13. Beaten up

It’s been 8 days since I posted last, and 21 days since I wrote post 12, because I am having a hard time writing this down. I started a few times, but binned it each time, because quite honestly, I don’t know what really happened inside of be, what changed in my attitude, or even why. Some call it being in love, but in no way did it have this pink glasses white clouds feeling. It was pain that got me through; pain and sheer resolve not to give up, even to the point of passing out. And that, I can’t explain, as I don’t know the words to do so. Fuck, I am not even sure the words exist.

Because of the last two years I had grown cold and hard inside, a power I wielded never to be broken, and my body was just a tool people admired, and so I made them pay for the privilege. It was business, nothing more, done under the watchful eye of Madame Esmee. I cannot say she cared for me like a mother, because normal mothers don’t whore their children out to anyone willing to pay the price and not damage the property, but we got along, understanding our roles. But Amy… Amy was different. From the moment we locked eyes I saw her contempt, as she saw me as a rival, and I instantly knew that I would either have to beat her at her own game, or bow before her and let her win, which to me meant let her in, which would mean pain. And Amy… In that same look we shared I knew Amy relished the challenge.

Amy was 20 years older than me, but an experienced dominatrix with a huge contempt for men, which made her good at her job. Where men were willing to pay for the honor to admire me, she beat them down without a care in the world and made them lick the heels of her boots, which they did with devotion. We were worlds apart in character, and got into many squabbles, even fights, until Madame Esmee locked us both in the basement to ‘sort out our shit’, and I found that where I hadn’t seen it coming, Amy had come prepared. When she drew the slender riding crop from her long over the knee boot, I knew I was in trouble, but refused to bend to her will.

With all I had gone through I was no match for her brute, but well aimed, force, and I got a beating so bad that I couldn’t sit, stand, walk, or lie down comfortably for days. She broke something in me, as the whip kept coming down on my back, my ass, my hips, my arms I cried out, and then just cried, as she stood over me, telling me in that cold voice to get up and face her. And then, with rough and crude handwork, forcing her fingers into me and the other hand around my throat to make sure I didn’t move and let her do her thing, she me cum harder than I had ever cum. And at that point I passed out, to find myself in a bed the next day, a bed that was not my own, and Amy next to me, holding me. She salved my wounds, the wounds she had inflicted, and came to see me every few so hours to bring me something to eat or drink, or sometimes just sit in the room with me without speaking a word, while when when she was away I could hear the squeals and groans of the men she tormented in the next room. And I accepted it. I accepted every bite she fed me, as I wondered why. Why I was there, in her bed, in her room, why she cared for me after that savage beating, until one night when I think she thought I was asleep, I felt her caress my hair and she whispered that she loved me.

For normal people such a thing would be absolute insanity, but to me it made sense, and I felt safe, something I had not felt in a long time. As long as I bent my will to hers, she would defend me with the same brutal force she had shown me. As long as I behaved.

The next morning I asked her what she wanted of me, and she told me to sit on my knees on the bed, naked as I was, and masturbate for her. Now, I would want to say that it was without question, as it wasn’t, but I did it anyway, looking her in the eye the entire time, my mind and my heart empty in silent serenity. And she smiled when finally I gasped and asked her if I was allowed to cum.

I returned to whoring when my wounds were healed, though the scars were visible for a long time, but I had lost the need to prove my worth to the world. I was broken, had met my match, and willingly surrendered.

We were close to inseparable for half a year, sometimes tag-teaming men as we became known as ‘the devil and the angel’, and at night slept together in the same bed as that was what she wanted.

But as everything, all good things must come to an end when Amy was killed, gunned down on the street one night, by one of her clients who couldn’t deal with anyone knowing his shameful lusts.

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