Beautiful Agony: A Tale Of Savage Love
Part I
by D.D. DuBois
Beautiful Agony: A Tale Of Savage Love©
Part I
Copyright~ 1/2013 by Dominique D. DuBois
Cover Copyright~ 1/2013 by Dominique D. DuBois
Cover Photo Rights Licensed Thru: Shutterstock.com
BDSM writing is NOT for everyone. Please be sure this type of material will not offend you BEFORE you begin. Also, please read the following warning:
~The erotic tales by Dominique D. DuBois, are unilaterally restricted to only depicting sexual acts occurring between adults (those 18 years of age or older). Additionally, they are expressly intended for a mature and legal audience. These stories are not approved to be purchased or read by minors (those under 18 years of age). If you are not at least 18, please stop reading HERE and return this book to Amazon immediately for a full refund. By continuing to read this story, you are hereby acknowledging that you are at least 18 years of age or older, and the author, publisher, and Amazon, all therefore bear no responsibility if this official requirement is knowingly and willfully violated.~
The books in these series contain numerous examples of uninhibited erotica. As such, they may include graphic descriptions of bondage, discipline, acts that some may see as having a mild theme of “rape”, and other related “adult” scenarios. Please do not purchase or read this book if you have any qualms whatsoever regarding ANY and ALL of the aforementioned scenarios. Additionally, if you find explicit erotica offensive, THEN THESE BOOKS ARE NOT FOR YOU (so please refrain from purchasing). If you do purchase this selection and then later decide that these stories are too risqué for your tastes, then please do not leave poor or negative feedback for the author on the premise that these books contain explicit, hardcore, or submissive/dominant sex acts. Their content has been clearly explained to you beforehand.
If you have decided at this time that these particular scenarios do not, in fact, interest you; please do not read any further. Instead, you may return this book right now for a full refund.
The imaginative, colorful, and romantic tales by Dominique D. DuBois are all fictional in nature. They are not meant to represent or describe any real events, persons, or places in any way.
And finally, these stories are meant for entertainment purposes only. I sincerely hope that you enjoy them…
For more information regarding what type of material lies within this book, including additional warnings and some instructional information about the BDSM lifestyle, please scroll to the end of this selection. If you have any concerns whatsoever about reading this particular material, please take the time to read the “Instructional Discussion” and the “Cautionary Warning” at the end of this story, FIRST. If you think this story will offend you, or realize shortly after beginning it that it is not to your liking, please return it immediately for a full refund. Thank you.
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*The books (and series) by Dominique D. DuBois are all original works of fiction, and Dominique Darcelle DuBois holds the full copyright for this entire piece (which includes the cover compilation, the “Instructive Discussion”, the “Cautionary Warning”, and any notes, prologues or epilogues written by the author). No portion of any of this work may be reproduced in any manner, without the express written permission of the author, herself. This includes excerpting portions of the cautionary warnings/forewords and cutting and pasting them into any other works. You may not reprint this book, in whole or in part, and this book is non-transferrable to a second party.
Short, attributed quotations may be used without prior authorization; solely for the purpose of a critical review.
THE POEMS IN THE “BEUAUTIFUL AGONY” SERIES, ARE ALL ORIGINAL WORKS BY D.D. DUBOIS. THEY MAY NOT BE REPRINTED OR EXCERPTED IN ANY WAY, WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR, HERSELF.
**Any copyright violations will be legally pursued. Thank you greatly for your respect in this sensitive matter.**
Current Titles by Dominique D. DuBois:
Beautiful Agony: A Tale Of Savage Love
Part I
A Submissive’s Tale
Book I: Initiation
Book II: Commencement (coming soon)
“The Cottage of Carnal Delights” Series
Books, I-XII
The “Unbidden Compilations”, I - III
“Domination: The Streets Of Desire” Series
Book I: Covet Thy Neighbor - ‘Awakenings’
Book II: Crave - The Discovery Of A ‘Dom’
Book III: Revenge Is Sweet (coming soon)
“The Hollywood Harlot” Series
Book I: ‘Serving The Master’
Book II: ‘Obeying The Master’ (coming soon)
“The Merciless Mastermind” Series
Book I: ‘I’d Bet My Ass’
“The Captive Bride” Series
Book I: ‘The Bride Wore White’
Book II: ‘Taken Captive’
Book III: ‘Rapture Island’ (coming soon)
Steamy ‘Shorts’
Taken And Used: A Submissive ‘Short’
You Get What You Ask For: A Submissive ‘Short’
Bound And Gagged: A Submissive ‘Short’
The Officer Takes Two: A Submissive ‘Short’
Chained And Chastised: A Submissive ‘Short’ (coming soon)
Bound and Broken: A Submissive ‘Short’ (coming soon)
The Brink: A Naughty Club For Exceptionally Discreet Adults
Story I: Cheaters (coming soon)
Story II: Dirty Little Liars (coming soon)
Story III: Veiled Abandon (coming soon)
Story IV: Stolen (coming soon)
Beautiful Agony, I
I’d been seeing a psychologist once a week for six damn months now. First, of course, there was the psychiatrist, who had prescribed mountains and mountains of medications over the course of three miserable fucking years. Even now, to this day, there were still drugs of every variety in my medicine cabinet; capsules, caplets, pills and tablets of every color, every size, and every single shape imaginable.
I’d gone that route ‘til it nearly killed me, taking my doses like a good little automaton, before finally dumping all the pills into the toilet in one lucid moment of rabid frustration and switching over to “talk therapy” instead. But it, too, had failed to rip that ingrained and insistently tenacious demon out of the depths of my chest (you know, that evil little bastard who can gnash down so ruthlessly against the tender insides of you that before long, your very innards become little more than mere bloody, quivering mush).
And the reason for all these wretched shrinks? Well, I guess you could just say that I’d been in some level of internal agony for more than half my life now. It had started, of course, in the home, where all emotional damage appears to originate. For my parents, raising me was evidently something akin to meticulously growing a hostile rose bush. Presumably sown with love, invariably nurtured with indifferent cruelty, and then brought to full, ripe bloom in early adolescence; bloody-red and viscously succulent from buried anger, hatred, and regret.
The worst of my wounds began to be i
nflicted there by around the age of 12. It was then that I’d learned all about my Dad’s affair and how it had driven my Mom to drink, turning her into a bitter and ruthless woman who’d taken her hatred of my father out on me from that moment forward.
I could understand why, academically at least, considering the fact that I looked just like him. Emotionally, however - that had been an entirely different thing. As it was, I’d honestly been surprised at the fearsomely malicious vehemence of her sudden fury. I’d guess I’d always expected her to blithely go on, just continuing to ignore me; handling me with the same understated, selfish neglect that she basically had since birth. Unanticipated, her corrosive anger, inhuman temper, and devastating spitefulness, had all damn-near toppled me.
I’d never been able to stop hating her for that, nor had I ever forgiven her. And my father, during the uncomfortable, sterile, love-less weekends spent - not enjoying my time with him, as I should have been - but trying to please my new, acerbically beautiful, ice-bitch of a step-mother instead; hadn’t fared much better in my affections in the end.
As a result of my dysfunctional family, I’d left home with their blessings at only sixteen. And ever since that day until the present one, I’d spoken to neither of them ever again. Today, I suppose you could simply say that I didn’t care anymore what good or bad befell them.
Ironically, the lingering ravages of their destructive affections had been truly been minimal in the long run. In fact, it had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience compared to what had befallen me ten months after I’d set out on my own. That terrible, terrible day and the long, unrelenting epoch of sorrow that had followed it, was something I thought about often, but spoke about never, which initially had suited me just fine.
I think at first, I childishly figured that to bury it was to somehow escape from it – you know, stowing it away in my subconscious as I’d done with all my previous pain, thereby eluding the ramifications of it hopefully until the day I died. But the reality, I eventually found, was that nobody can escape their past throughout the entire span of their current lifetime. Nobody. Not even me.
Only by the time I’d realized what a mistake I had made by trying to hide from my guilt and regret, the pain had already festered to the point that it was unilaterally toxic to my soul. I tried to fix it. God knows I tried for all I was worth. Yet it was too goddamn late. Whatever I tried to do, regardless of how many prayers of penance I said, how many doctors I went to see, or how many drugs I took; nobody and nothing could help me figure out a way to rip out those hoarded miseries, once and for all.
At this point in my life, twenty-nine years old, successful, talented, wealthy and alone, it had become branded into my being. All that shit, all that self-hatred, all the shame, and guilt and remorse, had become entrenched so deeply within me that it had turned into a literal fount of regret; a river of tears that burned and singed my already-cindered spirit like caustic acid. In their wake, they left behind no healing, whatsoever. Only a belief that I was worthless, less than human, and that I, too, should’ve died long ago.
And the memories - oh, Jesus, the memories - they had eventually grown into something of a malevolent and thready-little tumor. Year after year it slowly wrapped and weaved its wicked fingers through every single part of me. Sometimes I believed it belonged there. Other times, I wanted to violently wrench it lose: tear its malignant grip from the marrow of my bones and start truly learning how to live again. Only how? At this point in my life, I honestly didn’t even know any more.
So, I’d more or less resigned myself to the belief that I’d be infected with this vile malady forever. I knew I certainly didn’t deserve any better. Most days, I didn’t even bother to seek out a breath of hope.
But then, out of the blue, something happened to me to change all of that. And then, only then, my existence honestly started anew.
Thirteen years after the brutal accident that had changed my dreams forever, I finally got a glimmer: a tiny window into something that I thought just might end up being my life’s eventual salvation. I chanced upon it one lonely night last week, right after I’d finished cutting myself for the millionth time (slicing my thin, razor-sharp box-cutter carefully into the pale, papery-thin membranes of my upper arm, over and over again).
Just so you know, I always did that calming ritual in places where the skin was so clear that I could see and avoid the purple, pulsating, snaking rivulets of my veins. I didn’t want to kill myself, after all. I was just hoping to bleed some of my inner anguish out through the seeping incisions, thereby releasing me from its power. And I also knew that I, who had been the only one to have walked away entirely unscathed from that long-ago, fatal night, deserved to carry scars of my own. God hadn’t chosen to give them to me. Therefore I would.
To an outsider, an innocent bystander, an ignorant, oblivious observer, the entire thing would’ve probably seemed masochistically ridiculous. Or else they’d see it as a sinister suicide attempt. But in truth, that quick bite of sharpened steel against soft flesh (which by now, at this point in my life, was actually becoming associated with a sweet rush of pure, hedonistic pleasure), was the only way I knew of to release some small iota of my otherwise deeply-imprisoned pain.
Currently, I had row after row of thin, white scars in various stages of healing, all across my upper thighs, inner arms, and along the entire breadth of my ribcage. Some people, if they saw me naked and bare before them, would look at all of that and find it disturbingly ugly. But I saw the resulting symbolic inscriptions as an essential physical release – a solid incarnation of my ephemeral, hidden grief. As such, I found the pale slivers quite entrancing.
They were my tribute to those I had lost; they were at once a reminder, an honor, an acknowledgement, and a penance. And, as long as I had now been doing it, I no longer knew how I could choose to (or even want to) stop.
But then, I’d seen the movie.
A little over a week ago, I had gotten drunk, all by myself (what a cliché, right?), and I’d watched a risqué little film called Secretary. It was quite a few years old, probably an Indie production, and apparently wasn’t really even much on the radar anymore. I’d certainly never heard anyone I know mention it to me, and so as it was, I’d happened upon it only by chance. Up until then, I’d been just flipping randomly through the channels for an hour or so when I’d landed on it right during the opening credits. Figuring it was just another tired, boring movie, I’d decided to go ahead and watch for a while anyway, primarily because it featured James Spader, who happened to be one of my all-time favorite actors. Remarkably, however, as soon as it started, I’d almost instantly been riveted right to my seat.
It never really elaborated that much about the reasons behind the central character’s need to hurt herself; why she committed her cuttings in the first place. Seemed like, at least partially, it had something to do with the same kind of dysfunctional family dynamics that had once confounded me. Yet although it didn’t create much of an underlying premise for the girl’s serious problems, it certainly did give a possible answer. A very titillating one, indeed. And so, after I’d watched it from front to back (not even willing to leave the story long enough to merely go to the bathroom), I had lain awake all night, unable to clear it from my mind.
I was well aware that it was only a movie. I mean, dammit, movies are all stupid, right? And certainly not one movie on this planet has ever truly held any of the answers we seek in life. But oh, Jesus - was it possible that there was some facet of truth to it at all? For it was well known that movies were, in small part, a reflection of the human condition. Otherwise, where would writers get all their ideas in the first place?
So was it possible then? Was it conceivable that having someone else torture me relentlessly both physically and emotionally, giving me a jolt of pleasure and pain intertwined; could help to make my own inner demons fade gloriously into the background? Like I’d said, the release I got from the cutting was both painful and savagel
y sweet. It therefore stood to reason that mixing pain with pleasure during sex - just might be my ticket out of purgatory. I’d certainly never tried anything like it before. Oddly enough, the thought had never even occurred to me.
Yet, if I gave someone that kind of control, that kind of dominance, and then let him take that visceral power over my all-consuming self-flagellation - out of my own hands, and into his…what would happen? Could ‘he’ truly wield it as a sledgehammer of devastating proportions, annihilating my own inner torment, destroying my pain, and crushing my self-hatred, without also damaging and possibly even eventually obliterating ‘me’?
Because I did honestly need help tearing down the harmful impulses of self-destruction that drove me without limit: before they pushed me over the brink entirely.
Not to the point where they were gone. I didn’t ever deserve to have them gone. But at least to the point where they were manageable, to where I didn’t need booze, drugs, and self-mutilation just to make the bad dreams go away for a while. I was intrigued, fascinated, mystified. I thought about it morning and night.
And then, inevitably, came the day that I finally made up my mind. I was going to go for it. All of it.
I knew from the get-go that I would need to delve so far deeper than just being spanked over a desk, being forced to wear some interesting get-ups, or being sexually frustrated while my boss masturbated all over my back, like in the movie. I mean, holy hell, it had some potential for sure, but it was definitely “film industry friendly”, and I needed something Triple-X rather than merely R-Rated.
Beautiful Agony (A Tale Of Savage Love, Part I) Page 1
