She is naked, except for a long sable cape and black boots with court heels. Her only jewelry a
silver ring with an artificial ruby . . . extended, waiting his kiss . . .
He is on his knees, bare as a baby . . .
Six on the buttocks, six more across the nipples . . . Some nights she’s gagged him with a
ceremonial sash, bound him with a gold-tasseled fourragère or his own Sam Browne.
But tonight he lies humped on the floor at her feet, his withered ass elevated for the cane,
bound by nothing but his need for pain, for something real, something pure . . . The clearest
poetry, the endearment of greatest worth . . .
She turns, “Hold up my fur.” . . . “Be careful, don’t touch my skin.”
Her intestines whine softly . . . A dark turd appears out the crevice, out of the absolute
darkness between her white buttocks . . . he leans forward to surround the hot turd with his
lips, sucking on it tenderly, licking along its lower side . . . The stink of shit floods his nose,
gathering him, surrounding. . . The turd slides into his mouth, down to his gullet. He gags, but
bravely clamps his teeth shut. Bread that would only have floated in porcelain waters
somewhere, unseen, untasted . . .
With his tongue he mashes shit against the roof of his mouth and begins to chew, thickly now,
the only sound in the room . . .
She orders him to masturbate for her . . . The Brigadier comes quickly. The rich smell of semen
fills the room like smoke.