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God I wish I finally understood what Zen was to me. I'd sit down with Emily to understand. I'd ask and it all came back to me as it was described to me. I never had any relationship with Zen, but god I wish I did. Zen never beat me with a chain, but god I wish she did. None of the scars were given by Zen, but god I wish they were. The reality was, they were all given to me by my ex wife.
It all started in a really simple and innocent way. My wife had deranged cuckquean fantasies, and hired a prostitute that cosplayed as Zen. She watched and drooled as we had sex. It was weird, but I just dealt with it. I just imagined that it actually was Zen. God I wish it was Zen. It made me able to deal with it. That was simple enough. But it got worse. That wasn't the last time I'd be having sex with that prostitute. Every week. She didn't mind the money, so she kept doing it. I didn't mind it too much, because I got to cope with fantasizing having actual sex with Zen.
Then my wife asked for something really strange. She asked if Emily would let me cum inside her. Emily drew the line there. My wife said she understands, and hired her anyway. I don't know if she should have backed out at that point or if it's one of those cases nobody could see coming. But my ex wife roofied us both. She put us in chains in the basement that she slowly transformed into her dungeon. She used threats of violence to make us have sex. Whenever I tried fighting it, she whipped and flogged me. Whenever Emily disagreed, I volunteered to take the punishment in her stead. Somehow, in the sick twisted quckquean mind of my wife, this satisfied her urges. To make the pain bearable, I imagined it was Zen. God, I wish it was Zen. Anything to take my mind off the reality I was living.
Eventually fantasy merged with reality. Instead of a coping mechanism of fantasy, it became true. I was having sex with Zen. With Zen torturing me. I would eventually have children with Zen. My ex wife would take care of them. God I wish it was Zen. But there was no longer need to cope. There was no need to wish I was with Zen. I was escaping reality at this point. What happened to me was unfair, but I could take responsibility for the aftermath. Because that was the person I was and the person I wanted to be. And there was a lot to take responsibility of now. But why did Emily still dress up as Zen? She said she liked the look. I could psychoanalyze her, but things don't need to be that complex. Maybe she'd simply grown attached to it. There is no shame in that.