I think this is the only place I can come and tell on the man in my life.... one time husband... once upon a time Master... Can't go to face book... he reads that. And one of the sad things about our relationship is he WON'T read my writing.
But this is not about all that crap.
This is about a crazy thing that happened this afternoon.
He was out "mowing up" the leaves. It works quite well. Put the bag on and push the mower around. Dump often on the compost. Neat pile of leaves already shredded up and decomposing to make nice dirt for the flower/vegetable garden next year.
As usual he cannot focus for more than a few minutes on any one task without getting distracted by something else. So as he 'mowed up' the leaves he became dissatisfied with certain areas of the lawn that had gotten bald spots during the brief months of no rain we get every summer.
Distracted, he stops the 'mowing' of the leaves and starts to throw around fertilizer and grass seed. And then he does this weird thing... he goes and starts to put the 'mowed up' leaves back on top of this. Being a bit of a know it all I point out that mulching the seeds might be a good idea "IF" the mulch is not so deep that it kills them.
He grins and shrugs and tells me to spread it out "just right". Me and my big mouth. So there I am... probable the only person in town using a rake to put the leaves back down on my lawn.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
This story is entirely fantasy. In no way do I suggest anyone try any of the described activities at home or anywhere else. I am not sure if they are even possible. In addition, I would like to caution you, I have let some of my darker demons out to play in this piece and if you find scenes of extreme violence disturbing I would suggest stopping here. I know from experience that it is so hard to unread something...
She didn’t know how long she had lain there. It was hard to tell the difference between real dreams and reverie. The tight fitting hood had been on her head so long that she didn’t even notice the slick, sweaty sensation of it anymore. The headphones over her ears was a haze of white noise, but if she focused she could hear his words recorded and looped, barely louder than the humming static, telling her over and over exactly what she was. “whore… slut… cunt… fuck hole… thing… slave… meat…” The words were widely spaced, minutes apart, eternities apart and her mind would wander and then a word would ooze into her awareness, reminding her where she was, what she was, whose she was.
She shifted restlessly, straining against the straps that held her down, desperate for any sensation, wondering when he would come back, praying for him to come back. She used to dread his visits, never knowing what he would do, knowing whatever he chose; it would push her to her limits and beyond. And as she finally could not bear another blow, could not face another brutal sexual use of her body, could not meet and exceed his demands upon her, he would leave her, leave her like this, bound, blind, deaf to everything but his words, soft sibilant whispered words, naming her for what she was.
But anything was better than this endless dream state even endless struggle and inevitable failure.
His touch startled her. It always did. She could not help but squawk and surge in a mindless hopeless panic as her body tried to escape what her mind knew was inescapable.
The head phones were pulled away. The penis gag yanked from her mouth. He spoke softly but to her deprived senses it sounded loud, alien. “Tell me what you are.”
Her voice was hoarse and she croaked breathlessly, “whore… slut… cunt… fuck hole… thing… slave… meat…”
“Wrong.” She stiffened and shrieked as electricity shot through her leg. Oh god, he was using the cattle prod. He pressed the contacts between her legs, jamming up against her roughly. She winced as the pain shot through her. Her cunt was still bruised and raw from last time he had come to torment her. “Wrong, you stupid, stupid bitch. You have one chance to get it right.”
“Yours, yours, your whore, your slut, your cunt, your fuck hole…” She was babbling the words. Please oh god, please be right. She hated the cattle prod. “…your thing, your slave, your meat!” She started again, knowing he would tell her to stop when he was tired of hearing it. “Your whore, your slut, your cunt…” It did not help that with each label, each dehumanizing epithet he jammed the end of the cattle prod harder against her. She could feel her cunt flesh bruising, stretching and finally accepting the end of it and he began to roughly fuck her with it as she chanted the words, her voice choking with pain and humiliation.
“Do you want me to light you up, bitch? Do you want me to fucking turn you on?”
His words interrupted her mantra and she froze for a microsecond. Oh god, he was asking for her capitulation, he wanted her to agree to this, ask for the torture. She knew if she said no, if she even hesitated too long he would stop, but he would leave, leave her alone again. And she did not want to be alone. Her voice was choked with fear, “Yes…”
He interrupted her before she could say the required ‘Master, please.’ “Fucking enthusiasm, bitch, fucking… eager… enthusiasm, I… want… to… hear… you… beg… for… it.” Every word was emphasized with a rough shove of the tool brutalizing her cunt.
She was grateful that the hood hid her face, hid the lies in her eyes as she poured out the words she knew he wanted to hear. “Please, Master, do it. Turn it on. Light this cunt up. Make your whore scream. You know this fuck hole deserves it, needs it. Fucking turn it…” Her vocal chords froze and then she squalled as the agony shot through her, forcing all the air from her lungs. Her arms and legs contracted and she convulsed with each pulse of the electricity as he repeatedly pushed the button. There was no way to stop the urine from squirting out over his hand as the muscles of her bladder contracted involuntarily.
When it finally stopped she lay drenched in sweat, exhausted and sobbing weakly. His voice was tense, excited, “I am waiting, bitch.”
Her words were a whisper as she repeated the carefully memorized words, “Thank you Master, you are too kind to indulge this fuck hole’s sick and perverted needs.” And as she said them, she knew it was true. Perhaps not for the cattle prod specifically, but she knew she needed it. And it had to be something like the cattle prod, something she hated, something beyond her comprehension, something that reduced her to the level of those words. In many ways her Master was a dream come true, a bad dream perhaps, but she could not have accepted anything less.
The prod was unceremoniously yanked from her and she lay wondering if this was it, would he leave her now? A soft whimper of protest began to bubble up, and she could not help but whisper, “Please, please, Master…” before she remembered and choked off the words.
His tone was mocking, “Stupid cunt, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Please, don’t leave.” This stage of her training was in many ways worse than any of the demented, humiliating, horrible things he had done to her yet. This laying here, in the darkness, unable to move, having no sense of the passage of time, just listening to his voice as it insinuated deeper and deeper into her psyche. It wasn’t the torture. The torture was a welcome relief. It was the waiting.
“So you want more, you insatiable dirty piece of meat? You aren’t satisfied?”
“Yes, please Master, your dirty piece of meat needs more, needs to be hurt more, needs to feel it more. Hurt your cunt, use your fuck hole, take everything and use it.”
His lips were close to her ear, “You are a greedy, greedy little whore.” But then she felt his hands on her ankles, doing something with the ropes holding them tied down. “You want more, spread your legs wide, fucking dirty whore wide, like you want a fucking freeway to be built up your fuck hole.”
Her hips were stiff and as she spread them she felt them click and snap. His hands were on her, hard, violent, forcing them apart, stretching them until she was crying out in terror that he was going to break her. His voice was straining with effort… “If I didn’t need you to walk to the bathroom, I would cut these fuckers off. Keep them like that.”
But when he took his hands away, she could not keep her legs from sagging back to a more attainable position. She just did not have the innate flexibility or muscle control to keep them at the unnatural gape that he demanded. He shoved them back and growled, “No, bitch, like that.”
She could not help but whimper, “I am trying, Master. I really am. I just can’t keep them like that. I need help.”
“Okay you lazy whore, I will help you.” His hands were rough a he wound ropes around her knees and ankles, and then tied them off. There was a click and a hum and she felt the ropes slowly tighten, pulling her legs even further apart than they had been before. He ignored her screams as he tightened the ropes with the power pulley system that controlled the torture table he had bound her to. “Wide enough for now, but as you get used to it; I think we will be able to get them wider. Yes, that would be good.”
Again there was a click and hum and she felt the entire table tipping, slowly turning her upside down. Her weight was supported now by the straps around her waist, chest and arms. In some ways this new position took a tiny bit of the strain off her hips and taught thigh muscles as gravity added to the forces holding her legs grotesquely apart. For a moment she hung there, suspended head down, disoriented and wondering what new horror lay in his twisted imagination.
His hands wrenching her mouth open and his words coarsely ordering her to open her face fuck hole brought her back to her senses. As the metal was forced into her mouth, she recognized the dental spreaders that he used when he was preparing to skull fuck her. There was the dreaded sense of helplessness as she felt him turn the adjusters, forcing her jaws as painfully wide as her legs.
His entry into her mouth was just as brutal as she expected, a rough lunge deep past her tonsils and he stayed there deep, grinding his pelvis against her chin, his balls smashed against the nose holes of the mask. It was like he was trying to get it clear into her guts. There was no chance to breath and she could feel her lungs fighting to pull in even a teaspoon of air past the thick gag of flesh. It was past gagging, it was a frantic choking struggle to breathe.
She felt his teeth sink into her raw and tender flesh of her cunt. She would have screamed if she could.
And just as the dizziness began to swirl around her, the darkness pulling her down, he pulled out and she pulled in a deep life saving breath, only to expel it in a shriek as he bit her again and then again. His voice was distant, “Your cunt stinks, whore, stinks of piss.” But it did not seem to deter him as he began to lunge, fucking her face hard and fast, ignoring her choking gargling screams as his teeth savaged the tender flesh between her legs in some demented perversion of sixty nine.
His cock was long and thick and if anything as he punished her throat with it, it grew bigger, swelling and getting harder. She could sense his movements getting erratic, even spastic as he got closer and closer to erupting down her throat and she prayed he would not stop, please, please finish, but he pushed deep, burying himself to the hilt, once again cutting off all her air and froze. She could feel his breath on her crotch, fast and deep as he struggled to control it, make it last. She could do nothing to hold back the long streams of spit and regurgitated fluids that dripped from her mouth and ran down the mask.
“Not yet, you greedy whore, oh no, not yet. I am going to fuck you all night long. I am going to fuck you stupid.”
She did not know how long she hung there, his hot swollen cock lodged deep in her throat, long streams of spit and mucus spilling from her open mouth and streaming down the front of the mask. It could not have been more than a minute, but it seemed like a life time. Her body fought its restraints, refusing to surrender and accept the death it sensed looming on the horizon.
It was the pain in her cunt that woke her. His cock was out of her mouth, but he was still up there, biting, his teeth crushing and tearing at her. She took a deep breath and released it with another hoarse whistling shriek. The very act of screaming tore at her throat, speaking of bruised tissues even there. It was like there was no part of her he did not want aching, raw, traumatized. And as that thought rose up in her mind she screamed again as his hands gripped and wrenched at her ass cheeks, his fingers gouging in and stretching open her tender asshole. Again he wanted too much, too fast. Pushing his fingers of both hands deep and then hooking them and wrenching her open. She could feel herself tearing as he forced her wider. And all she could do was howl. Just as quickly he released her and she hung there sobbing.
There was the familiar click and whine of motors as the table began to right itself. When she was once again flat on her back, he took the time to tighten the ropes holding her legs too wide, but she was too tired, too drowned in other pain to do much more than moan in weak protest that she just could not bend that far. Then she felt him move to stand between her legs, his hard cock pressed against her still throbbing anus. He grated out, “Take up the shit hole, bitch.” And he lunged into her with a single brutal thrust. She let out a single deep grunting, bark of pain. Just as quickly, he jerked out and placed the tip of his cock against her now raw burning hole, and stopped, just stopped. She lay there trembling waiting for the next inevitable rape of her ass.
His hands on the dental gag, adjusting it closed and then removing the straps signaled to her that he was going to demand her words. That was the only time he let her have the use of her mouth, so he could demand she agree to her torment.
“You want me up your ass, don’t you, slut.”
She flexed her jaw and licked her sore dry lips, “Yes, please Master, fuck my ass. Do it, do it hard and rough. You can’t fuck my ass too hard. Your fuck hole needs you to fuck her ass deep and hard, please, please.”
Again he slammed into her, driving the air from her lungs. And again he pulled out. His voice was tense, “Every time I rip into you with my cock, I want you to scream to me to do it to you harder, rougher, to do it harder and faster and deeper.” And he grunted with the violence of his next brutal thrust deep into her bowels.
Her words were a guttural shout, “Yes, fuck it! Fuck it harder!”
Over and over he lunged into her. It felt like her ass was being ripped apart, like his cock was a knife or covered in coarse sand paper, taking her faster and faster, forcing the words from her like explosions of pain and humiliation, “Fuck! Deeper! Harder! Faster! Harder! Harder! Harder!”
Then he grated out, “Shit, you fucking dirty whore slut. Gonna fill your dirty ass up with my fucking cum.” And as he shoved his cock into her one last time, thrusting now with a wild animal like speed and intensity, he leaned down and bit her breast, his teeth crushing her flesh as he growled and rutted upon her.
He lay heavy on her for a long time, and her voice was broken and hoarse as she mumbled the required words of humiliated gratitude for the abuse he had heaped upon her.
She was beyond tears and screams when he loosened the ropes on her legs and eased them back onto the padded stirrups of the torture table and secured them there. He put the headphones back on her ears and then slipped the penis gag into her mouth.
She lay there, tense waiting, knowing what was coming next, the icy splash and the mind blanking agony of the alcohol being poured over her wounds. She had endured this cruel and required treatment twice before and this time the wounds were even more extensive. She had begged for him to not do it, but this was not optional. If there was blood, there had to be disinfectant.
The first drops were always burning icy cold, but the coldness soon disappeared leaving only the endless scorching agony. There was a kind of cruel twist, he had made it clear that he would not heed any safe word then, not during ‘first aid’ as he called it. And he always made sure the gag was in her mouth and ignored any of her attempts to plead for him to stop, please not this time, please no.
She lay there shuddering in shock and pain. Her ass was pulsing, clenching like an angry fist and each contraction sent a new lance of pain through her. Her cunt felt bruised, raw and mangled and now finally on fire. She chewed and sucked on the penis gag, swallowing down the spit to soothe her raw and aching throat. She wondered if his cock so deep in her throat had bruised her vocal chords like it had bruised her anus. And then she wondered if his cock ever got sore, if right now he was contending with the same aches, if he had the good grace to pour fucking alcohol over it as well.
Again she lay, drifting, her only awareness consisting of her body’s dull and throbbing complaints. But agony and fear are exhausting and soon she drifted on the murmuring sea of pain. Repeatedly she was pulled awake by a sharp twinge or in many ways worse, a vicious stinging itch that she had no means of scratching.
She flinched and yelped in sudden terror again when he touched her, untying her, loosening all the straps and last of all unzipping the tight leather hood and pulling it off her head. She blinked and shivered as the air touched her wet scalp and sent a chill over her. His face was calm, neutral, his hands firm and steady as he helped her to sit. “Get up, you have four hours to eat, bathe, shit, whatever. Then we start again.”
She swayed and stumbled a little when her feet first touched the floor. And he caught her and steadied her. Somehow this touch, affirming, supportive felt wrong and she shrugged him off and staggered toward the bathroom. She hated it when he was gentle with her, it felt wrong and there was no way she could accept any kindness from him, not now, not before it was finished.
He seemed sense this, speaking to her little, staying in different rooms, and she was aware of his presence. She could feel the hair stand up on her neck when he would look in on her, checking on her progress, what she was doing, how she was. Each time she would flinch, freeze and stare at him, her body echoing with its primal need to escape, to survive. Even when he was in some distant part of the house, she was hyperaware of him, the sounds of moving furniture, the knowledge that he was down there in his dungeon preparing for the next stage.
She sat on the toilet, reliving once again the brutal rapes of her body as the shit and piss burned and stung her raw and torn tissues. She tenderly wiped with a soft wash cloth, seeing the stains of blood mixed with the offal, staring at the scabs and bruises, the impressions of his teeth some merely black, others scabbed, wounds indelibly etched into her flesh. A tiny quivering smile turned up the corner of her mouth as she realized she liked them there, hoped that there would be scars, that she wanted them to somehow become permanent, never wanted to forget the moment she first felt his bite.
She stood in the shower until the water turned cold.
She tried to eat. He had said ‘eat’. But the sight of the food made her queasy. She sat staring at the bowl of chicken noodle soup and the handful of soda crackers, simple food, comfort food, food he had chosen to sit lightly and not challenge her empty stomach.
His voice came from the doorway, “You are not eating.”
“I just don’t feel hungry.” It struck her how their words out here, out in the normal mundane part of the house did not reflect any of the things they did. Out here he did not want formal words; out here she was not even allowed to use the words ‘Master’ or ‘Sir’. Yes, she was expected to obey and he was free to exercise any form of discipline he chose, but the dance was more subtle, and in many ways more frightening. His response only proved the validity of her thoughts.
“I would have thought that by now you would have figured out that I don’t give a fuck how you feel. Eat the fucking soup.”
She could not help but notice the way her hands shook as she picked up the bowl and drank it down without chewing.
It was harder to chew and swallow and she had to struggle with the last swallow. Her voice was choked, “Sorry.”
He was close behind her and his sudden grip and yank of her hair was shocking. He pulled her over backwards, the chair slipping out from under her. She fought the impulse to grab his hand, to buffer the strain on her scalp and neck but she knew better, knew that he would interpret this as fighting him and forced herself to go limp, dangling in his grasp.
His voice was low, cruel. “Sorry? Fucking sorry, bitch? How many times do I have to tell you? I do not fucking care how you feel.”
He dropped her and growled, “Get your fucking ass down stairs.”
She could not help but glance at the clock, it was far from the four hours he had stated before, but she knew better than to mention that, knew better than to protest. And anyway, always before the last hour of waiting for him to start again was a wait in some ways far worse than any wait in the darkness of the hood.
She stood in the doorway, peering into the shadowy room. He had moved the torture table out of the center of the room. Now a smaller object, a sawhorse looking thing she had never seen before took center stage. She knew what it was though; she had seen things like that on the net, horses designed to press up sharp and painful against the crotch any who straddled it. And there was a mirror, a big free standing full length mirror. She wondered about the mirror, why it was there, but dismissed it, perhaps it was for the purpose of photography. She knew he sometimes took pictures, though he had never shown them to her.
“Come here, cunt, I want you to see this. I want you to realize exactly what this is.”
Her legs trembled with each step closer, staring at the black gleaming surface of the horse. It was not flat on top, like a real sawhorse, the top was a peak, a sharp narrow ridge. He took her hand and pressed it down on the top, “Feel that.”
She fingered the narrow peak that ran the length of the horse and swallowed hard and looked at him, waiting for the inevitable demand that she acquiesce, that she do more than agree, that she beg for this, whatever it was.
“You want to ride this horse don’t you?”
This time there was no mask to hide her expressions of reluctance and fear. She tried to smile but her lips quivered and the expression collapsed. She took a deep shaky breath, her voice vibrating with nervous fear, saying the words she knew he wanted to hear, “Of course, a whore like me would love to ride this horse. It looks like it would split me in two. Please, Master, do it, put me on it, wreck my dirty greedy cunt on this thing.”
He gripped her chin, looking deep into her eyes, his voice soft, sadistic, penetrating, “I will, you know. I will fucking bust you up. And you will love every minute of it…” He paused and grinned, “…not that I care one way or the other.”
His voice turned brisk and efficient, “Hands up, over your head.” There was no hesitation, no thought that her cooperation was just one more way of showing her consent to this, she did not even think about it. He said it and her arms seemed to lift of their own volition, even as her heart started to pound and her body broke out in a cold sweat. When he buckled the thick suspension cuffs around her wrists and attached them to the hook in the winch in the ceiling, she shivered.
There was the familiar whine of electrical motors and she felt her weight lifted up and she spun for a minute, turning slowly as the cable found its center. She found her attention caught by the image of her dangling body in the mirror and thought that her face seemed strangely calm, passive, the complete opposite of the screams of panic that echoed inside her head.
“Spread the fucking legs, slut.”
As she opened her legs, he slid the thing between them. She stared down at it with dread, but the ridge was inches below her crotch. And when he had it centered to his satisfaction he moved the mirror a little and she realized it was there for her, for her to watch exactly what was happening to her. Slowly she let her legs relax and flinched when the insides of her thighs touched the thing; it felt cool, smooth and hard.
For some reason her attention was completely absorbed in the image in the mirror. She did not even notice what he was doing at first. It was not until he was buckling the second cuff around her ankle that she realized he was doing something to her legs. A small dry voice in her head commented that it made sense, if he did not bind her legs in some way, then she could use them to try had hold herself up, to try and prevent even a tiny moment of agony. There would be no way that he would ever allow that.
Again there was the whine of electrical motors as the chains tightened, once again forcing her legs wide, wider, widest. She stared at the mirror at the way he had managed to get her flexible enough to get her legs so wide. Only a few more degrees and she would be doing a perfect split like a gymnast. If it hadn’t hurt like fucking hell she would have maybe smiled. As it was, she watched the expression on her face as she gave a matching whine to the sound of the electric motor that seemed intent on ripping her legs off.
“Good enough for now, cunt.” And mercifully the motor stopped pulling.
She hung there panting, trying to find some adjustment to the horrible stretching, pulling sensations. Then there was another click and hum and she felt herself lowering, lowering down onto the cruel edge of the sawhorse. It touched and then the pressure began to increase and increase until she found herself mindlessly trying to lift herself up with her arms to escape the agony lancing up from between her legs. She could hear her voice in her ears, sharp barking squawks of protest and pain. And she could hear him laugh. “Having fun, fuck hole? I knew you would like it.”
It was amazing how much movement she could manage. She could buck; she could writhe, she could fight, but nothing helped. In fact, it only made it worse and eventually she hung there, half suspended, half supported by the guillotine between her legs, hung there with soft whining grunts of pain leaking from clenched teeth. A wave of rage rose up and she turned her head, seeking him out. She knew better than to give voice to her anger, but she could not help but glare at him, to wordlessly communicate how much she hated this moment, hated him, hated herself for needing this.
He pointed at the mirror, “Take a good look, you sorry stupid bitch.”
And again her attention was drawn by the sight. Her face was contorted, red with effort, her arms tense, quivering. The narrow peak of the horse buried deep in her cleft. It was the last thing she saw before he slipped the leather hood over her head, the familiar smell of sweat and leather, the familiar darkness closing down. Again the headphones were put over her ears and the sibilant hiss of white noise and insidious whispers wound their way into her head. And again she did not know how long she hung there. It could not have been long, minutes instead of hours, but it did not matter. It was an eternity of agony, each microsecond a lifetime of suffering.
There was no preliminary touch, no sound of warning, no way to know he had picked up the whip until she felt its fiery tongue lick around her, leaving a behind it a path of screaming agony. The shock made her scream, lurch, and convulse. The involuntary jerk of her body made her tortured crotch bump and she squalled a second time. She hung there tense, waiting for the second blow, determined to take it, to not react physically and add to the pain building between her legs. But the second blow did not come. And she slowly retreated back into her mind, turning her attention back to facing and adjusting to the torture of the horse.
She told herself it was just minutes, not hours, not days, not forever. She focused on breathing, slow deep breaths that sang with her pain on each exhale. The second blow of the single tail whip curled around her torso and sliced into her breasts. And again she found herself fighting, the mindless body reflex to escape that was beyond her control. She knew he was out there, circling, waiting for those tell tale signs, the slowing of breath, the easing of tension in her muscles, waiting to strike when she had no way to anticipate, to hold herself still, to defend herself if only mentally. A wave of rage and then just as quickly a cascade of sadness crashed over her and she burst out in sobs.
It seemed like that was a trigger and the whip sliced again across her body, and she could not help but scream out, “Stop it, fucking stop it!”
His arm was around her waist, holding her still, his body warm and painful against the welts. The headphones were ripped from her head and his voice was a low snarl, “What the fuck, you stupid, greedy cunt. You asked for this. You want this. Tell me again, how much you want this.” And as he growled out the last sentence, he pressed down, adding his weight and strength to the pressure crushing her already traumatized tissues.
Her words were an inarticulate garbled squall, “Want it! Fuck, yes, want, please, damn it, don’t, stop, help, fuck, fuck, FUCK!” She realized she was squirming, fighting his embrace, grinding her brutalized flesh against the ridge that felt like it was cutting her in half. She wondered if she looked in the mirror now, what would she see? Would that thing be dripping with blood? An impossible vision of that bar somehow having worked its way up to her navel, her lower body bisected in a gory mass of torn flesh rose up in her head.
His next question caught her off guard, so shocked her that she froze silent and still as the word bounced around inside her head.
And the answer was there, as clear and undeniable as the gravity forcing her weight down onto the knife between her legs. Because she needed to hurt, needed to suffer, needed to have her very soul stripped bare and scourged. Because it was the only time she felt alive, whole, pure, real. She hated it, oh god she loathed every second of it. But she knew, knew without question that it had to be something she hated. If she did not hate it, if it wasn’t horrible beyond bearing, it would not be enough.
Her voice was low, hoarse and perfectly calm and clear, “Because, because it’s true, it’s real, it is what I am. I am all those things you say I am and worse. I am a whore, a slut, a cunt, and I am greedy, dirty, stupid… I am all those things and I need to feel it. You are the only one that can make me feel like that, make it be real. And it has to be real, really hurt, really feel like you don’t care that I hurt, in fact that you like to hurt me, like to hear me scream. And I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want you to ever stop.”
Then he was gone, her skin felt cold where his arm had been.
And again she hung there alone with her thoughts and her pain. But now she deliberately twisted and ground herself against the instrument of her torture. He was right, it was true. She did want this, she had asked for it, told him she wanted him to do his worst and then think of how much further he could go. She had begged to be marked, scarred, and taken to the edge of sanity and past. And her words had not been a rote repetition of words she knew he wanted to hear, they had come from the very depths of her soul.
She knew that she had had a dozen opportunities to walk away, that she could have just stood up from the table where she had been staring at the soup, stood up, gotten dressed, walked out and left his house. He would not have made a move to stop her. She knew that there would be many more chances to just leave. Somewhere in her head was a safe word if she chose to find it and say it. She frowned under the mask, it was hard to even remember it, ‘failure’, yes that was it. He said she had to say it three times… “failure”. She did not know if he meant she would have failed or he had. She twisted and groaned as the pain shot through her again.
It wasn’t sexual, the pain was never sexual. Even when he was fucking her, she rarely became sexually aroused, and even when she was aroused she did not orgasm. This was not ever about sex or pleasure for her, though a lot of the things he did to her body were sexual, it was just one more way to hurt her, to make her suffer.
This time when the whip cut into her she did not even try to buffer the pain. And afterward she panted out, “Yes, fuck up this bitch. Tear her up.” And she meant it. She wanted it.
As the lash of the whip slice into her over and over, she lost all ability to sort out the sensations, all the pain began to blend into an ululating fugue of torture. Her legs stretched beyond bearing, her shoulders burning with her suspended weight, the merciless blade crushing, smashing, and the sharp hot tongue of the whip scourging, cutting, and slashing her skin apart; each an instrument in the orchestra, beating out a raging concert of agony.
All sense of time was lost. She had been there always, she would be there forever. When it stopped, it was beyond her comprehension. She hung gasping in shock. It was as if he had stolen the very oxygen from the air she breathed. There was an abrupt loosening of the strain holding her legs agape and they fell down to either side, banging against the sides of the horse. Then there was a whine of electric motors and the pressure between her legs increased exponentially for just an instant as the chain holding her suspended lowered her down full weight upon the horse. Then his hands were forcing her to lean forward, to lie on her belly along the knife edge, the ridge pressing up against her pubic bone and between her breasts. It all happened so quickly that she did not have time to even cry out, just grunted with the sudden change of position and the surge of fear that something new was going to happen.
He pulled sharply on her hips. Her skin was slick with sweat or blood and she easily slid backwards until her chin was force up and balanced on the edge as well. She felt unstable but had nothing to brace herself on. She felt his hands on the zipper on the back of the hood, pulling it off, freeing her sweat soaked hair and slick skin. “I want you to look at yourself.” He grabbed her hair and lifted her head and she blinked and stared at herself. Her eyes looked like wounds in her face, red, swollen, her lips open and gasping for air.
But more than her face, her eyes were drawn to him. He stood over her, gazing at the same image in the mirror. His eyes were dark, fathomless, his lips pulled back baring his teeth in a snarl of suppressed rage, or was it passion. Their eyes met and she jerked her gaze back to her own face in the mirror. His voice was a low growl, “Yes, look at yourself. See what I have made of you, a fucking piece of meat for me to use.” He lowered her chin back down onto the ridge she was precariously balanced on, “Keep your fucking eyes open, keep your fucking eyes on the mirror, bitch.”
She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly but not once did her eyes leave the mirror. Her neck was too extended to nod and anyway he had not posed one of his questions, he did not seek her voice quite yet. A quiet dry voice in the back of her head commented randomly that meat does not think, have a voice or speak. It was somehow comforting to know, that she had finally somehow sunk below the ability to agree or disagree, to want or not want.
She found that if she extended her legs, stood on tip toe, she could just reach the floor and she used this to keep from falling. He moved around her, coils of ropes in his hands and she watched with strangely calm and accepting eyes as he began to bind her. He tied her legs to the legs of the horse and then tied her hands behind her back and attached them to the hoist and lifted them up but to her surprise and a dull sense of disappointment, not so high as to be more than mildly uncomfortable.
She felt his hand on her, his fingers slipping into her cunt. His voice was low, irritated, “Open up your fuck hole. I know you can take it, whore.” She watched her face in the mirror, staring at the bulging eyes and the way her teeth sank into her lip as she felt him working three and then four fingers deeper and deeper into her. She could not help but cry out as she felt his whole hand slipping inside her. He grunted with satisfaction. “Your fuck hole is the size of a sewer pipe. I could park a truck up your cunt.”
She felt him slowly gather his fingers together forming a fist, twisting his wrist around experimentally and then with a short brutal jab he punched deeper and she let out a deep grunting cough, the air literally knocked out of her from the inside. He twisted and levered his arm and then punched deep again, sending a sickening wave of pain surging up through her guts. He laughed, a low evil chuckle and then growled out low, “Tell me… dirty whore… are you… getting off… on my… whole fucking… arm stuck… up your… fuck… hole?” Over and over punching her inside, grunting with effort with each lunging slam to her very center.
She could not talk, could not form words as he repeated forced her to grunt, cough and gasp with each assault on her cervix and womb. It was like he was trying to bruise her very core, as if now that he had scourged, bitten and bruised the whole of her exterior he had nowhere else to go but deep within. There was no warning, no time to prepare when he yanked his hand out, fist still clenched in a in a punishing club.
She could feel her flesh stretch and then tear and a soft shriek of fear left her lips.
“You closed your eyes.” His voice was cool and somehow triumphant. “I told you to keep your fucking eyes on the mirror.”
And as she opened her eyes he struck her again, punching this time from the outside, punching hard right at her torn opening.
It was like slow motion, her mouth opening, her eyes bulging the sound in her ears a gargling, animal like howl.
He pulled back, his eyes narrow and measuring, arm and fist flexing, “Gonna get it all the way in this time. All the way up to fucking elbow.” He glanced up, their eyes meeting in the mirror. “Keep those god damned eyes open. I want you to see what I see.” And swung…
True to his word, she felt him strike and then the agonizing sensation as her cunt stretched, tore again and then swallowed him, the forward force made her whole body slip forward, her legs stretching and yanking on the ropes that bound her.
She had some momentary awareness of vomiting, the taste and sensation of sour liquid spewing from her lips in an arch and splashing against the mirror. The word ‘failure’ screamed in her brain, but the darkness swirled and pulled her down before she could say it.
The alcohol bath ripped her awake, convulsing in a sea of fire and then she was gone again before she could believe this was happening again, that she was being burned alive.
She was bound down the table when she woke. The familiar smell and warmth of the leather hood enclosed her head and the penis gag filled her mouth once again. There was a strange new pain, sharp and piercing, between her legs. It was irritating, briefly painful, and then kind of itchy. It took several minutes before she recognized the sensation of the needle poking through her tissues and the slow drag of thread as he sewed her tears together.
His words were muffled, distant. “Knocked you out with one punch. If you were in the ring, they would say you have a glass jaw… or a glass cunt.” He laughed at his own joke as she could feel the stab and jerk of thread with each stitch. When he finished he made a satisfied sound. “Good as new.” His voice was closer, hovering next to her ear. “And by new, I mean sewed up nice and tight like a twelve year old virgin. Once you heal up, I might even fuck you there.” She flinched as she felt something cold pressed against her, and for an instant she feared more alcohol, but there was none of the burn, only icy cold and she realized he had put an ice pack between her legs.
It was a strange thought. He had never fucked her cunt. He had always fucked her ass, saying a tight shit hole was better than the gaping slack hole that was her cunt. She had secretly harbored the suspicion that he preferred to fuck her ass because it held more nerves, that he could hurt her worse that way. But now, he had devised a new way to hurt her, a way to make her cunt another pathway to pain.
But then the head phones were on, the sibilant hiss of white noise with the whispered words slowly insinuating their way deeper and deeper into her subconscious.
And once again she was sinking into the nothingness, almost nothingness, for in the endless timeless darkness was the memories, the echoes of pain, and most of all his voice. She slept and woke and slept again without any way to gauge how long, but this time it was enough. She accepted the waiting, sustained by the memories, time no longer held meaning. When she felt his touch this time she did not cry out or shrink away.
The loosening of buckles and the slide of ropes falling away were vaguely disturbing, for she felt light, weightless and without them she felt no longer earth bound. When he pulled the gag out of her mouth she felt bereft without the heavy plastic plug to suck on. And when the hood was pulled away, the wash of cool air and bright lights were almost too much to bear, and she clenched her eyes shut and turned her face away.
His hand felt hot and heavy on her face, forcing her to turn back. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
It took almost a full minute before she could keep her eyes open and focus, her forehead creased with effort, squinting against the clinical brightness of the room.
He nodded, “Good. Now I am going to help you up off this table and you will stand up.”
It sounded easy but with muscles unused to self control, joints sore and stretched, skin abraded and cut in a hundred places, each movement was shaky, palsied and beyond pain. But there was no resistance and with his hands pulling and lifting she was finally on her feet. Even the bottoms of her feet were sore, she wondered when that had happened, when had he beaten the bottoms of her feet? Surely she would remember that, wouldn’t she? She could remember the sensation of his teeth, the cuts of the whip, the sickening sensation of his fist battering up inside her.
Curious and without thought she tried to lift up her foot to look at it, to see if the bottom of it was as bruised and battered as the rest of her. And she staggered and began to fall, all sense of balance gone.
He caught her and cursed, “I said fucking stand up.”
For and instant a giggle rose up, a strange, vaguely drunken giggle at the situation. But his next words cut off the impulse, “Look at yourself.”
Slowly her eyes focused and took in the wreckage that stood before her in the mirror. Her face was the only part of her that was unmarked; the rest of her was a mosaic of bruises, scrapes and whip marks. Ligature marks around her wrists and ankles had turned a dark ominous black, and her breasts and the whole of her crotch were the same disturbing mottled black and purple with strangely illuminated red crescents where his teeth had bitten deep.
Again curious she found a trembling hand slowly traveling, fingertip tracing the contours of swollen tender scabs with a kind of reverence.
He was standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder, keeping her steady and keeping her facing the mirror. Their eyes met and he nodded, “You will keep those marks for the rest of your life.”
And she found herself smiling.
He followed her upstairs to the bathroom, watching as she winced and bit her lip as the small stream of urine stung like fire. “Take a bath, soak those stitches. I will get you something to drink.”
The hot water of the tub stung like fire as she slid down into the deep tub. The glass of ice water shook in her hand. It was strange, for the first time she could let him take care of her. As she slowly sipped the water he finally asked a question requiring an answer.
“Do you know how long you have been here?”
Slowly she blinked and forced her mind to think. It had to be days, maybe even a week or more. But it felt like she had always been here.
“Ten days?” That was the number of days of vacation she had taken from her six figure corporate board member position.
He laughed and shook his head. “More like six. But that was pretty good.”
His next words were even more difficult to comprehend. “Are you satisfied?”
Dully she repeated his word. “Satisfied?” She felt exhausted, used up, consumed. It had all been too much and more, beyond bearing and yet always afterward, soon afterward, sometimes even before the marks had faded she found herself craving more and worse. Yet this time she hoped there would be a difference, hoped that something had finally shifted inside her, but she did not quite trust it. Always before the compulsion had reasserted itself and she had found herself in dangerous situations, not only physically dangerous but socially and god knows what would happen to her position at the company if any of this ever got out.
At least here with him, there was the assurance of confidentiality. He had more of a reputation to protect than her, though it was political rather than private.
Softly she repeated the word again. “Satisfied.” And she nodded uncertainly. “I guess. I think so.” Then softly she muttered, “Maybe.”
He next words were in some ways almost as painful as anything he had done to her. “You are what you are. I am what I am. I cannot change that. You cannot change that. Nothing can change that. I know that somehow you had hoped if I could just hurt you enough that somehow it would be enough, that finally you would have enough and in the end come out…” He paused and laughed, “…satisfied.”
Her voice was choked, “But what am I going to do?”
“Come back when the hunger grows again. Promise to never let another touch you. Save all your pain for me and be mine, only mine, not for just ten days, but forever.”
His words startled her. “Forever? Me? Why?”
“No other woman has ever come near to satisfying me like you have. Never before has any woman let me take her as far as you, had the capacity for suffering as you.” He chuckled and shook his head, “I have become accustomed to your screams.” His voice grew darker, “But I must warn you, I am never satisfied.”
She could feel her mouth grow dry and her heart begin to pound. “You said six days?”
His smile tightened and his eyes grew feral as he nodded.
She held out her hand, “Then we have four more days, don’t we.”