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The Confession

Categories Fiction, BDSM, Extreme, Gothic

Author: johannaC

Published: 05 December 2017

  • Font:

The Confession




Choking on my own tears, moaning through blood smeared panties, unable to swallow, both hands bound with rope far apart on the same brass bed where we conceived our first child, our only child—Milena, who is dead now—I am at last at peace. Karajan, my lover, finishes what is needed to my legs, binding them together like a mermaid’s fin.

"Now you have some time to think," he says.


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I must confess…I don’t know how to begin. My hypocrisy is exposed. Karajan is watching on closed circuit; I will not escape. He sees everything—hears everything.

If Karajan is not satisfied with my confession here. . . if I do not renounce the Prince of Darkness...all of it...all my social media profiles and phone sex personas, if I do not put it all out on paper to his satisfaction, tonight, as he requests, Karajan will…I don’t want to imagine…or perhaps I do. Perhaps I crave this kind of attention. Karajan is the only one who ever ignored me. I need this. To know I make him feel this way. That I arouse this anger…that he would risk imprisonment for me…it makes me sure that he loves me.

Wait. I hear him, coming up the stairs now. . .He opens the door. Seeing him in those tight black clothes makes my pussy tingle. He removes the panties from my mouth and I can breathe.

"Are you ready?"

"Karajan, I have been bad. But I have only loved you!"

“I am not satisfied with your confession.”

“No, Karajan, we must forget the past. Milena is dead...I want your cum in my mouth.”

Karajan punches through the wall above my head. The dust scatters on my face. The knuckles in his right fist are torn. “I want all the names. All the names you used.”

“Beat me Karajan beat me!”

“I’m not fucking around Jocasta. This is not a game. This is not a fucking game! Milena died. You trained her! You kitty programmed her you goddamn WHORE!”

“Karajan,” I mutter, “Please…please fuck me...”

Karajan back hands me. Fresh blood creeps from my upper right lip, where it cut against my teeth. Karajan is not satisfied. He stands, paces—addressing the room, as if it were filled with spectators, as if it were an amphitheatre, a courtroom. “What are you sorry for?" He asked, in control again. "Be specific.” And he turns to me, is still. Glaring. Smirking.

He pulls out his knife. Karajan wants specifics.

The thought of his hands and shoulders and his knife brings me closer....

“Karajan, I mean it. I love you! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Karajan grabs my throat with with left hand and squeezes like he means it this time. The knife he is holding in his right hand punctures my throat. He is going through with it. I am about to die, I know it. “Yes! I deserve it!” I try to say, but no sound comes out. The sparse candlelit room fades to black.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Karajan wants me to feel responsible for our daughter turning into a cumslut. He believes there is some link between my career as an author of erotic literature, as a phone sex amateur, and the reality of Milena's abduction, gang rape, and brutal murder three days ago. What upsets Karajan most is what they did to her after she died.

But I honestly don't know what he is talking about.

I promised him a written confession when I came to. Karajan had an oxygen tank, and a syringe of dexamethasone ready, should I die before he wanted me to. Then he put bandages on the small wound in my throat. Karajan brought me back to life. Fed me chicken broth with a spoon.

My only clothes now are these dry wool socks and fresh panties he is letting me wear, and the afghan wrapped tight around me. The fire in this room is burning, and I am grateful to Karajan. The sun goes down so early; the city is far away, is nothing to speak of. They consider me prudish there.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I say, “thank you,” as I raise my mouth, offer him my lips to kiss, with their fresh blood still moist. But Karajan turns from me, looks out the window. He holds the spoon and bowl of hot broth. Breathing. He is thinking of Milena, our little Milena. I know it. “I will confess,” I say. This makes him look at me.

I earn a good living writing smut, using various psuedonyms. Each corresponds with its own degree of perversity. I am also behind many of the most celebrated anonymous Tumblr profiles. This is how I attract my clients, who buy my books, or schedule time with me for phone sex. I enjoy it. This masquerade. It is true, I do want to take four cocks at once, but only so that Karajan will catch me, so he will punish me the way I deserve. If Karajan will not have me I simply must have as many cocks as I can take at once. Because only the love of Karajan will satisfy me!

Even if Karajan were not watching—and he is, and were there no camera, and there is, were I to raise this window up without a sound, and creep through, if the vines could hold my limber body on the way down, if they did not break, and were I to race across the overgrown lawn with a whisper, unheard even to my myself—Karajan would hear. Karajan would snatch me down with one hand on my ankle as I surmounted the east stone wall, or before, covering my body with his in the cold frozen wet grass between here and that wall.

If I bide my time, caress him, wait days, or weeks, ameliorate him with pleasant companionship, ply him with drink…wait for his slumber, and then, like a kat, tiptoe across the mushy lawn, scale the four meters at the east stone wall where it is lowest, leap down without breaking a bone (both my ankles are delicate), race through leagues of deep dark forest, the chaos that envelops us, this land—this estate, (which, not three days ago, was my land, years before, our land, and now, irrevocably, no man’s land, which is to say, Karajan’s) and I flee from this half-condemned, weather beaten mansion—even then, my thick wool socks would turn wet and cold. I would soon cry, within minutes, panting without breath, like a little girl, like the helpless little girl we buried today, within minutes I would cry out: “Karajan, Karajan! I am cold. Karajan!” My screams would become a wimper. Within a half hour, somewhere in the deep dark forest, I would die of the cold. Karajan may even have awoken, and heard me. Before death, I would see his green eyes through the darkness, inches from my face. Karajan would pick up my body, my body which is neither living nor dead, and he would keep it warm.

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The Confession

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Comments (2)
johannaC06 December 2017 03:34
Thank you for reading my story. Log in to vote or post a comment!
TxEmt — 06 December 2017 01:14
ALL the same sick crap.
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