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Schadenfreude

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scha ·den ·freu·de

a feeling of enjoyment that comes from seeing or hearing about the troubles of other people

 German, from Schaden “damage” + Freude “joy”

From Merriam-Webster


 

Crack.

Your whip slices through the stale air into its target.

The wine-red blood seeps down his back and splashes onto the floorboards below.

Its acrid stench floods your lungs.

Crack.

The humidity is stifling.

You feel the sweat tickle down your neck and brow.

It mingles with the flecks of blood that speckle your face.

The tastes of salt and iron coat your lips.

Crack.

The sun shines behind you through cloudy skies, blinding you to your periphery.

You only see a mural of carmine splattered abstractly on your canvas of flesh.

Line, shape, and form all blur in and out of focus.

Crack.

Somewhere far off you hear the crowd gasp and sob.

But you are deafened by the silence before you.

Not a single sound escapes his lips except gurgling blood and spittle.

Meanwhile, your own grunts deepen, hasten.

Crack.

Your arm aches with the repeated motion.

It thrusts, over and over and over, desperate to reach its culmination.

Your whip penetrates the boy’s body deeper with each stroke.

Crack.

At some point you hear the other officers murmur behind you, conferring:

Surely it’s been enough.

Should he be stopped?

Has he gone mad?

Madness is your nature, your expertise.

Crack.

You sense only fragments of what transpires next.

Your inferiors’ addresses falter at first, but grow firmer:

Captain Randall? Captain Randall.

The lieutenant barks orders.

Soldiers’ boots clatter against the wooden platform.

You feel hands grasp your shoulders in an attempt to restrain you.

Captain, please! Sir, hold still!

You writhe about in their grip.

Your elbows sink into their doughy stomachs.

You clutch the whip desperately as they attempt to pry it from your hand.

Captain Randall! Sir!

The lieutenant yells again:

Send them out! Now!

Women’s shrieks echo.

Streaks of red coats dart in and out of your vision.

The pack swarms around you and separates you from your prey.

Your legs are numb as at last they pull you from the gibbet and you stagger down the stairs.

Your body floats through the crowd led by one of your men.

As you are guided through a stone door and down a hallway you feel your arm swinging in rhythm with the administration of the lashes.

You scarcely recall the journey to your office; suddenly you’ve arrived.

“Captain?” the small corporal squeaks, jarring you.

You gape at him dumbly and scan your surroundings, realizing to where you’ve been brought.

You answer thickly, “See that… see that I am not disturbed.”

But disturbed you are, in mind and body.

The corporal salutes sharply then scurries through the doorframe; the heavy wood thuds closed behind him.

Your surroundings rematerialize into courtyard, where the boy still dangles limply from the gibbet.

You breathe raggedly as you approach his carcass in your mind’s eye, but as you reach out to touch it, it vaporizes.

Your vest is strangling you.

Hastily you walk over to your desk and set down the whip still clamped tightly between your fingers.

You immediately begin to unbutton your vest, though your hands shake so violently that you can barely undo them. Finally, you pull it off and toss it to the floor.

You untie your cravat carelessly then pull your shirt over your head.

You hold it reverently, admiring the blood-soaked fabric. Patterns of red and white swirl abstractly.

You bring the blouse to your face and breath in deeply, gasping audibly.

You sniff the sharp, metallic aroma: a bouquet of sweat, cotton, and lavender dominated by blood.

You wipe the fabric across your face, dripping with sweat and crusted with blood, and lick your lips hungrily.

You feel your entire body throb.

Gently you lay the shirt down beside the whip and sit down at your desk.

You reach for your crotch and quickly unbutton your breeches; your hard cock springs out from its restraint.

You pick up the whip again and dangle it over your stomach and groin; the leather tickles your skin.

You finger the strands gently, absorbing the blood and searching for chunks of flesh carved from the boy’s back.

You take you hand and smear the blood on your cock, and man and man become one flesh.

Each stroke of your hand is a stroke of the whip as you penetrate him.

You imagine his strained cries; in reality, your own voice moans aloud.

You and the boy, bodies intertwined, are bound together by blood.

You feel the tension building and building deep within your gut.

Finally, you cry loudly at your release, seed spurting onto the already-stained shirt.

Both your and the boy’s fluids now soak together, inseparable.

As you bask in the aftermath of orgasm, you hear the corporal retch outside; you do not care.

For it matters not who has heard you take your pleasure:

the army be damned;

the English be dammed;

the whole bloody world be damned!

All that matters to you is that boy.