Jitzmitthra. The annual excuse for complete insanity. It is so hard to be relaxed, to let what I feel show. I am not comfortable with it. Control was hard won for me and I cherish it. It is my strength. I hate and despise the easy, open face. The emotions flickering clear for anyone to see is vile weakness. How do these people endure?
I hate their openness. I hate their freedom. It is evil. Someone that free is unpredictable and cannot be made to act as they should. People are messy, disorderly and undisciplined. They must be controlled. Their freedoms are inconvenient to everyone else around them.
Jitzmitthra. The annual expression of Hayel on earth. Freedom of thought is what demons have. Men are regimented. And every year the Gods command that for these few days, men become messy, dirty, filthy copulating beasts. In the city it is this pulsating mass of corruption every year. I do not understand why the Gods allow such filth every year. Allow. No it is a command and I must obey. I am obedient even to disobedience.
That boy. His rage is good. But it should not be mustered against me, his loyal, toiling teacher. He must direct it correctly. It enrages me that he fights me. Me, whom his Divine Father appointed to make the boy perfect. To re-take the Crystal Throne and Rule. It is inappropriate for his defiance to be directed at me.
Those defiant eyes. It is Jitzmitthra and I am allowed to think these things, commanded to think these things.
I call my wife from our cave. “Inensa, get your elegant boy-shaped ass in here.” It is Jizmitthra. I shall indulge myself and take her outside of our normal routine. I am commanded to indulge myself. She comes in, openly yawning, her hair unbound. It trails along the sandy floor, making a track like a snake behind her. “You heard, you realized it’s Jitzmitthra,” I said. Instead of properly answering me she just nods, looking away, not attending. I hate that. I will bring her eyes back to me. I am allowed to admire her, my prize, my reward for diligence. Imperator’s concubine. HE had her first. The Divine used that body. And it is now mine.
I toss the round gag at her and she catches it, then looks up at me. “Wifely duty does not go away in Jitz,” I remind her. “Prepare yourself. I will be in, in a tenth.”
“Yes, husband,” she says and mutters something else under her breath that I do not hear. I do not care to hear it. It is only a woman’s words.
When I go in, she is naked, instead of still decently covered by the nightrobe, her hair tucked carefully to one side. She is just testing the ankle straps on the bar spreading her feet apart. I knock the air out of the needle in my bare hand and she holds out her wrist for it. It proceeds much faster, injected there.
For once I strip off and merely drop my clothing, as she takes the gag and lies back, waiting for the women’s Obedience to take effect. It is different from the men’s in its action. I find it a perfect accompaniment to copulation. 1st Amitzas was working on an Obedience that could be safely administered to children, before the barbarian destroyed everything. I imagine the barbarian’s skin sizzling under my tools to speed my erection as Inensa begins to tremble and twist against the bar.
Her restraint shall be my own hands, as is right, as is best for women, rather than the impersonal lock of a table. It teaches more strongly to hold them down with living hands. Women. Demon-fodder, full of corruption. I oil myself because I do not care to make my foreskin sore pressing into her dryness.
She is as tight as the first night of our wedding. I thrust all the way in deep and seize her wrists with my hands, holding them tight and pinned over her head. For now my weight is all on three points. When she convulses more heavily I shall lie more heavily on her. Those tremors are good. They are better than just good.
She bucks wildly now and I needn’t thrust, her hips rolling under me, better than a dying man’s convulsions. Now she grows wet, wet as if bleeding. Yes. Her eyes snap open and lock on mine as she begins to scream into the gag. Defiant eyes. Hate-filled eyes. Eyes full of pain. Her wrists tug futilely against my grip and I hold harder as the convulsions grow stronger.
I ride her and she rides the waves of Obedience for my pleasure. My feet hold down the bar as her legs shudder and try to draw in. She is tall enough. Oh. Yes. Scream your hatred for me. Scream. Give me your pain and I will thrust into you, into it. It is not my pain, but yours. Sweet agony, my wife. Mine. And soon… soon those eyes won’t be able to glare at me.
I thrust bruising hard. Lovely harsh. Hard. Oh. Yes. Such sweetly screamed agony. Her eyes squeeze shut, her head rolls back as the Obedience reaches its full expression in her blood, heels and head pressing us both up off the bed. I thrust. I set my teeth together so I do not indulge myself and bite her. Instead I lay my bared and clenched teeth on her skin. I could eat her pain. Yes. Yes. Good. Her pain washes over me and I burst outside of my own. Yes.
I burn. I burn. Burn me clean. Cleanse me. It will cleanse her too. As the tremors subside and she collapses under me, pulling away from me, leaving me limp in the cool air on my knees between her legs, I allow a smile. “That was excellent my dear. It will cleanse you of any base lusts for another eight day.”
I cannot let her go immediately, since the drug is still fading and I would not have to deal with an injury. Pulled muscles she can ignore to serve me. I bask in the after tremors of her suffering, the expression of all life.
The truest expression of life is torture. That is when people are most honest, closest to Selestialis. Closest to me.
Her eyes open again and they are watering. Yes. She is forced to weep. How beautiful her tears. They are a joy to me. Lust is now cleansed from both of us. I release her, finally, and take the gag out to admire the depth of the tooth marks in it.
Her wrists are already showing bruises, as she lies still, eyes closed. I loosen the ankle straps and set them next the pillow, lay the spreader bar next to the Holy book on my side of the bedroll.
It is Jitzmitthra. I shall wash myself with warm water as opposed to cold.
After the sounds of his footfalls died away, Inensa’s eyes opened slowly. She sat up, carefully, checking for injury, with every motion. She rose to her feet, equally slowly and with a cloth wiped away all she could of her husband’s semen from between her legs.
She was still trembling, still quivering at the light from the candle flame when Tesha, 2nd Boras’s wife, brought her a bowl of warm water. “Thank you, Tesha. You didn’t have to, this time. It’s Jitz.”
“That’s all right. You can wash him out of you better with warm water.”
“Yes.” Tesha nodded and left her decently alone to put herself back together.
As she washed herself, gentle with her bruised flesh, Inensa considered. Has he gone too far? Her eye went from the darkening bruises on her body to where a pin dagger lay concealed under the bedroll, under pillow and mattress both. No. Not yet. I am stronger than that. Stronger. He believes he cleanses me. And I can endure. I can obey. I will not use that dagger on myself but it is always a way to leave him permanently, even if I go to hayel for such a trivial suicide.
She wrung out the warm cloth and pressed it gently between her legs, hissed as the soothing heat stung against abused tissues. She did not look at her gloves and the needle concealed in the left glove pocket.
She had no poison tooth to take her own life should that life become completely unbearable. Instead, she’d made a tincture of Foxes Gloves, the poison that resembled heart failure, once in a fit of despairing rage and made herself a killing needle. In her rage she’d dreamed of using it on him. In her despair she dreamed of using it on herself. As it was, it was an ambiguous symbol she carried in her hand every day. Either her death or his. She was not entirely sure why she still had it, still carried it.
Has he overstepped the bounds? Is he too carried away by the men’s extremes yet? Not… quite. He is Mahid. He is the First of the Mahid and so required to be extreme, to be the perfect expression of Mahid. He is more gentle than the former Imperator, rest he…wherever the Gods have decreed. I will endure yet.