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Fantasies...no, not the ones in which Sara and I love each other. Those are sweet, yes. In fact, they are a little too sweet. As my sub-conscience reminds me...as Kenneth Irons has ingrained in me...I am unworthy of Sara Pezzini's love. Therefore, those fantasies seem incongruous, even as I indulge in them. Then, afterwards, as self-loathing wells up in me, it is as though those fantasies, rather than being sweet, become putrid, blasphemous; for how dare I cheapen Sara in this way.
The fantasies that stir me might be reprehensible to some, to Sara, I would imagine. They require very little work in the way of imagination, actually. It is my experience, a part of my life, in a sense. But, as I said, it is also a fantasy...in as much as I have control of the outcome.
Kenneth Irons is the one who in the conscious world exerts control. That is the expectation. For the most part, I am submissive. Occasionally, I rebel against him. However, when I do, I also expect that there will be punishment. Irons doesn't disappoint. Physically, psychologically, I am beaten down. I know my place. I suffer the abuse, but I rage inwardly. He is wrong to treat me this way, but I will not say this aloud. Here is where the fantasy begins.
Kenneth Irons expects this pattern in my behavior as well. In my fantasy, however, I manipulate the underlying emotions for both of us. I don't change my actions, but in my fantasy, I allow myself to feel. I hurt. I do not deserve this. And, Kenneth knows this. Irons feels my indignation. In my fantasy, he doesn't change his actions, either, but he begins to see me differently. He despises his actions. He knows I am worthy. When he sees the pain in my eyes...he sighs heavily. When he reaches to touch my face...to wipe away the blood, he is genuinely tender.
I hold him in my gaze. My eyes accuse, yet they also demand acknowledgement. In a look, I convey that I expect and accept this punishment, but I want him to admit that he knows my worth. His usual ice-cold stare softens sympathetically. This is not enough. I shake my head, slowly, and sigh in resignation. If I were a house-pet, I would merit as much from him. That's when I see it. He clears his throat to regain my attention. I dare to look into his eyes once more. His breath catches. It is what I have hoped for. Admiration...respect. Then...the admission...
"You are worth so much more than this, Ian." As he finishes this declaration, he lowers his gaze and bows his head, as I have done before him, countless times. "I am sorry," he utters.
And this fantasy lingers. This one is truly sweet.