"Open your eyes," the man says harshly. He holds for her to see a whip the strands of which are human hair. "This is what you now sacrifice. The sensual human touch, the caress of softness, and the sharp slap of something which has passion. And for what?" His palm drags down her tear-streaked face and he shows her the wetness of it. "For these? Real tears are precious, they come from the soul. This is nothing but saltwater sloshing over the barrel top when the sea rocks." His eyes bore into her with fiery intensity. "I want to sip and lick at the fresh, sweet, cool water running from your deepest river. But you hide it. Like a miser, like the hoarder of a treasure that should be freely offered." The man throws up his hand -- and she flinches back -- but he merely gestures in the air in front of her face. Like tossing away an empty paper wrapper.

He walks away and lays the hair whip on the table, then spins on his heel and points his finger at her. "You! You say "Please" and 'Yes," trained words that even a parrot can say. You think these move me? They do not. They come from your mind, not your heart, not your body. You dredge them up from memory, they have no fire, they are not created anew from your wants and needs. They are merely..." again he throws away the imaginary wastepaper. "...merely scraps."

"Why should I bother? What do I gain from this endless chore of instruction? You?" He nods thoughtfully. "The true you? Perhaps...let us see if you are worthy of the time and patience." His fist grabs up a long heavy length of chain, the links each an inch long or more. He coils the chain like a rope and stalks quickly toward her. Her eyes watch the chain and her face pales wondering at his intent.

Halfway to her, he slowly and softly says, "Close your eyes."

And at once, he is beside her. Again she can feel his warmth which seems to have increased. Her head jerks back slightly as she feels the cold links pressed beneath her nose.

"You know what this is. Flexible, hard, unyielding metal. Forged in flame, molded blow by blow under the blacksmith's hammer. Smell it. It is old and well used. Feel it, pitted, clean, lightly oiled on your skin. Learn from it."

He drapes the chain at her neck, letting it fall, link by link against her left breast. She feels it sliding and pressing, like a weighty snake. She gasps as she feels his wet tongue teasing her left nipple as it pokes through a link of the chain. His lips and teeth tug lightly tug at the hardening fleshy nub. She gasps again as she feels the chain pulled away sharply, first pinching and then releasing her nipple from its grasp.

Then, like the leather before it, the chain is dropped over her right breast. Again, she concentrates on the weight, the heaviness and coldness of the metal links. Again, after a longer pause, she feels his tongue at her right nipple through the surrounding link. She arches up, hoping he will continue longer, but...the chain is pulled away again.

"You want more?" His voice is almost hissing beside her ear. She opens her mouth to speak.

"No words! I told you. I am only listening to your body for now. It speaks truth."

Her mind races in conflicting circles. Again, she arches her back and hears -- surprising her -- a low growl in his throat. "Trained reflexes," he says. "nothing more."

She hears the metallic clink as he uncoils more of the heavy chain. She feels him press his hand high between her breasts and -- oh, so slowly -- the uncurling links snake down her body, moving out and swinging back with each increasing length. His hand moves away and then back -- and she feels the heavy chain swing out and back, like a pendulum between her legs, one link -- how expertly controlled -- slam against and encircle the hood of her clit with every swing. The pace of the swing is steady at first then fades to stillness, and his hand moves away again and again, making the chain pendulum continue, each time coaxing her clitoris further out as it grows more swollen from the cool heavy contact. She begins to smell and to feel her own sweat dripping down her skin, begins to long for the not-quite predictable spank of the chains links, especially the one that keeps encircling and tapping her clitoris.

His voice comes from close beside her ear again. "Now, show it you want it. That you need it. Desire it," he says, pressing one hand on the top of her head. Confused at first, she resists his pressure and then finally, begins to half squat where she stands. Her knees bent, she tentatively makes a jerk with her hips and feels the chain's weight swing away and then swing back harder. She inhales deeper, begins rocking her hips forward and back, measuring the rhythms of herself and the swing of the pendulum chain.

"Good," he says.