The Confession




Choking on my own tears, moaning through blood smeared panties, unable to swallow, both hands bound with rope far apart on the same brass bed where we conceived our first child, our only child—Milena, who is dead now—I am at last at peace. Karajan, my lover, finishes what is needed to my legs, binding them together like a mermaid’s fin.

“Now you have some time to think,” he says.


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I must confess…I don’t know how to begin. My hypocrisy is exposed. Karajan is watching on closed circuit; I will not escape. He sees everything—hears everything.

If Karajan is not satisfied with my confession here. . . if I do not renounce the Prince of Darkness…all of it…all my social media profiles and phone sex personas, if I do not put it all out on paper to his satisfaction, tonight, as he requests, Karajan will…I don’t want to imagine…or perhaps I do. Perhaps I crave this kind of attention. Karajan is the only one who ever ignored me. I need this. To know I make him feel this way. That I arouse this anger…that he would risk imprisonment for me…it makes me sure that he loves me.

Wait. I hear him, coming up the stairs now. . .He opens the door. Seeing him in those tight black clothes makes my pussy tingle. He removes the panties from my mouth and I can breathe.

“Are you ready?”

“Karajan, I have been bad. But I have only loved you!”

“I am not satisfied with your confession.”

“No, Karajan, we must forget the past.