bbbddssmm: Persephone

Persephone

In the coldness of his rooms and the silence of his mind, he imagines her to be a gem. She is a fairy, captured at his whim, to be designed, but fashioned in his mind, sculpted, tempered by his forge and his fire.
She's delivered to him in a crate and wrapped in plastic, merchandise to be consumed. Oh how he trembles, unraveling the ropes in his hands which will initiate his terrible ecstasy, the advent of his of love. Without her, he is dead. Without a succession of fairies into his palace, he is made of wood. And so he buys another girl. He readies her, his new acquisition. And he molds her and causes her to suffer.
How many ways can a body be shaped and suspended midair? For him, it is art, not woman. He is the priest, and she is the sacrifice. Her flesh is the medium by which he speaks with his darker self. She must be stretched, penetrated, and struck. Her limbs will be braided about herself,
She is of another world, of the forest, the air. She has lived a life of movement, of freedom, of flying. This twisting of her body with straps and hemp is beyond her ken, as are the liberties he takes with his fingers and hands. She grows frantic because everything he does is unfamiliar, and to her, he seems cut from stone. His realm is the underworld, a subterranean palace smothered by a tonnage of unkept promises and faithless love.
But she is fresh cut from the radiant spring, a molten drip of sun. She is naive to weighted creatures such as himself. She is nothing more than moment, a passing brightness of the mind. So in the end, she accepts her predicament, though she will never understand his dark rapture. Perhaps she discovers within herself a fondness for stone, or that she craves his touch, those impossibly gentle hands, or how clearly she comprehends, as he stands back and admires his handiwork upon her, that she has caused him to come undone.
Now she is hanging before him, her body held taut with his manner of love. And because her talent is wind and air and flying, in her mind, she soars.
He sighs. He sits upon his throne. For this brief moment, his fierce and inexorable pains diminish. He is held in thrall by the vision he has wrought. Yet the nagging thought will not go. He knows this dream, this vision of her, as all the others, will pass. When spring arrives, she will vanish.
He dares not look away.