AN: Betaed by the lovely Laurie Whitlock.
... cry when in pain ...
The deep red covering the walls enhances the sexual nature of the room. A large selection of contraptions that, even though I cannot name, I know belong to me. Instruments of painful pleasure are scattered on the floor and I follow their trail to the beautiful, naked woman. Alice is on her knees, head bent and hands behind her back. She is the picture of submission, a beautiful waif eager to fulfill my wishes.
Someone stands behind the woman, a man of strong constitution whose pale skin is a stark contrast to the black leather covering his body. Light blond hair perfectly styled and vivid green eyes complete the image and I'm in awe of such male perfection. However, his eyes convey no warmth, only the malice of those who want to destroy.
I narrow my eyes and he repeats the action ... I take a step forward and so does he ... I'm floored by the realization that I've been contemplating my reflection. I want to scream and run away, but in some part of my mind I know that it would be useless – there is no point in running away from yourself. Besides, though my mind rebels my body wants to stay here ... with her ... doing despicable things to her.
Eyeing her, I adjust myself, for just the sight of her perky little breasts is enough to keep me going. I sense that we are no strangers to this scene – it's something we have re-enacted time and again. Yes, she is a horny little thing who isn't afraid to do my bidding. If she wants to offer, who am I to refuse her?
Jolting awake I run away from the bed where the woman I so shamelessly debased is serenely sleeping. I'm covered in sweat and my breath is short, for my body is still reeling from the emotions of my dream. A multitude of thoughts assault my mind, but I'm too unsettled to make sense of any of them. My heart is tormented by shame and my soul is enveloped by the darkness of self-awareness.
Finally, it downs on me, the truth from which I've being trying to hide. A very real part of me resents her not for the nature of her tastes, but rather because I wanted to be taking the lead. It isn't the pain or the explicitness of our encounters that angers me, it's the fact that I am the man, therefore she should be the one kneeling before me. I'm aware of how sexist I am right now, but I'm unconcerned with being politically correct.
Had it not been for her, I would have lived a happy life without having to confront the less civilized parts of myself. Tears of despair wet my face, for there it is impossible to deny that I am not as self-sacrificing or untainted as I used to think. Though the props and scenes she likes to play still do nothing for me, I very much enjoy the power games ... And isn't that the most heinous part of our relationship? The disparity between the partners, the condescension of the dominant?