Friday, August 16, 2013

Gom Jabbar

I light a cigarette.

I pour a glass of wine.

I wait like a spider in the web.

Waiting makes me feel cool, powerful. I feel myself slipping into the mantle of control. I wrap it about myself, building power.

Thinking about pain.

There are three sharp knocks at the door. As instructed, the supplicant enters, placing items by the door, coming in to stand before me. He stands, head down, not speaking. I smoke. I read my book. I sip my wine.

His head peaks up, looking at me, trying to make eye contact. I can tell he wants to speak. I can feel the tension in the air but I do not allow him words. Cool, quiet, patience, and inattention are all that greet him. I flip through another page.

“Take off your clothes,” I say.

As he disrobes, I continue my book. His nudity is not the prize that I seek.

“It’s been hot. You’ll need a shower.” He turns and marches away to attend to himself in the bathroom. Smoke tendrils wisp around my head and I feel my power concentrated in my center: becoming, blooming, solidifying, taking shape. When he comes to stand back in front of me I am in the seat of my power.

I stand and point to the seat, having him replace me there.

In my hand is secreted a small device (omitted from my table). I allow him to sit and contemplate my table and the meaning implied there, the direction my thoughts may have wandered in creating this scene.

He sits quietly, naked, still somewhat wet from the shower. His eyes are on the table, then they are on me.

Quick, catlike, I jump across the table and straddle his lap. He sits back, head still down, eyes not meeting mine. Then he feels it, as his neck, a small point, just a touch of pressure.

“I am going to speak to you," I say. "I will ask you questions. You may answer these questions in one-word sentences only. Do you understand?”


Smiling, I press my point against his neck just a bit more, make it felt, real.

“You know about the gom jabbar?”


“Do you know what it is?”

“May I answer in more than one word?”

He is smiling, cheeky.



“And what kind of test?”


“And how is the test conducted?”


“Now, you are going to experience my gom jabbar. I will give you pain, and we will see if you are human.”

Stiffness; his shoulders stiffen, his body stiffens; there is a faint patina of fear. I smell his fear on him.

“Do I frighten you?”


I smile again, and slide off of his lap, making him stand against the wall. I choose from among my array of devious device to test his body. I bring out cries and halts, watch how flesh moves into and away from falling strands of leather, or the stiff slap of my hand, watch the body avoid what it wants and craves and the pain that I wish to drive into it.

Pain that brings one to their knees.

Pain that can be withstood.

And he stands.

And he does not buckle under my pain.

I am the maelstrom, the whirlwind, in the middle, wheeling a wind of colored strands whipping through the air, interspersed with bites, and sharp slaps. I am an angel and a demon, bringing punishment, followed by ease, only to bring punishment again.

I move my victim from wall to bed, to wall, so stand facing front or away, to endure the spirit of my tests.

Finally, covered by a soft sheen of sweat on my own flesh, I yield.

“I must have wanted you to fail,” I say.

Smiling. Smiling returned, mirror smiling. Mine with cat-like teeth.

“My turn,” he whispers.

And the test is endured, ending in shared pain, shared pleasure, shared humanity.

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