theblackbook

ACT I

Chapter three

“Man, Woman & God”

(what the eye wants)

A flock of whales swam across the vacant skies heading towards the evenings unwoven tapestry. A crescent moon rose to relieve a jaded sun, it’s luminance awakening the night. It was a Tuesday evening, which meant date night for Yasiin and Liah and another party at Mr. Koch’s elaborate estate. Every Tuesday night Yasiin would drive to her apartment in his black Mercedes coupe, and take Liah out for an eve of wine, hors d'oeuvres and ardor. Mr. Koch’s estate was dreadfully luxurious, and as an associate of his father’s, Yasiin made sure to schmooze (kiss-ass), whenever asked. For Liah, it was a night to indulge in her primal senses; to touch, to taste, and to smell lust and all it had to offer. The party was packed. People were intermingling, drinking, dancing- just having fun. The halls and verandas were gaudy with primary colored neo expressionism and archaic architecture. The bar was in full swing floating rounds of cocktails that permeate the halls and gardens outside electrifying the air with chatter, laughter, and casual innuendos. Introductions were forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings died at the bottom of empty flute glasses. Mr. Koch’s altar was draped with red cloth, the golden eye of Horus in a triangle rested alongside a golden chalice illuminated in the center. Mayhem leeched upon marble beside red and black candles that stood in twos and fours encircling men from women. Men wore tailored tailcoats, whilst naked women adorned a crown of feathers each hue distinct from her counterpart. They stood in a nest of Black ties, long dresses, and Surrealist masks. Some masks flaunted deformed animal faces while others wore the head of the Baphomet atop their shoulders. Mr. Koch’s spiraling staircase was lined by footmen dressed as cats that appeared to have fallen asleep at the last supper. Guests in attendance had to pass through a Labyrinth of Hell made of black ribbons, naked mannequins laid out in beds of roses, table centerpieces with a baby’s shattered head and other’s dismembered infant ligaments. Rotten politicians with tongueless mouths like bottomless wells, and decaying teeth like dark stone coveted calvus women who hide true beauty behind black veils. Yasiin held his fiancee as they danced, willfully ignorant to what was occurring around them. Yasiin swayed in a white jacket with satin detail, paired with black pants, gold metal cufflinks, a black bow tie, and velvet derby shoes. His 매춘부, schiavo, bouzen fiancee Liah wore a shameful see-through dress, embellished with onyx stone in all her warmest places. A diamond collar clasped her neck, dazzling under the chandeliers it light twinkling upon the long leather leash attach to it’s end held by her suitor. On her feet, a pair of nude ankle-strapped heels that gave her lechery a boost. Liah smiled suggestively at him slowly moving her hands into places the other guests couldn’t see.

“I love our nights here, there so… liberating,” she whispered into his ear, vehemently. Liah could feel the heat of the stares from the men around her, the ones that wanted nothing more than to tear her apart. And she wanted nothing more than for him to watch. Yasiin grabbed her ass firmly, sliding his finger between her sheaths and pulling the leash till the point of whiplash.

“Sometimes I wish you could see yourself, when you wear this emotion. When all your inner inhibitions are gray with no false moral, this is where I find your beauty, this is your element,” he said, as oblique hints of contempt peaked through the cracks of his voice. His voice had an enthralling quality to it, lulling her uncertainty aside. Liah purred digging her french manicure into his suit jacket, her lips moaning softly. This was their dynamic, he plucked her strings and she danced for the king. This has been their duet for decades. Liah enjoyed her positions; she was his secretary on Monday, his whore Tuesday nights, his cook every Thursday, and his cleaning lady everyday of the week. Somewhere in between he managed to treat her like a fiancee, at least enough to keep her around. Yasiin worked for his father’s oil company, and she (insert job title), their relationship was written, all it’s twists and turns, all written but not by them. They step in time moving to the music, both experts enough to move with a fluid grace. His confident steps leading her in this charged and sensual dance. The room whirled around them as they lost themselves in the pleasure of rhythm, Yasiin’s strong arms held Liah close to me. On the surface his face appears pleasant and smiling, but move closer and you can see the dangerous glint in his eye, the slight twitch of his upper lip. Slowly his hand cups her right breast weighing it gently against his fingers, marveling at its softness, this fine tender feminine flesh. Her eyes follow Yasiin as he moves around her, and with a sharp inhale he fills his nostrils with her perfume before exhaling with a growl of brutish lust. Yasiin sunk his teeth into her neck eliciting a cry of pain, pain which distracts her from the sudden movement of his hand between her legs. Yasiin wasn’t a man who could resist the temptations of the flesh. The intoxicating aroma of woman and the satisfying notion of knowing that he had such power over another pushed him over the edge. Liah stood in rapture of him, agreeably submissive to his every whim and desire. Yasiin’s rough hands guided her slender fingers to touch herself and she jerked back pulling her hands away from his grasp.

“Were not doing this here. If you want to fuck me take me to a room, the collar is already enough” she demanded discreetly. Quick as a flash, Yasiin grabbed her wrists and pulled them spinning her in his arms until they were face to face.

"This is done my way, not yours. You do as I wish, not as you wish.” His callous words echoed throughout the hall, chilling her to her very core. She began to worry about the punishment her transgressions warranted. Yasiin smiled, as voyeurs pawed at themselves in heat around them. His hand slid up her dress and between her legs, unable to escape his own desires. Yasiin rubbed his fingers slowly over her slit enjoying the vibrations of her body. Her lips were swollen, warm, and wet, the way he liked it. He placed his index and middle fingers between her lips and press them slowly and firmly. Liah stifled a gasp rolling her head back, she closes her eyes as his fingers slide in. Thumbing over her clit, he was rewarded with a gush of hot sticky fluid that he smeared on her face. Liah reveled in the taste of herself, carefully sucking the sweet, musky flavor off his fingertips. If not for anything else, he simply did this because he could, it was in his power to do so. It was clear that Yasiin had no empathy for Liah’s humiliation and misery – on the contrary, he seemed to indulge in it. He toyed with her how he pleased… like a child, a grown child. We fear conflict, and in turn are powerfully motivated to maintain consistency in our thoughts, feelings and actions.

"My little girl is wet,” Yasiin whispered into Liah’s ear, cupping her lips.

"Yes sir, I am.” Liah moved her ass, trying to move in tempo with his finger. “Why?” he asked, already knowing her answer.

“I'm your slut,” she whispered. Yasiin smacked her ass twice.

“What?"

"Ahh. I’m your slut, Sir.”

His affections for Liah partly surfaced from the power he had over her. Power is having control over the things that other people need and want … and also over what they fear. Liah loved Yasiin, it seemed at least superficially to all guests present, and he had control over the thing that he wanted most – his affection while also having control over the thing she feared most – abandonment by him. TIME builds power, the more time you pour into anything can produce a great influence, sometimes this influence is over it’s creator. We begin to see people according to how useful they can be to us. And once you start to see others as objects whose actions are under your control, it is very easy to start to feel contempt for them. Objects, after all, don’t have free will and don’t make decisions. This sort of power snuffs out empathy – how can we have empathy for an object?

Her thought’s went to the question she’s asked a thousand times before, "Is this what she wanted?” The estate bathed in orange lights as everyone stood silently in the circle facing east except for a single Priest in white, wearing a mask of many faces. He stood outside the circle facing away from the rest of the guests, for only his caped back could be seen. He was still and absolutely silent. Cups of red rum, runneth over, spilling from the lips of the elite, for behind these masks were the demented desires of the world elite; Politicians, Musicians, Hollywood Execs, Bankers, and Silicon Valley saints. Pigs were present in outfits far too small, with bellies hanging out, and boils on their skin. Unfurled to equations and lattices, just soulless empty diamonds who all had received the same invitation, which couldn’t be read without a mirror, all for a night of deviant debauchery. Lascivious limbs, laden and libidinous licked Persian rugs as women in nude crawled on all fours. The plucks and pulls of strings provoked the motionless bodies that were paralyzed by procession of bloody whores to begin picking at the ripe fruit which lay upon the golden edges their feet swaying in crystal blue waters. Tightly lipped virgins with lamb heads and rosy nipples pulled potbellied men upon satin pillows. Stripping them of tuxedos, they placed crimson lips upon their organ singing in sweet silence. Come and swim in uncharted waters, pools of pleasure. Sliding their serpent tongue from the rigid staff it once enclosed, she consumed him thrusting him further into darkness. Wails of pain and shame escaped their writhing corpses men plagued with power surrendered to pulsating wet meat. The floors flickered with florescent bodies hidden under black lights, they enter one another pressed against the red, white, and blue of their partners, circling and fucking in the brilliant, mirrored adjoined rooms, to the lush tunes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The walls moaned, and roared as sweat and seamen seeped from high ceilings. Crooked men pushed, egos deep into pink throats for no words needed to be exchanged, as mental and emotional communication happened outside their bodies, traveling like waves around them. The air was intoxicating; inebriating the mad and deranged as drunken desires stroked skin around swollen heads. Groups of men shared one woman at a time, shoving packs of meat in empty holes. Your enjoying watching this aren't you? Exciting isn’t it, affluent men falling before pussy, praising it with rituals and spells, devotion with lips, fingers, and tongues. Elder men and women were shackled and gagged, bound to leather; submissive daddy’s, ProDom Paraphiliats, and Master Masochist take in the night. Tongues twisted into each other, swapping spit and sperm in the heat of a kiss. It was like a portrait, like a scene crafted from Kubrick, women and men of God affixing to their afflictions, transcending the borders of bone, like chaos in a cage. When Yasiin had finished having his way with her, he freed Liah from her collar, unshackling her concupiscence from his control. Liah hesitated for a moment, aware of the cycle their madness had created, she realized she was the slut. She got some kind of wicked satisfaction from being forced into compromising situations. Over the course of their relationship, Liah had become turned on by being humiliated, by him; it was the power to be powerless, the freedom to live out what she felt inside, worthless.