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From Russia With Love

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From Russia With Love

Chapter Two

She Came On The Downbeat (She Came To Blows)

 

“Come. Here.” For there is music to be made. The gloved hand, an intrinsic piece of this Governor’s costume, thrice beckons the symbolic gestured instruction. Even an immortal dreams of dying, to rest when the music’s over. Death becomes a welcome guest upon invasion. Joan recognises the real Devil here and prays she’ll be the death of her. Recognition adds lust to desire, she’s a sadist’s sadist, (a masochistic one at that), after all and she can almost hear the earth falling over her head. The wrong lunatic needs to fuck the pain away, the animal within must gorge in order to soothe the savage beast. Appetite not suppressed but sated.

For one night only: the perversion of performance. It’s a crown of thorns our Governor wears as she takes to the stage. An atonement in atonality. Vera seals this prophet’s fate, played on plucked out heart strings as her saviour brings deliverance. Matricide begins with Rita, her patricide begins and ends with Joan. Both are doing it for Daddy. The thunder rumble in the distance sounds the beating of a drum. A beat to match a beating.

Blue and black bleed into the other in an oceanic abyss. In the pitch black pitch perfect, the silent libretto begins, limits of language need not leave lines unsung. Silence is not simply the omission of sound, this is their sound of silence and their discordance is written in syncopated time. There is rhythm in this perfected mathematical madness and it makes a point of counterpoint. Joan’s orchestration composes them both. That’s the art of a monster, control of and within the madness. She received her own instruction at the hands of a maestro, his influence now brings distortion. It’s the Governor’s key the little protege needs to learn to unlock her secret chord. This Russian Revolution draws a baton worthy to conduct Vera in gross symphonic need. The virtuoso playing innocence’s last swan song from the depths of a bleeding heart repertoire. The silence screams on the downbeat as the kubaton moves to strike it’s first note and the deputy’s sex squirms in arousal and fear. The Maestra finely attuned to her every vibration.

“I scare the shit out of you don’t I Vera?” Joan drips into her ear, hot breath brushing lip, the hushed bass notes vibrate slowly and deeply into her little, shuddering mouse. Joan infiltrates and infects irrevocably and Vera wanTs it.

Miss. Bennett shivers with the twitch in her core, her pupils blown vantablack disprove mere reflection. This is all hers. Theirs. Joan is offering her the world and everything in it for the price of a song.

“You want it don’t you little one?” In sotte voce. “All of it. You see my violence too and you want that most of all. To be played by my hand mm?” Vera's very own Kali.

Vera’s beginning will count in Joan’s finale. Transposed with a diminished fifth. This is just the opening movement. Vozlyublennaya nods imperceptibly and is circled by her maker, behind her, Joan draws the kubaton up and down her lower back in slow, sensual sweeps, tracing patterns in between the outline of her cheeks beneath the thin, cheap work skirt. Her other hand, splayed ivory fingers sheathed in soft, kid leather, as black as the tents of Kedar and Salma, encircle the back of Vera’s delicate neck, thumb and forefinger wide apart firmly massaging the knot they find there, in 3/3 time.

“The way is pain Vera. Your innocence keeps you flat and Rita’s major disappointment makes you the ape’s to maul.I can take that from you and make mine the only approval you crave, my touch the one you scream out for. Will you face the music and dance Vera?” This is her song for the asking. Her grip tightens around the little larks neck and she propels her, arse forward, with increased pressure from her kubaton, plunging it underneath the hiked skirt to swipe against Vera’s wetness, colliding against her swollen clit, dragging it back along her dripping folds again and again before pressing the tip as hard as she cares to into her sphincter. “Trust me Vera, it’s only pain.”

Vera puts everything on black and joins this Warsaw Pact. “I trust you Governor, always.” In breathless crescendo the volume of violence peaks in aural assault and both are ruinously fired by the melodious murder of delayed consent. It’s too far to go in hope of return, they’re over the bridge now.

“If you can’t, use the word ‘Morvena’ and this will end immediately but it will cost you everything.” A Deathless God’s words heard pianissimo.

Box cutters assist the strip, it’s not a search, it’s strip conditions. Clothing presents a hanging risk. The total occlusion of the airway does not make for good voice. The number one in the Prison death hit parade. Joan can’t risk another. She’ll wear the noose soon enough but for now she’ll make them both good enough.

She makes short work of Vera’s uniform, it falls in shreds at their feet. Even in the dark gloom of the cell Joan can see every contour, every curve and her breath quickens, “These hands you long for, you are what these hands were made for.”

The Governor presses herself into The Deputy’s back. Her hands deftly remove the remaining undergarments, swiftly shucked and tossed aside, fingertips sweep delicately over longing flesh.

From the corner of her baby blues, Vera can see the shadow forming as a long, muscular arm is raised behind her. The arm falls and the kubaton marks pale flesh, a mottled pink and purple stripe flares upon the exposed skin, another strike follows swiftly. Vera gasps an inward breath at the sting. Her nipples and clit harden with each blow, the pain exquisite. Her thighs and buttocks are swathed in a sea of lash lines, red and purple. She begins to tremble and bites down on her tongue to stop herself from crying out. Every contact unites them, unuttered cries bind them.

It’s enough and Joan knows it. Enough is not excess. Enough does not ignite. It continues. The beast is free, the feeding frenzied. As Vera collapses, Joan follows and looms over her. She strikes hard at the intersection between leg and buttock and the skin breaks, crimson billows, flows softly in rivulets like tiny rivers. A body lies wracked in sobs, a silent lament. The deputy is undone, a mind broken.

“ty bespolezen, ty bessmyslenna, ty nichto.“ Rasputin indulges herself further, teeth bared, lips drawn dry against death white and bloodless gums, snarling. Her hair has escaped in places from it’s pinned prison and wisps of it stick to her glowing forehead. She repeats the mantra learned as a child, “ ty bespolezen, ty bessmyslenna, ty nichto.” Weaponised words whisper and strike at the essence of self, scars that never fade, wounds that never heal.

Exhaustion sounds the coda. Joan slumps to her knees. Broad shoulders sag and her countenance softens.

The beast withdraws, breathing slows and The Governor grows aware of the figure, lying beside in the foetal position. It is her love whose tears run soundlessly, whose body shivers, whose spirit lies broken.

Joan snakes her arms gently between Vera’s from behind and pulls her towards her. She scoots them backwards and leans against the wall of the cell. She pulls Vera’s back close into her chest and stomach and wraps her legs around her. Envelopes and contains her. Her arms reposition, one hand holds Vera’s head tenderly against her chest and her other arm wraps itself around a waif of a waist. Joan litters her head with kisses and lips caress and soothe with words that comfort. She rocks her gently in a lullaby rhythm until Vera’s tears subside. The shaking ceases and Vera returns to herself anew. Reborn, in this timeless moment they are one, touch melds and they melt into the other. Beyond end, without beginning.

There is not a note left to play.

This is the end and the beginning.