You see other women being called. The night times sing with their whispered stories, a chorus of solipsism and wonder at the release of surrender. Absence and isolation are cumulative and soon your body has forgotten the intensity of his touch, but you cradle the memory inside you. Bruises fade but your nerves are perfect guardians of your experience. When your fingers steal between your thighs, feverish and knowing, you bite back your cries as you press your face into the pillow, humping your hand until the orgasm washes through you. It is an act of maintenance like shaving your legs, something analgesic but unsatisfying for long. He has taken something from you which you cannot generate within yourself.
In your dreams, the pieces of you which belong to him glow with the need to connect, to surrender to his will.
You wake up tasting him on your lips and the sweetness makes you want to curl up and weep. If this is a test, then it is one of anhedonic torture, denial without release, supplication without reward. The world becomes cold and bland in its comforts. You’re fed, clothed, free to bathe, respected and acknowledged but you are forever apart by his absence. The phone goes unanswered and he does not reply to your messages.
He has not taken on other women. You’ve asked, disappointed at how effective a flagellant you are when someone hands you the means to hurt yourself but the thrill of him, the way he handles you, fucks you with an urgent mastery has left its mark on you. His silence, his absence becomes a thing of cruelty.
Your name. The effect is immediate, jolting you into sudden and savage action before you regain control of yourself. The thrill is too acute for anger, but you keep a morsel of your anguish to serve to him, already incorporating it into the baroque play of your fantasies made flesh. You’ve denied yourself, made your desires to be something awkward and shameful but in this world, they are as natural as the tides and the setting sun.
The thought excites and frightens you in equal measure.
You follow the lights to the room but one of the woman bumps into you as she strides from the opposite direction. You fall back, remaining upright as the piece of paper appears in the damp cradle of your palm. She looks at you with warning eyes, full lips pulled back over her teeth as she shakes her head and carries on past you.
The paper is in your hand and you glance down at it, the small neat letters written with such intensity. It is the size and dimensions of a fortune in a cookie.
HE’S NOT THERE. SAY YOU’RE SICK.
Tears brim in your eyes as you look at the paper in your hands, reading it over and over, dumb with shock. The path of lights flash in irritated bursts as you swallow the piece of paper. Had he written it? You imagine the rough press of his fingers against the pen, the paper and ingesting it allows you to keep him close to you. Memories and imagination are fertile ground for the woman he’s made of you, but flesh and control are his seeds, planted with deep roots within you.
You stand outside the door and press your palm against the control panel. It opens with a soft hiss onto darkness.
The voice, altered to a shifting pitch, sourced in a cultured, controlled accent makes your bowels turn to water.
You put your hand to your stomach and gulp.
‘I’m not feeling too good. I have turned up but I don’t want to play.’ You say.
His laughter is the crack of a stained glass window being shattered. Discovery coats the back of your throat like you’ve bitten into an abscess but you rein yourself in.
‘Neither do I. Come in.’ he says.
Your legs are hollow but you totter inside. The door closes behind you and clicks with a pneumatic rasp.
Thinking of him is a betrayal, but it is armour against the silent, cold darkness of Sir and his judgement.
It begins with a chair being slid behind you and an instruction to sit down. Despite the darkness, sweat gathers at the base of your spine and the backs of your knees as you sit down.
(Offered up in response to people asking for more episodes. Previous episodes can be found here)