Dr. Faustus

Dr. Faustus

How could He resist my flesh, savory, tantalizing, still showing the blush of youth? I am leaning forward, my breasts firm but soft, like ripe pears, as though He could sink His sharpened teeth there and juice would dribble to His chin. My wrists are bound and secured behind me to the back of the chair that I sit upon, locking me in position, exhibiting my helplessness. My ankles are lifted from the floor and bound on either side to the rear legs of the chair.
I wet the wooden seat and smell my own female musk, a rarefied potion that hints of lust, of wet dreams, of fervent hands making repeated movements, beating off in the dark. I imagine His tongue twitching in anticipation, craving the pungent taste of me.
I offer myself as bait to draw Him to me. Because I have aches. I experience internal fires. I have moanings in my dreams. And so I choose this course, a nostrum that I hope will prove an antidote for my condition.
Is my chosen cure worse than my disease? What is the true disease, the one that causes these aches and burnings, these moanings in my dreams?
"The Flesh," whispers Mephistopheles. "The Flesh and its maladies. The Flesh is your disease."
He sits himself upon his warm throne in front of me. His nostrils flair. His eyes grope and paw. His lips purse, his tongue moving beneath, in anticipation of me. "The Flesh," Mephistopheles whispers, his eyes gone bright and fixed upon my nipples, dangerously near his long, sharpened nails. They flick as though he has used them to excise my nipples, which I imagine he would then cradle like bruised berries.
My breasts are wrapped with leather to form taut, purple bulbs. My mouth is stuffed with a large red ball.
"You find pleasure in your helplessness," he adds, gesturing toward me, his red tongue showing between his deadly, breathtaking teeth. "You are trapped by your desire for desire."
Mephistopheles rises from his throne. He strolls in a circle about me, draping those dangerous fingers along my back. I see his intention to gouge and break the skin. He leans close to my ear.
"I can show you everything," he hisses. "All. In exchange for your soul." He straightens and stares down at me. "A small price to pay.
" Why would I agree, accepting his offer? Am I plagued by evils? Moral degradation? Lack of rectitude?
Madness?
What are these aches, I ask myself for the millionth time, these burnings, these maladies? Why am I plagued so, believing it preferable to lose my soul rather than bear these many small prods and uncountable minor pains?
I want to experience All, Everything. That is my tragic flaw. It leads to my undoing. And it brings me to this chair, bound, awaiting his pleasure and the dispersal of my limbs.
I stare upward at Mephistopheles and the gleam of his expunging skin, and I say yes with my eyes. I hand him my soul.








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