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Then again you were involved in gathering covert information on the side. You probably had to learn to hide that other face of yours.
Do you still pray, Vallewida? Someone so profane and sinful like yourself . . . These days you kneel and worship my cock more often than you worship God.
Every time I see you on your knees, I want to cum all over your face because you look so good with the droplets of my spunk dripping from your hair and eyelashes. It's better than watching my cum leak out from your hole and streaking your thighs.
They say wild animals mark their territories the same way a mongrel does when it lifts its leg up against a lamp-post. Well, I have done that—I marked my possessions with my fists, my whip and my cock. You whom I have lavished the most of my attentions on, I wanted to cover with my cum so that the smell of it would stay on your skin as a reminder of who you belong to, Vallewida.
They look at you, those animals in human form. Without me, you would never have been able to survive this long. Father told me to keep an eye on you to make sure you didn't die on him before he got his answers to tie up those loose ends. Did you suppose that you, looking the way you do, could have survived? Those filthy dogs would have been all over you in an instant and you wouldn't never have been able to fight them all off. You would have died within a week after being forced to take all of their unwashed cocks in both your filthy holes.
My father’s told me about your ignominious end in the army. I wonder how many soldiers you’ve had inside you before you came here. Ten? Twenty? You were just a set of holes used for their relief, weren’t you?
I get hard when I think about it. They wouldn’t care if they broke your jaw and fractured all of your bones to get what they wanted. But they’re just brutes—did you know how much skill it takes, not to kill a man while causing him the maximum amount of pain? Your flesh yields to my fists the way it does my cock and I have to use the whip to stop myself from breaking you completely.
I have dreamed of it . . . I have dreamed of killing you. I’d fuck your dead body when your last breath leaves you.
My father might have sent you down here to me, but anything can happen within these walls. I control the rabble in this place. A missed step on the stairs, too long in the solitary cells without water, a knife given into the wrong hands . . . Bodies are easily buried and the maggots do the rest.
Those animals look at you still but they wouldn't dare to touch you without my permission. Not if they want to keep their teeth to chew the rubbish they call bread in this place. They know whose bitch you are. Even you know it—your body knows when it has been mastered and tamed.
You can try to ignore it, block it out of your mind when you’re with your pathetic circle of friends, but it doesn’t matter. Your cock gets hard when I touch you and both your holes just beg to be filled. You hate it but you want what only I can give you. My father can’t stay hard long enough to fuck you on most days. You fight against him all the time—could it be that you don’t want his old prick inside you? I bet even you know which one of us you prefer to fuck, Vallewida. You’ve had all this time to make a comparison and Daddy’s not getting any younger.
It’s been four years, but I still go back to you. Don’t you feel honoured? No-one has held my attention for such a long time.
It was indescribable, the first time. The first time I fucked you and claimed you. Your hatred and fear will always taste better than wine, which is why I always go back for another taste.
I see you flinching. You would like to run away way from me, won’t you? But you know it’s useless.
It's all the same in the end. You're mine. Your body is mine to use. Your life is mine to take. You just need a few reminders now and then . . .
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But there is no place in this hellish prison where I am safe. You could be around the next corner or just outside the door of my cell, waiting for me with a sneer on your face and that amused look in your eyes.
I know that look in your eyes and I hate it. Hate it that I might as well be naked for all the clothes I have on when you look at me like that.
They call me “Durer’s woman” and “Durer’s whore”. After four years, a man could even get used to it. I have the rest of my existence to get used to it and perhaps after another four years, I might not even remember any other name.
Or I might be dead and you would have to find some one else to torment. You swore that you would see me dead first before you would let me go. And I believe you meant it.
My body bears the marks of your possessive rages. I cannot look at myself without being reminded of you or your abominable father. I cannot think of myself anymore without knowing that that this body is just a receptacle for your lust, to be used as and when you please. Day after day, you take and take . . .
“Whore” implies a trade of services for remuneration. You have given me ample payment in kicks, punches and whip-marks, leaving me without a shred of dignity.
You taught me the futility of screaming, crying and begging. Useless, helpless gestures because you will have your way in the end.
I might not always remember all the times when it has happened but I know what you’ve done. I know that this weak flesh has learned to desire your vile touch. I know that someone with my face and my voice has begged to be taken by you.
But you aren’t happy with just violating my body or degrading me. You want everything.
You whisper into my ear about all the things you want to do to me when your father finally loses interest. Sometimes, I pray that I would go mad before that day comes, so that I need not know how you would celebrate your claim on me. I still remember certain things from the time when you were promoted to your current position in this prison—your idea of a celebration ended with me being unable to walk properly for a week.
What stood out most clearly in all those vague memories was how you looked as though you were in rapture when you did all those things to me.
I have seen the full spectrum of your moods and rages. And perhaps no-one knows me like you do, which is the greatest irony of all. There is not one inch of skin that has not known your touch. You know how to pull my strings so that you can have your way with a willing puppet version of me.
That look in your eyes says all this and promises more.
God give me strength. You are looking my way . . .
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