Silver / clay

⊱ 20 ⊰

The tiny screen blinked, seeking a connection.

Caleb waited to the sound track of a man groaning in pain before a slash of metal sliced through flesh and put him out of his misery. It was a common interruption, courtesy of paper-thin walls, but he was rarely home enough for it to matter. Apparently the occupant next door had completed a flawless victory.

His attention faltered just as the screen changed to a living area. The camera sat on what looked like a nice wooden table, overseeing the neat, modern kitchen. The overall impression was of a clean, adequately spacious house with good quality furniture and appliances.

Was it hers?

Caleb felt secretly deflated, part of him needing the place to be more extravagant, bursting with expensive flourishes, for Amala to use her money for her own pleasures, removed from the prosaic limits of daily practicality, until the other part caught up, sorting the effect into its rightful category, suiting her far more snugly than what his own rabid fantasies would materialise.

The kitchen suddenly leaned to the right. In fact, the entire room shifted, ending on the image of an angel. Amala wore a comfortable, warm woollen jumper, perfect for winter, her hair tied in a bun, wisps caressing the back of her neck, exposed in a tangled beauty above her shoulders. Those faint hints of make-up performed the miracle of accentuating God's creation. No, thought Caleb, not a covering at all but natural crimson lips and silky skin, perfectly framing those emerald eyes.

"I know you long to see me, my sweet," said Amala, tilting her head in a knowing way.

"It's been ages," agreed Caleb. "At least, it feels that way."

"Even a second away from my presence feels an eternity to you," said Amala, smiling warmly.

"Yes, how did you--" Caleb cleared his mind of doubts, forgetting who he was talking to. "Of course you know, you're amazing. You look amazing." The descriptions felt hollow and preposterous, poor substitutes for reality, but he needed to offer something. "Do you mind if I complement you?"

"Remember, you are free," said Amala.

Caleb nodded, smiling. "In that case, you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, that anyone's ever seen. Could you-- What else are you wearing? Can you stand up?"

Amala squeezed her eyes, revealing less emerald, as she leant forward. "We're having a wonderful time," she said. "I know you don't want to ruin it."

"Sorry!" said Caleb, reeling. "I didn't mean-- I'm sorry. You're right, we are."

Amala didn't respond. Her expression suggested neither warmth nor chastisement.

"Umm...are you having a good night?" Caleb shivered. "You look warm," he added, with a smile.

She seemed to be studying him, or waiting for him, or upset with him. He hoped the probability for each ran from highest to lowest.

Punches and grunts filled Caleb's aural space. He didn't have his own gaming system, or TV, or any kind of entertainment, in order to cut costs, yet he still felt guilty for spending the limited amount he did, on rent, on utilities -- though that didn't include burning money by using any kind of heat.

"I'll keep my promise and provide you with more, soon. I told you there was a plan and I meant it." Caleb clutched his neck, rubbing away the harshest portion of the pain. "This job has more opportunities to get ahead. In fact, I just got picked, out of all the graduate intake, to help with a special client."

"I understand," said Amala. "I understand all your desires, your hopes and dreams. That tension you feel in your muscles is your body's way of demonstrating how much you ache to serve me. It is meant to hurt, for without pain you couldn't truly gauge the importance I have to your life. I promise you will find relief in me."

Her words were devoured like manna. Caleb felt that relief already, settling gently on his soul like a gift from heaven.

"Is there any other way I can serve you?" he said, vivid scenes of his old life manifesting in his imagination, stuck beneath a vulva, his tongue a tool to be used, his entire body a tool, the instrument of another's pleasure. But as soon as he imagined Amala in that position it all dissipated, as if it somehow devalued her, made her more base, subject to the same whims and caught by the same desires as normal girls, when she reigned instead from a far more exalted rostrum.

"You will do whatever I ask," said Amala. It wasn't a question.

"Of course!" said Caleb, pleased at the opportunity to reinforce this abiding truth.

"That is how you serve me," said Amala.

It was true, she was right, but it didn't quite seem enough to Caleb.

She must have read his expression. "I know," she said. "You wish for me to make you beg, to debase yourself, as a way of showing how much you value me, but you're above those games. Yes, games, for that is what they are, with hard rules and winners and losers. What we have isn't a game."

Caleb nodded, unable to disagree.

Amala continued: "The love you feel for me isn't a game."

He smiled, subconsciously leaning forward, joy filling his tepid heart.

"The lust to provide for me, no matter the cost, is not a game, and never will be."

Caleb held his breath, caught in her thralls.