• Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.

DeviantArt is different....

Go to CruxDreams.com
montycrusto said:
Never heard of him! Sounds awful :rolleyes:
Click to expand...
Oh god yes, he terrified poor subby Alison. Her thrill was always to imagine herself in the place of the victims she found. The suffering, indignity and persecution portrayed would often make her want to type with one hand. For her, drawing felt organic. She thought that digital renders, although no less horrific, could be assembled from parts anyone could buy on the internet. This gave them a sort of popular culture feel, as if they'd been clipped together like Lego.

Drawing on the other hand, was pure expression. It was straight from the mind of its perpetrator, relying only on his skill and dexterity to achieve an infinitely more personal darkness. Yes it was awful. Alison was scared.
 
KurvyKate said:
You realise I only need half an excuse don't you? OK then, I'd better explain the back story to this. DA isn't just about the opportunity to display art, it's a community. I know my experience with writing isn't quite the same as those who post graphics but I find I get lots of messages from people who just want to talk to me, usually it's about kinky filth. Sometimes people want to write with me and then I have loads of fun. Alison did too.

This story was the result of her talking to a Spanish guy who thought she deserved to be punished for the failure of the Armada in 1588, like that was her fault? He thought being English was incriminating enough, so yes, she needed to be slapped for her smugness. They changed history so that Parma's Catholic army in Holland made it across the North Sea and occupied England. Of course this was followed by years of persecution as protestants were hunted down, often unfairly convicted of witchcraft or anything else the inquisitions fancied would do. A Hapsburg, Catholic regime was established which became the foundation of the alternative English nation. One of these witches was publicly tortured then thrown into a hole in the ground and left to rot.

450 years or so later, she gets apprehended for posting kink on DA which is watched by an organisation called The Catholic League. These people are a sort of secret society of the Catholic Church's chosen ones. They rule modern England from the board rooms of capitalism. They watch everything. They're the people who really do own the country just like the descendants of William the Conquerer's mates do now.

As you'll see from the story's third part, which I'll post below, she's fallen into the hands of The League. From here, the story loses its tenuous relevance to complaining about DA. I thought that if Wix looked bad, the bastards Alison's Spanish friend had in mind would look worse. Religious fundamentalism is always a scary thing. They threw her down that hole in the ground too and the tale becomes the story of her punishment. If I get time, I'll post more of the story in https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/filthy-kate.8435/page-9#post-676298

In the mean time...........

"Retribution!" I cried. "Why, what for?" I asked, crushed by the weight of such heavy trouble. "I've got rights.” I said, demanding some. It wasn't fair that I should be accused alone. I didn't understand what I'd done wrong. I couldn't defend myself against it, whatever it was, not intimidated like this. To be honest I had no idea what to say.

"Yes you have rights." my persecutor told me, "In law." He explained that in law I'd be given a chance to wriggle free through a swamp of technicalities, interpretations and the opinions of a hundred interested parties. Worse than that, I'd be given a voice to spread my message of destruction and depravity with, which would make trying to shut me up legally counter productive. "We're not in law, not the common law protecting a dirty little whore like you." he said. Society needed the security of a greater power than that. It wasn't enough that I should pay for my crimes against decency. Humanity would not remain pure if the ideas I sought to propagate were allowed to fester and grow unbridled, to rear their ugly heads again, infecting the minds of the gullible, insecure and impressionable souls I preyed upon. "It's only kinky sex.” I argued, timidly.

"It's filth!" he screamed at me. He dragged me out of my chair with my dressing gown and threw me up against the wall. "It's insidious, devious, wicked treachery, corroding the foundations of traditional family values!" He shouted that right into my face, spitting it at me. I could taste his saliva. I froze rigid, pinned in place by my armpits as he screamed "The weakness of men cannot be allowed to be exploited by gutter crawling low life like you!" "Oh my god.” I thought, "He's off his head!" We stared into each other's eyes, nose to nose so close I could hardly focus on the madness in his. I was breathing his angry breath, fixed.

For a long, terrifying moment he held me trembling. "Is this what you want?" he asked, calmer after his rage, then moved his right hand onto my left breast, pushing me against the wall by squashing it. He watched my face as it hurt me. My feet weren't quite on the floor and when he grabbed my right breast as well I slid down an inch or so. It allowed him to change his grip. He lifted me back up by my crotch, preventing me from falling sideways with his other hand on my throat. I suffered in silence rather than provoke his anger again. "Is this temptation?" he asked, "Is that what you're doing? Are you trying to poison me too?" he hissed at me.

The fingers of his right hand moved as my weight forced me onto them and he tightened his left round my neck. I knew my knickers wouldn't save me from the worst he could inflict for long, then he stopped me breathing. I waited in agony for him to let me go, terrified his unpredictability might make my ordeal worse. "You smell like filth." he said watching me endure his control over me. He waited until my distress became almost unbearable, then accepted my intimidation was complete. He dropped me, gasping, at his feet for the second time.

"You see Mrs Woodford," he said as if there was a point to torturing me, "It's not enough that you promise not to be the home wrecking harlot again, something you so love to play. Sorry isn't going to repair the damage you caused. We have to convert you, set you on the path of righteousness and make you good again. You're a dark angel Alison, we need to show you the light. But first, it's necessary to show you how dark the darkness can be."

"This is a nightmare!" I thought. Storybook heroines always think that when it’s all gone tits up and the villain is about to slash them to ribbons. I've written that, it's normal but this cannot be happening for real, and a nightmare is all I can call it. Who the hell is this fuckin' maniac? He turned away from me, leaving me in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall. My dressing gown had fallen off my shoulders, slipped down my arms and was tangled round my feet. Rather than attract his attention by trying to extricate myself I lay still, with nowhere to go anyway. He returned to the computer, typed in something, waited and then seemed satisfied.

Having dealt with me clerically he got up and walked back towards me, looking at me, not as if he wanted my attention but as if he wanted to deal with me physically as well. I watched as he bent down to pick up one of my ankles and grab hold of my robe. My imaginary heroine might have kicked herself free, just as I'd thought of doing on the stairs when all this started. I was simply pissed off then but this was grave, this was serious trouble and my fragile courage had dissolved.

I let myself be dragged across the floor, so scared I stayed there while he let go of me to open the door. Ashamed I'd been such a pushover, I almost offered him my leg to help him resume dragging me relentlessly down the corridor, not through the police station but the other way, out into the car park at the rear. Friction rolled up my vest top, my tits fell out of it and I cried out in pain as the right one caught on the back door's threshold, my own weight trapping it momentarily. He scraped my nipples across the stones and grit outside for a few yards then dumped me.

"This is it Ali, this is your last chance to escape!" I thought. I was out in the open. My fictitious heroine would have seized the opportunity to at least make a drama out of trying to get away, for the sake of the story. I thought about what this psychopathic nut case would do to her if she didn't make it and lay still defeated and crying.

Through the tears I saw him walk to a car. He opened the boot and reached in to get something. I couldn't see clearly enough to fathom out what until he pointed it at me. It was a gun! "Oh fuck!" I thought, "He's going to shoot me!" Instinctively I curled up. How pointless is that? The gun fired and instantly I felt something thump hard into my thigh and a violent, vicious sting. I expected my leg to be smashed but it wasn't, neither was I drenched in my own blood. In horror I looked down to find a little plastic tube with a fluffy pink tuft on the end, a tranquilliser dart.

"Oh god please help me." I prayed. Stupid really, I'm a non believer but we've all been to school and we’re conditioned to express desperation that way. Help from anyone would do. I looked up at him pleading "Why?" but the malice on his face dismissed me, I didn't deserve explanation. "You're fucked now!" I watched him think, smiling at me. Perhaps I could have pulled the dart out if that would have made a difference but I accepted I'd already been poisoned. I was sure he had another one anyway.

Calmly he put the gun back in the boot, closed it and sat down on the lid, folding his arms to watch helplessness overcome me. My thundering, terrified heart would pump the poison into my brain quickly and there wasn't any need for impatience. "Why?" I kept thinking, "Where's the reason in this?" While I could still focus I could see him laughing at me, remotely as I lay on the ground maybe ten yards away. Overwhelming fatigue came a few minutes later and I stopped caring. Then I just stopped.
Click to expand...
I changed my mind about posting more of this story in Filthy Kate. Doing that would confuse a stupid person. I'll have no idea where I am. I mean, if we're going to post jokes about Czech ups and Hungarians it doesn't really matter if we're not actually complaining about DA does it?
 
Here we go then, more Alison getting arrested.....................

I don't know how long I was out for, so I have no idea how long it took to get here, wherever I am. I can't even tell you how long I've been conscious for, there's no time in here. There's no light either, it's solid, dense, pitch black. It took me several minutes to accept that yes, I am conscious and my eyes really are open, but I could be blind for all I know. Is that what's making me dizzy or am I still suffering the aftermath of my abduction? Understanding hasn't come, I haven't figured out why I'm here, who these people are or why they want me. Am I being held for ransom? I settle on that as the most likely case and hope Jake loves me enough not to fuck about and try to argue about the price. "It's me Jake, your wife, I'm priceless!" I tell him, from hell.

Outrageously I'm still handcuffed. Oh how I long to put my hands in front of me! My shoulders ache for it. My dressing gown was still draped over the cuffs when I came round. At first I dare not move. It's hard to find the confidence to reach out into nothing. Since then I've managed to wriggle round the floor in amongst the loose stones and mud to work my robe back on because I need it. Even though it's horribly clammy, I hope my body heat might dry it eventually. It's cold and damp in here, I can hear water dripping. I had slippers on when the police arrested me but I haven't now, I don't remember losing them in the madness somewhere. My toes are numb.

It matters that I still have my vest and knickers, for when I get out of course, but whoever rescues me will still need to bring some clean clothes. It's dirty in here too, I'm already encrusted with it and I feel filthy. You wouldn't believe what it smells like.

Exploration took about ten seconds after I'd struggled to my feet, using the wall I found to help me. All I can tell you is that my prison is round and probably a few yards across. I set off carefully round the curve of the wall, but with no idea where I started I couldn't tell when my circumference was complete. There's a grating in the middle of the floor which slopes towards it, as if it was some sort of drain. That's where the water is dripping. The floor is rough and slopes so sharply standing up is uncomfortable. Edging across the middle, sliding my feet forward an inch at a time took ages because I didn't want to trip over anything or smack my face on it. The walls, or wall in a cylinder, is rough too. Although I can't see, I get the impression I'm in the bottom of a well because I can't find a door. How deep is it? I can't find the ceiling either. I haven't been raped and I'm not dead so things could be worse but I still feel like bursting into tears every few minutes. "What the fuck is going on!" I think, screaming it silently. There's nothing in here but me.

Hours, probably, later I'm hungry and so thirsty I'm cursing the callous bastards who kidnapped me for treating me like a fucking animal and not providing me with my basic human rights, like clean drinking water. Rage is beginning to compete with fear as my primary occupation. I'm sure by now that I have been kidnapped. There wasn't anything even slightly legal about what happened and I'm not in trouble with the police because they bloody well helped! It's spine chilling to remember that Jake's masters are beyond public reproach. No one knows who they really are, he certainly doesn't and maybe they could buy a station full of coppers if they wanted to. But we live off their dodgy money, why would they take me? Maybe that's why someone else did, is that why I was a target?

To maintain your health and well being you're supposed to drink at least two, or is it three, litres of water each day. It could have been days since Bastard Face threw my last drink over me for all I know. Dehydration is a worry. I'm blaming my headache and how rough I feel on that. It occurs to me that something might have gone wrong with the kidnapper's plan. Has the crime been abandoned, have they fallen out as miscreants do, with guns and the only one who knows I'm in here's been shot? "For fuck's sake you're not writing now Ali!" I tell myself and think I might try to be a better person if I survive and resolve not to say "Fuck." so much. My sense of humour's intact then, thank fuck for that!

How are my rescuers, or my captors going to get in, and how did I for that matter? There must be something above me, where I can't reach it. Bored witless, I strain my eyes upwards looking for a sliver of light so feint I won't see it unless I concentrate hard. My imagination fuck's, sorry, spoils that and I can't tell if I'm looking at nothing or hope. Maybe I missed something in the wall? I set off on yet another, but this time more thorough exploration of my hole. I can't reach anything much over waist height, not without stumbling on the uneven ground and ending up on my arse on the grating. Exploration is a slow sideways shuffle round the wall, brushing the front of my body on the stones. For extra sensitivity I can touch it stone by stone with the end of my nose but in the blackness, I can't tell how far the wall is away even if it's just an inch. I keep getting it wrong and banging myself on it when I lose my footing.

Against my better judgement and fed up with hurting myself, I experiment with using my tongue and try touching the dirty wall with just the tip. It must be crawling with microbes and disease and I hope I only get infected a little bit. Then I find running water, how did I miss that? Like everything else in here it's not clean, it's probably draining through the ground from somewhere stagnant so I can't drink it. Predictably it tastes foetid, like ditch water, making me think I must be underground. If things get bad, really bad, I'll know it's here but finding it again will be hard. There are no corners and I can't distinguish particular stones. It strikes me as funny that I'd be as intimate with my hole as knowing particular stones if I'd been down here for years. The only way I can think of to mark it is take my knickers off and leave them on the floor there. What if someone comes? They will, they have to. It doesn't take long to decide that modesty is too big a sacrifice to make while things aren't that desperate, yet. "Oh well if I've caught it, I've caught it." I think, whatever this hellpit is infested with. After finding a source of dirty water, I’m encouraged to keep going by finding something, anything. I carry on licking stones.

Whatever I found soon after the water tastes metallic. I rested my face against it to find how how big it was and it moved with an iron sounding creak. At first I thought it was a door knocker and I'd found a door but the euphoria evaporated after I realised the door wouldn't be anybody's front one. The metal thing was in a shackle. "What the fuck, sorry, on earth is that for?" I think. Finding it sent shivers up my spine and I feel a sort of spooky feeling like having stumbled on a truth. Is this a dungeon?

How many happy hours have I spent trawling through dungeon after digital 3d dungeon on DA, imagining myself in the unfortunate heroine's place? Fantasy slave trading kidnappers are such sexy fun aren't they? I'm not so sure about real ones. Haunted by my own imagination I try to fight off the obvious and remain positive. "I'm being held for ransom, " I think and repeat "For ransom, for ransom, for ransom........." praying providence will make it real because that way I'll get home, eventually. The alternatives are awful.

Kate locked me in the attic of an empty house once, alone in the dust and spiders. It was black in there too and I fought off boredom by pretending felt like this does. Kate and Jake fell out over it. He wanted his wife back and she thought it was funny not to let him have me. Is he home from work yet? Has he missed me? Has he seen the ransom note?

I'm getting very cold, I'm shivering now. There are in fact several little trickles of water running down the wall and across the floor into the drain. It's not just damp, it's wet in here and my dressing gown is soaking it up like a wick when I lay down. With my hands cuffed I can't curl up to preserve heat and the most comfortable I can make myself is to stand above the grate, it's the only flat thing in here. I dream of my bed.

I hate these bastards for making me so miserable. I want to go home of course but after hour upon hour of nothing, I just want something to happen, anything at all.

My feet are numb now, entirely. I convince myself I can't possibly have been in here as long as I think I have and it's the cold, hunger and fatigue that's impairing my ability to think straight. Standing on the grate in the middle of oblivion, shaking uncontrollably, I swing between being so fucking angry I can't handle the indignation, exasperation and injustice I'm suffering, and realising I might have a serious problem. Jake can't let this happen, he just can't.

Is this my fault? Is this "Be careful what you wish for"? Is the universe punishing me for writing all those silly stories by showing me how shallow and naive I've been? "OK, I'm sorry." I tell it and think if I don't get out of here soon, I'll really mean it.

Later I worry that hypothermia is going to creep up on me eventually. I'm already worried about surviving enough to have forced myself to suck icy cold swamp water off the wall even though it'll make me colder. It probably isn't but I thought it might be cleaner than sucking the floor. Finding some took ages but at least it gave me something to do. Without sunshine or food there's no energy in here. If nothing happens for long enough I'll simply cool down and die, slowly. No one can let that happen, they just can't either. I must be worth something!

How many hours later do I discover I can't sleep standing up even thought I feel desperately tired? My consciousness is drifting into a semi dream world. My skin is numbing all over me and I can't feel anything much. I'm sure I'm not the first to have suffered this. The wall feels old and I imagine it to be medieval, then the ghosts of prisoners past fill my head. One in particular achieves a vividness that makes her feel almost present, an emotional hallucination rather than a visual one. All I can see is black, I'm blind and she's just a presence but she feels real. I can feel her somewhere in this wretched space. She's a woman and her fate is because of it.

A noise above startles me and instinctively I look up but after hours (or days?) of darkness, the light is so intense it hurts and I have to look away again. My prison seems instantly floodlit. Squinting painfully I discover it's smaller than I thought, made out of flints like an ancient church and the shackle I found is one of several. There's time for nothing else before he's on me.

Through hour after hour of interminable emptiness I'd imagined I'd fight knowing I wouldn't. I'm too frightened to and that's that. My muscles are so cold they won't respond and I'm helplessly pushed to the floor. He's wearing a uniform, like a soldier, there are ropes and he's handling me. There's a hole in the ceiling high above me and as I try to understand what's happening he takes hold of my ankle. Seconds later I'm tied and wrenched off the grate, dragged skywards by one leg. I scream as much from the shock as the pain. At the top another soldier helps me out of the trapdoor that forms the entrance to the prison cell. I'm hanging, draped in the soggy rag my dressing gown has become, from the winch he used to lift me. He lays me face down down on the floor and I roll over onto my back because I want to shout a hundred questions at him. As soon as I try he pushes something between my teeth, into my mouth, forcing it open. I'm roughly handled again. Whatever it is gagging me is strapped over my face, round and over my head and I'm dropped face down again, dealt with.

For the next minute or so the two soldiers tidy up. The one in the hole climbs out of the cell on a rope and helps his colleague move the lights and the lifting gear out of the way. Neither of them look at me discovering I can't swallow or breathe hard enough through my nose alone. I'm really scared now but while the soldiers are busy, I dare push myself up on my hands, shake my tangled hair away from my face and find my legs are blue. My whole body aches like you wouldn't believe.

Soon they carry up some other piece of equipment and point it at me before I can see it's a pressure washer. I'm not numb enough for the jet of cold water not to hurt and I have to try to curl up to hide from it. They won't let me and blast the hole's filth off me without mercy. It feels like it's boring into my head, tearing the skin off my back and pummelling the flesh off my thighs. I can't breathe at all when it splashes into my face. Predictably my breasts and between my legs have to be especially clean and the water stings me viciously through the fabric of my little vest and knickers. The ordeal ends when they pick up the rope round my ankle and for the second time since whatever the fucking hell is happening to me started, I'm dragged away on my back in tears thinking "Oh god, what now?”


Are you still with me? It's OK, "Shut up Kate!" is fine. I don't want you getting bored.
 
Actually I don't give a rat's arse if you are bored, I'm having a lovely time. I'm going to post the next part of Alison's story anyway. Well we've come this far. If you've come into this here, you'll need to scroll back a page or two to find out where it came from. It's pretty obvious as the only story in this thread, tenuously DA related as it is..............

They drag me through a sort of vaulted basement of stone columns and out into a more modern corridor with strip lights and a tiled floor which burns my drying skin when it sticks. It's all I can do to keep my head up to stop it bouncing over the joints in the tiles. We turn into a doorway, well they do, without allowing for the fact that they're towing me. I have to be yanked free after I snag on the door frame and pulled the last few yards tits down. After that murderously painful little adventure they drop me and simply walk off.

For the next few minutes I try to calm down against the effect of the adrenaline mortal danger is causing to flood into my blood. My heart is hammering in my chest but I try to stabilise my breathing by lying still and concentrating on long slow breaths, while trying not to let the terror of gag induced suffocation make it worse. Footsteps approach. This is so bad I have no idea what to anticipate.

There are two of them again. They cut what's left of my clothing off as I lay on the floor and then pick me up and put me on what looks like a gynaecological examination table, strapping me on it so I'm spread in the stirrups. I’m held down at the other end by my neck. Luckily(!) I managed to wiggle my arms folded in the small of my back. In spite of still wearing handcuffs, this is the least miserably uncomfortable I've been so far. However with my genitals on offer, I'm sure this isn't going to last. Just as the soldiers ignored me, so do these people. They're ordinary looking blokes but they don't seem interested in me sexually even though I'm lashed down and naked except for a rope round one ankle. They're busy.

While they are I note that I'm in a white room full of clinical apparatus I don't recognise. It's like a doctors examination room but with none of the friendly little touches which put patients (victims) at ease. It's a sinister chamber of the worst potential horrors I can imagine. At least it's warm. I lay shivering, listening to water dripping from my hair onto the pristine floor, imagining my skin soaking up the heat to cheer myself up.

After running water in a sink, looking in cupboards and finding things, one of my attendants brushes shaving foam into my bush. "He's going to shave me!" I think. Yes he is, and he does. I spent ages trimming what Kate calls my "little furry sculpture." according to Jake's taste. I lose it, hacked off in yet another bitter humiliation. It's funny what seems important in a crisis and I'm seething, impotent and useless as it happens, then things get worse.

My second attendant dries me, arranges whatever it is he's going to do to me next and puts on a pair of latex gloves and glasses as if it's going to be finely detailed. I can't help thinking "Oh fuck!" fearing the worst. My back arched by my arms, I can't see my hips between my breasts and I'm bewildered until I hear the buzz and feel the sting of a tattoo gun. At first I don't get it and assume he just wants to hurt me until I see the concentration on his face and his hand move. “Oh god, he’s tattooing me." I think, outraged, "With what!" He's drawing it right on top of my pubic bone in the flesh above my pink bits. That really is violating me and I howl with anguish inside as I'm permanently marked by these fucking bastard assholes. "Who are these people?" I silently cry. I can't believe, yet again, how someone could treat another human like this and I'm ashamed I've made it possible as I lie there still, subdued and passive. It hurts, and so much more than physically. How can I be Jake's wife if I'm tainted?

Some more rummaging in cupboards produces a spray bottle he uses on my new tattoo. It feels as if they've poured acid on it and I tense up rigid in pain until the agony dies down to a relentless burning sensation. While I'm trying to cope with it they release the straps, lift my feet out of the stirrups, and pull me off the table by my ankles, letting go just before my arse slides off the top and I crash to the floor. I narrowly avoid landing with a slap but don't really get my feet under me. I stagger under pressure out into the corridor where they push me face first up against the wall. Like the soldiers had, they leave me there.

I'm being processed. I'm clinging on to the ransom theory but I feel like I'm in some sort of institution and slave trading gains as a possibility. Am I being watched, to see what I do, to see how well behaved I am? Fuck knows what they'll do to me if piss them off. Trembling in fear, I can't resist looking to see what they've tattooed on me. A furtive look round for cameras reveals nothing, nothing I can see that is. I step away from the wall and check out my body to find my lower abdomen is red raw, and bar coded. The tattoo is more than two inches long and an inch tall, Bastards!

The sound of more approaching footsteps has me back at attention, frozen up against the wall. Two soldiers walk past. Were they mine? I dare not look. They were and they return moments later. One of them picks up the other end of the rope round my ankle as he marches past me. I see him in time out of the corner of my eye and follow him before I run out of slack, knowing he'd have dragged me over if I hadn't. He smiles at me pre-empting him. It's the first flicker of humanity I've seen.

We walk so fast I'm almost running to keep up, trying desperately hard not to trip over the rope and suck in enough air, still gagged. Still cold too, I have to force my legs to move. I find the lung burning, dizzy fear that my consciousness is at stake is a particularly challenging terror and I'm relieved to be led into an office where we stop and I look up to face a desk, and its owner. The Soldier stands aside to let the man in charge take a look at me. I stand before him with my feet apart and my head down, hoping such a submissive pose will please him, forcing air noisily through my nose in an effort to recover from the march. I try to keep it quiet but I can't. It's daylight and the clock on the wall says 3 o'clock but I don't know which afternoon it is.

At first I think he's happy. He waves his hand and the soldier steps forward, unbuckles my mask and pulls the gag out of my mouth. I can't believe my luck and make the mistake of assuming I'm at last going to be given an opportunity to tell someone I don't understand what they're doing to me. "Who are you people?" I ask. I want to know why I'm here I tell him and plead "Why are you treating me like this?" I think I'll give 'em the full force of my rage and indignation later.

He's disgusted with me and looks at me as if I've uttered the ultimate blasphemy. Without answering me he nods at the soldier who tries to force the gag back in my mouth. I grit my teeth in rebellion but I'm overcome in a short scuffle with both soldiers after they almost tear the top off my head with my hair and throttle me until I accept defeat. This time they turn something on the mask pushing the gag further into my throat. I'm on the point of choking as the soldiers let go of me. "You'll learn." says the man behind the desk in a disappointed tone. I'm so preoccupied with staying alive I don't immediately appreciate the importance of the lesson I've just been taught.

I can't cough, I can't throw up and I can't resist the reflex which makes me want to. The desk man instructs me to look at the monitor on his desk and admit the "fantasy filth" displayed is my invention. My eyes are streaming so much while I try to choke I can hardly see the monitor never mind what's on it. My nose gets blocked with snot and I begin to suffocate. It's pointless of course, he knows I've written it. Where in the police station it was necessary to establish the fact, now it's necessary that I should pay for it.

The monitor, the desk, who wrote what and why and my place in the corruption of modern culture all pale into insignificance during the ten minutes I suffer the most extreme discomfort imaginable. Except that I have imagined it, or tried to. I wrote that too. All three of them watch me collapse in a heap in the middle of the room, blind through lack of air and fighting to live as my lungs burst. That's what it feel's like. I don't think I'll last much longer when the soldier rescues me. He takes the mask off, pulls me upright spluttering and gasping and holds me up while I recover. I'm wheezing loudly, my throat hurts worse than my lungs and I'll never talk again. "OK, I get it." I think.

Apparently I've offended some very heavy people, the pillars of society upon which the very nature of Englishness is built. They own the country and now they own me. This man doesn't sound like the evangelical maniac I suffered in the police station. He tells me I've been handed over, I'm his responsibility now. If I'm confused I should enjoy it while it lasts because when understanding dawns, I'll understand the true horror of the trouble I'm in. I stand accused of everything I've written and the punishment for it will be at the hands of those I sought to impress. "You had no idea did you." he says. It's not a question. I dare not answer it. He's telling me how stupid I am. I condemned myself with every comment and reply I made on every deviation I fancied. He reads from my DA history as I listen, at last understanding how sorry I should be. There, in writing it says how much I love to put myself in the place of DA's unfortunate heroines. My guilt is incontrovertible, my willingness to play the whore for whoever asks me to is indisputable and my encouragement of others to do the same is inexcusable. They can't allow it, whoever they are. I have to be purged. He's not angry with me, I'm his job. He explains that my tattoo will be bar code readable once the swelling has subsided.

Having been given my bollocking I'm dismissed as the two soldiers lead me away by my ankle as before. I almost stumble into one as he stops in the doorway. I tried to stay close to stay on my feet. He turns back to the desk and asks "Chains Maestro Esclava?" The shock is paralysing. “Maestro Esclava!" I almost cry out. It's not possible, it can't be. That’s one of my watchers. Am I actually in DA and the characters I enjoyed my little kinky correspondence with are real?

"Yes, chains, I think so." he says, him who knows what’s in my head. The soldiers drag me off to the next stage of my frantic subjugation and my chains, whatever horror they might be. As if I didn't already know.


You'll notice Alison hasn't finished yet. More later? Tough, you'll get it anyway!
 
Last edited:
DjEtla said:
That's a wicked, fun little story. I enjoyed it. The barcode tattoo is a good idea -- I can imagine her consternation at being shaved and market that way, and maybe it also brings her a little bit of mixed feelings or excitement too.
Click to expand...
At the moment Alison is bewildered and outraged, and terrified her dirty stories have come back to bite her with a vengeance. Her fear is our fun, aren't you perhaps slightly aroused by how badly she's being bullied by these people, bless her?
 
Yeah it's a very clever and quirky premise for your character to discover that dark stories she's written are now coming to life for her. (I think that's your premise.) I've written and posted some very dark tales over the years -- so your premise brings out strong feeling in me. It'll be fun to check out a bit more of your story when you post it.
 
DjEtla said:
Yeah it's a very clever and quirky premise for your character to discover that dark stories she's written are now coming to life for her. (I think that's your premise.) I've written and posted some very dark tales over the years -- so your premise brings out strong feeling in me. It'll be fun to check out a bit more of your story when you post it.
Click to expand...
Yes Sir, I've read some of your stories. I remember feeling the gravity of the commitment to permanent bondage you demanded from your heroines. It scared me to think of how they might never have been completely certain that such a degree of submission was really what they wanted. I know you wrote that it was but I always felt that they were so intoxicated by the idea they were driven to accept it, then, I imagined the horror they found themselves in when the reality of the choices they made became truly apparent.
 
Can poor Alison be any more bewildered and outraged than she is already? I'll let her tell you herself. Oh the poor sow.................

The soldiers don't let me walk. They don't have time to be impaired by me and don't give me the chance to get up after I trip and crash to the floor. Yet again, I’m dragged away from the heap I end up in. Friction burns my battered arms and shoulders before we reach the stone floors back in the old part of the building. I slide more easily on these. The light changes to the yellowy gloom of old fashioned glass bulbs but not before I notice an inscription above what might have been an outside doorway once. "Verdadera fe y la obediencia" it says. I read it as I'm hauled underneath but I don't know what it means.

Luckily we reach another doorway before they wear out my skin and in we go. This time I see it coming and kick myself round the adjacent wall with my free leg. They pick me up and put me on another table. This room isn't white, it's old, stone and smells oily and metallic. While one soldier unties the rope round my ankle, his colleague pulls me up the table with the other one, to line me up with a machine bolted on the end of it. I'm horrified because I think he's going to crush my foot with it as he places it under what looks like a hydraulic ram.

From out of a wooden box he produces a metal band, bent most of the way into a circle. It slips over my foot and then that goes in the machine. Pumping the handle squashes it closed round my ankle. The machine is a press. I know because I've seen one in Kate's boyfriend's workshop. This one presses not just my shackle together but also the rivets which secure it, permanently. I'm disappointed to watch it press the end link of a chain through a hole in the shackle between its rivets. They roll me over so they can press the spare end of the chain through a similar shackle round my other ankle.

In order to make sure I'm absolutely restrained I suffer the health and safety nightmare of being welded. Kate's boyfriend dresses up in armour to weld things so it doesn't burn him. I'm naked and expect to get fried as chain and shackles become one. The soldiers have done this before and pour water on the weld before the heat soaks into my leg. "Noble of them!" I think. The experience pales into insignificance when they want to weld my neck too.

They spin me round on the table, bruise my face on the machine trying to get my head under it and terrify me with the thought that they might nip my throat in the band with industrial force. I can hear and smell my hair singe as they weld a chain on that too. Through it all I lay placid and passive, too frightened to do anything other than hopelessly let it happen. There isn't time for precision before I burn and they quench the neck shackle weld by tipping the bucket of remaining water over my whole head. It helps but it's still hot.

Now they let me walk, because they can pull me along with my neck. Once I'm heaved off the table I try hard to stay upright, running in short frantic steps, I don't notice we're back in the ancient vaulted passageway until we slow down. We arrive back at my underground cell. They're going to put me in it again.

I can't bear the thought of it. It's so awful I cry out "No! Please don't, I can't go back in there!" without thinking. One soldier is wheeling over the lifting gear, the other one has my mask, and its gag. He takes it off his belt and moves to put it in my mouth but I fall to my knees in an act of submission I pray he'll see as contrition. I know I'm not supposed to speak but I'm scared, I couldn't help it. I think "Oh god I'm sorry." so hard he must know I truly am. I plead for my breath by looking up at him, begging.

His mate laughs "Ram it right down her throat this time.” My soldier looks down at me, watching my face, considering it. I shake my head slowly, asking him not to with all I'm allowed. I'm going back down the hole anyway gagged or not. I promise silently to be quiet wanting him to see me think it and burst into tears, unable to hide my fear. He turns away. The threat passes and I've got away with it. "She's getting the hang of it OK." he says, justifying his moment of nobility.

I'm still crying as they lower me, upside down and hanging from the lift by my ankle chain. The shackles cut into my feet for the time it takes to fall the distance to the floor and it's murderously painful. I notice a few missing stones, holes and gaps in the mortar while the light lasts. Some of them are leaking water and some look deep, as if they're shafts. Maybe that's where my air comes from. It's my luck to land head first in a puddle of mud. My soldier abseils in after me, unhooks me, hauls me into a sitting position then padlocks the chain at my neck to one of the shackles on the wall as I struggle to my feet, as if I was going anywhere anyway.

Fifteen feet below the light from the trapdoor we look at each other. I'm sobbing, outraged, frightened and bewildered and he has a job to do. "C'mon!" the other soldier calls, he needs to be getting on. I want to thank mine for not gagging me. Can he see that in the twilight? Soon there'll be nothing to look at and I desperately want him to stay at least a little longer.

He climbs his rope and athletically swings himself up out of the door. The rope goes out after him, the door slams shut and my world is pitch black, again. I might have been outside for an hour if it was that long but it was long enough for incarceration the second time to feel unimaginably brutal. This time I can't reach the other side of my cell because my chains aren't long enough. I'm naked now and likely to get colder. I feel so hungry my stomach hurts, just like the rest of me. Standing on my grate is no longer comfortable. The chain at my neck isn't long enough to rest on anything. It’s heavy and hangs from the shackle in the air, slowly pulling me down. I have to sit on the rough stones at the base of the wall, crying, unrelenting for hours.


Do you feel sorry for Alison, lost, lonely and wretched? Or does the cruelty inflicted on her delicate, vulnerable femininity stir your loins? You want her persecuted don't you? Do you want her humiliated and crushed by despair? She wrote this you know, that's how twisted she is!
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom