TroubleS

(Based on the writing of Franck Benedict)



translated by Danny
 

 
 
At first she thought it was a small, repetitive error. But right away she asked herself why you are systematically writing her first name with a lower case a (like on her card, the inscription that you keep in your drawer). She did not immediately take offense, but your propensity to give her tasks that obliged her to find herself on all fours under the large machines began to perturb her. 

Agnes (since this is the first name that you persisted in diminutizing), disclosed to a friend Anne that, I believe, youre getting to know. This one is a little naïve, but Agnes found comfort in speaking of that which she experienced as a humiliation. Agnes is not an imbecile. She spoke of these things to Anne in order to obtain the assistance she coveted from a good friend of Annes. Anne is naïve, as Ive already said, and easy to manipulate. She listened carefully to Agnes.

Annes friend, himself, you have begun to remember also. He would prefer that you remember. You dont get it? Try. Make a little effort. His name is Georgesæa brilliant computer scientist. Dont tell me youve already forgotten him? Or is this the result of a woman scorned? Of course you dont suspect anything. You believe that you can act the way you want? I only believe that this is because I know you a little.

One morning or evening, while starting up your PC, you notice that it displays a blue screen, as if it had been switched off in an emergency. Every file damaged, you dont pay attention to the date of the last entry in your precious documents. Dont tell me that you dont see what Im telling you! Your opportunity, but a good opportunity, will be that Georges is a bastard.

Dont tell me that you didnt know it; you created Georges. Yes! The very Georges that your mind evoked, the evenings where your body begged for appeasement for the suffering wrung from it on the bed.

This amuses Anne, but shes just a naïve youngster without a true personality, a dislocated plaything one picks up and puts down, then who waits while one begins to look for it. You, you are a mature woman, thus more exciting in your slightly strict bearing, in your supposed authority, in your resistance to breaking. Agnes was reassured in assuring Anne that this story was finished. Finished for Agnes, but not for agnes. Not for you, for whom she had had only begun.

Should I speak of that which occurred, or you, allowing the fright of the discovery?

I must write about it, because it is while reading this message (that you keep imprudently hidden at the bottom of your hard drive) that Georges discovered all at once your truthful nature, and the ways to enslave you. Of course, he would have been troubled to have existed even before knowing you, but that reinforced the idea of achieving his destiny. As if you had always hoped that he would appear at the instant of writing these acts in advance. He drew his demonic ideas in you, directly at the heart of your fantasies born of a slave named agnes 26, of an innocent, perverted young thing called Blandine. He added some personal ideas. Personal? No, he could not have had them, and you know that very well. He extracted them from this message, because Georges doesnt have an imagination. Sorry, Georges, but you know its true.

 Up til now women play with you like a cat with a mouse, and then jettison you when they are less restless. But this time you were the one doing the dumping, Georges. So read this well, soak up agnes 26, delight in Blandine, and you will know what to do now.
 

 
 
Despite Georges injunctions and threats, despite this warning, you again mixed up Agnes and agnes. Once again, one time too many. Im not sure that this confusion on your part was truly involuntary. No, I am convinced of the opposite, that this new Georges, you desire him, you will desire him. And how better to arouse his fury than to infringe on this first blackmail, an amount rather simple, his silence in exchange for a few favors. Too simple. Georges would like to achieve his destiny. This is inescapable. You know it. Its been written. You wrote it. 

This new infraction will merit punishment. And this pretended absent-mindedness would only be a request on your part for the emergence of the torturer.

Thus, one late evening after the rooms empty out, you must stay behind. Georges will have given you a scarf, the sort of soft foulard that decorates ones shoulders. A scarf and a pair of handcuffs without keys. The instructions will be simple: cover your eyes with the scarf, cross your hands behind your back, and shut the handcuffs around your wrists.
 
Ah, I am almost forgetting one thing, which is that you would quiver at the least sound you perceive. He will command you to open your blouse and expose your naked breast to the silence and the darkness. Seated behind your desk, blind, handcuffed, topless, you will remain for a long time waiting for Georges. Jumping at the least creak of the structure, at each little noise that your normally open eyes prevent your ears from hearing, there will be no further possibility of turning back. Your short breaths will seem to you so much noisier. Under the increased chill of nightfall, your breasts will shudder and tighten up. Will the chill be responsible for these shudders? Allow me to smile. And then finally you will hear a step, at first muted and remote, reduced by the echo of the corridors. Your heart will leap, beating so strongly that it will seem to mask this indistinct step.
This, by a man, or by the cleaning ladies? A sudden hollow in the small of your back, a knot in your stomach, a pressing desire to urinate. Fear. Fear that this is not Georges. Fear of not being able to escape, being cuffed, blindfolded, exposed. To flee and display your turpitude. Stay and accept your turpitude. A struggle will commence within you between fear and pleasure, between a dull woman and a capricious courtesan. You will not immediately understand that this struggle is in vain, that you are one, that these two parts only exist for the necessity of appearances and morality. Those appearances will have left with your vision; only you remain. The tension will ease with the renunciation of all appearances. A hot sensation of abandon will envelope you. Your submissive body, so tight a little before, will relax. A hot liquid will flow over your thighs after having soaked your panties, and will spread out in a puddle at your feet.
Georges, because this step will belong to him just as much as you will finish by belonging to him, just as much as he has belonged to your spirit, will jeer at your incontinence. These obscene, crude words, instead of stiffening you, will provoke a new relaxation, as a sign of acquiescence. He will order you, then, to your knees. You will obeywhat else would you do? He will plunge your face into this disgraceful puddle and will hold it there firmly. Like one learns to house-train a puppy. Benefiting from your prostrate position, he will lift up your skirt and tear off your panties. He will grip your hair and violently raise up your head.
He will shove a gag into your open mouth, and this will constitute your ultimate protection, at present in pathetic tatters. The smell and the bitter taste will provoke hiccups that will leave you numb; even more, will amuse him as much as your damp hair gathered at the corner of your lips.

He will pull you up without consideration. Curtly, he will lower your blouse to your wrists and the butt of the handcuffs. He will force you to hold the back of your skirt in your fettered hands. Buttocks nude, breasts exposed, body and soul sullied, you will be made to move forward under his sarcasms and insults. I am not willing to report the intentions that he will hold; they are too filthy and I would degrade myself to write them down.

Dont try to figure out how to evade these torments. You will not be able toænot to foresee them, but to avoid them. Dont attempt suicide, for you will carry them to your grave.
Georges will pursue you, and will denounce you no matter what you do. Wise or rebellious, saint or whore, slut or private property, you are destined to receive as many blows of the belt as will please him. Yes, this large belt of rough leather, the very one that you saw the last time. Like a demented painter armed with a leather brush, it will proclaim your ignominy in great red lines burning on the fragile canvas of your breasts. It will make from your reddened buttocks, by the ardor of torment, a primal exhibition of your basic nature. As you will progress blindly along the hallways, frequently embarrassed, they will become strangers to you. Another world. Another woman.
At the end of the street, in a room filled with machines whose use you will not comprehend, Georges will return your vision to you. You will suffer the bite of alligator-teeth pincers, attached to copper cables of an unbelievable weight, which make them grip their prey in a manner so intense and profound that they give credence to their name. Your breasts, your intimate flesh, will seem to abandon you, or they will drag you toward the abyss.

 You will fall yet again. This physical fall will only earn you a look from the executioner. He will hold you by your skirt, which finally tears off, and thus you will be stripped nude.
 
There, in the middle of this room without a past, Agnes awaits you. She, herself, has also been waiting for you a long time. She lifts your face, bruised by the traction, and removes the foul-smelling gag. You watch her but your eyes are blind with pain.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
From her neck, she removes a little gold chain, and closes it about your own. Then she opens your lips and  kisses you full on the mouth. After your mouths detach themselves, the little a is yours, it is what you are. How will you be able to escape this vile destiny? All is written, all is ordained, all is desired in this perfect world.From her neck, she removes a little gold chain, and closes it about your own. Then she opens your lips and  kisses you full on the mouth. After your mouths detach themselves, the little a is yours, it is what you are. How will you be able to escape this vile destiny? All is written, all is ordained, all is desired in this perfect world.
 
Your card languishes in your drawer.