This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Second part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story
It is not a mystery that I do not exactly love Non-Consensual S/M stories, though I have a suspect that the problem is that the few that I read were written somewhat badly (worse than by me... I know, it's almost impossible), showed no interest in the psychology of the characters (beyond a "He was the master of the universe, and proud of being the master of the universe that he was" attached to the master... have I said that this was about the master? And such a master he was ) and hand-waved even the basic needs (secrecy, trusted accomplices, keeping things into budget) of the criminal factors in the story.
So, why am I here writing one? Because, lately, I remembered that I had left the old one on a little cliffhanger...
The oh-so-unfortunate female deuteragonist of our story had just been kidnapped by my pretty despicable protagonist.
What is going to happen?
Pages and pages of relentless sexual tortures on her, till she dies?
Alas, the few things that I wrote about Kyla are enough that I do not want her to die.
I do not want Josh to die, or to remain in prison for the rest of his life, either.
Neither do I want Kyla to fall in love with her torturer - even though it is a staple of the BDSM genre in Hentai, the use of the Stockholm Syndrome (or, rather, women becoming addicted to extreme lewdness) seems to me - in this context - yet another example of bad writing.
Maybe it actually reflects true psychological mechanisms at work in real life prisoners, but it still seems crap to me.
Will I be able to mix things so that I get all that I want?
As I write these lines, I have not even the foggiest idea of if and how.
We'll see...
Kyla woke up.
She was naked, chained to an old forged-iron bed, with no mattress or sheets, and just one little pillow and a thick blanket.
Even with it being three centimetres thick, the blanket was not enough to completely even out the pressure of the net's chains on her skin. Had she been white, plenty of red lines would mark her body.
Drugged? Josh had drugged her? But - why?
He didn't look like one of those pervert... Hell, she had tried plenty of times to get him to look her THAT way! By now, she was sure the guy was even more gay than he was a lousy writer.
A man copying the style of Patricia Loughlear... almost as pathetic as the voice that was now coming from some hidden loudspeaker.
"Welcome, slave, to your last room. Here is where you'll spend the rest of your miserable life."
It used some distorter but, come on, it was Josh's voice - unmistakably. The fact that he pretended to be someone else suggested that he had no real accomplices... which was a bit scary. Accessories to crime have a tendency to flip on their bosses... the lone maniac had some more chances than the ones that hired helps.
Khttps://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7916738425800914293#editor/target=post;postID=5200943278606118177;onPublishedMenu=overview;onClosedMenu=overview;postNum=0;src=postnameyla listed in her mind all that she had read on serial criminals... defy or comply? Which strategy would keep Kyla alive longer and get Josh to make more mistakes? What did he expect from her kidnapping, what h needed? Why did he?
If all he wanted was some sex, he just had to ask... idiot. She really didn't care about that stuff.
"Come on, Josh! I recognized your voice! Let me go now, and we'll call this a practical joke and laugh about it tomorrow, with the rest of the boys" - to Hell with it...
The guy had clearly spent some time planning this, and had the resources in place to abduct and hide women - even if he let her go, he may still try again with some other poor girl. If she convinced him, her first call would be to the FBI.
He probably understood this - a part this.... thin that he was doing, he was not really that dumb as not to get it.
The punishment for kidnapping - for this KIND of kidnapping, beyond the years of jail, there is also the probability of being killed by one pissed-off inmate, to take into account - are so harsh that it makes no sense freeing the kidnapped, ever.
Not when the chances of murder prosecution, in the absence of a body, are so abysmally low as in their state.
Had he made this kind of calculations? He didn't seem much into crime novels as Kyla - Pat Loughlear was her only romantic read, though some romance is hidden even in Edgar Wallace and Conan Doyle, if one squeeze the eyes hard enough - but he had probably spent way more time then her, thinking about this moment.
Except that he really didn't, or couldn't do, anything more than having some vague notion of kidnapping her, imprisoning her and make her "pay" - for things that she didn't do at all.
Not only didn't she do anything to him, the lonely black girl could hardly do anything nasty to any other man... she simply had not enough nastiness in her, to really be a bitch.
As she stood defiantly, he could feel the back of his mind itching, trying not to say to himself "She is right... this is stupid, and wrong".
This was a mistake - a mistake that he already made. The only way left was to go on, follow the script till its dirty end, polish the weak points, and then use the revised plan with his horrible ex-wife.
"Slave, you are here to entertain us with your pain, your body and your terror. Your past life is over. You have no rights, nor freedom, nor food nor water but what we allow you to have, by our goodwill. Now, lower your head and put on the leather blind hood in front of you."
"Fuck Off, Josh. If you want to see me blindfolded, you may have at least the courage to do it yourself, ass-hole! I am not going to help you."
Josh stood aghast, in front of his 94" flat screen. The resolution of the concealed webcam was just too low, it made the bigger than life face of the Kyla on-screen somewhat surreal. He switched the signal to his laptop , noting for himself - "when it will be Linda's time, I'll have to use a 4k camera... "
He didn't expect Kyla to resist - her life had been a long series of humiliations, pains, and betrayal that she had to endure and had made her into a worthless person.
At least, so he thought... the fact that the tiny, slightly chubby black girl may see herself differently, had never crossed his mind, but she did. This didn't look like the near broken wreck that he found in her letters to her preferred romance provider.
This was Kyla as she had to go through life, always ready for the next fight. He miscalculated.
Repeating the order was only going to highlight his ineffectiveness - she said it herself, he had to do it himself.
He took the hood that he prepared, and then let it go. She knew that he was the one behind this - there was no reason to hide. He left his "command post", and suddenly realized why did he create it n the first place - to remove himself from the action, to feel less what he was going to do. A coward way to look at the effects of his own actions.
He could not expect her to do his bidding for him - "he who draws blood, must soil himself" - the ancient reality of the men of action, before the weapons that strike at distance changed the nature of confrontation among humans.
He opened the door, and entered her cell.
Kyla looked at him, with a lot more hate than fear. She despised him, he knew.
He wen up to her, and they stood separated, looking at each other - Kyla asked only "Why?".
Josh knew that he could not answer... that any justification he could come out was, really, pathetic, so he finally saw the truth.
"Because I Want" - then he slammed his fist in her face, at his full strength.
She fell on her own feet, already an incoherent mess, blood running from her broken lips, the eyes half-closed in her near-loss of consciousness, one of her incisors visibly loosened in its gum.
Hosh looked at her... he thought that he was going to feel powerful, vindicated. he did not.
He considered continuing the work, trash the frail body of the diminutive black girl, completely.
He wen off the room, instead, closed the door, sat against the wall.
And he cried.
He was a monster, and a prisoner of his own choices - from now on, all had to follow its path.
Till the dirty, messy, stupid end.
Thursday, 11 August 2016
Wednesday, 10 August 2016
Back to your art...
When you can, make time for it.
If you see something that doesn't satisfy you, think about ways to solve it - eventually, be bold, and trample your ego to take on a course of some kind on it.
Perspective, for example, doesn't take much... any good book on technical drawing usually covers "technical perspective" more than deeply enough.
Remember that there are, really, no "cheap tricks" - just things that work for you and your style, and things that do not.
Also, all techniques are just there to be learned and used.
Try to always keep a goal that you can reach inside your despair horizon, the length after which you lose faith in completing projects.
If you are down, that length can be quite short, but doing things helps stretching it back to normal.
Treasure constructive critics and ignore obstructive ones.
No matter what keep going on and, when you can, go back to your art.
Nobody else is really going to really understand it, but it doesn't matter - as long as it yours.
Saturday, 6 August 2016
Thursday, 4 August 2016
How to build yourself a Cintiq: To case or not to case?
Or, rather, to build a new case, or to modify the case of the tablet, to hold the screen?
It is a matter of personal tastes, and of time: building even the simplest, boxy-style case, ad fitting everything neatly inside takes a couple of days (and some raw material).
Modifying an Intuos case takes less time, BUT... if for any reason, you fancy changing the tablet in your build (for example, to upgrade to a later model... I2 -> I3 makes a lot of sense and, if one is lucky enough that his screen does not interfere with the new tablet, the change may be little more than a direct replacement of the main boards and finding a place for the I3 buttons) or you finally abort the project, you cannot re-assemble and re-sell the tablet.
Personally, I tend to build new cases, even for the A5 sized (probably, that was a mistake... the case is all in folded iron; It is excessively sturdy, to say the least... the kind of small appliance that one does not survive, if his partner throws it at him in anger).
Building your own case takes slightly more time (in reality, with a well thought design, one may assemble it in a couple of hours... then, days go in trimming it to fit everything, the same as with modifying an existing Intuos), but it presents its advantages.
First of all, tablets are made to be placed on a desk.
Unless they have a good IPS monitor, "Cintiqs" can HARDLY be used at all, in that position.
And even if they were... drawing on a tablet, you follow the work on the screen - the screen is in a perfect position to be viewed with little or no perspective aberrations; over time, your brains learns how to compensate for the large distance between hand and the screen (and for the non-linearities in the tablet position reading... that's why a tablet driver has a 4 points projection set-up, and a Cintiq driver uses 27 - or more - points; on a digitizing monito, you see where it goes off-track).
A Cintiq is going to replace your physical support ... so, it is best thought in terms of how you use a sheet of paper of the same size of the screen.
A5 - it is a notes block, that usually one keeps in hand while drawing - for one of these, keeping it small and compact is a good idea.
A4 - Can go both way (keep in mind that usually a tablet requires a size comparable to the successive din step), though probably the best paradigm is a monitor on a monitor arm.
A3 - Big, they are better served thinking of one of them as a centre-piece in a drawing table.
A2 and beyond (multiple digitizers under the LCD) - these are, really, drawing boards.
With some care, one may design a frame that can be trimmed, relatively easily, for more than one use case.
Stretching out a tablet frame for an use that it was not thought for, may produce strange results and require awkward junctions.
(In fact, an awful number of builds die during the fit-the-case-to-the-screen phase - torn TCON-lcd flexible junctions, cutters that go in the wrong place and short things....)
On the other hand, modifying an existing plastic case... can take a lot less time.
Both methods can yield good results, depending on what your use scenario is, so it is a matter of personal preferences.
It is a matter of personal tastes, and of time: building even the simplest, boxy-style case, ad fitting everything neatly inside takes a couple of days (and some raw material).
Modifying an Intuos case takes less time, BUT... if for any reason, you fancy changing the tablet in your build (for example, to upgrade to a later model... I2 -> I3 makes a lot of sense and, if one is lucky enough that his screen does not interfere with the new tablet, the change may be little more than a direct replacement of the main boards and finding a place for the I3 buttons) or you finally abort the project, you cannot re-assemble and re-sell the tablet.
Personally, I tend to build new cases, even for the A5 sized (probably, that was a mistake... the case is all in folded iron; It is excessively sturdy, to say the least... the kind of small appliance that one does not survive, if his partner throws it at him in anger).
Building your own case takes slightly more time (in reality, with a well thought design, one may assemble it in a couple of hours... then, days go in trimming it to fit everything, the same as with modifying an existing Intuos), but it presents its advantages.
First of all, tablets are made to be placed on a desk.
Unless they have a good IPS monitor, "Cintiqs" can HARDLY be used at all, in that position.
And even if they were... drawing on a tablet, you follow the work on the screen - the screen is in a perfect position to be viewed with little or no perspective aberrations; over time, your brains learns how to compensate for the large distance between hand and the screen (and for the non-linearities in the tablet position reading... that's why a tablet driver has a 4 points projection set-up, and a Cintiq driver uses 27 - or more - points; on a digitizing monito, you see where it goes off-track).
A Cintiq is going to replace your physical support ... so, it is best thought in terms of how you use a sheet of paper of the same size of the screen.
A5 - it is a notes block, that usually one keeps in hand while drawing - for one of these, keeping it small and compact is a good idea.
A4 - Can go both way (keep in mind that usually a tablet requires a size comparable to the successive din step), though probably the best paradigm is a monitor on a monitor arm.
A3 - Big, they are better served thinking of one of them as a centre-piece in a drawing table.
A2 and beyond (multiple digitizers under the LCD) - these are, really, drawing boards.
With some care, one may design a frame that can be trimmed, relatively easily, for more than one use case.
Stretching out a tablet frame for an use that it was not thought for, may produce strange results and require awkward junctions.
(In fact, an awful number of builds die during the fit-the-case-to-the-screen phase - torn TCON-lcd flexible junctions, cutters that go in the wrong place and short things....)
On the other hand, modifying an existing plastic case... can take a lot less time.
Both methods can yield good results, depending on what your use scenario is, so it is a matter of personal preferences.
Monday, 1 August 2016
Can I Save Her?
The great, black hands move swiftly - the large woman takes a handful of rice, mixed with soy vinegar and sugar, makes the last vaguely fish-shaped log, then she takes a nice chunk of fresh tuna and starts filleting it in thin stripes, that she lays on the rice with small drops of wasabi acting as 'glue' as well as seasoning.
Lord Jonathan Maxwell keeps watching, as Keisha Lawson fills the work table with nigiris, in the back workroom of Kawarazaki Sushi. The room is wide, spacious and well lit - and well hidden from the dinner room.
Even in this first half of the 22st century, Japanese people are more than a shade racist when it comes to blacks. Lord Maxwell imagines what a riot could it be, if the many actual Japanese clients of the place - probably the best Sushi restaurant in Great London area - discovered that most of the food, there, was prepared by a Nigger.
When she raises her head, Jonathan tries to move forward but is stopped by Saitou Kawarazaki, the owner, who speaks entirely too deferentially to the Black Giantess.
"Kono otoko wa Keisha-Megami-Sama to hanashi o shitaidesu"
"Daijobu Saitou o'dono"
The cold stare of the titanic African could pierce a tank armour, and slices through Jonathan self-assuredness. Her eyes widens a little, for the smallest nick of time - some kind of comprehension overtook her.
"Please, Saitou O'Dono, tell Hikari to continue with the Gunkans. I will be out for a while."
"Ai, Keisha-Megami-Sama" - the man bows deeply in front of the big black, just as she take off her apron.
, bent on exploiting employees in every possible way.
"My place is nearby. I suspect you would rather speak away from everybody's ears, this time" - the smile on Keisha's face is almost crooked, while she says so, but Jonathan cannot help but agree with her.
This time, going in a café could be a bad idea.
He follows the tall woman and her pale Burberry, down an alley and then into an entirely too old elevator.
He must look tense, because the black feels the need to reassure him "Machine's reliability is often more a matter of their maintenance than of their age. Beside, this thing is just five years old - it's a copy of a first quarter of 20th century lift only aesthetically, the technology is new."
She smiles again, almost giggly, seeing the older man easing up - "It happens often. People sees it and thinks that it is going to break down midway, but I really didn't want to disfigure this old building with
one of those new stainless steel boxes".
They reach the attic of the old warehouse, and enter an enormous flat with teak floors.
The main area contains a well sized kitchen in a corner, a big television with three old leather couches in front of it, surrounded by outmoded big speakers, in the other.
Between them, a dining table with eight seats covered in linen cloth rests over a big carpet occupies a central space.
At the walls, bookshelves contend space with some obvious reproductions of works from Keith Haring and other ancient artists bear witness to the big woman's taste. The only wrong note, a reproduction of a painting from some seventeenth century Dutch artist, possibly Gerrit Dou, didn't really catch with the rest of the place.
It was the portrait of a small girl with red hair, probably included in the furniture for some sentimental value.
The giantess passes near one of the couches, and invites Jonathan to take a seat, while she directs herself to the door that gives access to the other half of the place - Jonathan imagines that the bathroom and the bedroom[s] are in the walled part of the flat, whereas this open space is the "day" area; not a bad disposition of the spaces, if a bit old fashioned.
Soon, the sound of a shower running confirms his suppositions.
"Do you want something to drink? To eat?"
The diminutive red-head has appeared while Jonathan was lost in his thoughts, startling him and leaving him temporarily out of words.
"S-Something strong" - is all that he finally manages. He hoped there would be nobody else, to listen to what he had to say.
"Strong? Alcohol?· We only have some Schnapps. Do you want it?"
"It will be fine."
No, it is not fine at all - "What the hell is this?" - the content of alcohol in the beverage is off the charts.
"Austrian home-made Schnaps" - says Keisha, entering the room in a red kimono, her hair still wet - "85% alcohol. Mariede keeps it mostly to have fun with new guests."
The short redhead pours herself a full glass of the infernal concoction, and gulps it down, smiling to an astonished Jonathan. It is easy to see why the Dutch painting is included in the house... it could very well be a portrait of this young woman. Familial resemblances often can last centuries; Jonathan himself is almost identical to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Nicholas Maxwell, judging by the photos in the family book.
"Her body hardly absorbs any alcohol. She needs a whole bottle of that, to actually be a bit high, and anything below 70º has no effect at all, on her."
The smile on the red-head clearly tells something along the lines of "What do you want, that's life."
"Lord Jonathan Maxwell, this is my companion, Mariede Gründl. Mariede, this is Jonathan Maxwell, the current possessor of Isabel."
By the way Mariede's smile cools down, Jonathan can see that she is not very happy of hearing the name.
The circumstances of Jonathan and Keisha first encounter, some six months before, become clear - the tall woman had fallen in love with Mariede, and couldn't afford to keep Isabel on the leash, mostly because the - Austrian? She had a faint accent - short girl didn't like to share her woman with anybody.
"What's the problem, now, with that scatter-head?"
"Ehm, it is very personal, I would rather discuss this only with Ms. Lawson." - the expression on the Austrian face is clearly a "No way", so he decides to try and explain that he is not looking forward "giving back" the voluptuous blonde - "The relationship between my wife and Isabel, I ... this is so bad"
"Your wife has grown more and more sadistic, and it had come to the point where she was virtually trying to kill Isabel on a regular basis. Only, nothing she can do damages Isabel for more than, say, twenty minutes? And then, Isabel wants more pain. So, now your wife is finally trying to kill Isabel, all the time, just to get rid of her and the sense of utter impotence that she feels, when she sees that blonde hair."
Mariede's eyes widens up in stupor, then she look at Keisha, who just tilts her head so slightly on the right and raises an eyebrow, clearly communicating an "I told you that it was going to be so" that hits Mariede very deeply. She lowers her head, sits on the sofa next to Jonathan's and , while she does not really cry and sob, she gives the impression that she may as well do so.
Keisha goes over to her, sits on the sofa too, and places Mariede on her lap - like the Austrian was weightless - and starts to cuddle her.
" I am such a bad person" - the phrase is almost whispered, as the "No, you are not" answered by Keisha, who then address her befuddled guest.
"I think that you may have some questions, Lord Maxwell."
"OK... first of all, WHAT is Isabel?"
"An... experiment, on the capabilities of nano-technology. Her body is full of small robots that repair any possible damage it may occur to her."
"Yes, yes... I suspected something like that, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Of course, her body wasn't exactly human even before that, and her mind is... very peculiar."
"Yes, I saw that too... this technology, where does it come from?"
"It is unwise for you to ask, and it would be even more unwise for me to answer."
"I see" - whoever made something like that, had no concern for ethics, morals or laws, and plenty of reasons to go to any length to keep the lid on the affair, which begets the question...
"But, why... why isn't she kept away, in some secret cell? Whatever scientific data could be retrieved, it would be better to keep her in a containment facility, not " - to trap poor sods like me, he didn't add..
"Let's say that his creator is a very contradictory person, and sees no problems in CREATING the ultimate pain toy girl, but it would smite anybody that even suggests to REALLY imprison her, only because it is convenient."
A fatigued expression wanders through the big black face - "With that... guy, it is always a question of Do-ut-Des and free choices, even if it takes a bit to pierce his obfuscating persona and see how it really sees the world. But, we rather not discuss this, shall we?"
"My wife is losing her mind."
"Yes... your wife is into SM because she feels a need to feed a fragile ego. That is already the worst possible reason, to be into this kind of things, but the interaction with someone like Isabel can easily becoming very destructive."
Jonathan faintly nods with his head, to signal that he understands it - he wishes very much he had not come to that sort of insights.
"At start, she must have felt very powerful... you can do everything, with Isabel. No limits, for real. Then she had to realize... no limits, because nothing really matters. She has no power at all, on Isabel - nobody has. And Izzy does not 'endure' anything either... every kind of pain in an even mildly sexualized environment gives her pleasure, and she craves it 24/7. In the end, your wife is just the slave that keeps Isabel well tortured and happy, and this is a blow that her ego cannot take."
"Oh, my God, she is going to destroy herself, if they are together."
" Isabel is also kind of a test... she brings out the best and the worst in her 'owners'. You didn't resent her, for not being able to lose permanently a limb when you cut it off" - a muted, inarticulate sound comes from Jonathan, as the horrid vision of a recent night flashes before his eyes - "You probably couldn't even think about doing something like that , but your wife did it as soon as it became clear that Isabel could withstand, literally, everything. And then, she did cut something off, only to look at how it reattached itself, didn't she?"
"Please..." - Jonathan's face is a mask of emotional pain, but it is Mariede that, suddenly, jumps out and run away.
"I think that she didn't really understood, when I tried to explain her that I had to keep Isabel. What could happen..." - a sigh escapes from Keisha's lips - "... but she is very possessive, and felt that Isabel was taking up too much of my energies and time. She is right, of course, so I had to find a new guardian for Isabel."
Sadness paints its shade on Lawson's face, as she adds "Sorry."
"How can I save my wife?"
"Can you? I fear that it may be already too late. You cannot isolate Lady Anna from Isabel, without reinforcing the fact that she is not the one in control, and as things keep worsening, your wife may decide to prove her power on a surrogate. It has already happened, to the poor sloth that was her guardian before me. He planned, organized and re-hearsed the kidnapping of a sixteen years old girl, but managed to kill himself just before going on with it, in a last moment of lucidity."
Maxwell tried to think to his wife, Anna, in a similar situation - no, she would not kill herself. She'd just go on, and do her terrible ddeds.
"How may I kill Isabel?"
"You can't - physically, there are some ways. Maybe. Throw her in a steel furnace, it should be hot enough that her nanorobots should be disabled, her rests would be so dispersed that they should be unable to recompose her even if they were still active. However, " - the pause is significant - "I used to be able to punch holes in hot furnaces, and throw melted iron around with my bare hands; The tech inside my body is way older than what's inside Isabel. She may as well swim into the ore, and come out of the still mill with her hair barely singed."
"You used?"
"I am not on active service, so most of the naughty things inside me have been switched off. Don't ask more, it would be... very, very unwise. Me waking up from some homicidal trance, your still beating heart in my hands kind of unwise."
Was it a joke? Probably, more of a truth. As Keisha continued, Jonathan realized that anything this woman said apparently in jest was deadly serious, most of the time.
"Anything else, she'd just brush it off. You can't lay Isabel out either, not really... 'Till the end of your natural lives' was literal, not a joke."
The horror grapples Lord Maxwell's heart, as he realize what this probably means. If he tries to get rid of Isabel... somebody would rip his chest open and squish his heart, while he looks at it - no anaesthesia.
"What, can I do?"
"You must decide, what of your wife do you want to save, if she starts planning the surrogate move."
"Oh, God, no!"
"Also you must realize... you are probably a surrogate as good as anybody else."
"Anyway, it doesn't matter to me, not any more."
"But, but..."
"Isabel is an adult, your wife is an adult, you are an adult, you entered in this relationship all together, wholeheartedly, and the rules of engagement were clearly defined, for everybody involved. It turns out one of you can't manage the burden of her role? It is not my fault. Isabel had warned you that she was an handful, I bet."
Indeed, she did - Jonathan remembered the many emails exchanged with the young woman.
Nothing that was happening was really a surprise, it had been hinted to in a moment or the other.
He, and Anna, just couldn't believe it.
"So, you cant help me?"
"Short of taking Isabel back, there is nothing that I can do. And I bet that Izzy is having the time of her life, with your wife. She wouldn't come back anyway - not to old, boring, dull Keisha."
That, Jonathan realises, closes the discussion - she cannot help him, even if she wanted - which he very much doubts.
Before going out, he turn toward the huge black, and says an angry farewell "I hope to see you in Hell, woman.
By the time he sees the man in the alley, she retorts - more to herself - "We already live in one, didn't you know, Milord?"
"But it is true that I ended up making you pay for my greatest sin." - her thought continue, as her eyes land on the spot, in the painting, when a small strand of hair used to be encrusted.
She remembered when she first saw it, in the Louvre museum, and decided to see if it was possible to recreate the owner.
Mariede was the third product of that experiment, done in half jest. The moment when Keisha realized that she, too, was becoming a monster - when she engineered the various Mariede's minds to be highly susceptible to fall in love with one Keisha Lawson.
It was then, when she realized that she, too, had to go back to normal humanity, before it was too late - which could very well be - when she realized how cruel she had been, to each Mariede, and decided to be always there, for the one that loved her.
"Can I save her, from the very monsters that gave her her life, when I am one of them and I still like to hurt her?"
She will never admit that she knows the answer,:
"No."
Lord Jonathan Maxwell keeps watching, as Keisha Lawson fills the work table with nigiris, in the back workroom of Kawarazaki Sushi. The room is wide, spacious and well lit - and well hidden from the dinner room.
Even in this first half of the 22st century, Japanese people are more than a shade racist when it comes to blacks. Lord Maxwell imagines what a riot could it be, if the many actual Japanese clients of the place - probably the best Sushi restaurant in Great London area - discovered that most of the food, there, was prepared by a Nigger.
When she raises her head, Jonathan tries to move forward but is stopped by Saitou Kawarazaki, the owner, who speaks entirely too deferentially to the Black Giantess.
"Kono otoko wa Keisha-Megami-Sama to hanashi o shitaidesu"
"Daijobu Saitou o'dono"
The cold stare of the titanic African could pierce a tank armour, and slices through Jonathan self-assuredness. Her eyes widens a little, for the smallest nick of time - some kind of comprehension overtook her.
"Please, Saitou O'Dono, tell Hikari to continue with the Gunkans. I will be out for a while."
"Ai, Keisha-Megami-Sama" - the man bows deeply in front of the big black, just as she take off her apron.
, bent on exploiting employees in every possible way.
"My place is nearby. I suspect you would rather speak away from everybody's ears, this time" - the smile on Keisha's face is almost crooked, while she says so, but Jonathan cannot help but agree with her.
This time, going in a café could be a bad idea.
He follows the tall woman and her pale Burberry, down an alley and then into an entirely too old elevator.
He must look tense, because the black feels the need to reassure him "Machine's reliability is often more a matter of their maintenance than of their age. Beside, this thing is just five years old - it's a copy of a first quarter of 20th century lift only aesthetically, the technology is new."
She smiles again, almost giggly, seeing the older man easing up - "It happens often. People sees it and thinks that it is going to break down midway, but I really didn't want to disfigure this old building with
one of those new stainless steel boxes".
They reach the attic of the old warehouse, and enter an enormous flat with teak floors.
The main area contains a well sized kitchen in a corner, a big television with three old leather couches in front of it, surrounded by outmoded big speakers, in the other.
Between them, a dining table with eight seats covered in linen cloth rests over a big carpet occupies a central space.
At the walls, bookshelves contend space with some obvious reproductions of works from Keith Haring and other ancient artists bear witness to the big woman's taste. The only wrong note, a reproduction of a painting from some seventeenth century Dutch artist, possibly Gerrit Dou, didn't really catch with the rest of the place.
It was the portrait of a small girl with red hair, probably included in the furniture for some sentimental value.
The giantess passes near one of the couches, and invites Jonathan to take a seat, while she directs herself to the door that gives access to the other half of the place - Jonathan imagines that the bathroom and the bedroom[s] are in the walled part of the flat, whereas this open space is the "day" area; not a bad disposition of the spaces, if a bit old fashioned.
Soon, the sound of a shower running confirms his suppositions.
"Do you want something to drink? To eat?"
The diminutive red-head has appeared while Jonathan was lost in his thoughts, startling him and leaving him temporarily out of words.
"S-Something strong" - is all that he finally manages. He hoped there would be nobody else, to listen to what he had to say.
"Strong? Alcohol?· We only have some Schnapps. Do you want it?"
"It will be fine."
No, it is not fine at all - "What the hell is this?" - the content of alcohol in the beverage is off the charts.
"Austrian home-made Schnaps" - says Keisha, entering the room in a red kimono, her hair still wet - "85% alcohol. Mariede keeps it mostly to have fun with new guests."
The short redhead pours herself a full glass of the infernal concoction, and gulps it down, smiling to an astonished Jonathan. It is easy to see why the Dutch painting is included in the house... it could very well be a portrait of this young woman. Familial resemblances often can last centuries; Jonathan himself is almost identical to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Nicholas Maxwell, judging by the photos in the family book.
"Her body hardly absorbs any alcohol. She needs a whole bottle of that, to actually be a bit high, and anything below 70º has no effect at all, on her."
The smile on the red-head clearly tells something along the lines of "What do you want, that's life."
"Lord Jonathan Maxwell, this is my companion, Mariede Gründl. Mariede, this is Jonathan Maxwell, the current possessor of Isabel."
By the way Mariede's smile cools down, Jonathan can see that she is not very happy of hearing the name.
The circumstances of Jonathan and Keisha first encounter, some six months before, become clear - the tall woman had fallen in love with Mariede, and couldn't afford to keep Isabel on the leash, mostly because the - Austrian? She had a faint accent - short girl didn't like to share her woman with anybody.
"What's the problem, now, with that scatter-head?"
"Ehm, it is very personal, I would rather discuss this only with Ms. Lawson." - the expression on the Austrian face is clearly a "No way", so he decides to try and explain that he is not looking forward "giving back" the voluptuous blonde - "The relationship between my wife and Isabel, I ... this is so bad"
"Your wife has grown more and more sadistic, and it had come to the point where she was virtually trying to kill Isabel on a regular basis. Only, nothing she can do damages Isabel for more than, say, twenty minutes? And then, Isabel wants more pain. So, now your wife is finally trying to kill Isabel, all the time, just to get rid of her and the sense of utter impotence that she feels, when she sees that blonde hair."
Mariede's eyes widens up in stupor, then she look at Keisha, who just tilts her head so slightly on the right and raises an eyebrow, clearly communicating an "I told you that it was going to be so" that hits Mariede very deeply. She lowers her head, sits on the sofa next to Jonathan's and , while she does not really cry and sob, she gives the impression that she may as well do so.
Keisha goes over to her, sits on the sofa too, and places Mariede on her lap - like the Austrian was weightless - and starts to cuddle her.
" I am such a bad person" - the phrase is almost whispered, as the "No, you are not" answered by Keisha, who then address her befuddled guest.
"I think that you may have some questions, Lord Maxwell."
"OK... first of all, WHAT is Isabel?"
"An... experiment, on the capabilities of nano-technology. Her body is full of small robots that repair any possible damage it may occur to her."
"Yes, yes... I suspected something like that, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Of course, her body wasn't exactly human even before that, and her mind is... very peculiar."
"Yes, I saw that too... this technology, where does it come from?"
"It is unwise for you to ask, and it would be even more unwise for me to answer."
"I see" - whoever made something like that, had no concern for ethics, morals or laws, and plenty of reasons to go to any length to keep the lid on the affair, which begets the question...
"But, why... why isn't she kept away, in some secret cell? Whatever scientific data could be retrieved, it would be better to keep her in a containment facility, not " - to trap poor sods like me, he didn't add..
"Let's say that his creator is a very contradictory person, and sees no problems in CREATING the ultimate pain toy girl, but it would smite anybody that even suggests to REALLY imprison her, only because it is convenient."
A fatigued expression wanders through the big black face - "With that... guy, it is always a question of Do-ut-Des and free choices, even if it takes a bit to pierce his obfuscating persona and see how it really sees the world. But, we rather not discuss this, shall we?"
"My wife is losing her mind."
"Yes... your wife is into SM because she feels a need to feed a fragile ego. That is already the worst possible reason, to be into this kind of things, but the interaction with someone like Isabel can easily becoming very destructive."
Jonathan faintly nods with his head, to signal that he understands it - he wishes very much he had not come to that sort of insights.
"At start, she must have felt very powerful... you can do everything, with Isabel. No limits, for real. Then she had to realize... no limits, because nothing really matters. She has no power at all, on Isabel - nobody has. And Izzy does not 'endure' anything either... every kind of pain in an even mildly sexualized environment gives her pleasure, and she craves it 24/7. In the end, your wife is just the slave that keeps Isabel well tortured and happy, and this is a blow that her ego cannot take."
"Oh, my God, she is going to destroy herself, if they are together."
" Isabel is also kind of a test... she brings out the best and the worst in her 'owners'. You didn't resent her, for not being able to lose permanently a limb when you cut it off" - a muted, inarticulate sound comes from Jonathan, as the horrid vision of a recent night flashes before his eyes - "You probably couldn't even think about doing something like that , but your wife did it as soon as it became clear that Isabel could withstand, literally, everything. And then, she did cut something off, only to look at how it reattached itself, didn't she?"
"Please..." - Jonathan's face is a mask of emotional pain, but it is Mariede that, suddenly, jumps out and run away.
"I think that she didn't really understood, when I tried to explain her that I had to keep Isabel. What could happen..." - a sigh escapes from Keisha's lips - "... but she is very possessive, and felt that Isabel was taking up too much of my energies and time. She is right, of course, so I had to find a new guardian for Isabel."
Sadness paints its shade on Lawson's face, as she adds "Sorry."
"How can I save my wife?"
"Can you? I fear that it may be already too late. You cannot isolate Lady Anna from Isabel, without reinforcing the fact that she is not the one in control, and as things keep worsening, your wife may decide to prove her power on a surrogate. It has already happened, to the poor sloth that was her guardian before me. He planned, organized and re-hearsed the kidnapping of a sixteen years old girl, but managed to kill himself just before going on with it, in a last moment of lucidity."
Maxwell tried to think to his wife, Anna, in a similar situation - no, she would not kill herself. She'd just go on, and do her terrible ddeds.
"How may I kill Isabel?"
"You can't - physically, there are some ways. Maybe. Throw her in a steel furnace, it should be hot enough that her nanorobots should be disabled, her rests would be so dispersed that they should be unable to recompose her even if they were still active. However, " - the pause is significant - "I used to be able to punch holes in hot furnaces, and throw melted iron around with my bare hands; The tech inside my body is way older than what's inside Isabel. She may as well swim into the ore, and come out of the still mill with her hair barely singed."
"You used?"
"I am not on active service, so most of the naughty things inside me have been switched off. Don't ask more, it would be... very, very unwise. Me waking up from some homicidal trance, your still beating heart in my hands kind of unwise."
Was it a joke? Probably, more of a truth. As Keisha continued, Jonathan realized that anything this woman said apparently in jest was deadly serious, most of the time.
"Anything else, she'd just brush it off. You can't lay Isabel out either, not really... 'Till the end of your natural lives' was literal, not a joke."
The horror grapples Lord Maxwell's heart, as he realize what this probably means. If he tries to get rid of Isabel... somebody would rip his chest open and squish his heart, while he looks at it - no anaesthesia.
"What, can I do?"
"You must decide, what of your wife do you want to save, if she starts planning the surrogate move."
"Oh, God, no!"
"Also you must realize... you are probably a surrogate as good as anybody else."
"Anyway, it doesn't matter to me, not any more."
"But, but..."
"Isabel is an adult, your wife is an adult, you are an adult, you entered in this relationship all together, wholeheartedly, and the rules of engagement were clearly defined, for everybody involved. It turns out one of you can't manage the burden of her role? It is not my fault. Isabel had warned you that she was an handful, I bet."
Indeed, she did - Jonathan remembered the many emails exchanged with the young woman.
Nothing that was happening was really a surprise, it had been hinted to in a moment or the other.
He, and Anna, just couldn't believe it.
"So, you cant help me?"
"Short of taking Isabel back, there is nothing that I can do. And I bet that Izzy is having the time of her life, with your wife. She wouldn't come back anyway - not to old, boring, dull Keisha."
That, Jonathan realises, closes the discussion - she cannot help him, even if she wanted - which he very much doubts.
Before going out, he turn toward the huge black, and says an angry farewell "I hope to see you in Hell, woman.
By the time he sees the man in the alley, she retorts - more to herself - "We already live in one, didn't you know, Milord?"
"But it is true that I ended up making you pay for my greatest sin." - her thought continue, as her eyes land on the spot, in the painting, when a small strand of hair used to be encrusted.
She remembered when she first saw it, in the Louvre museum, and decided to see if it was possible to recreate the owner.
Mariede was the third product of that experiment, done in half jest. The moment when Keisha realized that she, too, was becoming a monster - when she engineered the various Mariede's minds to be highly susceptible to fall in love with one Keisha Lawson.
It was then, when she realized that she, too, had to go back to normal humanity, before it was too late - which could very well be - when she realized how cruel she had been, to each Mariede, and decided to be always there, for the one that loved her.
"Can I save her, from the very monsters that gave her her life, when I am one of them and I still like to hurt her?"
She will never admit that she knows the answer,:
"No."
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