Smoke-coloured eyes, eyes like jade, like the sky, like a deep forest, a shady pool, an overcast sky. None the color he so adored.
He had half a dozen of his favorites with him, their pink smiles and soft skin and lush hair and little jingling collars and their silence all trying so hard to please. They bathed him, gave him a rubdown, massaged the tension from his muscles, redressed him, fed him, worshipped him.
He used them as furniture and as serving platters, one as an ashtray, and in a fit of pique, one as a toilet.
He put them on the rack, on the ground, on the wall, from the ceiling, the hooks, sent them to their corners, took their sight, their sound, their breath. He tortured and used them, these favorites of his, made them writhe and beg and rock and bruise and bleed. He took out his frustrations upon them, never speaking, moving them roughly, his commands by hand and with the leather straps.
One he nearly drowned, holding her under water as he fucked her senseless
Another, he burned and left for the nurse to clean up, to tend to the wax running over reddened thighs, dripping from stiff nipples and bitten lips.
He had pulled down, of all things, a long polished wooden box and run his fingers over the blades inside before he realized the danger in his own fury.
He sent them all away and peeled away his gloves, the better to use those blades on his own flesh, and carved new pain and torment around his knuckles and over the pads of his hand, tiny lines welling red.
He slept in white sheets smeared with red lines and the trails of bitter tears.
