Punish Me, Please Me Page 5

  “Huh?”

  “Surely you realize that religious fundamentalism is a sadomasochistic lifestyle. People submit to their religious leaders for the sole purpose of being abused in the name of their religion. They glory in their own suffering and the suffering of their neighbors. Look at the Catholics, kneeling on the floor, looking up at depictions of their saints’ agonizing deaths immortalized in stained glass. Look at the orthodox Jews restricting their own freedoms. On their Sabbath, they will sit in the dark rather than turn a light on. Did you know that they bind prayers to themselves with leather straps? And don’t even get me started on the foods that they deprive themselves of. Look at the way the fundamentalist Muslim women submit to their husbands’ commands; and the way their husbands, in turn, obey every whim of their imams. Don’t even get me started on fundamentalist Mormons and their so-called plural marriages to underage relatives. And what do we Christians choose as the single symbol of our religion? Do we choose the Star of Bethlehem that marked Christ’s birth? The fish and loaves that were the bounty of the Sermon on the Mount? Not on your life. We decorate our spires and altars with the instrument of torture that the Romans used to execute Christ. I spent my entire childhood on my knees looking up at statues of a young man’s nearly naked body racked on a cross, his muscles defined by his agony while his face looked up with an expression of ecstasy. Of course I fantasized about taking pleasure in suffering. What else would you expect? You show me a religious fundamentalist of any stripe and I’ll show you an honest-to-God masochist every time.”

  “So you enjoyed being raped?”

  She smiled wryly. “Enjoyment is a complicated word when you are talking to a masochist. The simple answer is, ‘No, I did not enjoy being raped.’ It hurt. It was degrading. There was nothing about it that I could enjoy. And you will do it to me again before I leave and it will hurt again and I will hate it. You are going to force yourself into my asshole one more time and I’m sitting here, dreading it more than anything. But that’s the point. I’m not supposed to enjoy the pain. Masochism is forcing yourself to endure something even though you don’t want to do it. The dread is wonderful. The anticipation of the inevitable pain is lovely. You could say that I’m enjoying my feeling of dread if you like. And there’s the aftermath. I will revel in knowing that I survived the pain and fear and triumphed. I will thrill at feeling my body heal and become strong again. You could say that I enjoy that, too, but, really, joy is simply the wrong word. Excitement, anticipation, triumph, and satisfaction are the positive emotions that a masochist strives for. It isn’t about enjoying pain at all.”

  One sentence stood out from all the others in Susanna’s monologue. “You think that I’m going to fuck you in the ass again this morning?”

  “Sure. Why not? This is your last hurrah. I’m not coming back here, ever. You’ll never get another shot at me. This is your only chance to wring one last drop of pleasure out of my body. You have to go for it or you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting that you let the opportunity slip away. You may as well get as much pleasure as you can now, because you’ll be feeling plenty of pain in the days to come.”

  Her words startled him. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you think that you were getting a free ride, here? I’m treating you to a merry dance, but you’re going to have to pay the piper for the tune. Let me tell you what’s going to happen to you in the next little while. In a little over an hour, I’m going to walk out of here and I’m going to be the most famous martyr since Jesus himself. My picture is going to be front page news around the world. Television superstars will be lining up to interview me. You, on the other hand, are going to get hit hard. You’re going to be Judas, Pontius Pilate, and Christ’s executioners all rolled up into one. You are Satan’s tool in my little melodrama. Or maybe I should say, Satan’s fool. The story is simple. My father was arrogant and God punished him by letting Satan send his brutal atheist to wreck His vengeance upon his virgin daughter. I’ve suffered horribly for my father’s sins. The public will love the story. It’s got sex, violence, and a moral lesson. Sugar coat sordid pornography with coat of piety to make it palatable and people will gobble it down with gusto every time.

  “The police will be falling over themselves in their rush to interrogate you about what happened. You can expect to spend the rest of today and most of the night in police custody. But don’t worry; they’re just trying to get their names in the newspapers, too. Don’t say a word, call your lawyer, and you’ll never be charged. I’m an adult and I consented to everything you did to me. That’s in the public record. You never physically restrained me or kept me from leaving and I’ll not lie and say that you did. And I’m not going to dilute my story by submitting to any medical examination. I already served God by submitting to you and I don’t need to suffer any further abuse at the hands of the authorities. You’ve committed no crime under the law and no prosecutor will be able to bring any charge against you.

  “Of course, your lack of ethics is another matter. Your unrestrained lust is going to be a matter for public discussion for years, if not centuries. I will be making it clear that an avowed atheist was eager and willing to rape an innocent young woman half to death when given the chance. My language will be pious and circumspect, but I will not lie. Everyone will know exactly how I suffered at your hands and how much joy you took from abusing me. You will be infamous. I don’t hold any ill will against you but I don’t hold any affection for you, either. I needed a villain and you stepped up to the plate. Blackening your name is simply a necessary part of my plan and I’ll be happy enough to do it.” She smiled weakly and shrugged a shoulder.

  Stone’s heart sank. “What plan?”

  “This whole thing is the culmination of a power struggle between my father and me over control of the church. Ever since he had my mother killed, I’ve been waiting for my chance to depose him. I’ve spent years walking a fine line; on one side, gaining as much personal status with the congregation, and on the other side, never giving my father any specific reason to act against me. He knows that I’m a threat, has known for years, but he can’t take action against me without endangering his own position. I’m too popular and I’m not the only person in the high ranks of the church who’d like to kick him to the curb. If I suffer the same kind of ‘accident’ as my mother, the jackals will be picking his bones clean before mine are in the ground.”

  “You think he killed your mother?”

  “I know he did. Everybody at the top knows it. She was using drugs and spending the church money like it was hers. The auditors were sniffing around. Reporters had her scent. The police were becoming aware of her. She was spinning out of control and he had to get rid of her before she became a public embarrassment. Divorce was out of the question, murder the obvious solution.”

  Stone was intrigued. “How did he get away with it?”

  “With the greatest of ease. He didn’t do it himself, of course. He uses other people for everything. He’s rich and he controls a lot of people. A little money to a coroner, a couple of cops who were members of his congregation, and presto-change-o, assault with a blunt object becomes a drunken automobile accident that morphs into a sad misfortune. God’s will is done and father feeds on her death like a vulture, delivering one maudlin sermon after another for years, raking in record offerings every time.

  “He’s pulled the same trick with you. The sick old bastard has lusted after me for years, but he never dared touch me. He knew that if he raped me himself, I’d go straight to the police with his sperm inside me and get him sent away for life. That’s why he jumped at the chance to deliver me into your hands. If he can’t rape me himself, then he figured that he could rape me by proxy. I’ll guarantee that he spent most of the night jerking off thinking about what you were doing to me.

  “He made a mistake, though. I couldn’t believe it when I heard him offering my virginity to you. It would have taken me years to set him up myself, but you and he set yours
elves up perfectly. He started weaving this fantasy up on stage, but he thought that he could keep it under control. That was how his arrogance did him in. You primed him with the story of Abraham, then got him hot with the Levite priest’s concubine, then gave him the opportunity to act when you started asking for proof of God’s existence. He saw an opportunity for a terrific story – evil atheist tries to abuse innocent virgin, is thwarted by God’s intervention – and jumped at it. His miscalculation was thinking that he could be the hero who would hear the word of God and rescue his virgin daughter in the nick of time. He had set up a ‘miracle’ that was going to have God appearing at the last moment to answer his prayers and save me from defilement. It never occurred to him that I would refuse his ham-handed rescue. I threatened to expose his fakery and forced him to deliver me to your door for a night of rape and sodomy. He never thought that I’d force him to follow through on his promise. He misestimated my determination and failed to understand my masochism. Which was stupid because the sick old sadist spent years making me the masochist that I am today.”

  “And this will give you control of his church?”

  “Damned right,” she laughed. “The multitudes will fall at my feet in gratitude for the suffering that I’ve endured on their behalf. I have expiated their sins and freed them to go forth and sin some more. There’s no sight more beloved to a crowd of masochists than seeing one of their number endure the pain that they secretly wish were being inflicted on them. Masochism by proxy is the favorite kind. I’ll have a mandate to push dear old dad into retirement within a year and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it. The wheels are already turning. That’s the only way that I can hurt him bad enough to get revenge for what he’s done to me and my mother. He’s a natural sadist. He cares only about power, but that he loves with all his being. He loves seeing people submit to his will. He’s bullied and abused me every day since I was old enough to walk, just because I was too weak to defend myself. But now, my weakness is my strength. I’m going to take all his power away from him and he’s going to suffer more than you would believe.” Her eyes were bright with excitement over the fall of her father from grace.

  Stone wondered if Susanna were entirely sane. But she was not stupid; she knew what she was doing. Only one point troubled him. “Did you press me into this because you wanted to fulfill your masochistic fantasies or because you wanted to execute your Machiavellian plan?”

  “Both. A smart girl can kill two birds with one stone. Of all the ways that I could depose dear old dad, this is the one that gives me the most satisfaction.” She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “The vultures of the press will be circling outside your door by now. This is your last chance to have me. As you must have realized, I’ve fucked you but good. You may as well get your revenge on me while you can. Make me suffer now and you’ll have at least a little satisfaction to sustain you over the hard days to come. Take comfort in knowing that, for the next few minutes, you can make me wish that I had never been born.”

  She walked to the stove, scooped a dollop of congealed bacon grease out of the frying pan, reached behind, and rubbed it around her asshole. She knew that it was not nearly enough lubrication, but it was enough to get him started and that’s all she wanted.

  She bent over the back of a kitchen chair, reached back to spread her cheeks wide and said, “Go for it, tiger. Take all the joy out of my life.”

  He had nothing more to lose. Looking at the way she was offering herself for his use, hearing her invitation to vent his rage on her body, he grew rock hard. He strode over to her, dropped his pants, and pushed himself into her without hesitation. She screamed in agony. By some small miracle, her sphincter muscles did not split, but the tender skin around her anus tore in several places. More blood than grease lubricated him as he pounded into her mercilessly. The pain that she had suffered during her first anal rape was dwarfed by the agony that she suffered this time. She grabbed the seat of the chair and pushed back into him to try to keep from slamming against the wood, but she could not hold his weight. Her entire lower abdomen would be bruised purple and yellow; it would be days before she could walk without pain.

  The pounding seemed to last forever – this would be Stone’s fifth orgasm since she had arrived the previous evening and he could not come quickly or easily. Susanna had to endure a full quarter hour of searing pain before Stone finally gasped as his seed pulsed into her ass.

  When he finally did pull out and collapse into a chair, she could barely stand. Her asshole felt like it had been burned with a hot poker. She limped into the living room, one baby step at a time, tears streaming down her face in silver tracks and blood streaming down her thighs in crimson cascades.

  Bending down to open her overnight bag brought a new wave of agony and fresh tears. She drew out a blouse and skirt that were identical to the ones that she had worn the night before. These, though, were torn and stained more artfully. The martyr’s raiment had to be rent in exactly the right way for the cameras. The blouse had all the buttons torn off. As well as one sleeve was torn open at the shoulder – the standard symbol in Hollywood movies for a woman who has been raped. Every saint needs his own symbol to identify him. Strategic rents at the sides of the chest would allow glimpses of the white curves of the outer sides and bottoms of her perfect, unrestrained breasts. It would be clear to everyone that her bra was long gone. Generous cleavage would be exposed when she clutched the front closed with her right hand below the level of her nipples. Unlike the skirt that had been torn from her, this one had an intact waistband so that it could be worn about her hips but was torn all the way to the hip on the left side and almost to the crotch on the right front. When she held the long tear closed with her left hand, both of her smooth, tanned legs would be exposed to the tops of her smooth, tanned thighs and the top of the tear between her hand and the waistband would gape at the hip to prove to the world that she was wearing no panties. That tear alone would incite a million men to jerk off over the next two days.

  Her photograph would be just modest enough to appear on the front page of any newspaper in the industrialized world but still expose ample flesh to titillate their readers. The world would not need medical evidence to know that she was no longer a virgin – these ruined clothes would provide irrefutable proof.

  She left her feet bare – the ancient symbol of humiliation.

  She had been raised knowing that religion is all about the symbols.

  When she stepped out of the front door, she was assaulted by a storm of flash bulbs. As she limped to her father’s waiting car, she kept her head bowed in shame and ignored the barrage of questions that were shouted at her. Today she had a non-speaking part – Thomas Stone would bear the brunt of the press’s furious interrogation. The day after tomorrow, when the furor over Stone began to abate, she would emerge from her room where she had been praying and healing and begin to preach that redemption that could be in submission to God’s will. And, by extension, the congregation could find redemption by submitting to her will.

  Her physical pain was real – severe enough to nearly debilitate her – but, as the car drove away, she managed to smile to herself. Over the next few weeks, both the preacher and the atheist, the two unwilling instruments of her brutal deflowering, would learn who had really been raped during the past seventeen hours.

  They both had a hard lesson coming.

  In Search of Master Exeter

  Celine was bored: bored with teaching, bored with being single, bored with life in general. A bored woman is a woman looking for trouble and the place to look for trouble is on the Internet. Celine found all she could want in the form of a little advertisement on a site called, “www.adultadventuresunlimited.com”.

  It began simply enough one fine spring day. She came home from school, bored practically to death, having struggled to teach four classes of twelve year olds how to use participles properly. By dangling them, she tried to convince her students, they would confuse peop
le.

  In the past ten years, she must have taught that same lesson fifty times. She desperately needed some excitement, so she typed, “bored woman desperately needs excitement” into Google. The search terms returned an endless pile of personal ads. She spent the remainder of the afternoon leafing through them.

  Most of the ads were uninspired pleas from men looking for women who would be willing to have sex with no obligation. In a typical ad, a horny man was looking for a married woman who was bored with her husband and wanted an afternoon quickie. It was easy to see his reasoning. A women who was married was no virgin so accommodating another partner would be no big deal for her. Her husband would be supporting her so she wouldn't be looking for a commitment. And she would have to be so discrete that she wouldn't expect even so much as a restaurant dinner in exchange for her sexual favors.

  Celine flipped through those ads with disdain. She would bet that most of the men placing the ads were married themselves and were bored with their own wives; and that most of the women who answered the ads were prostitutes who would be happy to relieve the man's boredom for a nice fee. Chances were good that these people would reach a business arrangement that would please both of them. Though the man would only remain pleased until the day came when his faithful wife discovered that he’d passed a dose of herpes to her and kicked his sorry cheating ass to the curb.

  Celine didn't satisfy the basic requirements of those ads: she might be bored but she wasn't anyone’s wife and she had no interest in a tawdry affair with someone else’s husband.

  But when she hit the Adult Adventures Unlimited web site she found something different. The entire site was a single page displaying one small ad that said, “ Bored? Lonely? Are you a woman looking for some excitement in your life? Do you attract good men but can't make them commit to you? Learn what men really want. Serve as a sexual slave for an experienced master for a two-week training period and your life will be changed for the better. All activities are guaranteed to be safe, sane, and consensual. Email MasterWilliamExeter@primail.com for details.”