“Cunt, the night is young.” Of all the things that she could have heard, Faizah wouldn’t have wanted to hear those words. She knew what they meant. She knew that the night was really just starting - just beginning. “Yes sir, the night IS young.” Despite the fear and the loathing of what else this man could do to her, she had been trained in such a way to make it seem like she wanted the rest of the night to happen, just like he wanted it to happen. There was a pretence there and yet there was no pretence. This was a woman who was being treated and being tortured in a way that she felt she needed and deserved. That would have been coming across in her tone of voice and yet at the same time, there would have been something else about that voice. The fear and the despair. She was able to show she wanted it and that she didn’t want it at the same time and that was what this man would have wanted. That was what he demanded. He demanded that contradiction in this woman. He needed the despair and that contradiction caused.
He sat back and sipped from the champagne glass that contained the urine of Faizah. It was like he was drinking a fine wine. What he was actually drinking was urine that had been produced by Faizah as she was silently crying. That would have been what he wanted. That urine produced at that precise time. This way it was like fine wine. It was like this was a delicacy that had been produced under duress. Urine that had been produced under Faizah’s duress. This somehow made it special. It sure made it special for Joe.
There would be this disbelief there that this man was drinking urine at all. But in this setting there seemed to be an air of opulent and perverse acceptance about it. Like yes it was perverted but it was ok because this is what happened right up there in that place - in that seven-star hotel. And because it was there it was ok. Joe sipped from the glass and he held each mouthful as though tasting, deep tasting and as though savouring the former contents of Faizah’s bladder. “You know cunt, you produce a beautiful taste. I’m surprised a cunt like you can produce a fine tasting experience like this.” And that was the degradation of this woman. She was a cunt and a cunt was the lowest of the low in the food chain. At least that is what the impression created said. And yet he was giving her a compliment in there as well. That she produced this delicious urine that needed to be drunk to be believed. “Thank you sir, thank you so much. This cunt is so lucky to be owned by you. So lucky.” And this was this stunning, breath-taking woman accepting her place as the lowest of the low. It was something that was almost too left of field to take in. And still she cried in silence. Still she retained that pose. This must have been something that was hard on her physically but also psychologically. There was no doubt that this was a woman under a tremendous amount of duress. If duress was even the right word.
“Tell me cunt, tell me do you think you’ve suffered enough here tonight? Do you think I should bring this to an end now? Do you think I should let you go home and tend your damaged udders?” Joe was speaking casually. He was speaking as he drank the last of the urine. He wasn’t even looking at Faizah. He was looking out over the city. The windows at the other elevation would have looked out over the sea. He preferred the city view. He like the hustle and the bustle, and the elegance of the city. It might have been like a random set of questions that he had asked this woman, but it wasn’t. This was a carefully constructed set of questions that were designed to bring this woman down just a little bit more.
Of course, she would want it to end now. Of course, she would want to go and dab those burns to her breasts and help them to heal as much as they were going to heal. But she wasn’t allowed to say that. She wasn’t allowed to put that across. She was allowed to say most things other than she wanted this to end now. Wanting it to end was something that had been trained out of her. Inside she would have been screaming for it to end, just like inside she would have been screaming out to cry out loud at the torture she had so far been subjected to.
But that was
it, she couldn’t do any of that. “No sir, no this cunt has not suffered anywhere
near enough. This cunt does NOT think you should bring this to an end at all
and NO, no sir, this cunt should not be allowed home to tend its damages
udders.” That was what made this so sad in away. This woman talking about
herself the way she did. Talking about herself in the third person and now
referring to herself as ‘it’. And then there was the tone of voice she used.
Her own tone of voice was almost melancholy in its delivery and that added to
the sadness of it. It was like a perverse sadness that didn’t exist anywhere
else except in this place at this time. “That’s right cunt. That’s right
indeed. You need to suffer more don’t you cunt? And
because you feel like that, because this is what you feel you need, I can only
oblige now, can’t I?”