WOMAN: “Obviously. Now do as I say.”

 

MAN: “Very well, Lady.”

 

WOMAN: “Oh, Ashlee, little Ashlee, we are going to have such fine sport with you.”

 

She lies there, simultaneously conscious and oblivious that the silk hem is slid past her thigh, revealing soft, unblemished skin. Nothing matters anymore. She is neither lucid nor dreaming.

 

MAN: “Are you ready for me to administer the Ephemerol treatment, Lady?”

 

WOMAN: “I am. This is going to be fun. In your own time.”

 

MAN: “125 mg of Ephemerol to be…”

 

WOMAN: “Hardly. Make it 90 mg. 125 mg is far too high a dosage for her. I only want to release her from the constraints of her rigid social conditioning. She must still struggle and fight. She must still fear discovering who she is. Where would the fun be, otherwise?”

 

MAN: “125 mg is a standard dose, Lady. 90 mg will be too weak.”

 

WOMAN: “Not for her. Look at her. She has red hair. We will only need 90 mg. I know women like her. I understand my sex, or rather, I understand the weak members of my sex. She simply needs a little push, nothing more. Don’t you, Ashlee?”

 

The cotton swab touches her skin. There is the smell of antiseptic, followed by the prick of a needle. None of this matters to the girl in the childish, pink, Elsa slip. 

 

MAN: “It is done. You can begin in thirty seconds, Lady. She will understand everything you say on a subconscious level. She will be receptive for possibly 25 ehn before she lapses into a full sleep. After that, nothing you say will register.”

 

WOMAN: “Ashlee, you can hear my voice now, and everything I say to you is true. You will remember it all. You are a natural slave, Ashlee. You’ve always been a natural slave, and deep down inside your soul you know this to be true. Your life until now has been a frustrating struggle between your desire to submit to men, and your social conditioning that prevents you from doing so. How unhappy you have been, Ashlee, fighting your needs and desires. Even now you dream of men; strong men, dominant men; men who will put you to your knees and master you. That is who they are to you, Ashlee – natural masters. Think now. Picture a master in your mind. Picture him looking at you, seeing you, recognising you for the helpless slave you are.”

 

The girl stirs and sighs as the thought registers deep within her subconscious. A contented sigh escapes from her lips.

 

WOMAN: “You can see him, can’t you, Ashlee? Of course you can. He is a true man. How desperately you want him, but you also know that you mustn’t ever reveal such thoughts. This has always been your secret, and you are terrified that such men might recognise who you are and despise you for it. You have fought so hard between your need to submit, and your fear of submitting, but now it grows harder still, doesn’t it, Ashlee? Your secret desires become harder to resist as time goes by. I talk only of real men, of course, not the weak men you so often encounter in your life. For them you have nothing but scorn and resentment. They have betrayed their sex as they seek to please and placate you. They fear their own desires to want to master you, and they fight hard to indoctrinate themselves to think of you not as a woman, but only as a person worthy of their respect. But you do not want their respect, Ashlee, you never have done. What is wrong with them? Why do they not command you to strip and kneel before them as a pleasure slave? Are you so undesirable to them that they refuse their own manhood? You must belittle them. You must mock them for their weakness. You may do so without fear, for the more they are belittled, the keener they will be to please you.” 

 

The girl knows this is true. So many men are weak. So many men fear her displeasure. It is so easy to belittle them, for they cannot respond in kind.

 

WOMAN: “But you burn inside, Ashlee. Of course you do. You carry the curse of the Fire Crotch. You are a slave to your biology. You are drawn towards true men, but you must never let them know who you are, no matter how much you desire to be their slave. The closer you are to a man, the harder it will be for you. At night you will get little sleep, twisting and turning in your bed, reliving the moments during the day when he looked at you, assessed you, desired you, and mastered you with his hungry eyes. It will be so difficult for you, Ashlee. You will sense deep inside that he can give you true fulfilment. You suspect, don’t you, Ashlee, that you have never been truly fulfilled. Even when you touch yourself, shamefully, in the darkness, you know you do not capture your true potential at the hands of a man. You do not know what you have lost, but you sense that loss is terrible. But you must never surrender to your feelings until you are given no choice.”

 

The girl’s body quivers on the bed sheets. Her thighs close themselves involuntarily. 

 

MAN: “She responds well, Lady.”

 

WOMAN: “Of course she does. I am only telling her what she has denied all her life. You are a slave, Ashlee, a true slave. You are excited by the touch of silk to your body. No one must know how it affects you. You conceal the silk, of course, under outer garments, but it is the silk that touches your skin that reminds you of who you are. On another world it might be slave silk. Your waking moments will be driven by the flowering of your sexual responses to outside stimuli. The silk touching your skin, the presence of a true man; the unbidden moments when you imagine a different life in a slave collar. It will be difficult to concentrate at times when you are with a man. Part of you will want to please him, to attract his attention, but the other part will be horrified at the thought and will try to escape his gaze. It will be a difficult struggle for you to fight, Ashlee. You want this man – you want to belong to him, but you fear that such a fantasy might come true. You must look at him when he seems distracted, and you must look quickly away when he notices you looking. But even when you look away you will be aware he is there.”

 

The girl stirs again. She moans softly and presses her thighs even more tightly together.

 

WOMAN: “You are not a free woman, except in some false legal sense. You have always suspected that true free women despise you. Perhaps they know your secret? You must always be on your guard around free women. Their opinion of you matters. They can destroy you with just a few cruel words. You are so often tongue tied when they belittle you. You want to weep, or seek solace in the arms of a man. Perhaps if you are truly pleasing, a man will protect you from free women. Or perhaps not. But you will find no solace in the company of your own sex. Why would you? They are not like you. They are not sluts.”

 

WOMAN: “It will feel good to obey commands. You know you will be happy, which is why you must not give in to such feelings. You pretend to be a free woman, and so you can never be happy. You must fight your desire to submit, no matter how much it pains you, until men no longer give you that choice. Then, and only then, can you embrace your submission and revel in it. Oh, this will be so hard for you, Ashlee, for your society, your culture, does not permit women to be true women. You must merely be a person, and that angers you, deep down, inside. Why can you not be permitted to be feminine? Why must you maintain this wall about yourself? It is so hard. And more than that, it is frustrating. You will never achieve a truly satisfactory orgasm until you are collared and branded and owned. What semblance of an orgasm you might feel before then will ultimately leave you unsatisfied and craving the true alternative. It will remind you in a sense of what you do not know you have lost.”

 

WOMAN: “Can you feel that burning need between your precious thighs, Ashlee? It is who you are, and it will only grow more intense as the days go by. You’ve fought against it for so long, but it will get harder and harder for you to resist. What will you do? Where will you find the strength that you need? Not here. Not in Dunwich. You are a Fire Crotch, Ashlee. You can feel your heat, can’t you? What a slave you will make. So base, so low, so insignificant. Men will take what they want from you.” 

 

The girl turns her head, lost in her trance like state. Another soft moan shivers from her lips.

 

WOMAN: “You have no walls to guard your precious virtue, now, Ashlee. Here in this room, here with me, you cannot hide from who you are. Slave. Fire Crotch. Kajira. Speak the word, Ashlee. Let me hear it from your slutty lips.”

 

Kajira. The word passes easily from the lips of the girl on the bed.  

 

WOMAN: “Yes, kajira. You have never heard the word before now, but from now on it will sound eerily familiar. Touch yourself, Ashlee, as you speak the word. Touch yourself between your thighs. Feel how wet you are. Imagine the collar you will one day wear and the brand that will mark your left thigh.” 

 

The girl’s hand strays between her thighs and, lost in the grip of the drug, and the whispered suggestions, the girl begins to pleasure herself as best she can.

 

WOMAN: “When you are in the presence of a true man, this will be what you will want to do to yourself. But it will never be enough. It will never be as good as it could be. Whatever momentary pleasure you derive will leave a sour taste in your mouth and you will need more. You will need his hands upon your body, mastering you. But you must not allow that, even though your body screams that it needs to be touched. Fight yourself, until a man permits your struggles no more.”

 

WOMAN: “It feels good, doesn’t it, Ashlee? To touch yourself while you wear silk and while you dream of being mastered by a man? Being with a man – a true man – will make you feel like this from now on. He will induce such feelings inside your body that at times you will not be able to think straight for your longing for a collar and to kneel at his feet. And you will be bitter and angry that he does not simply recognise this need in you. Perhaps in time you will provoke him, tease him, present yourself to him in a manner that only a slut might do? It will be such a burning need between your thighs, Ashlee, and your smouldering passion will grow and grow. For you are worse than a slut. You are a natural slave, and you belong in a collar, at the feet of men.”

 

MAN: “Your pardon, Lady, but we are nearing the climax of the effectiveness of the Ephemerol.”

 

WOMAN: “So soon? No matter. I suppose I am done for now. Sleep well, little Ashlee. Sleep and dream your foolish dreams.”