Need
part 2
By Palinurus
April 18, 1999
He beat me. The son of a bitch beat me and raped me, and I can still taste the bile in my throat. I loathed him, I would have ripped him open if there has been an inch of give in those straps he used on me. But I'm no Houdini, so he was safe. And of course in the end I gave in.
I think I was afraid of him from the beginning. He is a powerful man, a charismatic man, one of those who seem to always know more than anyone else, and the limits of whose knowledge are anyone's guess. It was unclear what his role was in the investigation, but he clearly was in charge, and his judgement was deferred to; nothing was ever final until he had approved it. Although everyone knew him, he was a shady presence.
The first time we met in person, in the smoking ruins of the house of yet another victim (the third I think), he sized me up, gave me the full once-over without even trying to be inconspicuous about it. As if it was his right, or his duty, to study everyone he worked with like a racehorse at an auction. I resented it; but underneath the resentment I felt flattered. He focuses completely on what he does; and when he focused on me, it was like being lit by bright sunlight in a gray world. It felt like being chosen; and I was grateful for the privilege.
Standing next to me a few minutes later when I gave him my interpretation of what I'd seen so far, he suddenly reached out and put a hand in my neck. He watched my reaction intently; it was the look of a doctor watching for the knee-jerk reflex. But his hand was warm, soft, gentle, and it told me how much he appreciated me, how much he would invest in me; and no matter how clinical the look, it almost made me glow. That one touch would have been enough to make me work like a dog for him, to revere him, to kneel down for him, to let him take from me whatever he wanted. It reached deep into me and pulled out unerringly what he seemed to get out of everyone: devotion.
I didn't see him for a while, but even so, I slaved. I worked inhuman hours, I followed up on any lead, no matter how tenuous, and I barely took the time to eat. It is true that I kept to myself, to the point where I went out of my way to shed anyone who was unfortunate enough to be assigned to go with me. But I made progress, in a case that had been stagnant for almost a year.
Then he summoned me, and berated me for working alone, for avoiding the rest of the team. I had expected it, and it did not upset me. I argued; I was certain I was doing good work, and having someone tagging along would slow me down. He listened, but didn't change his position; if I kept working alone, I'd be taken off the case.
I tried for a few days, but it was infuriating. When I almost missed a vital cue because of the distraction, I went back to working alone. He chewed me out again, as I had known he would. And I promised I'd behave, this time without even intending to keep my promise. Eventually I caught the man he'd been chasing for over a year, and triumphantly handed him over; and I was happy. I was the dog that dragged the fox out of its lair. Or... well.
I don't know what I expected when he summoned me to report to a little cluster of buildings in a place I'd never heard of. I certainly expected praise. I may also have expected a reprimand. I definitely did not expect to be jumped by a bunch of heavies and tied face-down to a rack. I was astonished to the point of disbelief; and I did not put up any convincing resistance.
I was still reeling, bent over and tugging on the straps that held my arms down, when he came in. That was the first time he really scared me, to the point of near-panic; I knew I was going to get hurt. Even so, when he touched me, it felt exactly the way it had the day we first met; and I wanted to lay my head down and beg him to caress me, to reassure me, to be kind to me. I was at his mercy, and in spite of my fear I was exhilarated; I felt like a teenager on a date, infatuated to the point of giddiness.
He talked to me; he never stopped talking. When he told me what he was going to do, it was no real surprise. Once he started touching me, he never took his hands off me again, and despite my anger, my horror, I drifted, floated in his hands. He knew. He never let me forget he knew exactly what was going on; he told me things before I realized them myself. There was no way to turn, no chance of outsmarting him, no refuge; he anticipated all my moves and blocked them before I even started. I raged, fumed, tugged on the straps, and got hard.
For me there is no clear line between rage and arousal. It seems that other people cannot combine the two; I cannot separate them. He knew that, as he seemed to know everything else. He toyed with me, angered me, aroused me, angered me more by confronting me with my denial. He had me pinned, and he tormented me, and I was close to begging...
... and I felt cherished. There was nothing there but me and him, his overpowering, hypnotic presence. I hated what he did to me, but I was so pathetically grateful for the attention. Though I should know better, I *do* know better, it felt like love to me. His hands were soft, and his lips, and his soft, relentless voice caressed me as it taunted me. His presence comforted me, warmed me. He made me feel safe. I trusted him, blindly, like a child; and in the end, he didn't abuse my trust.
What he demanded in return was surrender, complete and unconditional. It was the deal that I have hoped for as long as I can remember; but I wasn't ready. I think I knew from the first instant that he would have his way, but I fought him till the very end. Having him see through me was unnerving enough; admitting that I wanted, desperately needed what he was offering me was almost impossible. I resisted. I fought. I tried.
It became much harder when he stripped me. So many of the mind's defenses come undone when one is naked. He played with my body while he told me where we were going, and made it clear I had no choice. He ordered me to yield, knowing that I couldn't. He stroked me, caressed me, ran his hand through my hair. I can still feel his fingers on my ribs, tracing a line from my armpits to my hips, detouring to stroke the skin of my buttocks. It was tenderness, the tenderness that I craved, that I've needed since... Oh god, forever...
And I couldn't think. Most of my brain stopped functioning very early on, and all I could do was growl, fight, sweating with fear, like a primitive animal.
The touches alternated between a slow massage and direct assault. He excelled at what he was doing, and he drove me where he wanted me to go. I was losing control, losing my balance, and the temptation to yield was almost irresistible. His hands, his soft, soothing voice so close I could feel his breath. It was almost hypnotic; but I was too angry. I was enraged at what he was trying to take away from me, at his arrogance, his skill, his ability to predict the way my mind, what was left of it, would move. He knew me better than I knew myself. He used my anger against me, and it aroused me more.
It was a brief victory when he decided to beat me. I had held out long enough to force him to do that, and I knew he resented it. I should also have known that it was the end of my resistance; it has always been, but I had forgotten. The pain wasn't very bad, but after the first lash I knew I was lost; and it was over quickly. I have never learned how to get through a beating without crying. I though I could, but I was wrong. The first lash took me back twenty years.
I used to console myself by plotting revenge. Revenge that never came about, but plotting it made me feel better. But he took that away as well. He was the one who consoled me, and then he went on breaking me. He didn't hurt me anymore; he was very careful. He didn't harm me after I surrendered. But he left me nothing; he insisted on absolute supremacy. And I was so happy. So disgustingly happy.
Even as he twisted me into the shape that pleased him, I loved him, all through the battle. And I was sure of his love. All the time, whether I was resisting or trying to cooperate, I was encased in a small bubble of warm, bright euphoria. I eventually gave up trying not to respond to his caresses, and let him carry me, bend me, move me, wind me up so tight... While he slowly opened me, I yearned for his presence inside me. When he entered me, more gently than I would have thought possible, I silently cursed the wood that supported me, because I was sure he would have wrapped his arms around my chest if it hadn't been there.
Having him inside me was intoxicating. I'm not sure if I moaned when he pushed inside, but I think I did. It signified the end of my struggle; I just gave up, and I knew he loved me for that. It was the most intimate feeling I have ever known, and it made me lightheaded. I think my knees buckled; he held me up until I could support my weight again.
Then, with surgical precision, he found a kernel of resistance I didn't even know was there. When he forced me to come, the euphoria went, and the horror of it is hard to recall. He had conquered my body, but he insisted on conquering my mind as well, and it was almost more than I could bear. It told me that he was the one in power. In spite of appearances, there was no agreement between us: he simply forced me to obey. It is the fate of those who bask in the protection of greater beings: from time to time the cushioning becomes transparent, and the naked steel beams and joints of power are visible. Then the choice is between yielding, or getting crushed, or losing everything. And I yielded.
While he was jerking me off, he kissed the back of my neck, and again I felt the devotion, the sheer physical joy of belonging. I was alright, I was in heaven as long as I didn't resist; he could give me a sense of security I hadn't had in many, many years. And in his way he was generous. I felt the presence of his cock inside me, more distinctly as I got closer, and wanted more of it. I came heavily, dizzy from the intensity of it, almost absent when he began to thrust. It didn't hurt; I remember how much that surprised me. I felt him tense, coil; then he bit my shoulder and I knew it was over.
Before he left he said something about you. I'm not sure exactly what; I was so dazed it barely registered. Later, I spent hours, days trying to reconstruct his words, like an archaeologist trying to piece together the few shards he has found, desperately looking for clues that he got it right, that he didn't construe a chimera out of his three maimed puzzle pieces. I'm still not sure I got it right.
When he was gone, I went into the shower he'd promised, and stood there, blank, empty. Later I sat on the floor in the small stall, ignoring the pain from my welts, and leaned my head against the glass side panel. I couldn't stop shivering; I think I ran a fever. It was a long time before I could bring myself to move. I got dressed, stepped out (thank god the place seemed deserted) and drove myself home. There I unplugged the phone and slept for 14 hours.
I have been so lonely. So unimaginably lonely. I feel like I've been cast from the Garden of Eden, not only losing love, warmth, food and shelter, but losing safety, the protection of a superior mind, an omniscient presence. A Siamese twin. He knew me. I fought him only because it frightened me to be known so intimately. I would have quit fighting, but I never got the chance. He said he'd be there when I needed him; but I need him continuously. I'm cold all the time, so cold that my muscles tend to cramp. I keep talking to myself, trying to fill the void with words. I dream of his return, and wake up feeling worse.
I've been fighting myself. I know I should be able to do it alone. I always could before, when I didn't know better. I don't want to be forced to open every crevasse of my soul to someone who has the power to break me, as well as heal me. I want to help myself. But the cold is numbing, the dreams of the warmth haunt me, and the sound of my own voice is driving me crazy; and I have given up. Today I will talk to you. I will ask for help. I need help.
I have created dozens of scripts in my mind. They are all equally repulsive. What I have to say is repulsive, and there is no way to dress it up. I'm not sure if you can fill the void, nor if you will accept the role that I will beg you to take. God knows that whatever scenario I have wished for in the past years, it wasn't this one; but now it cannot be anything else. I will offer you my throat, my body and my soul, and I will ask you, beg you to hold me, to accept me, to warm me before I die of exposure.
Please send your comments to palinurus@squidge.org
Background by Kathie