White God in Shanghai

Chapter 26

Miss Chink wakes up with a jolt. She has just fallen down some stairs in a dream, and she bolts upright, momentarily disoriented. It is dark, and she’s in White God’s bed alone. Something has woken her, some nagging thought. She glances over at the alarm clock on her bedside. It is five in the morning, but she feels rested. Why is that? Oh—it’s the time difference—it would be five in the afternoon in New York.

Holy crap … I need to take my pill.

She clambers out of bed, grateful for whatever it is that has woken her. She can hear faint notes from the piano. White God is playing.

This I must see.

She loves watching him play. Naked, she grabs her bathrobe from the chair and wanders quietly down the corridor, slipping on her robe and listening to the magical sound of the melodic lament that’s coming from the great room.

Shrouded in darkness, White God sits in a bubble of light as he plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks naked, though she knows he’s wearing his PJ bottoms. He’s concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the music. She hesitates, watching from the shadows, not wanting to interrupt him.

I want to hold him.

He looks lost, sad even, and achingly lonely—or maybe it’s the music that’s so full of poignant sorrow. He finishes the piece, pauses for a split second, then starts to play it again. She moves cautiously toward him, drawn as the moth to the flame … the idea makes her smile. He glances up at her and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands.

Oh, crap, is he pissed off that I’m disturbing him?

“You should be asleep, Chink,” he scolds mildly.

She can tell he’s preoccupied with something.

“So, should you,” she retorts not quite as mildly.

He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.

“Are you scolding me, you little chink slave?’

“Yes, my White God, I am.”

He frowns once more as a trace of irritation or anger flashes across his face.

With me? Surely not.

She ignores his facial expression and very bravely sits down beside him on the piano stool, placing her head on his bare shoulder to watch his deft, agile fingers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally, and then continues to the end of the piece.

“What was that,” she asks softly.

“Chopin. Prelude pus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you are interested,” he murmurs.

“I’m always interested in what you do.”

He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Play the other one.”

“Other one?”

“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”

“Oh, the Marcello.”

He starts to play slowly and deliberately. She feels the movement of his hands on his shoulders as she leans against him and closes her eyes. The sad, soulful notes swirl slowly and mournfully around Ms. Chink and her White God, echoing off the walls. It is a hauntingly beautiful piece, sadder even than the Chopin, and she loses herself to the beautify of the lament. To a certain extent, it reflects how she feels. The deep poignant longing she has to know this extraordinary White God better, to try to understand His sadness. All too soon, the piece is at an end.

“Why do you only play such sad music?”

She sits upright and gazes up at him as he shrugs in answer to her question, his expression wary.

“So you were very young when you started to play?” She prompts.

He nods, his wary look intensifying. After a moment he volunteers. “I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother.”

“To fit into the perfect family?”

“Yes, so to speak,” he says evasively. “Why are you awake? Don’t you need to recover from yesterday’s exertions?”

“I need to take my pill.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Well remembered,” he murmurs, and she can tell he’s impressed. “Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour tomorrow mroning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time.”

“Good plan,” she breathes. “So what shall we do for half an hour?” She blinks innocently at him.

“I can think of a few things.” He grins salaciously. She gazes back impassively as her insides clench and melts under his knowing look.

“On the other hand, we could talk,” she suggests innocently.

His brow creases.

“I prefer what I have in mind.” He scoops her onto his lap.

“You’d always rather have sex than talk.” She laughs, steadying herself by holding on to his upper arms.

“True, especially with tiny chink slaves.” He nuzzles her hair and starts a steady trail of kisses from below her ear to her throat. “Maybe on my piano,” he whispers.

Oh my. My whole body tightens at the thought. Piano. Wow.

“I want to get something straight,” she whispers as her pulse starts to accelerate, and her inner goddess closes her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on her.

He pauses momentarily before continuing his sensual assault.

“Always so eager for information, Miss Chink. What needs straightening out?” He breathes against her skin at the base of her neck, continuing his soft gentle kisses.

“Us,” she whispers as she closes her eyes.

“Hmmm. What about us?” He pauses his trail of kisses along her shoulder.

“The contract.”

He lifts his head to gaze down at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes and sighs. He strokes his fingertips down her cheek.

“Well, I think the contract is moot, don’t you?” His voice is low and husky, his eyes soft.

“Moot?”

“Moot.” He smiles. She gapes at him quizzically.

“but you were so keen.”

“Well, that was before. Anyways. The rules aren’t moot. They still stand.” His expression hardens slightly.

“Before? Before what?”

“Before …” He pauses and the wary expression is back.

“More.” He shrugs.

“Oh.”

“Besides, we’ve been in the playroom twice now, and you haven’t run screaming for the hills.”

“Do you expect me to?”

“Nothing you do is expected, chink.” He says dryly.

“So let me be clear. You just want me to follow the rules element of the contract all the time and not the rest of the contract?’

“Except in the playroom. I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the rules—all the time. Then I know you’ll be safe, and I will be able to have you anytime I wish.”

“And if I break one of the rules?”

“Then I’ll punish you.”

“But won’t you need my permission?”

“Yes.”

“And if I say no?”

He gazes at the chink for moment, with a confused expression.

“If you say no, you’ll say no.”

She pulls away from him and stands. She needs some distance. He frowns as she stares down at him. He looks puzzled and wary again.

“So the punishment aspect remains.”

“Yes, but only if you break the rules.”

“I’ll need to reread them,” she says, trying to recall the details.

“I’ll fetch them for you.” His tone is suddenly businesslike.

Whoa. This has gotten serious so quickly.

He rises from the piano and walks lithely to his study. Her scalp prickles.

Jeez, I need some tea. The future of our so-called relationship is being discussed at 5:45 in the morning when he’s preoccupied with something else—is this wise?

She heads into the kitchen, which is still shrouded in darkness. Where are the light switches? She finds them, flicks them on, and pour water into the kettle.

My pill!

She rummages in her purse, which she left on the breakfast bar, and finds them quickly.

One swallow and I’m done.

By the time she finishes, White God is back, sitting on one of the barstools, watching her intently.

“Here you go.” He pushes a typed piece of paper toward her, and she notices that he’s crossed some things out.

RULES

Obedience:

The Chink will obey any instructions given by the White God immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Chink will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the White God excepting those activities that are outlined in hard limits (Appednix2). She will do so eagerly and without hesitation.

Sleep:

The Chink will ensure she achieves a minimum of eight seven hours’ sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.

Food:

The Chink will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed listed of foods (Appendix 4). The Chink will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.

Clothes:

While with White God, the Chink will wear clothing only approved by the White God. White God will provide a clothing budget for the Chink, which the Chink shall utilize. White God shall accompany the Chink to purchase clothing on ad hoc basis.

Exercise:

White God shall provide the Chink with a personal trainer four three times a week in the hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agree upon by the personal trainer and the Chink. The personal trainer will report to the White God on the Chink’s progress.

Personal Hygiene/Beauty:

The Chink will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Chink will visit a beauty salon of the White God’s choosing at times to be decided by the White God and undergo whatever treatments the White God sees fit.

Personal Safety:

The Chink will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs or put herself in any unnecessary danger.

Personal Qualities:

The Chink will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than White God. The Chink will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. She must recognized that her behavior is a direct reflection on the White God. She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of White God.

Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by White God.

“So, the obedience thing still stands?”

“Oh yes.” He grins.

She shakes her head amused, and before she realizes it, she rolls her eyes at him.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me, Chink?” HE breathes.

Oh, fuck.

“Possibly, depends what your reaction is.”

“Same as always,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes alight with excitement.

Miss Chink swallows instinctively and a frisson of exhilaration runs through her.

Holyshit. What am I going to do?

“Yes?” He licks his lower lip.

“You want to spank me now.”

“Yes. And I will.”

“Oh, really?” She challenges, grinning back at him.

Two can play this game.

“Are you going to stop me?’

“You’re going to have to catch me first.”

His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins, slowly getting to his feet.

“Oh really, you little chink slave?”

The breakfast bar is between Miss Chink and White God. She has never been more grateful for its existence than in this moment.

“And you’re biting your lip,” he breathes, moving slowly to his left as she moves to hers.

“You wouldn’t,” she teases, “After all, you roll your eyes.” She tries to reasoning with him. He continues to move toward his left, as does she.

“Yes, but you’ve just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game.” His eyes blaze, and wild anticipation emanates form him.”

“I’m quite fast, you know.” She tries for nonchalance.

“So am I.”

He’s stalking her in his own kitchen.

“Are you going to come quietly?” He asks.

“Do I ever?”

“What do you mean, you little chink?” He smirks. “It’ll be worse for you if I have to come and get you.”

“That’s only if you catch me, my White God. And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me.”

“Chink, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direction contravention of rule number seven, now six.”

“I have been in danger since I met you, my White God, rules or no rules.”

“Yes, you have,” he pauses, and his brow furrows.

Suddenly, he lunges for her, making her squeal and run for the dining room table. She manages to escape, putting the table in between. Her heart is pounding and adrenaline has spiked through her body.

Boy that is thrilling. I’m a child again, though that’s not right.

She watches him carefully as he paces delibeartely toward her. She inches away.

“You certainly know how to distract.”

“I aim to please. Distract you from what?”

“Life. The universe.” He waves one of his hands vaguely.

“You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing.”

He stops and folds his arms, his expression amused.

“We can do this all day, hink, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do.”

“No, you won’t.”

I must not be overconfident.

She repeats this as a mantra.

“Anyone would think you didn’t want me to catch you.”

“I don’t. That’s the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about my touching you.”

His entire demeanor changes in a second. Gone is playful White God, and he stands staring at her as if she has slapped him. He’s ashen.

“That’s how you feel?” He whispers.

Those four words, and the way he utters them, speak volumes.

Oh no.

They tell her so much more about him and how he feels. They tell her about his fear and loathing. She frowns.

No, I don’t feel that bad. No way. Do I?

“No, it doesn’t affect me quiet as much as that, but it gives you an idea,” I murmur, staring anxiously at him.

“Oh,” he says.

Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pull the rug from under his feet.

Taking a deep breathe, she moves around the table until she is standing in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes.

“You hate it that much?” He breathes, his eyes filled with horror.

“Well … no,” she assures him.

Jeez—that’s how he feels about people touching him?

“No, I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it.”

“But last night, in the playroom, you …”

“I do it for you, my White God, because you need it. I don’t. You didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.”

His eyes darken like a turbulent storm. Time moves and expands and slips away before he answers softly.

“But I want to hurt you.”

Fuck!

“Why?’

He runs his hand through his hair and shrugs.

“I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at her with anguish, and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. I can’t tell you,” he whispers.

“Can’t or won’t.”

“Won’t.”

“So you know why.”

“Yes.”

“But you won’t tell me.”

“If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never want to return.” He stares at her warily. “I can’t risk that.”

“You want me to stay.”

“More than you know.”

Oh my.

He gazes down at her, and suddenly, he pulls her into his arms and he’s kissing her, kissing her passionately. It takes her completely by surprise and she senses his panic and desperate need in his kiss.

“You said you wouldn’t leave me, and you begged me not to leave you, in your sleep,” he murmurs against her lips.

Oh … my nocturnal confessions.

“I don’t want to go.” And her heart clenches, turning itself inside out.

He is in need. His fear is naked and obvious, but he’s lost … somewhere in his darkness. His eyes are wide and bleak and tortured. The chink can soothe him, join him in the darkness and brings him into the light.

“Show me,” she whispers.

“Show you?”

“Show me how much it can hurt.”

“What?”

“Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get.”

“You would try.”

“Yes. I said I would.”

“You are so confusing.”

“I’m confused too. I’m trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you—“ Her words fail, and his eyes widen. He knows what she is referring to. For a moment, he looks torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features and he narrows his eyes, gazing at her speculatively as if weighing up alternatives.

Abruptly, he clasps her arms in a firm grip and turns, leading her out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure and pain, reward and punishment—his words from so long ago echo through her mind.

“I will show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up.” He pauses by the door. “Are you ready, you fucking chink?”

She nods, her mind made up, and she’s vaguely lightheaded, faint as all the blood leaves her face.

He opens the door and still grasping her arms, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads her over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room.

“Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly.

Okay. I can do this.

She bends over the smooth soft leather. He’s left her bathrobe on. In a quiet part of her brain, she’s vaguely surprised that he hasn’t made her take if off.

Holy fuck, this is going to hurt … I know.

“We are here because you said yes, and you ran from me. I’m going to to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”

Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can’t see me.

He lifts the hem of her bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He caresses her behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of her thighs.

“I’m doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he whispers.

And the irony is not lost. She was running to avoid this. If he’d opened his arms, she’d run to him not away from him.

“And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” Suddenly, it’s gone—that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s back from wherever he’s been. She hears it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on her back, holding her—and the atmosphere in the room changes.

She closes her yes, bracing herself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across her backside, and the bite of the belt is everything she feared. She cries out involuntarily and takes a huge gulp of air.

“Count, chink!” He commands.

“One!” She shouts at him, and it sounds like an expletive.

He hits her again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the blet.

Holy shit … that smarts.

“Two!” The chink screams.

It feels so good to scream.

His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas hers is almost nonexistent as she desperately scrabbles around her psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into her flesh again.

“Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into her eyes.

Jeez—this is harder than I thought—so much harder than the spanking. He’s not holding anything back.

“Four!” The chink yells as the belt bites her again, and now the tears are streaming down her face.

I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am crying.

He hits the chink again.

“Five.” Her voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment the chink thinks she hates him.

One more, I can do one more.

Her backside feels as if it’s on fire.

“Six,” she whispers as the blistering pain cuts across her again, and she hears him drop the belt behind her, and he’s pulling her into his arms, all breathless and compassionate

And I want none of him.

“Let go …. no …” And she finds herself struggling out of his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him.

“Don’t touch me!” She hisses. She straightens and stares at him and he’s watching her as if she might bolt, eyes wide, bemused. She dashes the tears angrily out of her eyes with the backs of her hands, glaring at him.

“This is what you really? Me, like this?” She uses the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe her nose.

He gazes at her warily.

“Well, you are one fucked up son of a bitch.”

“Chink,” he pleads, shocked.

“Don’t you chink me! You need to sort your shit out. White God.” And with that, she turns stiffly, and walks out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Author: jennifer suzuki

I have been a very confused—some might say very conflicted—girl ever since I can remember and I have always lived in a fantasy world of my own making. I was born in Japan, my mother is Chinese and my father is Japanese, and my father's mother or my grandmother was German Dutch, and I came to the United States as a teenager and lived and went to school in Maryland, and worked in New York. I lived in fantasy worlds since I was a teenager and I have always done so, sometimes so deep in my own fantasy I forgot my own identity. I no longer knew who I am. Physically I look more European than asian. My father is of mixed heritage—he has white blond hair, but he also has some distinctly Japanese features. On the other hand my features mostly resembled my grandmother, who was a full blooded European woman. Which was not something that really bothered me. Actually most modern Japanese look very European compared to the rest of asians. My father was a sadist, and my mother, on the other hand, was, in my opinion, a masochist with no self respect. Growing up, seeing my father beating my mother was almost as frequent as having dinner, and when not beating her, she was constantly being humiliated and degraded, like having to serve dinner to him naked on her knees or being tied to an utility pole only in her panties during the winter. At first I believed my mother was a victim, a unfortunate human being in the hands of a cruel evil man, but as I grew older I realized that it was my mother who enjoyed being treated this way. The initial realization made me feel she was a disgusting, perverted, sick person, but as I grew older I began to have the almost identical sexual fantasies that my mother lived and experienced through. I began to think that my mother was the luckiest woman on earth since apparently she had found a man who understood her desires and could give them to her. My dad studied and worked in America before, and during that period he desperately wanted to marry a white woman, and vehemently pursued several white women, but was unsuccessful. At the same time Japanese women were unwilling to marry him. Maybe because just like him they were looking to marry into the white race, or maybe because he had sadistic tendencies. Out of options he settled to look for a Chinese woman. Statistically, marriages between Chinese women and Japanese men have been quite common, and I personally knew quite a few couples just like my mother and father. Even here in America I knew several Chinese women who had Japanese boyfriends and those women were actually quite proud of having superior Japanese men as boyfriends. Japanese in general look much more European compared to other asians and I suspect it was the putative European appearance that attracts other asian women. Of course Japanese are not Europeans, no matter how much we try to become European, just as Jews will never be fully accepted as White Christians. I think Jews and Japanese have a lot in common. We were both persecuted by Europeans, the Jews by Germans, and Japanese by Americans, yet we both come to love our white Masters. Jews weren't officially considered white until very recently, and I think as time progresses eventually Japanese will be categorized as white in the future, though Jews and Japanese will always know that they are still inferior to their Nordic Masters. But as always the Jews will be Masters over the Arabs and the Japanese will be Masters over the rest of Asia. There is no other meaning to life, other than the degree of domination. I had an older sister who looked fully asian, as opposed to me who looked much more European. And ever since childhood I have always known for a fact that I was treated better by everyone else because of my distinctly European appearance. In school classmates would be hesitant to tease me because they always thought my father might be an American or an European man even though they knew my mother was Chinese but somehow they still were afraid of me solely because of my European appearance. The thing was that in Japanese naming system, my mother's last name automatically gets attached to mine, so for example, my name in Japanese would actually be "Suzuki Liu Jennifer", because my mother's maiden name is Liu; this way everyone would instantly know my mother is Chinese. On the other hand my sister was bullied almost everyday by upper classmates because she looked very Chinese. They made fun of her hair and clothes and told her that she looked like a Chinese pig and I had seen boys pulling down her pants and laughing at her for having a "Chinese vagina". I was a very young girl back then and I felt ashamed of having her as a sister so in school I didn't talk to her at all. When I was 12 years old, she committed suicide by hanging herself in her closet. I know this because I was the one who discovered her body. My parents would have never told me about her death if I did not saw her dead body by myself. And ever since her death a dark cloud formed over my head and throughout my teenager years I was constantly harrowed by thoughts of suicide. It was not until I was much older that I learned suicide is infectious and that had been why I was constantly thinking about suicide. The realization made me try not to think too much about death, but no matter how much I try I can never get her image out of my head. Sometimes I feel she still haunts me because I didn't talk to her in school. My parents divorced when I was 14 and I went to live with my mom in China for two years. Contrary to popular beliefs, I had never experienced any form of racism or discrimination against me when I was living in China. Most people assumed that I was an European girl and the aura of being European seemed to make me inapproachable, like the shield of Athena covering me from head to toe. Even when I was in school, when classmates would know my father was Japanese because of my last name, I had never really felt any discrimination, though I did feel they were kind of afraid of me. I had never realized how much being White meant until I was in America: the symbol of power, domination, and superiority that being White implies. Being White is being the entelechy of all that is beautiful, good and righteous. Which is strange because my nationality still is, in actuality, Japanese and as I grew older I started to look more asian. My hair has gotten completely dark and my looks started to resemble my mother's. I used to have very light-colored hair, but I just felt fortunate that I do not look fully asian like my sister was. When I saw this image [of a naked asian woman kneeling next to a black furred dog] in a Japanese SM magazine a few days ago, all of a sudden I remembered seeing my mother in a similar position when I was maybe just 5 or 6 years old. It was not a pleasant experience; it was an extremely scary and traumatic experience, and growing up I heard constant moaning and muffled screams coming from my parents' bedroom. Every evening was a nightmare to fall asleep. But knowing that many asian women were treated the same way as my mother had been treated somehow made me feel better about my own family. At least my parents were not as weird as they seemed, and while growing up I had gradually come to realize that many asian girls have the same masochistic tendencies as I do, but many were just very shy and wouldn't admit their secrets. So it seems there are many masochistic asian women out there who thrives on been humiliated and degraded just like the girl in this image; I don't know why but this image made me feel kind of normal. I have lived in the States for nearly ten years now and I have not talked to my parents, who had divorced, for several years, especially to my mother whom I had some very severe arguments with over the years, especially when she remarried after she went back to China. I was more fond of my father though I haven't really talked to him that much either because he too had remarried. Despite all the mean things I had said about my dad, he was always very gentle with me and never beat me. He beat my sister and my mother but never me and I suspect he was much more gentle with me because of my more European looks. I felt their divorce was a punishment for me, as if they had abandoned me and I never felt comfortable with either of them or their new spouses, whether it be in China or in Japan. My mother's new husband was a very cruel and domineering white man living in China and he never treated me with the same special treatment I received from my dad. And I remember one time when I went out with him people on the street mistook me for his wife and I felt so disgusted I never wanted to go out with him again and then he would yell at me and yell at my mom. I am glad to have gotten out of there. And my dad ... well let's just say I couldn't bear to coexist with his new wife either. The last time we talked was already 3 years ago. This image had brought back so many long forgotten yearnings. I miss my sister and my parents. The memory of my sister and my parents started to fade away, like wavering forms they passed before my clouded sight; their images have become a blur rise about me out of mist and cloud; their faces, and their figures have become shades of phantoms; I wanted to hold you close to me in that blessed fleeting moment when you reappeared to me in my dreams. If only I possessed the strength to draw you near. I wanted to forever remember you—you bear the images of happy days; your airy smiles still stir youthful tremors in my breast—but my memory faltered. It would have been simpler if I were already dead. I would never be seized again by those long forgotten yearnings. I shuddered at those thoughts; and a tear draws other tears. Crying is my only form of release; through crying I am channeled to the solemn and silent world of spirits; crying is my whispered prayer that lingers in a vagrant tone. I have no one to talk to. I live in solitary confinement. I have been driven to madness even though physically I stay put. My life—full of dolor, pain and suffering. Sometimes I wish I could end it. The only reason I continue to live is for otherwise I lack the courage to carry out that final act, to take me beyond and step into the unknown. It is so much better to have been never born at all, or at least to die an immediate death. How sweet and wonderful death would be. My dear Aya, I am so very sorry! A vast space of nothingness in the empty universe fills my heart. Everyday of my life I live in terror because of you. A family dog Growing up, I always felt lonely. My family dog was my only companion. He was a slightly larger than a medium sized dog, with grey and dark fur, and a nozzle that resembled a wolf. He was so cute, so adorable, and he was my only friend. I often played with him in my desperate attempts to communicate with another living being, like Madame Bovary sitting by her fire place in a melancholic longing for escape. I want out!, out of this nonchalant prison of thoughts, out of this cruel alienated society, out of these mind forged manacles whose clanking I hear like looming madness; the marks of domestication on their faces, marks of psychological slavery, marks of intellectual death; they are mere automatons, inanimate objects, so lifeless like straw men, hollow men, stuffed men. I can't bare to look at those miserable beings' faces. In a domesticated dog I see more humanity than the entire humanity. If only my family dog can take me away! And I will elope with him to a happy place, where there is no more sorrow, no more dread, no more cold metallic prison walls of the mind. My family dog was my only friend, and he was my only confidante. To him I entrusted all my deepest secrets. Sometimes I wished I was a dog: no more worries, no more sadness, no more consciousness, no more thoughts, just the need to satisfy my most basic instincts, lying by my owner's feet, worshiping him and completely dependent on him. Sometimes I wish I could have another dog just like the family dog I used to have in Japan. And he will be my husband. I will belong to him. I will be his bitch. I will obey him, crawl under his belly, gently caress his furs with my soft hands, and please him like I would please my husband. And he will be my beast and I will be his beauty. Albeit he will be a gentle beast, always so obedient to me, and yet always so much more aggressive, and animalistic; he will protect me from harm, with his sharp fangs and naturally endowed muscles for chasing down his prey; and yet he will honor me and obey me like a lover would. He will never be jealous, never be angry, as long as he is fed and watered. He will be my best friend.

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