Thursday, December 26, 2013

THE PRICE OF SUCCESS


She lay there in the darkness alone, awake due to the violent thoughts in her mind of him being mad at her for not succeeding in the task he set out for her to do.

She knew he was teaching her a lesson with his persistent ways... his insistence could be swift, rough, and hard to take. His verbal spankings would mimic something real. His emotional attacks and put-downs would tear her soul apart, piece by piece.

Sometimes she wondered if there had been a violation to her soul so deep in the past (this life or before) that it has made her able to take a lot of chronic pain (like the sports injury to her hip when she was in high school), to the point of reliving it over and over.

Almost like when he come down on her too hard emotionally, again and again, so that she needed physical pain to match what it felt like inside.

She don't know from whence it came, only that it was... It felt sometimes as if a burden to carry this kind of desire for punishment, or dread that she could not meet the deadlines to pacify him.

The pressure was on... Tomorrow would start the next wave of tedious regimens and she had much trepidation and fear, and at the same time welcomed the severity of angst and disappointment and disapproval from him if she couldn't meet the goal.

She chose not to tell him what the symbolic acts were--to alleviate the inner turmoil--that played out in her head.

There would be no room for forgiveness, for there was no room for not succeeding.

But all of this was in her head, she figured, for all he said in his sweetness to her was, "Do this." The rest, all worry and fretting, as well as making sure the work was done, was her own creation and responsibility. Alone it was her task. Alone she would have to carry it out.

She knew the pressure was real, but did it have to be? Was she making it worse than it had to be?

She viewed the images in her head, with his words becoming tyrannical demands...
his energies turning into slaps on the face...
his repeated commands morphing into smacks on her body and rear as he bent her over away from him...
his violation so thick and severe that it was like fucking her in the ass...
while holding her hair with both hands and yanking to keep her under control...
commanding, demanding, forcing, taking, raping, violating, repeatedly...
making her comply...
telling her what she had done wrong and making her admit it...
telling her what he wanted done right, his way, and requiring her to obey...
having his way with her until he was good and done, until he finished deep inside her soul...

until she cried out in pain, and gave in completely to his whims...
then, only then, would he be satisfied.

All of it was make believe.
Except in her head.

The violent acts of her pain, against herself, perpetrated by the fall guy that she created in her fantasies.

This requirement was not a man, but was the cost of success.
It was the price she had to pay to succeed.
It was success, itself.

Bend to its will, or fail, said he.
What choice did she have, but to obey?

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