The Beast in the Boy

Victorian era; an enjoyable little excursion in to a male aristocratic pervert

 

 

 

I am a man who chooses to live as a recluse. ‘Others’ are some abstract notion far in the distance; sometimes they’re a persistent hum that I can choose not to hear. They rarely divide into individual physical forms. Those that do are like dark waves rising from the immenseness of the sea, to knock you flying.

I am wealthy enough to be governed only by my own morals and amongst them there is one principle alone I stick to: anything you want from people can be bought. So you understand I’m therefore in a position of great power.

I choose to live alone, with one exception; I own a young boy. Yes, OWN. Under the guise of altruistic intentions, I rescued him from an impoverished home. I admit this was an incredibly mean trick to play because he’ll soon realize that his new home is far filthier. I rescued this starving innocent with the intention of giving him a taste of everything.

Oh what a master he has. Some would call him lucky, some who are as perverse as I, or perhaps those who are ignorant like his parents and believe he’ll lead a good life.

You see I wanted someone pure. Life has barely scarred the dear creature as after a year of keeping him he turned 11 only last week. I am going to weave darkness through the whiteness of his being, I am going to be the heavy imprint of life, scattering blemish, bruise and tears as if they were seeds. And with him being so young, there is hope that he will eventually bloom into a great creation – my true heir – as bitter and devious as I. Unlike pitifully disregarded souls, he will be both idolized and hated, trigger obsession, vengeance and imitation. Moral women will hate him and yet be rivals over him and this will lead to their disgrace, mortified by their own lust.

But let’s not focus on the future when there is enough to delight us in the present. For now, I have the enjoyable job of drawing the beast out of the boy. I call him Leonard, by the way, though I don’t recall ever asking him his name.

I like to torment young Leonard. Part of my motivation is my memories of myself as a boy. Although I would be unaware of such an urge at the time, I desired the very ruin of myself. I wanted to be corrupted. That is to feel live in its purest form – when it is leaving its mark on you.

 Life is like a hunger. We greedy consume until we are so bloated that the desire is temporarily annihilated. We want to stab our desire away, but what would we be without it? Let us always be starving or else we are dead.

Oh this boy is so pretty. And he’s pale, you see, like a porcelain doll that longs for protective, cradling arms and could be so easily damaged. I’ve noticed with affection how his dark hair – the colour of tree bark under the moon - falls over his eyes a little and he never cares to move it away. He seems to want to hide behind it.

He’s quite effeminate in his innocence. He holds his thin body a little awkwardly, always fidgeting in my presence. When he does this I sometimes stare harder at him and his gaze will lower to the floor.

 He hardly speaks. But then, for what reason would I permit it! Perhaps in time, when he’s old enough to reflect thoroughly, I’ll ask him to recite these back days to me. He’ll no longer be the boy I want but he can help relive the pleasure I experience from him now. He may tell it with hate and exaggerate my cruelty, but that will make his story all the more pleasing.

        I often wonder what he dreams about in all his silent time – where does he go in his mind? Does he escape me? He is lost within himself, this child, all of the time. I admit it frustrates me that no matter what power I have over him, I can’t open him up and peer inside.

        He sleeps so softly; I’ve stood at his door, admiring him as I contemplate my next plan to violate him. When I sit alone, knowing this child is safe beneath the covers, warm and pure, I suddenly get an impulsive desire to steal away all his feelings of security in the cruellest way I can imagine. So I sometimes call him from his bed late at night.

        He then stands before me in his night clothes and I look at him with indifference, concealing this passion that torments me as I begin to torment him. All I see are good intentions and hope in his eyes. After all this time he has retained his purity. One day I will truly infect him.

        I can sense when he feels uneasy with my advances, my touches or the glint in my eyes. To see him suddenly look trapped – it pleases me all the more. He would often seem to forget that we are the only residents here, and he’d look about him as if he expected someone to rescue him. Perhaps he was naïve enough to believe that justice still prevails behind closed doors. I have engaged in the correction of such a fallacy by imparting the wisdom of life upon him.

        There are times I pretend to comfort him, stroke his soft hair; it curls almost past his chin and has a shine to it that women would be envious of. I whisper words intended to soothe. But this I do, only to be close enough to the scent of this trusting boy – which is like honey and pinecones after he has played outside in the ran.

        He is quite needful of tenderness and yet recently he has begun to feel distrustful of it. Evidently I have given him inner conflict already; a proud paint stroke on this piece of art I am creating.

        Once I toyed with him and took his hand as I would a lady, and kissed it with my head bowed. The look in his eyes was alarm. Since that morning – as I had deemed it a special greeting – I now kiss his hand regularly (and if I am especially pleased with him I turn his pale hand over and place my lips on his palm instead, to show my gratitude). Recently, he has come to respond to this gesture in a similar to how most ladies would – shyness and grace twinned with a subtle inner smile that he hopes I won’t notice. This is surely a sign that his nature is altering, re-shaping itself and now I’m half inclined to believe that he looks forward to this display of affection. When are dreams of love aren’t nourished, I do believe that we look for love in other places.

        When I am displeased with him I slap him hard in the face – but this I do only rarely in order to retain the shock of it. The first time I did so he fell to the floor and lay face down momentarily. When he stumbled to his feet he glared at me with his dark eyes through the hair that hung over them as if he wanted to scream “I hate you”. The audacious, beautiful creature, attempting to be wilful even in his silence! Lust surged through me and it took all of my strength not to force myself upon to him. But I had realised all the same that he needed to be scolded. He would half expect it from me as his master and I would lose his respect if I did not discipline him.

        I had considered, prior to this event, that I should move slowly with him all the same. A little fear is healthy but I could not risk him rebelling completely against me and turning in to a virtuous saint in his adulthood only to declare me – the demon – the cause of his path to righteousness. I dreaded such a possibility.

        So I did not give in to my passions that time but allowed them only a small outlet in his punishment. I rose from my chair to look down on him now. He was brave in his boyish anger. In eagerness to admire his face I gently tucked a ringlet of hair behind his ear – that same ringlet that always hid his face a little from me. Then I lowered my hand roughly to his throat as if to strangle him. I saw fear quickly flicker in his eyes before they turned glassy with tears. How easy it was to make him humble. I eased the force of my hand and tilted his head to side, revealing the pure white skin of his neck. I would be the first to taint it. I slowly licked it and he squirmed. I was aware of the smell of my breath lingering on his skin. He had been marked by my scent and I knew well that the unclean feelings he experienced at that moment would linger and be rekindled whenever he was close to me.

        I then allowed him to go to bed, satisfied that there was no wilfulness left in the child, only the nausea of his repulsion for me.

 

I will tell you now that I dragged out his disgrace with thorough planning, attentive to all the details. Sometimes I even subdued my impatient urges in order to carry out a more rewarding plot. Primarily, my aim was to ensure that regardless of any hostility or disgust he felt towards me, he would always know the pull of all the things I’d shown him.

        I decided that I would spend a year preparing him, tenderizing him, before the final indulgence. Prior to that I would demonstrate my love with only the warmth of my hands and mouth.

        And in time he grew to want me, with the same intensity as he hated me. On his twelfth birthday, he returned my forceful kiss.

        Each day I relive the moment that commenced but to describe it explicitly to you would be to take away its charm.

        That boy I violated and now he grows more like me by the day, my power diminishing as he does so, as if he’s vampirically draining my life but I cannot resist his allure. It is inevitable that one day the roles will truly reverse and I will be the innocent; but oh how I crave it! He will give me my last breath. As an old man my thoughts will be simply the deep, amplified tremor of his actions.

 

 

Reviews

[The Thracian]

One of the few friends I bother to argue philosophy with always insist on the prowess of 'subjectivity' as a philosophy. He aporetically postulates that other human beings don't exist... I think you and he might get along.

This actually reminded me of a small Greek story implicating a certain catamite and his jovial pederast. The irony of this parallel is that the boy was a Trojan.

I don't know if I liked the story , or if I found it to be a rhetorical monologue - the kind learned by rote before a test, vomitus of facts. I found this particular paragraph to be interesting...

I am wealthy enough to be governed only by my own morals and amongst them there is one principle alone I stick to: anything you want from people can be bought. So you understand I'm therefore in a position of great power.

Although it is a little redundant in formulation, there is a sense of block holed consumerism in it which makes you wonder if there is another foil, or if this assertion is a mere axiom.

[Touché Armada]

I just recommended you to another writer, I'm sorry its tasteless describing you as Count Olaf meets Monty Python meets Beetlejuice meets Nietzsche, but I had to cut the list at some point and wasn't really sure how to describe you. I'd be disturbed by this if I didn't think that hidden amidst society among all the things never voiced all the things never entered into with detail, was nonexistent. A superb write really, eccentric perhaps, but not. Chilling? Absolutely, but that's the whole point isn't it.
But still I liked it.

[Nazarea]

wow. this is disturbing in its depth, the perversity of it. (your bio wasn't lying was it?) I can't tell you how much I did or didn't enjoy it, since I was increasingly disturbed, but I do think that the writing was very well done, with a few grammatical errors. And its captivating, I'll give you that.
Welcome!
Nazare~