His House

Screwing her eyes shut tight, she fought to compose her thoughts. This was how it was meant to be. She had known it would be like this. She was not the first girl; she would not be the last. She had been to his house before. Shared in his thoughts. Drank his wine. She knew what he wanted from her.

 She felt his body over her. She felt his immutable will upon her. Her diaphragm contracted as the deafening silence of his house stifled the very breath in her lungs. She had heard so much about his kindness, his humanity; but it was always so impersonal – just abstract concepts and metaphors. Here – in the visceral tangibility of this dark little chamber – she was learning the darker truths of his nature.

 The silence permeated deeper with each fresh knowledge of her body’s sin as she lay prostrate beneath him. She knew what women were to him –  she had heard the stories. Temptresses, adulterers, whores: bound together in womanhood by the sin of their bodies. She had always known what he wanted from her.

 Time stretched and contracted as he weighed down yet more heavily upon her. Hers was not to question – the monolithic arrogance of his silence!      

 A voice cracked through the wire mesh:

 'He will forgive us’


The End

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