A Scourge of Roses -Part One

I am your Incubus. Your beast.

I suppose there is much about me that would be considered beastial by those beyond our garden bower; demonic even. Looking on as an observer I would have to agree that my propensity for obsession is fearful. But as participant I must argue that I am helpless. I follow your presence as it moves through the rooms holding the leather volume open pointlessly in my lap. Ocassionally I turn the yellowed pages with an absent hand but all these words are nothing to me...meaningless black scratches over smooth parchment. I'm not even sure what this book is about. I believe I looked at the title before I took it down from the shelf but that was hours ago, before your return. Now that you are here the thoughts of other men do not interest me. Only my own.

And my guesses as to yours.

When you come into the room I watch you under lowered lids, turning pages deliberately. It is a silly pretense. You know very well I am not reading. You can feel my eyes. I have never learned how to take the weight out of my gaze when I look at you. I don't want to. I want you to feel them...Feel the way they grasp at you when you are beyond the reach of my hands.


I end the game, setting the book aside, and lean back in my chair. You tease me with a moment of defiance, standing straight and still with the faintest suggestion of a smile before you take your proper place, kneeling at my feet. The sheer pleasure of having you there tugs at the corners of my mouth just as I ought to be scowling a punishment for your bad behavior. I lean down and take your head in my hands.

It is a marvel to me to think how so much is contained within such a fragile vessel. Under soft flesh and silken hair the bones of your skull feel like eggshell or glass. I run my thumbs across the line of your lips and then my grip drifts lower, closing around your throat. Muscles ripple as you swallow and the steady beat of your pulse begins to flutter.

There is little for us to say in moments like this. When we are walking...when we sit comfortably together in the garden in the evenings...then there seems more to say than the Universe will ever give us time for. But in moments like this the silence between us is absolute.

Your spine arches as you lean into me, gazing up with your mysterious eyes. You know how to appear the perfect supplicant but we both know who wields the true power here. I am like a vampire that can only drink from your veins. There is no other source of sustenance for me ...Your body is my shelter from the sunlight; the holy ground of my homeland where I must return to sleep.

Though you wear my collar and accept my whip...it is I who am enslaved.



In the greenfire shade of the apple tree next to the wicker swing that is your throne I recline in the grass grazing on the last of our lunch; strawberries, cheese, prosciutto. The light summer breeze catches in your skirt of antique lace and the wide brim of the straw hat you wear to keep the sun from your face.

With eyes narrowed by fascination I watch you trim the rose.

Any man could bring you roses. I have given you a monstrous wild briar that froths over the wall in fragrant falls of white blossoms, choking out every other living thing in its bed the way I would choke out the world if I could. It grows like my obsession, reaching grasping tendrils out in all directions, writhing and twisting. Overnight it has shot great canes up nearly seven feet. They tower over you, forcing you to brave the hedge of barbed thorns in order to cut them and rescue the rest of your flowers from their spreading shade.

I smile, watching you wince as they scratch your vulnerable skin. You glance back at me, all uncertain, and I nod encouraging you to continue.

Chivalrously they bend with the breeze to make your task easier and you take them down one by one with your shears, laying them carefully in piles on the lawn. They are a gift from me...therefore sacred...and you would not mistreat even those that must be sacrificed. I feel the smile die on my lips, replaced by a grim set of concentration as your move through the dance, bending and swaying, standing on tip toe and stretching to reach. It is a ballet I would not miss for anything.

When you are finished you turn to look at me again. After all I am the choreographer of all our rituals.

"Choose six," I tell you.

You obey carefully, sorting through the long stalks and separating out your choices according to the directives I gave. They must be strong wands, straight and healthy, at least as thick as your smallest finger and between three and four feet long.

Those you have not chosen are relegated to the mulch where they will eventually be returned to the roots of themselves. The sacred six you bring to me. I will not override your decision unless I find one that truly will not serve, trusting you to complete the task with no interference from me. I give you the scarlet scarf I have been keeping in my pocket.

"Tie them up and wrap the end," I say.

Your delicate profile is a study in concentration. Long thorns catch in your flesh as you line the canes up and tie them with the scarf. Suddenly you hiss and pull back, one finger torn by a careless movement. I take your hand and check the wound. It is clean and straight...A single drop of red oozes to the surface and glistens in the sun.

"Carefully," I warn putting your finger in my mouth.

Your blood is a sharp spark of salt on my tongue as I swirl it around the tiny gash, sucking softly.

You shiver in the heat and I must tip the brim of your hat in order to see your eyes. I know there is a look in them now that I would not miss...I have gone too long without seeing it as it is. Ages it seems...aeons...

You drop your lashes to hide from me. It is a problem we are still trying to overcome. I lift your chin and you know what is expected. You try your best to meet my gaze and your discomfort with this exchange is plain, It isn't easy for you to display what has always been concealed. But this is a lesson you will learn along with all the other things I have to teach you.

I lie back in the grass and stare up at the sun dazzling through the leaves. Impatience hums along my nerves but I have my moments of discipline and no fear of waiting. I can't even recall how long I have waited for you; a little longer will make no difference.

"How's this?" you ask.

I sit up once more and take the scourge of rose canes from you. The banded stalks are thick and sturdy. The silk scarf binds them securely without sheilding my palms from their thorns. I close my fist to let them bite. It is my intention to share your pain. Always...

"Perfect," I say smiling.

You smile back, pleased with my praise and I lean forward, bringing my mouth to you. Your body melts like a taper trying to stand in too much heat. I catch you as you slip, a soft scented weight in my arms.

"Are you ready?"

I murmur the question into your skin. This is not a thing I care to rush. If you say you are not then I will wait.

I am good at waiting. I have waited before.

There is a trembling in my chest and I am not certain if this shaking is yours or mine. Your heart beats against my breastbone...twice, three times...before you answer.



Sunlight falls into the room in slanting slabs of gold. Dust particles rise and fall, dancing in the radiance. The stained glass caps of the windows cast watery ribbons of color across worn floorboards. Muffled by wood and ancient plaster the long evening verspers of crickets, flies and birds goes on without us in the garden.

I put one hand on your shoulder and you descend like Ishtar through the Gates; each one depriving you of the defense you so desperately need to lose until you come to rest on your knees, head bowed, waiting to be hung above the alter.

The skirt of your dress is spread out like foam across the dusty floor and I see your nervous hands smooth its limp lace. I know what you are thinking, distracted by worry over dirt and the expensive antique. But I chose this dress for a reason...I do everything for a reason...It is white and delicate and overrun with tiny pearl buttons. You complained about them when you put it on for me...Buttons down the wrists;buttons at the throat. Buttons, buttons, buttons you said and I smiled, knowing very well the importance of the part they would play.

They represent you these rows and rows of pretty,stiff little pearls; your rigidity, your fear, your single-minded self-reliance. They keep your body buttoned in the same way those stiff pretty pretensions have buttoned in your soul. As I release them...one by one...I will release you.

I know the power of symbolism. Once you understand what they represent I will be able to assail the ivory tower of your prison; open every lock and loosen every psychic chain with nothing more than a few little buttons.

I let the understanding dawn in its own time. You are a bright student. You will figure it out.I watch closely for the moment, lifting one arm and turning the fragile wrist in my hand. One tiny pearl slips its clasp and a small bare patch of skin appears. Much less than an inch but I see it is enough. A shudder runs the length of your spine and you lift your eyes to me wondering as I move to the next tiny pearl.

Very slowly....very carefully...one by one they open down their rigid line; stiff little soldiers falling to the side exposing the length of your forearm and the pale skin of one wrist. You hold very still allowing me to savor and yourself to absorb. The silence pounds against my ears. For me this exqusite exchange, this agonizing drama is foreplay...as stimulating as fellatio. I close my eyes and breathe the growing tension out of my chest as I lay the lace wide, blowing a cool stream of air along your flesh.

If we hold very still I can see the slight jump in the crease of your wrist where the blood pumps through the artery in time to your racing heart. I trace the blue line with the tip of my finger, following its invisible path over your palm and down your fingers. You grasp my hand in yours; always eager to seek deeper contact, to ask for more. You simply must learn patience so I put you off, releasing that arm and turning my attention to the other.

Another row of perfect pearls. Another slow passage of moments. I will you to feel the purpose behind this ritual and as the last button opens you seem to swoon, slipping backward on your knees. I catch you, bring you back and look close to read your face.It is warm here. Still. A sheen of sweat has gathered along the fringe of your hair and a stain of unnatural color flushes your face. I time your pulse with my fingers, finding it swift but strong and even. No reason then to alter the progression of our rite. No reason to change the ritual.

I bring my hands to the buttons at your throat.

My symbolism grows more powerful. Small buttons and tight lace have constricted your ribcage since you put the dress on and now as your breath moves more easily you begin to gasp. The flush of color spreads downward as I release you: collar bone, breastbone, stomach. Sweat dampens the space between your breasts and the smell of your perfume becomes thick as incense in the air.

I pause again and close my eyes needing a moment to collect myself. You move at exactly the wrong moment...or is it exactly the right moment?...and my infinite patience ends. Hard fingers twist in the lace at your shoulders and the delicate fabric rips ragged down the back. It was already open in the front and there was no need for such violence against the pretty thing...Except for the satisfaction its destruction brings, of course.

Naked from the waist up you hold yourself stiff as I toss the ruined scraps away. I watch your hands clench in the fabric of the skirt. You never know what to do with your hands.

I sit back and wait again, giving us both a chance to breathe. Ill-timing is like premature ejaculation in these situations; a seismic disruption signaling a complete loss of control. And control is the one thing I must have over you.

You grow progressively more nervous the longer I simply sit and do nothing while I grow calm. You know this lull...this terrible stillness...Your hands twitch and flutter. Others who needed safety more than discipline I used to bind at this point, easing the wieght of responsibilty from their shoulders. But you are different. It is the breaking of bonds not the binding of them that I do with you.

Reassured of my own self-mastery, I reach once more for your arm.

It trembles as I lift it, turning the palm up. I open my mouth on your wrist, feeling your pulse thump against my tongue. You swoon again and I pull you back; harder this time. From this moment on holding yourself up the way I want you will be part of the challenge.

Almost as slowly as I unfastened all those pretty buttons I take the arm and bend it, pulling your body into mine as I lay the forearm across the small of your back. I watch your eyes the whole time, seeing the tears that float to the surface, spilling over to cling in long lashes. You know this position. It costs you dearly every time I put you in it.

Holding the first arm in place I take up the other, pressing my lips to each cold finger. Then I lay its wrist in the palm of your other hand and close your reluctant grip around it. Holding yourself like this, arms claspsed at the small of your back by force of nothing more than my command and your submission is the hardest thing I ask of you.

You bow your head and I run my hands through the soft hair you keep trimmed short as a pixie's cap. I would kiss you now if I didn't think the feel of your mouth under mine would undo me entirely. Instead I stand and take the scourge of roses from the table where it has waited patient all this time.

Its canes have begun to fade, the long leaves withering into curls of dark green, but the thorns bite deep; a dozen sharp teeth pushing holes through the silk and into my palm as I test my grip against them.

"A little more," I encourage the bend of your head, exposing the full liquid length of your body from hip to neck. "Now how many?"

"Six," you choose the number of blows with an unsteady voice, losing your sense of balance and tipping slightly to the right.

"Twelve," I double the number automatically and your raise your head to glare at me.

From any other such a look would not be tolerated. But this is all part of the process for you; part of the rite. It is the reason you chose me. All your life you have transmuted fear into anger and pain into rage. It has made you strong and bitter as chicory. It has stiffled your heart. Under my hand you hope to learn alchemy of another sort; the power of surrender and the release of control.

"Twelve," I repeat. "Now count."

It is not like swinging a whip. The canes are light and there is no way for me to be certain exactly where they will land. Their scant weight ensures there will be no damage to the tissues or organs underneath, but the thorns deliver a searing scratch ripping long lines of livid red along your flesh.

I watch you jerk and gasp. Your head comes up. Your eyes squeeze shut as you bite down on the sound that wants to come out between your lips. I see the old battle begin to rage; the instinctive reaction and the fight to overcome it. One foot comes out of its kneeling stance as though you mean to get it under you. Your arms tremble with the effort of keeping them in place. If the blow had not been so stunning I think it very likely you would have sprung up to strike me back.

"Count," I warn you.

I will only warn you once. Any blow you fail to count out loud for me will be disregarded and must be born again.

This is the crisis point for you. We bring you to it again and again and never can I be certain exactly how it will turn out. The subjugation of your will to another is so infuriating that I truly believe you would rather be beaten bloody than bow to it.My heart goes out to you as I watch the struggle but I know very well why I am here.

"One," you gasp what I determine to be a fraction too late.

"No," I answer firmly. "Start again."

"No!" you cry but the audacity to argue my judgment will only earn you more blows to count.

"Fifteen," I say, feeling the sinking sting in my palm as I raise the scourge. "Count."

"You son of a bitch."

Such language certainly does not suit the delicacy of the ruined dress you wear but I let the insult go...You have called me worse.

The canes come down. They have a marvelous way of curling around your body when they strike leaving oozing tendrils of red snaking like vines along your skin. You shout 'one!' in absolute defiance and I know that you have passed into the second phase of your habitual reaction. The one where you stifle every pain you have ever felt...This is the place where it is entirely possible you don't feel anything at all. It is dangerous ground and the reason I would allow no other to ride this viper with you. Too much damage can be done that cannot be undone in the madness of this place.

It is up to me to take your through this wild land to the other side where pain becomes an exquisite ally rather an a bitter enemy. I try to concentrate on my part of the drama but every blow for me is like a thrust into your womb. The sensation of approaching orgasm shivers along my spine, hazing my eyes in a red mist.

At five the defiance in your voice begins to break. At eight you start to cry. At twelve my arms turns to lead and I put all the power I can still muster into the last three strikes.

"Fifteen!"

I hear the word ring out in a strangled sob and a howling animal cry shudders up from the depths of my chest. I whirl away from you, hurling the ragged scourge to the far side of the room.

It is no different than an orgasm this nerve-jolting spasm that knocks my feet out from under me. A kindly wall keeps me from going to the floor and I lean hard against it trying to find my breath again...my senses...my self. As the red mist begins to clear I see that you have fallen forward. Head buried in a tangle of white lace you cry like a child in a helpless, silent sort of twisting. It is painful to watch...painful and sweet...You have broken through the barrier and the well of dammed emotion overwhelms you.

Wiping the sweat from my face I go to you. My wounded hand leaves its bloody print on your arm. There is little I can do now but be a bulk work in the storm until exhaustion brings us the peace we both seek.

When I take you from the room I leave the scourge of roses where it lies.