The Mariner

Just what was he doing? How could this possibly be right? This was wrong, terribly wrong. True, he was only acting so that he could be cured in the long term, but wasn’t that nonsense? How could raping someone so that he never raped in the future, possibly make sense?

But he wanted to. Oh god, he wanted to. Perhaps he should just embrace the madness? After all, he was no doctor, he was just a mariner, nothing more. Why not give himself over to the more intelligent guidance of another?

But that wasn’t right. He felt it in his gut, even though his cock screamed the contrary. He shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong.

Yet despite his conscience, the Mariner still felt his hands moving towards the shutters, still his cock strained and grew harder. The acceptance of the act’s moral depravity only made it all the more alluring. He was going to act—

Don’t!

—and he was going to rape this woman. His lust was too great, his mind too trapped in the whirlpool of sordid fantasy. He had to taste her, touch her, violate her; nothing else mattered.

NO!

In a swift movement, acting on an impulse far beneath the fantasies of rape and torture, the Mariner pulled his knife from his pocket and yanked his left shirt sleeve up to the elbow. With barely a moment to think, he slashed, carving a deep red groove where before there was only dirty skin and ancient scars.

Pain erupted in his mind, dominating the foreground. The fantasies, the images of fucking and hurting, were suddenly pushed back; where once they were bright and dazzling, they were now grey monochrome. Distraction brought with it blissful, yet momentary, respite.

But colour began to leak back, so the Mariner slashed again.

Biting down on his tongue to maintain silence, the Mariner carved into his arm, Each strike brought pain, but with that came release, a release from his thoughts and his urges, a release from everything but the blinding white agony.

As the pain reached a cacophony, his lust finally dissipated. His penis, sore and tired, became flaccid once more.

The Mariner slumped onto the leafy ground, blood thick around his arm. It ran onto his chest soaking his shirt, the scarlet fluid he’d expelled in place of another. Pain to bring control.

And with the control came the guilt.