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The last page of the diary

PrincessMythik

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on: June 12, 2019, 01:38:19 PM
THE LAST PAGE OF THE DIARY







From this solitude of my empty days, of my nights without you, I write the last pages of this diary that belongs to you, like everything mine.  I'm tired, love. Tired of looking for you in my memory, in the cold silence of my tears, in this prison full of your absence. I write in the diary my epitaph, colophon of our lives, that I no longer have life without your life, because I have no more life than yours. It's time to look for you wherever you are. If I don't find you, love, come and get me. It's my last plea, your slave's last plea. I implore you, sir, don't leave me lost in a sky other than yours.







On the first page you wrote a phrase by Etienne Rey: "Love is the union of an owner and a slave; never of two equal beings". Still looks like fresh, new ink, freshly written your declaration of love. "I own you, Clara," you told me. "Because I love you." I was trembling with cold and innocence. I'd just turned sixteen. "I want to be your slave, my life," my eyes told you more than my lips. "Because I love you." The diary remained open on the desk, while the two of us sealed our love, naked and filled with desire. You were 30 years old. That night I gave you the first pain of my deflowered sex. My guts hurt when your flesh tore my flesh. My blood also looks fresh and new. There are two fingerprints with my blood on the front page of the paper. Our fingerprints, sir, as signatures from a contract reduced to that phrase. We rummage through my sex in search of my blood. The blood of my newly delivered virginity to my owner. For love, my love, for love. Which is the union of an owner and a slave; never of two equal beings.







Fourteen years... They come true tonight when death comes to claim me as its owner. But I don't love death, my life. I don't want to be the slave of death. Many times I was subdued by the masters you wanted. I submitted to you in every one of them. To all I gave every shred of my naked body, but never the soul. They penetrated my mouth with violence, my sex with lust, my anus with malice. But the soul was yours and yours alone. In it was kneaded pain, consented humiliation, stark supplication and discovered and reborn pleasure. And he gave it to you, as an offering, as a treasure. Because I belonged to you and I belong to you, sir, wherever you are I belong to you.







I can't stand this pain stuck in the depths of my being.  I, who learned to bear every punishment, every blow, every wound you opened in my skin, I cannot bear the pain of this emptiness, the torture of your definitive absence. When I wrap myself in the night and dream that you appear, my love, naked and transparent, I caress with reluctance my sadness, recreating your sex with my fingers that pull out of my sex the last drops of pleasure. And it is a hurtful pleasure that bursts into my soul, a stabbing pleasure, like needles stuck in my breasts, like the torment of an electric shock in my vagina.  It hurts my pleasure every night when I open my eyes and you're gone. It is the unbearable pain of this unwanted and unconsented freedom that came between us, without you ordering it.







On the last page of the diary, I write a phrase by Victor Hugo: "A wretched man who has loved nothing but bodies, forms and appearances. Death will take everything from him. Try to love souls and one day you will find them again". The first drops of my newly defiled death are falling on her. I did, love. I have no life left without your life. I have already been marked by death that tears my pain from the lashes of loneliness. Wait for me, sir, in your heaven, where you are God, where you are everything. I go to meet you, naked and trembling, like the sixteen-year-old girl who became your slave to join you. Again a virgin, body and soul, to give them to you, my lord. To be eternally submitted to the eternity of your love.


 

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