All the King's Horses

A/N: This is my first original, since I write 99% of the times fanfiction; it was written in a hurry at 1 a.m., so I hope it\'s not too awful

~oO0*0Oo~

All the King\'s Horses

She sat quietly on a small dull chair, staring longingly at His dark wooden chair, lined with scarlet velvet, so different, so perfect, so undeniably Him.

She began humming His favourite tune, almost soundlessly; her voice barely shattered the dusty crackling of the quickly dieing fire. She got up and hurried towards the nearby wood-store, choosing carefully two solid logs and four or so pieces of plywood. She put the wood in the fireplace and fretted over reliving the spent fire, for He hated coming back to find a cold house, not alit by the burning warmth of those red and orange flames. He loathed cold so very much, and she must not forget it, because forgetting meant making Him angry at her and making Him angry at her meant she needed to be rightfully punished by Him for making Him angry at her.

She lightly winced at the memory of what her last punishment had exactly consisted of. But she never complained, for she had disobeyed Him and disobedience was to be condemned and strictly and, sometimes, violently castigated. Only He had the right to choose, simply because He was Himself, centcentre, the core. Without Him, what would sh? If? If He left her, what would she be? She would be nobody\'s nobody. With Him, she was His nobody. Thus she would nod and smile and bow her head, anything to make Him pleased, anything for Him not to ever leave her.

Once the fire was lit up again, she walked well-mannered td hed her bedroom, compound of a small bed covered by a dusky coloured blanket, a small armchair containing all of the clothes He had given her, a small beech-wooden desk and a huge, shimmering silver lined mirror. He had purchased it purposely for her, for her beauty, for her to admire her own beauty, as He had said. and thus every night she did so.

This night was of no exception. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror in front of her and slowly began to undress, as He had always ordered her to.

First she slipped out of her stiletto red shoes, then she pulled down her black fishnet stockings, eyes always on the mirror. She wriggled her way out of the leather skirt that covered only a small share of her lower body and started unbuttoning her corset, unintentionally uttering a sigh of relief once that article of clothing was gone.

Now she was naked, except for a little garment she was allowed to take off last. A very small garment, whose utility she was not so certain of; it had no apparent colour whatsoever, and it was made of a fabric that felt uncomfortable on her skin; she could always feel her body prickling and squirming due to its unpleasantness. But He had said she would always wear it, saving it for last when she admired herself.

Making undulatory movements as He had demanded while doing so, she felt the garment slipping off her legs until it finally hit the floor.

Now she could admire herself completely.

Repeating a scene learnt by heart from habitude and experience, she stretched her full heart-shaped lips into a smile that never quite reached her brown eyes, which could turn to a shade of green in the right light. Bringing a small hand to the back of her head, she loosened up the ponytail He had forced her to wear throughout the day. As she took off the small black band, her straight dark brown hair fell in cascades over her shoulders and over her back, turning quite wavy at the very end.

She massaged her scalp in a circular pattern, then started tracing her left hand down her cheek and her jaw and her throat, resting on her finely sculpted chest. She began fondling her breasts with both hands, never looking away from her reflection, trying to force herself to feel an emotion, as He had said. But, as usual, nothing happened, as nothing had ever had, and she mentally counted this as her next punishment.

Her hands continued their exploration of her body, following the ribcage, hiding er ner navel, caressher her stomach and her sides, down to her thighs and calves, then up again, to the parts she had saved for last, as always.

Putting her hands behind her, she began massaging her cheeks, first slower, then faster and faster, whilst fingering her entrance, lightly enough to hurt, but not enough to draw blood. Then she always dragged her hands in front of her, then between her, up and down, up and down, lightly enough to hurt, but not enough to draw blood.

Anytime she accomplished her tasks she founr har hands to be uncomfortably sticky, covered in some odd substance she couldn\'t identify, but she wasn\'t allowed to wash them. And she never did. She now turned to the armchair and, opening one of the drawers, she pulled out a white silky dress that reached her knees, a dress in contrast with her dark complexion.

Barefooted she moved to the living room.

She sat quietly on a small dull chair near the fireplace, staring longingly at His dark wooden chair, lined with scarlet velvet, so different, so perfect, so undeniably Him.