Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

Warpstone · Mar 19, 2023

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Nwanyị akwụna · Mar 20, 2023

41

I spot Andy under a light of the platform roof as the train pulls into the station. He’s a tall and muscular man. Despite being just fifty years of age, his hair is snow-white and stands out easily. We had spent a whole day when we first met in person a few weeks ago just talking about what we wanted out of this weekend visit, and maybe out of other visits in the future, about the dos and don’ts, about likes and limits, about fantasies and wishes to make them a reality. Andy is not a man of many words, but when he chooses to speak he is clear and staunch.

The nipple clamps take an extra bite out of the sensitive flesh as I jump a bit too adventurously onto the platform, skipping a step. The train terminates here, and dense crowds quickly form at the descending stairs. Andy waits a bit to the opposite end of the platform. I’m walking up to him, evading the passengers pushing in the other direction some of whom bump into my bag nevertheless. I’m not one of them. I’m not an ordinary passenger, heading home from work or school, to dinner and family. I’m heading for the torture chamber. It starts to feel surreal. The pain in my nipples feels very real though. I’m finally there. I reach out my hand.

»Hello, Andy. It’s so nice …«

»Take off your shoes!«

»My shoes?«

I’m not entirely sure if I uttered that audibly or just in my mind. I’m frozen in the position, reaching out for a hand that is not taken. Take off my shoes? I just put them on. I’m just puzzled and stare at Andy. A loud crack breaks the silence as my neck is jerked to the side. My cheek starts to heat up, not only from the crisp slap, but also from embarrassment. We’re in a public place. A man can’t slap a woman in a public place these days. I look around, abashed, prepared to see bystanders intervene. But either nobody notices, or nobody cares.

»Is there anything unclear about my order?«

My cheek hurts. I’ve just been slapped hard for not following an arbitrary order. Was this what I wanted? I’m not exactly sure what I had expected. Maybe at least a bit of polite chat until Andy had taken me to his house. But apparently, he was not in the mood to waste any time. I clumsily hang my bag from my shoulder, hold onto a billboard for balance, and remove the pumps. The floor is as uncomfortably cold as I expected. I hold my bag in one hand, the pair of pumps in the other as I sheepishly look at Andy.

»Come on, niggercunt, let’s get going!«

Andy starts marching away with big steps. I stand motionless for a few seconds, still startled by how fast things progress. In full public view, mind you. The platform is much emptier than a few moments ago, but there are people around. I wonder what they think about the petite barefoot »niggercunt« with her shoes in her hand who now starts to try catching up with the burly middle-aged man heading for the exit. The ground is covered with small sharp road grit that is used everywhere around here instead of de-icing salts. I wobble grotesquely as I try to walk quickly and carefully at the same time.

I don’t think Andy is a real racist. I don’t think he’s a real misogynist either. ›Raceplay is just a kink for me‹, I had explained. ›I don’t really think I’m inferior because of my race. Or because of my sex. I just like to be called names and being humiliated.‹ Andy thought for a few seconds. ›You want me to confirm that I’m not a racist?‹ I nodded, he paused again and then slowly shook his head. ›No, I won’t do that. And I think you are a pathetic coward. You want some cozy humiliation, telling yourself it’s just a kink, but you don’t really want to face the music. You want to have the cake and eat it too. I won’t have it.‹ He kept his eyes fixed on me as he continued. ›What would it even mean if I called you nigger if you knew for sure it was just play-acting? No. If you choose to submit to me, you will be treated as inferior because you’re just niggerscum.‹ With a lump in my throat and a buzz between my legs I whispered, ›What would that mean in practice?‹ Andy chuckled. ›You don’t need to know beforehand.‹

I rush behind Andy who doesn’t slow down or even look if I’m following. I hurry down the stairs and through an underpass, upstairs again, through the brightly lighted entrance hall, across the station forecourt, past a few small businesses, and finally through a passageway leading to a parking area. At least one thing Andy had revealed in a later email. ›The pecking order among my property usually is defined by seniority. However, you, as a subhuman niggercunt, will stay at the very bottom permanently.‹ Yet here I am, following that man, ready to submit myself. The parking area is made of gravel, covered with puddles of brackish snowmelt. My feet are cold, and my soles hurt. My cheek stings. My nipples hurt too. How long have these clamps been on now?

I must slow down, tiptoeing over the sharp pebbles, but finally I catch up to Andy who stands next to an old greyish delivery van and opens the sliding door. I catch a quick glimpse, but the van seems to be empty. Without a word, Andy takes the bag and the pumps from my hands. He takes his mobile out of his jacket and points to a place close to the front passenger’s door.

»Stand there! You know what we must do.«

I just nod assent. We had chatted about this before. But once again I’m wondering if this really should be done in a public place. The van blocks the vision in one direction, but from the other side of the parking area we are visible from a distance. However, it isn’t likely that we would be overheard. I relax a little. It’s Andy taking the disproportional risk anyway. As an owner of a business being identified as a »pervert« could ruin his livelihood. Andy points the camera at himself.

»Recording this is Andy ___, and here we have our houseguest for the weekend. Say hi!«

I smile instinctively. Stupid habits. I’m here to get tortured and I smile into the camera as if I’m on an adventure weekend of fun and games. I try a more solemn expression, but I really don’t know what’s appropriate for the occasion. I am expecting some kind of fun and games, after all. Wicked fun and cruel games though, a thought that makes me smile again.

»Review these documents and confirm that they are identical with the copies I’ve submitted by email.«

Andy hands me his passport, driver’s license, and the registration for the delivery van. I sift the papers, not really in the mood to check them thoroughly while my feet are freezing to icicles. Back home there is a sealed envelope with print-outs of these documents and the password to the email account we used for our communication. I think I’ve done the best I can to avoid handing myself over to human traffickers.

»They are legit and in line with the documents you’ve provided by email. We’ve also met before.«

»Can you verify that you are the person responsible for all communication from email address ___?«

»Yes, that’s all me.«

»Can you affirm that you still stand by the declarations of intent with regard to this meeting made in our email exchange, especially in the mails of January 6 and January 21? I will read them to you if you need a reminder.«

I slowly shake my head. I don’t need such a reminder. I have a vivid memory of those mails. I’ve read them and Andy’s replies several times over. If we weren’t standing in the cold I might even be amused by the mumbo-jumbo. I doubt there is any way to make torturing somebody legally foolproof. But I understand that Andy feels he should have at least some protection.

»I remember our conversation by email well. I stand by all declarations of intent in our email exchange, namely those made in said emails.«

»Can you confirm that you are here entirely voluntary? Can you confirm that you are not under the influence of any drug? Do you feel in full possession of your mental faculties?«

I can’t help but smile again at the attempt to tame a raging, self-destructive, and irrational monstrosity. I’m handing over my body for torture for goodness’ sake. Could anybody of really sound mind voluntarily enter into such a bat-shit crazy agreement? I’m completely insane. I’m not here because I want to be here. I’m here because … Why am I here? I’m here because I’m at the mercy of a drive I don’t fully understand. I don’t feel I have much more free will over this than the moth who is flying closer and closer to the candle. But this is not the time for deep psychological inquiry.

»I came here of my own free will, totally sober, and capable of making responsible decisions.«

»You said in an email that you want to be subjected to pitiless torture, without any regard for potential protest or pleading, without any way to control the kind of torture or its intensity, and without any means to stop it. Is that a fair description of what you want during this weekend?«

Finally, I have the feeling we are getting past the formalities and to the meat of the matter. To the torture meat of the matter. I chuckle at my own stupid pun. But I need to be serious and clear here. I clear my throat and look straight into the camera. I try my most steadfast voice, but it still cracks.

»That’s exactly what I want.«

»Do you understand that I’m a genuine sadist? Do you understand that I will be delighted to make this experience as agonizing and miserable for you as I possibly can?«

»That’s what I hope for.«

»Do you accept that you will experience any form of psychical or mental torture, including any sexual and verbal abuse I or my assignees want to impose? Of course, while respecting the set limitations of avoiding permanent damage and allow you to go back to work on Monday?«

This is such a surreal conversation! We’re standing in a corner of a parking area of a provincial train station discussing the terms of how I’m going to be tortured. But maybe it just feels strange because we are rehashing the terms. We’ve talked and chatted about all this. This is just for the camera, just a more tangible proof that I’m not coerced in any way. But everything I state I have already written in mails. It’s the same as I had fantasized about for the past weeks.

»I accept whatever torture or abuse you or your assignees want to put me through.«

The part of accepting the unlimited authority even of other people assigned by Andy was difficult. But I finally had to admit that if I entrusted somebody with my health and ultimately with my life, I should be convinced the same person would use the right of transferring such powers also in a responsible way. For this weekend we agreed that Andy would only refer the authority to act on his behalf to his subs. Chatting extensively with one of them helped to convince me of Andy’s sincerity and impeccable conscientiousness.

»Do you refrain from any claim for damages for any injury incurred during this weekend and any psychological distress?«

That’s another tough one. But I couldn’t blame anybody else for my own depraved desires.

»I won’t claim any damages.«

Andy had been quite serious throughout the whole recording but now he smiles for the first time.

»Almost done. So, do you commit to obey any order from me or my assignees without questioning and hesitation or accept any punishment deemed necessary in the case of disobedience?«

»I do.«

»Take off your coat!«

Despite my solemn pronouncement I hesitate for a second before I slowly start to unbutton my winter jacket. I let it slide over my shoulders and hand it to Andy who puts it onto my bag. The ice-cold air revitalizes the pain on my nipples. I don’t think I can conceal my excitement. Finally. A deep breath of relief and desire escapes my lips.

»Nice tits! I’m looking forward to torturing those! Topless under a coat? Wearing nipple clamps too? What a slutty whore you are!«

»You ordered me to meet you like that.«

»And you obeyed only too willingly, didn’t you, painslut?«

I nod and Andy pulls at the chain between the nipple clamps. I grunt. Then without any warning he quickly opens both clamps at once. I let out a scream and writher in pain. I take a step back to massage my assaulted nipples. Andy shakes his head.

»No, no, no. That’s what you want, right? Hands off!«

Reluctantly I let go of my nipples. The pain pulsates through them with the blood rushing back and the nerves firing on all cylinders. I carefully look around. My scream had been quite loud. But luckily there seems to be no one nearby. Less than one hour ago, I would not have imagined standing naked in a parking lot except for a pair of jeans, yelping in pain. In the meantime, Andy has gotten a canvas bag from the van.

»Ready to really start the adventure, niggercunt?«

I’m terrified, yet so excited and aroused. I nod enthusiastically.

Andy produces a short chain from the bag. The about dozen chain links are thick and welded. The chain is tarnished. It looks black rather than from shiny metal. At one end of the chain a sturdy yet simple lock is attached. The purest, roughest symbol of submission. Without a word Andy dangles the chain within my arm’s length. I close my eyes for a second, take a deep breath, and grab the chain. It’s even heavier than it looks. I open the lock and place the chain around my neck. I shiver, not only because the metal feels even colder than the winter air. It’s only temporary, but which submissive doesn’t shiver when the lock of the collar clicks shut? One push. Done. This thing won’t come off without the key. Unless with the help of the fire department.

Andy nods approvingly and reaches into the bag again. The red latex ball of the gag seems to shine even in this dark corner of a parking area. The belt is sturdy and well crafted. This is not cheap stuff. I take a step forward and reach out to take the gag, but Andy pulls it out of my reach.

»Okay, okay, slow it down. While I like your eagerness there’s something I need to explain first. Taking this gag and putting it on does not only prevent you from speaking for as long as you wear it. As long as you are here you will not speak at all unless it’s absolutely essential. Other than screaming and begging I don’t want to hear a single word from you. You will not talk to me or anybody else until you’re dismissed. Torture meat suffers but doesn’t speak. Is that understood?«

No talking at all? Not even asking a question for clarification? Not connecting with the other subs who might be around? Not giving feedback? But Andy is right, torture meat suffers but doesn’t speak. I nod and hold out the palm of my hand to show I’m ready to take the gag and the additional burden of being voiceless for the next days. I buckle the gag. It’s not one of the huge ones that spread the jaw open very widely, but it’s also not a small one and I start drooling almost immediately.

Andy’s hand is already searching inside the canvas bag again. I’m not surprised as he presents a blindfold mask.

»Put it on and we’re almost done!«

While I buckle the blindfold behind my head, I feel a strand of drool dripping down my chin and onto my tits. The blindfold is quite comfy. It’s made from soft leather. But it blocks the view entirely. Not a single ray of light hits my eyes.

»Well done, niggercunt. Your welcome video is almost done. There’s only one final touch left to do. Look at you! Almost naked, collared, gagged, and blindfolded. And you’ve done all that to yourself. Decision time! If you want to leave now just nod. But if you want to proceed to two days of relentless torture step into the van and clasp your hands behind your back!«

Decision time has long passed though. I take a step towards where I think the van is and grope about for the opening of the sliding door. No, I’m not there yet. I take another step. When did the decision to follow through with the insane plan to submit myself to torture became irreversible? When I exposed myself in this parking area? No, that was embarrassing and arousing but not the turning point. I can feel the opening of the sliding door now. When I stayed after I’ve been slapped? No, before that too. I carefully step up into the van. The wooden floor feels at least nicer under my soles than those nasty pebbles. Was my fate sealed when I packed my stuff for the weekend? No, even before that. I take a few short steps into the van and face to where I think the door is. There was no turning back after the possibility of this experience entered into my depraved brain. I clasp my hands behind my back.

The van sways slightly. The sliding door is slammed shut. Andy’s voice is very close.

»Welcome to two days of agony, painslut.«

Nwanyị akwụna · Mar 25, 2023

39

Inside the van it’s a bit warmer than outside but not much. I’m cold. The warm drool that drops onto my tits makes a nice contrast. Andy stands behind me and threads a rope under my armpit, over my neck, under the other armpit and across my back. I’m lacking the imagination to understand what he’s trying to accomplish yet. Only when he moves to the front to connect the ropes around my shoulders do I realize he’s tying a kind of chest harness. Whatever he is doing he’s doing it well, quickly, and precisely. Next, Andy ties my hands together behind the back.

»Get your hands loose, whore! If you can’t, the bondage I’ll put you in will be much more restrictive.«

The rope around my wrists is tight, but not tightening around the joints, not endangering to restrict blood flow. But also, the rope doesn’t allow getting my hands out, try as I might. I wiggle slowly, I tug carefully, I pull with all my power. No, I can’t get my hands out. A single rope seals my fate. Up to now, I could have run away under the right circumstances. But there is no way to remove the blindfold with my hands securely behind my back. At least the struggle helps me get warm.

»Time’s up!«, Andy exclaims. »It seems I have to use a strict tie on this disobedient bitch.«

I doubt the outcome would have been any different if I had been able to free my hands. But that’s part of the mind games. Later, when in a restrictive position I would curse myself for not trying harder. Be that as it may, I would surely have chosen a less strict version of the next part. The next rope went around my upper arms, a few centimeters above the elbows. I had told Andy that I used to be able to have my elbows tied together closely. But that was a few years ago. He pulls the rope closer and closer, slowly, but surely. I gasp into the gag. One final pull, then Andy secures the rope. To my surprise, it doesn’t really hurt, but I feel a strain on my shoulders and in my chest muscles. I’m sure the onset of pain is just a matter of time. Andy whistles appreciatively.

»The whore didn’t lie. It really is flexible. I will have so much fun with your nigger body.«

As if to confirm Andy gropes my exposed tits harshly. I grunt into the gag and wiggle backwards. Andy sighs.

»See? I’m always way too nice with cunts. I give them a compliment, and the next second they fuck up. Normal people avoid pain. But you, you are not normal. You are torture meat. You are expected to not run away from pain but to lean into it. Come forward and don’t dare to try to get away again!«

I had an idea of what was coming. I made two very small uncertain steps towards Andy’s voice, bracing myself for the lesson he was surely about to teach. Indeed, the next thing I felt was sharp pain at my right tit from a hefty slap from below. My tit bobs up and down. I gasp into my gag, but I manage to not move backwards again. But the next, equally strong slap to the left tit made me sputter drool from the sides of the ballgag as I screamed into it. Instinctively I take a step back again trying to get out of reach of the nasty slaps.

»Fuck, no!«, Andy hisses. He grabs me by the chain around my neck, pulls me forward again, and doesn’t let go as he cover my tits with a series of vigorous slap and punches. »Stand still, stupid whore!« I try to stop flinching around but Andy is not holding back. While he holds me close, I bend my body backwards to avoid the slaps. It’s just what the body does to protect itself. Andy doesn’t let me go but he finally stops hitting my tits. They sting and feel hot like after sunbathing at midday.

»Well done, you stupid whore! You earned yourself some serious torture of those useless tits when we get home. They are nothing but meat to torment to me. Just like you wanted. The more you try to evade pain, the more you’ll suffer. That’s only fair, don’t you think?«

I hesitantly nod. I crave pain. I even crave to be brutalized. But I also know that the body instinctively tries to avoid pain. It’s hard to overwrite such natural impulses. Still I feel like a failure when my body reacts in this natural way. I am a painslut. I want to lean into the pain.

Andy still holds my chain collar, but now he’s pushing against the back of the hollow of my knees with his foot, forcing my legs to bend. I drop down to my knees, Andy grabs the chest harness at the back and pushes me forward until I hang from it. He slowly lowers me down until I lie on my stomach. The cold wooden floor of the van alleviates the pain in my tits a little bit.

Andy whistles a cheerful tune as he starts working on my legs. He turns my body to the side and back on the stomach just like he needs it apparently as easily as turning the page of a book. Again, I must admire his swiftness and precision. I’ve been at a bondage workshop and being put into tight ropes can take a while, especially if the rigger is not that experienced. But within what feels only like a few minutes Andy fastens a coil of rope just above my knees and another one just below my knees.

»Don’t expect anything during this weekend to be easy, whore! If you wanted easy you came to the wrong place.«

I feel a rope being thread through the restraints at my wrists and my ankles. ›Okay, he’s going to hogtie me‹, I think. I’ve been hogtied before. While uncomfortable it was not that bad. I felt there was no need to talk up a simple hogtie like that. Andy had told me the drive up to his home deeper in the mountains would take about an hour. Challenging, but manageable. Andy bends my legs and connects the ropes around my wrists tightly with the ropes around my ankles. As I said, uncomfortable but bearable.

Probably I should have known better. Andy is not a man of idle talk. He’s not finished yet. I feel another rope being thread through the ropes around my ankles. This rope is connected to the chest harness at my back, right in the middle of my shoulder blades. Slowly, but forcefully Andy tugs at the rope, bringing back my ankles and shoulders closer together inch by inch. My thighs are lifted from the floor, and so is my upper body as my back is bent. When Andy finally secures the rope only the small fraction of my body between my hips and my lower ribcage still has contact with the ground. While I’m struggling the sliding door of the van is opened and shut again.

Now that position is hard to bear. I can alleviate the tension just a tiny bit when I contort my body even more. But I quickly, within seconds must lean back into the bonds. The chain around my neck rustles when I do that. I can wiggle my toes and my fingers. But that’s it. I sigh into the gag. An hour of this will be hard, just as Andy had said. Fuck! I’m utterly immobilized in the loading space of a van, gagged and drooling, blindfolded, and topless. My stupid cunt leaks and twitches as I fantasize of being kidnapped and threatened to be sold into permanent slavery.

I realize that Andy should be in the driver’s seat for a while already. We should be on our way to his home. I try to remain still, prick up my ears, and listen attentively. I can’t hear anything except for my heart beating heavily. Maybe Andy is having a smoke? But the time this takes seems to have passed already too. What is going on? I try to remain calm but being tied helplessly as well as painfully and then being abandoned is not a situation to keep composure easily.

I don’t know what to do or to think. Well, there is nothing I can do except for trying to not make noises that might draw attention to the van. I wonder what people outside would hear and what they would think or do. My breathing turns to loud grunting. »Hush!«, I try to convince myself. The chain rattles. »Stay still«, I demand from myself, but of course I have to wiggle to find at least a bit of relief from the demanding position. People nearby must realize that something strange is going on in this van. I must have drooled a thick puddle by now. I surely don’t want to be found like that.

What if my fantasy is about to come true? What if a different person than Andy shows up to take me somewhere? Had I’ve been naïve believing the assurances and ›proofs‹ of identity Andy had offered? Had I been lured in by the depraved need of my cunt for abuse? Maybe I should wish to be found like that and be rescued from my own self-destructive urges? But I can’t bring myself to wish that. If the choice is being salvaged or being sold by traffickers, I honestly choose the traffickers. I removed so many inhibitions to be here. I’m willing to pay the price. Why do I crave so much what would be the worst nightmare for normal people?

Despite the cold I sweat profusely now. I try to relax as much as possible because I feel that if I cramp up it will be much worse. My body suffers, so I suffer. We don’t have bodies, we are bodies. However, my body and my mind start to diverge. I’m still in heavy pain, but my mind starts to feel what I experience as the thrill of suffering. The intensity of the feeling that sweeps away everything else. Being completely and utterly at somebody’s mercy. Absolute impuissance. Total self-abandonment. And also overwhelming sexual arousal. The arousal doesn’t cancel out the suffering. Agony and arousal reinforce each other, progressively amplify each other. It’s hard to explain.

I lose the sense of time. How long have I been lying here? Half an hour? One hour? Two hours? It seems like every muscle in my body screams in pain except for my face, my fingers, and my toes. Just waiting, squirming in pain, is nerve-racking. There is no end in sight.

Finally, the driver’s door is opened and shut, the motor is started. The van bumps over the potholes of the parking area. I hear the signal sound of the indicator, the van turns and picks up speed. I sigh in relief. At long last we are on the way and every minute that passes brings me closer to the end of my suffering. But it also brings me closer to a different kind of suffering. I’ve been threatened with serious tit torture when we arrive at Andy’s place. My nipples are rock-hard in expectation.

Being tied up like this in a driving vehicle makes the pain only worse. Every time the van slows down, speeds up or takes a turn the forces act on my curled up body. Lying still is bad enough, but being jerked forward or backward or bent to the side is worse.

»Ld’ ijg ‘’! I ch'’ ‘a’e ut’ ‘o’e!«, I scream into the gag several times. But even if it were comprehensible my request to be untied would be ignored. Which is exactly what I wanted. I plead to get out of my misery and yet I sincerely hope the plea is ignored. In fact, it is met with derisive laughter. »Shut your stinking mouth, nigger!« I sob from pain and frustration. At least now I know Andy is driving the van, not a different person. That’s hardly of any consolation.

The van stops and I hear a huge rolling gate squeaking. Apparently, Andy drives the van through the gate. He turns off the engine and the gate squeaks again while he enters the back of the van and starts to untie me. I sigh as my body relaxes and I can breathe more easily again. The hogtie is unknot, my legs are untied. I enjoy working every muscles that is liberated from the bondage. But Andy doesn’t untie my arms. Instead he removes the blindfold and drags me onto my feet. I’m twitching and jerking as my leg muscles are tight and exhausted.

Andy connects a leash to the chain around my neck and drags me out of the van without worrying about my balance. My knees hurt as he forces me to jump out of the van and pulls me forward. We are in a huge warehouse. Building materials are piled up everywhere, forklifts and more vans are parked in one corner. Andy owns a construction firm. But before I can take it all in we reach a wide metal door and I’m dragged into a staircase. I must hurry to keep up with Andy as I’m dragged down four flights of stairs.

Andy opens the door to the second basement level and drags me forward. This floor is not lit as brightly as the main one, but I can see some strange equipment which seems to have been built from scaffolding components. In passing I can see a wooden horse. Other structures seem to be bondage frames. The meaning and purpose of other stuff remains obscure to me. I might find out later. I’m overwhelmed, fearful and excited at the same time. That warehouse floor is for a masochist what a candy store is for a child.

Andy stops close to a vertical beam made of timber. At this corner there are also several cages of different sizes lined up along the wall. I’m shocked to find that one of those is not empty. A pale blonde naked girl is locked standing in one of them. Her whole body is covered in vibrant red whip marks. She clings to the grid and stares at me.

»Yes, your torture will be witnessed by some audience. Get used to it. But I bet you like to be watched anyway.«

While I didn’t expect to be exposed during the torture, Andy is not wrong. Being watched while in agony is a huge additional turn-on for me. And there is the element of competition between subs. Crying and screaming and sobbing in front of the torturer is one thing, but to loose face to another sub … No. Not if I can prevent it. My thoughts are interrupted as Andy lets a flexible rod soar through the air in front of my body.

»It’s about time the real fun starts, torture meat.«

Nwanyị akwụna · Apr 12, 2023

38

»I will destroy those useless tits, niggerholes!«

Pleasure seeking. Pain avoidance. Energy conservation. Those three fundamental principles guide all animals. Human behaviour is more complicated, I was taught, but subjected to the same principles. So, what am I? A freak of nature? I’m threatened with severe pain, I’m degraded as a woman and specifically as a woman of colour. I should get the fuck of here. I should run like hell. Pain avoidance.

But what I experience feels so natural. I’m terrified, but also excited and aroused. My brain is going on overdrive, pumping out endorphins and adrenaline and whatever other neurotransmitters and hormones that flood my body like a shot of heroin. There’s a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. And my silly cunt gushes at the thought of fulfilment of the threat of unthinkable suffering. It’s a promise rather than a threat. Pleasure avoidance. Pain seeking. Wasting of my energy. My motivational system is turned upside down.

Andy hooks the short chain around my neck to a ring at the beam. As if I would run away from the fulfilment of my deepest dreams. He starts to untie my arms. After I would guess two hours, I feel relief as my joints are able to move again. I flex my arms and rotate the shoulders. But the freedom is short lived. Andy threads a long rope under the centre of the chest harness in the back, pushes me against the rough timber, leads the two ends of the rope back on each side, and threads them under the rope around my shoulders. Oh no!, not my shoulders again! They are painfully bend backwards as Andy pulls the rope tight behind the beam and binds it off. He grabs my hands and ties them behind the beam, fixating them higher than in the natural position. As I’m prevented from bending forward even more pressure is put on my shoulders. Oh no! A few coils of rope, tightly wrapped around the beam and my waist just above the naval and my upper body is immobilized. I can shake my head, wriggle my hips a little, and move my legs. But my chances to move away from pain to my tits like in the van earlier were as slim as a snowballs’ chances in hell.

»So, what do prefer, cuntrat? Blunt force as if you’re nothing more than a punching bag? Or some more sophisticated pain?«

Andy punches me into the stomach with his fist, right between the coils of rope and the belt of my jeans. I gasp for air like a fish out of water. The wings of my nose are fluttering. Some clear snot is pushed out. Instinctively, I want to curl up to protect myself. But the ropes cut into my flesh as I try to do so. Of course, Andy is not looking for an answer. His point is that I don’t have a choice anymore.

My psychiatrist says I crave pain because I’m traumatized. She says I’m traumatized by years of domestic violence and marital rape by my ex-husband. These are her words, after I told her a little bit about the broken rips, the black eyes, the bruises, the anal fissure. The shrink thinks reliving the trauma is one way to cope with it. A natural way, not the ideal way. Ideally, we’d work very hard and within a few years I would learn strategies to live a ›normal‹ life. What I don’t tell her is that when my husband came home drunk, sometimes bringing one or two friends, or even strangers he had just met in a bar, and he or they raped me, kicked me so hard my ribs broke, gave me the bruises and the black eyes, choked me to unconsciousness, I had the most mind-blowing orgasms. I was fearing and hoping for those nights. I doubt she could understand.

Andy fiddles around the back of my neck. I lean my head forward to provide easier access and finally he’s able to unbuckle the gag. A flush of saliva hits my chest.

»You’re such a gross piggy«, Andy taunts me, smearing the liquid all over my tits. I move my stiff lower jaw from side to side.

»I like to hear the torture meats shout out their agony. It’s so funny when they scream and beg me to stop, getting more and more desperate. Just like you will beg shortly, whore. But I won’t stop and nobody else will hear your pointless screams. And for me they’re just the most beautiful melody. Well, there’s the other cunt but that obviously doesn’t count as a person. I’ve made that meat sing earlier. Let’s see if you’re as talented.«

Andy chuckles.

»As a little warmup, I will whip those tits.«

Andy takes a flogger and weighs it in his hands. I have a similar flogger I sometimes use on myself. It has a bunch of leather strips, maybe a bit longer than a foot. But the strips of my flogger are thin and flexible. The strips of the one Andy holds are made from square rigid leather pieces, like candy canes of liquorice. The first stroke to my right tit takes my breath away again. This flogger is not made to deliver a bit of pain spread over an area. It’s made to dish out multiple harsh strokes at the same time efficiently. If that’s the warmup I’m in the antechamber of hell.

Andy watches my reaction, does backswings several times without stroking, and just smiles as I flinch. When he finally hits my left tit, I let out a scream but immediately bite my lips, allowing only for a whimper while I quint my eyes and try to keep composure. I take a few deep breaths before I open my eyes again. I know I will scream. I know I will beg. I know I will be reduced to a sobbing mess. But there is also the nagging force of peculiar submissive pride. ›He’s not going to break you. You’re strong. You can take whatever he dishes out.‹ I must put up a desperate fight. This submissive pride needs to be gradually dismantled until I feel totally defeated and defenceless.

The next stroke takes me a bit by surprise because it lands on my left tit again. I expected alternate flogging, but torture meat is well-advised to not have expectations at all. This time my scream is louder and doesn’t subside as quickly. I try to calm myself with deep breaths again, but they come out as groans of pain. This time Andy doesn’t wait until I composed myself. He hits again, with full force. ›Fuck!‹, I cry out after a few unformed screams. Andy aimed for the left tit again. Tears roll down my cheek.

A series of strokes pelts down onto my tits. Andy doesn’t give me time to recover between them anymore. I scream, each scream feels louder than before. When I finally manage to suppress them, I sob helplessly. Before I’ve processed the last stroke the next one is delivered. Six or eight strokes tear into my tender flesh.

»Do you enjoy yourself yet, painslut?«, Andy askes tauntingly.

»Do I look like I’m enjoying myself?«, I squeeze out between grunts. Andy shakes his head.

»Wow, you’re a stupid bitch! That was a rhetorical question. But a niggercunt like you probably doesn’t even know what that means. I said no talking except for begging, dimwit! Now – what a shame! – I need to punish your asinine ass for disobedience. Ten strokes.«

Andy apparently enjoys my reaction, a mixture of fear and truculence. He asked me a question, after all. If I didn’t answer, he could have punished me for being rude. That was a no-win situation. But I’m not here to be treated fairly. I look at the ceiling to avoid meeting Andy’s eyes. He surely noticed the impetus of resistance.

My psychiatrist is wrong, of course. ›I will whip those tits.‹ ›The tits too, father?‹ ›Yes, even those two disgusting half globes that I hate and loathe.‹ ›O, my father, you will kill me.‹ ›What do I care if I just find my satisfaction?‹ I read de Sade’s Justine, ou Les Malheurs de la Vertu when I was about nineteen years old, years before I met my violent ex-husband. This conversation between Justine and Don Clement always stuck with me. Torturing and even killing somebody just for a tiny bit of fleeting pleasure! Wasn’t that the most horrendous abuse possible? But also, the highest sacrifice imaginable? I craved to be such a martyr. I still do. I don’t know how many orgasms I had thinking about how this self-immolation could happen. The most frequent depraved fantasy probably was being lynched by a racist mob after being raped and thoroughly beaten. I visualized my feet dangling lifelessly in the air while blood and cum were dripping down. When I restrainedly pointed out that my fantasies of being subjected to torture dated back to before my marriage, the psychiatrist just dated back the trauma. Something in my adolescence must have traumatized me. Oh, well.

Andy starts to inflict his savage punishment, whipping my tits with the nasty flogger in quick succession. I scream from the top of my lungs. The outcry of agony echoes in the large basement. Finally, I reach the breaking point.

»Stop! Please!«

Andy really stops, tilts his head and looks at me with a critical gaze.

»Stop? You beg me to stop?«

I nod through the mist of tears. I’m defeated. Andy starts derisive laughter, coming from deep down his belly.

»It’s so sweet of you to ask, stupid shit of a bitch! Of course, I will not stop. That’s what you begged for earlier. Remember, dumbass? In fact, now I must start over with the punishment.«

Andy starts whipping my tits again and I swear he hits even harder than before. My tits feel like their flesh is slowly eaten away. After a few strokes I can’t hold back anymore.

»Please!! Stop!! It’s too much!!«

Andy strokes another time, then he takes a step back and laughs again.

»You’re even more stupid than I thought, whore! I will go through with that punishment no matter what. And deep down you want me to do so because that is what worthless niggercunt scum like you deserves. Isn’t that right?«

I can’t stop sobbing pathetically and feel a lump swelling in my throat. This is the moment of truth, right here. I don’t want to do what I will do next. But I don’t have a choice. I nod. Being tortured mercilessly is what worthless niggercunt scum like me deserves. I nod again, still sobbing. Andy steps closer and looks at me in cold blood, but even with my blurry vision I recognize the massive bulge in his pants.

»Beg me to carry out the full punishment without regard to your despicable pleas to stop, fuckhole!«

»Please do the full punishment on me!«, I whimper. Andy comes very close to my face.

»Not! Good! Enough! Beg me to double the punishment. And do it right this time.«

I sniff and try to muster a convincing voice and expression. I think for a second if this is what I truly want. It’s what I have craved for years. It’s what I am. It’s what I need. It’s what I deserve. I sniffle again and take a deep breath.

»This pathetic fuckhole sincerely begs you, Sir, to administer any punishment or torture you like on this worthless body without any regard to its pleas to stop. It is what worthless niggercunt scum like me deserves.«

Andy laughs again, even more derisive than before. I hate to admit that I love the cruel way he talks to me and treats me. Torture meat. Just torture meat. Fuck! Andy takes a step back.

»Any punishment? Sure, let’s triple the number of strokes.«

Andy starts immediately, whipping as hard as before. One stroke follows the next swiftly. I scream. The ropes cut into my body as I desperately try to get out of the bondage that keeps me unable to evade this unbearable torture. I crash my skull against the timber behind my head. I’m sure my tits are only raw meat by now. Tears, snot, and drool drip from my chin.

»Noooo! Stop!!! Please!!! Stop!!! I can’t …«

As anticipated, Andy doesn’t stop. As yearned for, he just continues to beat my tits mercilessly. I can’t form words anymore and just cry out in overwhelming agony.

At this very moment, the miracle starts to happen. I might be worthless niggercunt scum but I’m offering myself for the pleasure of somebody else. I’m the martyr, suffering just so that Andy has an erection. I’m finally fulfilling my purpose. But that’s all wrong because I’m not here anymore. There is only torture meat. I don’t have the words to describe the intensity of the feelings I experience in this moment. Agonizing pain and complete bliss and acceptance intermingle. One increases the other to unprecedented heights. I scream without any reservation, not a human being anymore, not a person, just a tortured body. All my muscles start shaking uncontrollably. My eyes lose focus, and my sight goes black. Andy pauses briefly between two strokes.

»Oh my God! You are going to cum, right?«

My body replies for me. I shake and moan and scream with pleasure and pain. All my muscles are shaking. All muscles? Yes, even my cunt muscles shake, then clench, then waves of contractions run up and down. I start squirting into my jeans. Andy resumes the strokes with all might, and I ride the mind-blowing, painful, blissful orgasm. My screams are those of an animal and nobody could decide if this animal felt pain or pleasure or both. Stars explode before my closed eyes.

»This fucking niggercunt cums so hard from being whipped!«, Andy shouts enthusiastically. »We will have so much fun, torture meat!«

A second wave of pain-pleasure hits me hard. My body trashes around uncontrollably. My tits hurt so badly. My cunt buzzes like crazy, squirting another gush into my pants. I don’t care. I’m not here. Torture meat doesn’t care about a piece of clothing. Finally, the flogging stops. My screaming subsides. I sob. And I laugh. Oh, fuck! It seems to take ages before I come to my senses again.

My psychiatrist is wrong, of course. I crave pain for as long as I can remember. There’s still the scar of one of my first experiments with self-inflicted pain. My parents were out, and I sneaked into the workshop of my father. I took off my top, got the Bunsen burner, and held a nail into the flame by a pair of pliers. After a while I pushed the nailhead against my barely developed tit, a bit to the left and below my right nipple. There was a sizzle and a bad stink. The hot head of nail easily burned through the outer layers of my skin. I looked at my raw meat, red meat just like the beef they sold in the butcher around the corner. I was more startled than aroused, but I wasn’t discouraged from better thought-out experiments. I had lots of them. My craving for pain awoke at the same time as my sexuality. There was no trauma. My brain and my cunt are just wired in that peculiar way. But of course, that is beyond the understanding of a trained psychiatrist.

One disadvantage of dark skin is that bruises and whip marks don’t really show that much. I’m always envious of those with lighter skin and their impressive violet and red marks. My tits burn. I look down and I’m a bit disappointed. My tits don’t bare good witness of my martyrdom. Andy feels between my legs.

»I knew you were a fucking nasty pig! You squirted into your jeans.«

Andy unbuttons my pants, pulls them down, and throws them onto the ground. Now I’m totally naked but I don’t care. Torture meat doesn’t care about clothing. I slowly calm down but barely realize that Andy starts to lose my bondage. Only when he takes off the coils around my waist, do I recognize that I still tremble, and I can barely stand without holding to the beam.

Andy ties my hands in my back again and pushes me onto my knees. He unzips his pants and takes out his hard veinous cock. Finally, I’ll get my reward for my sacrifice, I think. I desperately want to suck Andy’s dick to show my gratitude. Happy in my devotion I open my mouth. But Andy just stands there with his cock a few inches away. Then his piss starts to gush. I’m surprised, but I keep my mouth open. It’s coming too fast though and when I have to swallow the putrid liquid runs over my chest, burning the freshly roughened skin. I open my mouth again, but Andy guides the stream all over my face and into my hair.

»Disgusting!«, he exclaims as he grabs me by my hair which is still dripping from his urine and pulls me on my feet again. He pushes my limb body forward, towards the wall with the cages. Andy stops in front of the cage with the blonde girl inside.

»Hey, cunt, I brought company.«

Andy removes the lock from the sliding bolt, opens the door and pushes me in. The cage is quite small for two cunts. Um. For two people. No. It’s small for two cunts. We both have given up human status. Here we’re just two cunts. Our bodies are pushed against each other as Andy closes and locks the door again. My burning tits are pressed against the tits of the blonde.

»Why don’t you get to know each other, whores, and start connecting? But remember: no talking.«

Andy walks away, the metal door of the basement closes behind him and I’m alone with this cunt I never met before. It’s not the one I have chatted with because she said she was brunette. I’m maximally humiliated. This blonde has witnesses me cumming from pain. I’m dripping piss onto her fair body. I’m happy for the no-talking rule. I must process what just happened. I lean my head against the shoulder of the unfamiliar cunt. I don’t know her, but she must be a kindred spirit of some kind. I start to cry.

malins · Apr 12, 2023

This last chapter imho does a good job by interlacing the beating & suffering, with the protagonist's introspections on the origins of her desires & needs, the misinterpretations of the therapist etc.

It's a good approach to keep up a connection to the character while the purely procedural part is going on, because after all, despite impressing it very much, there's more to her than meat...

Nwanyị akwụna · Sep 24, 2023

Sorry for the long delay. I hope to be able to write more regularly now.

36

I don’t cry because of the pain. Or more precisely, I don’t cry only because of the pain. Goddammit, my tits do hurt. It seems the blonde girl is rubbing her tits against mine to hurt me even more on purpose. But the cage is rather small and there’s not much room to avoid contact. I’m squeezing my back against the cold metal bars to create some space between us. Even in the dim light in this corner of the basement I can see a red smudge on the girl’s light skin.

My tits have been whipped unto blood. I shudder. For a moment I worry about contracting disease. The girl also has quite fresh whip marks. But every risk is relativized by the fundamental decision: I came here explicitly to be tortured mercilessly and sexually abused by a man I barely know in the presence of his other subs I don’t know at all. And with the prospect of being handed over as sex toy and torture object to other men in the future. Nothing about this is sane.

That’s another reason why I’m crying. I realize that I really, really need this. This craving for pain and abuse is rooted in my identity more deeply than I care to admit. I’m a rational person in everyday life. But here I am, driven to this insane, risky, irresponsible abandonment of myself, of everything that makes me me in every other context. This irrational and irresponsible part of myself scares me. But I don’t have the feeling I have a choice. Despite what I said earlier it’s not that I think I deserve pain and misery. Does any creature »deserve« what happens to them in nature? Does the worker bee deserve a life of toil? It just happens what needs to happen. And nature creates equilibrium and even beauty. This craving for pain, abuse, and misery is rooted in my nature. Those impulses are stronger than my rational thought. I don’t feel fully human. I’m a pathetic slave to my primal urges. I’m a pathetic slave to my cunt. That’s not an easily digestible realization.

Last but not least, there is the orgasm. I used to like orgasms. A lot. As a teenager and even also after I got married, I masturbated almost daily, and every time to the climax. The »normal« sex with my husband wasn’t very good. I rarely had an orgasm with him. »Self do, self have«, I thought and put my own hands to work. That is until my husband came home drunk and horny and didn’t take no for an answer. About an hour later he was snoring loudly next to me on our bed while my mind was racing. My body hurt after he manhandled me harshly and pushed my body around into every position he fancied. I had the bruises to show for it the next day. I was upset and terrified. But I also had had multiple orgasms. Mind-blowing orgasms. Consciousness-expanding orgasms. Orgasms that redefined boundaries. My body could do that? My mind could do that? Actually, neither my body nor my mind did anything and that was the thrill. My mind just switched off and let the body have its way. And, oh boy, did it have its way.

I was bowled over completely. Apart from the awkward feeling looking my husband in the eyes the next day, it was the best experience of my life. Being raped was also the worst experience of my life. It’s complicated. But »normal« orgasms had lost much of their appeal after that. And since my husband got drunk more and more frequently, I still orgasmed a lot at that time. A part of me even looked forward to the day my husband would get his paycheck, he’d play the tough guy at the bar, get hammered and come home, maybe even bring some friends or new acquaintances. It’s distressing to confess all this. I don’t want it to be construed as encouragement to rape. »This woman likes it! All women do.« Yes, this woman likes it when a man forces himself on her. But this woman only likes a part of it. And don’t forget I chose my rapist in a way. To conclude all women like it or another woman likes it is a totally unfounded conclusion though. I’m just talking about myself.

After my divorce and especially after I moved to Europe, I refrained from orgasms more and more. I had sex occasionally but as usual the men didn’t make me cum during such casual sex. Mostly not for the lack of trying which made things even more tricky. It’s hard to tell a stranger what I really want them to do and in the moment they ask what gets me off that ship has sailed anyway. Orgasms from masturbation just didn’t cut it anymore. So, self-denial was the next best thing. That way I didn’t get frustrated from the dull feeling when I came and stayed horny to indulge in my darker fantasies.

More than four years ago! That’s how long I didn’t have such an overwhelming climax. There, standing in the cage next to the naked girl, I realized how much I had missed that feeling. Those orgasms have a special quality. I don’t just cum. I’m not simply forced to cum either. Those orgasms are wrung from my body. I don’t want to cum like that. I pay a high price of pain and suffering and agony for them. But when the pain circuits chuck out everything they have, they jump over to my pleasure circuits with the same incredible intensity. Pain and pleasure are such close cousins for me they are too readily confounded when I’m horny. But it’s not only about the orgasms. This back and forth happens all the time.

I’m lost in those thoughts, locked in a cage in the dark corner of the huge basement that holds so many threats and promises. To be honest, I’m elated, in high spirits, curious what the rest of the weekend will bring. I’m still sobbing though. Not exactly happy tears. My tits hurt like hell.

The blonde girl soothingly caresses my hip. I’m grateful for the gesture of sympathy but I’d rather let my thoughts wander and cherish the moment. I smile as this idea seems so odd: cherishing a moment after having my tits whipped onto blood and I’m cramped in a small cage, at the mercy of a cruel sadist. But my smile freezes. This is surely not a gesture of sympathy anymore. The hand of the blonde girl has made its way between my legs, and now she starts to finger my swollen wet clit! Fuck, what’s she doing? I try to wiggle away from her touch, but the cage of course is too small. I don’t want that. And surely not at this moment. She’s spoiling everything. Does Andy even allow such intimacies between his slaves? But how do I stop the girl without talking? She skillfully circles my clit, and a moan escapes my lips. No, not another orgasm. Not like this! I’m getting desperate.

»Please stop!«

A high, but snarky chuckle is her only reaction. With her free hand she reaches through the bars, grabs my hair and pulls my head hard against the bars. She comes close to my face and grins viciously. That bitch even starts to kiss my neck and mouth. She breathes heavily. She enjoys what she’s doing. I press my lips together.

But she’s so talented in handling my sensitive clit. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right movements, just the right pauses. I moan again. Not long after I sigh while drawing my breath deeply into my belly. The first sign of surrender. I make a final attempt to free my hands, but they are securely tied at my back. I sigh again. Blondie is going to make me cum once more, and there is nothing I can do about it.

The girl is beautiful with fair skin that contrasts with the red whip marks. Her tits are round and firm. She’s pretty young, about twenty years I would guess. Her pale blue eyes shine even in the darkness. With the next moan I open my lips slightly. The blonde girl takes the opportunity and licks over my lips, gently pushing her tongue forward. Next thing I know, I’m making out with that young woman, sharing our breaths and moans. If somebody had told me this morning, I would make out with a girl today it would have cracked me up. The thought of what she thinks about the roughly fifteen years older woman crosses my mind for a second. But there’s not much room for such thoughts when your body starts to tingle from an approaching orgasm.

I had fantasies of being dominated by women before. I imagined strong-willed, cliché dominatrix types and situations charged with racial tension and humiliation. Being helplessly exposed to another slave was surely not what I had imagined. But she was so good with her soft fingertips! And Andy had said we should get to know each other. Without words the options are limited. Maybe he approves of what’s going on? Two cunts in a cage. Bonding over the pain we experienced earlier. I shake my head in mind. No, not over shared pain. She going to make me cum again for fucks sake!

Just as I predict this, it happens. My body tightens, my cunt clenches, I let out the little screams indicating my climax, I squirt another gush. The pleasurable movement on my clit stops immediately, and the blonde woman withdraws from our smooching. She keeps holding my hair for a few seconds, then lets go of that too. Now she seems trying to put as much space between us as possible. As if to say, ›All business, no feelings involved here.‹ That hurts after I just opened up to her. It seems to cheapen the moment we shared. Just like the second orgasm cheapens the first. It was nice but far from the sweeping earlier one.

Now I really want to cry. That episode in the cage felt just wrong. I plunge from my exalted state of mind to anger and frustration. But I don’t have time to process these feeling as Andy shows up again.

»Hey, did the whores have fun?«

The blonde girl nods and I don’t dare to shake my head.

»Tell me, cunt, did the nigger talk?«

»Yes, Sir, she did. She requested me to stop.«

»Such a rat!«, I think. Of course, I would have done the same. Obedience to the Owner is more important than a strange woman and possible competitor for his attention. »She’s still a rat«, angry and hurt me insists.

Andy blows out some air between his teeth and shakes his head.

»Such impudence by such a lowly beast. Well, the punishment will teach her. Did she cum too?«

The girl just nods and holds up her hand, splaying out thumb and index finger.

»Twice? We really have a slut here, don’t we?«

»Twice?«, I think. »No, no. That’s not true.« I hold up my hand with only the index finger extended.

»You mean you only had one orgasm?«, Andy inquires.

I nod. Andy’s eyes narrow. He takes another step towards the cage.

»Listen and listen carefully. I don’t want to repeat myself. This girl next to you is just an inferior cunt. But you are an inferior cunt and vile niggerscum. I said you will be the lowest of them all permanently. So, if the girl says you had two orgasms, but you had only one, you will happily nod and accept you had two orgasms, nevertheless. Is that understood?«

That’s a really tough pill to swallow. An oversize pill that puts me at the mercy of this malicious blonde girl and possibly the other subs I don’t even know. I expected the other property of Andy – as he likes to call them – to be something like helping hands but not dominants in their own right. Enabling the girl to overwrite whatever I ›say‹ is organized willfulness. But, again, I’m not here to be treated fairly. I’m too far into this. Unless my few hard limits are ignored, I will accept what Andy throws at me. I nod my consent. My stupid cunt clenches and drips.

»Very good. Let’s ask me again, did the niggercunt cum?«

The blonde girl smiles and raises her hand, this time splaying out three fingers.

»Three times?« Andy laughs. »Anything to say, coon?«

I take a deep breath and hold up my hand, showing three fingers. Andy laughs even louder.

»We’re making progress. Let’s add it up. That’s punishment for talking and for three unauthorized orgasms. That nasty shitcunt is going to hurt like hell when I’m done with it!«

Andy opens the lock, slides the bolt to the side, and swings the cage door open. He grabs my hair and violently pulls me out of the cage. Without letting go of my hair he locks the door again. The last thing I see before he drags me away swiftly is the satisfied grin of the girl left back in the comfort of the cage.

Nwanyị akwụna · Oct 8, 2023

35.5

Bent forward and with my hands tied behind my back, I can only take small steps. But Andy drags me across the basement quickly. I wobble from the stiff rapid steps as I try to keep up with him. Some strains of hair that escaped Andy’s grasp dangle before my face. They are still wet and reek of urine. I feel a pang of self-disgust before a wave of arousal permeates my body. That’s the usual dynamic. I hate being degraded. Nevertheless, a strong part of me craves being subjected to harsh humiliation. Precisely because I hate it. The other part of me feels shame, guilt, and disgust. However, I can’t control the craving and the humiliation from this lack of self-control creates the perfect feedback loop. ›Torture meat deserves whatever may happen‹, I remind myself, and the thought sends another wave of arousal to my lower body. I’m fucked up. The sane but powerless part of me would like to take a shower.

My tits swing back and forth in my field of vision. I don’t like seeing them from this perspective. They look saggy, like two heavy balls that have been sewn into old, worn-out socks. When they swing towards my face, I clearly see the deep stretchmarks. On white skin stretchmarks are far less noticeable. Mine are clearly visible, on my thighs, on my ass, on my belly, and on my tits. Maybe I shouldn’t care about them. But which woman doesn’t want to be flawlessly beautiful? Even crazy women who offer themselves to be tortured do.

I can also see the red stripes from the earlier whipping. One of them commands my special attention. It connects a string of pearls, in dark red and black, glistening from the barely clotted blood. I will be able to feel the eschar for days. I would like to touch my marks now, caress the raised hot areas. I was battered up several times by my ex-husband and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I wear them as badges of honor. I’m proud of them. I’m ashamed of my stretchmarks, but I’m proud of my scars. It should be the other way around.

My scars are a visible consequence of my weakness, my inadequacies, and my depravation. My stretchmarks are an inevitable consequence of gravity and giving birth to and nursing two wonderful children. But I don’t feel like my head tells me how I should better feel. Even I want to be flawlessly beautiful. My perception of beauty is unusual though. I feel most beautiful in suffering. Or rather after suffering. I don’t like the sweat, the tears, the blood, the tangled and sticky hair, the vomit, the pee. But severe pain overshadows this aversion easily. But how magnificent are the visible reminders of such agony! Bruises, scars on the body and the mind, the exhaustion, the bloodshot milky eyes, the dull, slowly receding pain, the band-aids, bandages, and casts. Well, I’m fucked up. I think I already said that.

»On your knees, niggerwhore!«

I can’t help but smile. It took a few hours, yet here it is, probably the most stereotypical order in such scenarios. In D/s chatgroups subs warn that it is a sign of a bad dominant. But Andy doesn’t bark an order. He says it very calmly, matter-of-factly, like something perfectly obvious. After all, niggerwhores belong on their knees naturally. Everybody knows that. That’s the way of the world. Nothing to make a fuss about. Not even worth raising the voice. In fact, I even hear the slight disappointment in his tone of voice that the niggerwhore couldn’t figure it out herself. Maybe this is just my imagination, but my legs become jelly and I drop to my knees. It’s where I belong in the presence of my superior and tormentor. Andy attaches a snap hook to the short heavy chain around my neck and secures it to an O-ring before he vanishes into the darker parts of the basement without another word.

The chain is too short, and the attachment point too high to lower myself to sit back on my heels. But the O-ring is also too low to kneel up properly. I’m forced in a crouched position between kneeling down and kneeling up, straining my legs muscles adding to the pain from kneeling on the bare concrete floor. My predicament seems rather harmless compared to the whipping and to the anticipated punishment for having three unauthorized orgasms. Yet I hope Andy comes back soon. I can hear what seems to be the opening and closing of metal lockers.

I grunt in discomfort. There’s nothing to do but wait and look around. I’m hooked to the front of a kind of small table. But the object seems to be to high for a table. It reminds me of the vaulting boxes we used at grade school. It even has a similar cushion made of leather that has seen its better days. The box is not very long, not very wide, but quite high. There are O-rings screwed into the box itself, at its sides. There are also more O-rings on the floor next to the box and on the wall behind it.

I can’t figure out the exact purpose of the box. Some kind of bondage device, sure. And it’s not just one box. There are four identical boxes evenly spaced with the same pattern of O-rings attached to the boxes, the floor around them and the wall behind them. There are even number plates from one to four attached to the wall above the boxes. They are old signs; the enamel is flaking. ›Four torture stations. Does Andy really torture four girls at the same time?‹, I ask myself and shiver at the thought of the girls who suffered here before me.

I grunt again and shift my weight to alleviate some of the pain in my knees and legs. Then it suddenly hits me, and I understand what troubles me about the incident in the cage. I’m confused by the hierarchy among Andy’s subs. I’m here to suffer. I’m here to suffer for him. Not for a bratty sub of his. Maybe I can’t accept being treated as the lowest of Andy’s subs permanently as well as I thought. I’m jealous. I want at least the chance to show Andy that I’m worthy of his attention. That I can take more than this fledgling blonde girl. How can I prove myself when my status is set in concrete like that? When I’m demoted to a plaything for this kid, subjected to her every whim? How many subs does Andy even have? ›Torture meat deserves whatever may happen‹, flashes through my mind. Fuck! I’m just a niggercunt and expressly here as torture meat stripped of its rights. Stripped of all rights, forbidden to speak. I need to be the lowest of the subs. Why is it so hard then? I grunt. I sigh. I need to talk.

Andy returns with a box, maybe a tool case, and a tray. He starts to lay out the things he brought on the box next to the one I’m locked to.

»Andy?« My voice is coarse. I have a huge lump in my throat. I’m breaking a rule. It almost feels like blasphemy. But Andy and I agree that good communication is essential for the relationship we both want to build.

Andy stops the preparation for my punishment, turns to me, and gives me a quizzical look. He gives no hint of approval or rejection. If I continue, I must do so on my own responsibility. I pant from the exhaustion in my legs. A part of me fears ruining everything. But communication is essential!

»I would like to talk about what happened in the cage«, I whisper through gritted teeth.

Andy frowns and my spirit sinks lower. He takes several pairs of white leather shackles and belts from the tray before he turns to me again. White shackles for dark skin. I wonder if he bought them just for his new niggerwhore. He’s detail-oriented like that. I bite my lips. He’s everything I want. If there only wasn’t that blonde bitch.

»No«, he says, calmly but firmly. »We talked a lot before you came here. We talked about everything that needed to be talked about. You agreed to that. We will talk again after this weekend. You can say anything you want from the safety of your home. But this, here and now, is not play. It’s a foretaste of the life you can have if you want.«

A very long few seconds pass before Andy continues to talk.

»Maybe I wasn’t entirely clear. I will repeat it once more. Then you can take your decision.«

The wrinkles on Andy’s forehead disappear but he looks very seriously. I get the feeling it’s all or nothing. The lump in my throat grows.

»This weekend is a test. Unfortunately, you live quite far away, and we don’t have the opportunity to explore things as diligently as I would like. Usually, I take months to figure out if somebody is suitable. You agreed to cut corners in this preliminary phase.«

I nod sheepishly. It’s hard to focus while kneeling in pain though.

»The time we have this weekend is precious. I need to test your body and your mind. Testing your mind is more important though. Your body will follow where your mind leads. I need to know if I just chatted with a horny slut when you agreed to the goals of your training and conditioning.«

Andy sits on one of the boxes. He will remind me of the goals. As if I could forget them. In this moment, I’m not sure if they are too ambitious for me though.

»You need a realistic experience as a basis for your decision to continue. I don’t want to waste time, mine or yours. I need you to pass a relentless stress test to be sure that this is what you really want. If you want it from your very essence, not only when you are horny.«

I’m embarrassed but I’m actually pretty horny again. The way Andy talks about training and conditioning, about relentlessness, about testing me, makes my stupid cunt cream again. His words reach deeply into my fucked up mind.

»I will mold your body and mind according to my desires. I will need you to understand that this body and mind are no longer yours. I will make you feel like property and nothing else. I will make you feel like an object without any right to self-determination. You will be utterly controlled by me, used as I wish, abused, and tortured just for my pleasure. But you will also be cared. You will be just property, rightless property, but cherished property.«

Andy jumps from the box, takes the tray, and shows the content. I can see medical gloves and maybe a dozen huge safety-pins. So that’s going to be the punishment for the unauthorized orgasms. I haven’t experienced needle play yet, but again my pussy clenches. Andy squats in front of me and looks directly into my eyes.

»One more thing before you decide. The blonde cunt you’ve met did exactly what I ordered her to do. If you didn’t like what she did you can blame it on me.«

I hurt badly; my legs are shaky. Decision time approaches.

»There’s no way back to negotiating. I will ask for consent once, and never again. Either you agree to the course of action I have outlined. Or you speak up now, leave immediately and we will never meet or communicate again. The decision is absolute and final. So, niggercunt, what is it going to be? Speak and leave? Or stay quiet and become the abject object you say you crave to be?«

I understand that there is a huge amount of coercion in this setup of ›giving consent‹. But I’m not free anymore anyway. I lower my gaze and nod subsequent approval to a decision that was taken a long time ago.

Andy’s voice is still serious, but also vibrates from deep satisfaction:

»Great! Let’s start transforming you into the despicable lump of torture meat that you were born to be, niggercunt!«

Nwanyị akwụna · Oct 10, 2023

35

Andy detaches the snap hook, grabs me under the armpits, lifts me up and sits me onto the box, effortless like he’s putting a doll onto a shelf. I always admire the physical prowess of men. I imagine construction work is physically demanding, but Andy is the owner of the company. I’m not sure how much he is involved in the day-to-day work. But he surely has no problem lifting the equivalent of two large bags of cement. A burly man of maybe hundred kilograms of muscle and a petite female about half his weight. Heavyweight unleashed against strawweight; that’s not a fair fight. If it wasn’t for his white hair and some wrinkles around his eyes, Andy could easily pass as in his late thirties.

My ex-husband worked at an office and didn’t take care of his body. But when he was drunk and angry and horny, he easily subdued me. Usually, I didn’t put up a fierce fight, mostly because I didn’t want the children to wake up and notice what was happening. But the few times the kids where with their aunt I fought back. I needed to see what he was capable of. It took a while, but he wrestled me down and immobilized my body as in a bench-vise. It isn’t easy to admit but those marital rapes were the best fucks I have experienced yet. In these moments, even my lazy, out of shape, pencil pushing ex-husband was redoubtable. And when he brought his equally drunk, angry, and horny ›friends‹ I was nothing more like a plaything, bounced around like a ball on the pitch. I can’t help imagining a gangbang with Andy’s work crew. I wonder if they know about the recreational activities of their boss down here in the basement.

Andy starts to buckle on the white leather shackles, starting with my ankles. The shackles are well-padded, light, but sturdy.

»I’ll have one of the cunts take your measurements. If you prove yourself worthy, you’ll get custom-made heavy metal shackles, belt, and a few extras. I look forward to putting your worthless body in chains, as a niggercunt should be. Maybe one day, when your kids are grown up, I’ll weld the locks shut. But for now, those leather shackles are the stopgap measure. I expect you work hard to earn the upgrade.«

I always wanted to feel the helplessness that comes from inescapable unrelenting metal bondage. I want to feel their heavy weight. Permanently? Damn, that would be a dream come true! But for now, I’m happier to hear that Andy makes plans for the future. He’s not a guy who lives in never-never land. I hope those thoughts are a sign I’ve passed at least the first test task.

Andy fixates the next pair of leather shackles around my thighs, not far above my knees. He’s totally focused, checking that they fit perfectly and don’t fold at the edges. He had written that he considers domination and submission as a form of art. Now he’s the artist, doing the work that produces the artwork. I’m not sure if ›torture meat‹ and ›piece of art‹ aren’t contradictions in terms.

Andy seems so calm and collected. My ex-husband was intoxicated and horny when he forced himself onto me. I cherished his unrestrained drive and desire when he hurt and raped me. In these moments, he was his true self, not holding back his anger and frustration. I liked this uninhibited abusive guy more than the socially acceptable person he pretended to be most of the time. That wasn’t him. I wonder if I can feel the same drive and desire from Andy too. It feels like recognition when a guy loses his cool over you. At least I could see a bulge in Andy’s pants.

In the meantime, Andy has untied my hands and buckled on leather shackles around my wrists. He puts his arm under my knees and shoulders as if he wants to pick me up, but he just sets me down lying on the box. But ›lying‹ is the wrong word. The box is too short to lie on it. Only my upper body fits while my ass sticks out over the edge. Andy blithely pushes the meat equivalent of two bags of cement closer towards the wall. Now my neck is bent upwards, and my chin is pushed against my sternum.

Two ropes are the next items Andy takes from his toolbox. He steps towards the wall by the left side of the box. I can’t see what he’s doing before he steps over to the other side. One of the rope hangs from an O-ring maybe half a meter above my head and to its left. I get an idea of what Andy is intending to do. Indeed, he threads the rope through the ring of the leather shackles on my right foot and pulls it towards the wall ring until my toes touch the cold concrete wall. After my left foot is fixed in place in the same way on the other side, my body is folded up like the front legs of a praying mantis. Only the area from my shoulders to my tail bone touches the cushion. My ass still sticks out over the edge but is now lifted. At least I don’t have to use my core muscles any more to balance the weight of my ass and legs.

Andy casually slaps my exposed pussy and smiles as his work of art takes shape.

»Damn, you have rather long legs. I need to adjust the rings to spread you wider.«

I don’t think I have particularly long legs, surely not longer ones than the blonde from the cage. I’m quite outstretched already and my most private parts are utterly unprotected. But Andy is the type of guy who always demands the maximum.

The box is not even as wide as my shoulders and hips, and my arms are hanging to its sides. Andy routinely attaches the leather shackles on my left wrist to a ring at the floor, and, of course, moves to the other side to bind my right wrist too. He pulls the ropes tight. And I mean really tight. My arms are maximally stretched out and my upper body is forced down against the cushion. I couldn’t lift it to fit a piece of paper under it.

I squirm and start to sweat. It’s getting pretty uncomfortable, and Andy isn’t finished yet. He connects the leather shackles around my thighs to O-rings screwed to the wall almost at floor level. My legs are spread even wider, and now it’s impossible to bring them together the tiniest bit. From shoulders to tail bone I’m caked on the cushion. Andy takes another look, checks the shackles and ropes again, and nods with satisfaction.

»Almost done, but we need some belts. You will squirm and writhe like an eel and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt when I torture you.«

Andy laughs at his own quip. During my experiments with self-torture, I often poked myself with sharp objects, usually knives. I never penetrated the skin, but I doubt needles could be that much worse that I would gain the superpowers required to unfetter myself. More restraints seem to be excessive. I can wiggle my toes and fingers and flutter my eyelashes, but not much more. I’m pretty sure I’m not in danger of falling from the box.

Nevertheless, Andy takes three white broad leather belts, attaches them to the side of the box, drapes them over my body, and moves to the other side to lash the belts down tightly. One belt runs between my shoulders and nipples, the next just under my tits, the third along my waistline. It’s getting tough to breathe in this tightly folded position and additional pressure on the ribcage. A part of me admires Andy’s proverbial Teutonic thoroughness, the other part starts getting impatient.

Suddenly I’m blinded by a flashlight. After being in the semi-darkness of the basement for so long, I can only determine vague contours for a few seconds. Then I can see Andy, standing in front of the box and looking at a mobile phone. He shakes his head and takes another shot. And another shot. The blinding lights let me squint, but I recognize the phone case. We had agreed beforehand that Andy would only take pictures with my cell phone. Of course, he could transfer them to another device if he really wanted to. There's no such thing as complete security. Andy holds the screen in front of my face.

»Look at it, whore! Look really closely at this nasty doodah!«

The ›doodah‹ is my pussy. A close shot of it is on display before my eyes.

»Look at this nasty thing really carefully!«

I’m confused. I know how the ›thing‹ looks like. I even took close-ups of it myself for the avatar I use in D/s chatgroups. What’s Andy’s point? I stare at the screen and notice my bumhole is partially shown too. From this perspective and with my legs spread widely, it looks very deep and dark, like a pointed cone with grooves leading into a bottomless abyss. Before the invention of photography, people couldn’t see their own bumholes. I doubt Andy offers a lesson in appreciation of technology though.

»Look closely, coonslut! Explore every little detail!«

I look but I don’t know what I’m supposed to see. I need to be more thorough with shaving though. A few rather long hairs have escaped the clearing.

»That is a portrait of you. That! … That gash between your legs is you! It ultimately determines what you are. This filthy gash controls you. It has led you here. It leads you down the road of self-destruction. It will annihilate you as a human being. But it also bestows me with the power to rekindle your true self as a mere afterthought of this gash.«

More stereotypes. ›You have a cunt, you are a cunt.‹ ›Your cunt controls you.‹ I’ve read those or similar gems of wisdom often on misogynistic websites. Of course, ›You have a dick, you are a dick‹ and ›Your dick controls you‹ are equally valid, but constant repetition enabled through algorithms and confirmation bias work. Read something often enough, nod at it, and if you want to believe it, it will become self-evident. Especially if you read it with your hand down your panties. ›You have a cunt, you are a cunt.‹ I don’t accept it as unshakable dogma yet but hearing it from Andy boosts its credibility. Hearing it while being tied down painfully and with the ›thing‹ in question utterly exposed and about to be tortured definitely adds to its profoundness. There’s no doubt the higher calling of my cunt led me here, onto this box. If my cunt controls whatever ›I‹ identify as ›me‹, isn’t it my true essence?

»See, I don’t think all females are inferior to all men. My sample is biased as I’m introduced mostly to submissive cunts like you. There are some … a few … very few women who manage to withstand the temptations from the nasty gash between their legs. Those few exceptions have a chance to become fully capable human beings and I treat them accordingly. But they lose anything feminine in the process. Sadly, they seem very unhappy to me when I learn more about them.«

It's hard to listen to such a lecture in my situation. I’m excited and apprehensive about what is supposed to happen. I don’t have the nerves to listen to such broad generalisations. What a load of mush! Andy said we have talked enough, so maybe he should heed his own advice.

»Most females recognize the power their cunts have over them, but they manage to restrain its influence. They treat it like a wild, dangerous animal they occasionally visit in the zoo. They may get off to misogynistic porn sometimes or engage in some soft-washed fifty shades shit. Good for them, if it works, but they are always torn, in a state of cognitive dissonance, and – in my opinion – dishonest to themselves. Most of them seem unhappy too.«

Andy sighs as if really saddened by the lost potential. But what’s wrong with visiting the zoo? Isn’t it better to watch a tiger in a cage than to be devoured by one in the wild? That’s pretty wimpy coming from somebody who wanted to unleash the dragon with all its might a few hours ago. But then the dragon was close but out of sight yet. Now it stands close to the box with its defenceless victim strapped to it. ›Coward!‹, I berate myself, immediately taken aback by my inner chatter. I’m not sure what to think. Am I just timid to think what I really think?

»And finally, there are those like you. Some event or some thought made them realize that the calling of their cunts is impossible to overcome. That the gash is stronger than them. They are restless, they fight, but inevitably they are drawn towards surrendering. They clearly see the watershed. They are drawn to it like metal to a magnet. Sometimes they might manage to move away from the watershed. But it tires them out, they always relapse and end up closer than before. Deep down they know that the watershed is the point of no return. It’s a tough decision to cross the line. It requires a leap of faith to give up the identity, the sense of self, the ego we are taught to protect with our lives. But tell me, N., what’s better? Pretending to be a person while unhappy, fearful, inhibited by societal norms, and ultimately frustrated because you know you can never succeed? Or taking off that mask, let the façade burn down completely and rise as a beautiful phoenix from the ashes? Not as a person, but as a sub-human cunt, perfectly at peace with your inferiority, form and content perfectly aligned, one with your true nature?«

I start struggling against my bondage because I catch myself nodding inwardly to anything Andy says. There’s nothing new in his sermon. He plays my thoughts, fantasies, insecurities, and doubts like organist. He’s not talking to me, despite he called me by name the first time. He’s talking directly to my subconscious. He has studied it well. And he’s taking full advantage of my vulnerable condition, physically restrained and mentally weakened. I knew Andy is a sadist. I knew he is a strong man with the power and determination to overpower me. What I didn’t see clearly is that Andy also is well versed in the psychology of submission and identity and willing to exploit that knowledge for ruthless manipulation. I tug at the ropes and struggle against the belts but of course they don’t yield.

»Look at that!«

Andy shows me the close up picture again. I close my eyes for a few seconds. But I can’t avoid for long looking into the mouth of the fire-breathing dragon again. I realise that the dragon had settled inside me. I open my eyes and stare at the trespasser who’s ready to burn down the façade.

»What is that? Some disgusting wrinkly folds of flesh! That’s what controls you! That’s what you are! It even doesn’t look like its part of your body. Darker wrinkly folds of flesh flanged-mounted to control a weak body and an even weaker mind. How can you think anybody could take a creature controlled by those silly folds between your legs seriously? Do you understand that this inability of self-control ensures that you will always be inferior?«

Those words, spoken loudly and firmly, not in an angry way, but in a tone of deep conviction, hit harder than the earlier lashes on my tits. I start to sob uncontrollably. I’m overwhelmed by waves of contradictory emotions. There’s anger, desperation, disbelief, the spirit of contradiction and defiance. But there’s also the urge to surrender, to lean into the self-abandonment, to rejoice watching the raging fire. Because the façade is standing in bright flames at this point.

»And what in the world in this??«

Andy has magnified a part of the close up. The lower half between my labia is glistening from my juices. Further downward they have solidified to a more viscous, milky patch. A strain of this liquid with some small bubbles inside spills over the edge, forming a droplet ready to run down the rim.

»After all that has already happened to you today, with the expectation of being severely punished and tortured you are still horny as fuck, leaking like an untight faucet. Don’t tell me you are more than an afterthought of that folds.«

He spits at me, aiming at my face, but only reaching my chest. My sobbing becomes uncontrolled. Hysterical. Yes, I’m horny. But I don’t want to be. I don’t want to surrender myself. I don’t want to abandon my identity, humanity, personhood. I’m not just an afterthought of my cunt. It might control a huge part of my life. But I’m also a mother, a sister, a daughter, I have friends, I have a job, I want to help making the world a better place, I have other ambitions and dreams than being just a cunt, just a fuckhole, just an object, or just torture meat. This is just a part of me, a role, limited in time. I’m not a cunt just because I have a cunt!

This is not jilling while viewing a misogynistic website. It’s not chatting with some anonymous men. It’s not even negotiating the terms of this weekend anymore. This is it. As close to the ›real thing‹ as it can get. If it’s just a role, just play, just a part of me, why does everything Andy has said rings true? It’s just a role, it’s just play, it’s not real, it ends when I get home … Is this the façade I’m afraid to burn down? Andy watches me and is ready to administer his final blow.

»How pathetic! You went from ›I want to be subjected to merciless torture‹ to snivelling cry-baby in a jiffy. The truth is not easy to bear, right niggercunt? Instead of spending the extended weekend with your kids you came here. You lied to your parents, told them you wanted to go to a continuing education seminar so they would look after the kids. Your cunt is ruthless. It will get what it wants.«

Through my tear-stained eyes I see Andy look down on my helpless body, on my exposed cunt. On me.

»You are the most despicable woman I’ve ever met. If you manage to accept that you have the potential to become the most beautiful phoenix cunt. I’ll give you a few minutes to let this sink in.«

Andy disappears in the dark. I know everything he has said is utterly objectifying and dehumanizing me. But I’m proud of what he said. The most beautiful phoenix cunt. That seems to be an attainable goal for a fucked up cunt like me. My sobbing intensifies again. I realized I just made another step towards the watershed. Andy is right. Suffering the physical pain is the easier part. Suffering the breaking down of mind and spirit is more painful.

Nwanyị akwụna · Oct 12, 2023

34

»Let's put the dirty traitor behind bars.«

I'm still far from recovering from my breakdown. The sobbing has turned into silent crying, but the tears are still streaming down my face. I'm not at all in the mood of playing guessing games. What the fuck is Andy talking about? He just laughs happily at my confused expression.

»Would you like to see the mugshot again? I’m talking about that treacherous thing here.«

Andy snaps his finger harshly against my cunt. I yelp, and he laughs again.

»See, it betrayed you again.« He mockingly shakes his head. »Putting you in such a vulnerable position. It’s such a cunt!« He snaps again, I yelp again, he laughs again. »Repetitio est mater studiorum!« Andy shakes his head again. »How would a barely literate niggerwhore understand Latin? It means, repetition is the mother of learning. Even an runt like you can learn by repetition. Simple conditioning for a simplistic mind.«

Another snap, another yelp, more laughter. This sequence is repeated several times. Finally, Andy holds the close up picture of my pussy in front of my face again.

»What do you think? What’s that? I mean: Who’s that? It looks just like you. Is that you?«

I nod. Not really in agreement, but I’m tired of fighting. I know that’s another battle lost. Andy rests his elbow close to my head on the cushion. He’s very close to my face, still holding the mobile phone in front of my eyes.

»Let me explain what I mean by putting your cunt behind bars. We will work from the bottom to the top. Do you see those ugly wrinkly cunt lips? Five safety pins through each side should make that nasty thing a bit less adventurous. That’s child’s play. But beyond that is where it gets tricky. See that, the thickest rubbery part of your labia, just below the clit hood? I’ll push one safety pin all the way through it. It’s going to hurt when it pierces the skin to get into one labium, it’s going to hurt again when it pierces the skin to get out of the first labium. Same on the other side. Four times agony by just one needle.«

Andy apparently enjoys scaring me with his detailed explanation and I have to admit he succeeds. Yet again I’m flooded with emotions, stirring up even more apprehension. Eleven needles puncturing my most sensitive parts? I try to brace myself, but I’m exhausted. Andy didn’t lie when he said I shouldn’t expect anything to be easy. The harsh challenges in rapid succession have worn my resilience down quite a lot already. I need to remind myself that this is exactly what I wanted.

»Next, I must push that nasty nub back inside its protective hood. You’re a painslut, so I assume it will be excited and engorged by then. But pushing a needle right through that part of your labia and the middle of the clithood will confine it very effectively, I promise. I will pull forward the upper part of your labia and the final needle through them and the upper part of the clithood will hold everything nicely in place. You can be completely relaxed. When I’m finished, your cunt will not bother you again any time soon from its maximum-security prison.«

›Okay, fine‹, I think. ›Thirteen needles, not eleven. That doesn’t make a big difference.‹ I’m worried what Andy means by ‘any time soon’ though.

»Usually, I use medical needles. They are made specifically to pierce the skin easily and make as little damage as possible. Safety pins look quite pointy too, but compared to the medical needles they are rather dull. Don’t worry, I have disinfected them. They will just cause greater harm to your skin.«

I look at the picture of my pussy again and imagine how it will feel and look like with a baker’s dozen of safety pins pushed through the sensitive skin. But I don’t need the mobile. With my ass lifted I can see the pubic mound and the upper part of the labia. I will be able to watch the final stages of my punishment. Andy and stands up and puts on medical gloves. He sprays the area with disinfectant. The time has finally come. After all the talking and emotional distress, I’m almost relieved to move on to physical torture again.

*-*

My screams echo so strongly in the basement. The deep reverberation makes them even scarier. The pain subsides, but I can hear my own muffled desperation before the sounds finally fade.

My assumption that having needles penetrating the skin is »not that bad« doesn’t really withstand the reality check. I expected something similar to getting the ear pierced, quick and simple with one single thrust. But, of course, that would be a too considerate treatment for torture meat. No, Andy pokes the skin slowly with relish, increasing the pressure incrementally until the skin finally tears with a hardly perceptible quiet plopping sound. When the needle stretches the skin from the inside it’s even more painful when it finally pierces through.

The pain is tough to bare, but it’s such a simple, straightforward perception. Pain shuts down the conflicting emotions, the nagging thoughts, the internal contradictions. It’s liberating to get rid of those burdens. Pain purifies my mind. Well, one contradiction remains. I want the pain to stop, but Andy predicted correctly that I would get sexually aroused again, increasingly so while the needles move towards my clit. I don’t want that to stop.

I’ve lost count of how many safety pins Andy has used so far, how often he has reached for one. I wanted to keep track. I wanted to be prepared for the tricky part of putting my clit behind the bars. Maybe the needles through my clithood didn’t feel that different or maybe the constant poking and tugging blunted the pain perception.

»That’s the last one«, Andy announces.

›Almost done! Just hang on a little longer‹, I cheer myself on. Challenging, not as bad as the tit whipping, but also not much lower on the pain scale. Those safety pins create a weird feeling though. When Andy doesn’t touch my private area, they are almost unnoticeable once the pain has subsided. But when they get touched or touch each other, they send out a cascade of slight pain through my body. Wind chimes made from needles, creating soft melodies of pain. As if to say: ›we're still here‹. It will be interesting to wear them for a while.

My joy of discovery is interrupted by a hissing sound and my pussy is on fire. I wince in my bounds, scream, then whimper. Fuck! Why does disinfectant spray burn so much? Andy picks up my mobile phone again, takes a picture, and shows it to me. Needles through my labia in close proximity to each other, and my clit is really tucked away securely inside it’s hood. There are a few drops of blood. Strange pieces of jewellery. I wonder if the blonde girl could make me orgasm like this. I also wonder how Andy is going to fuck me while the safety pins are in. Now, I’m even more worried what Andy means by ‘any time soon’.

Andy takes off the medical gloves and throws them onto the tray.

»Finally«, he sighs. »Now you are ready for your punishment.«

Wait! Wait!? What?? I thought those needles were my punishment. There’s more? No. No! That’s just too much. Every time I take a deep breath of relieve because I’ve been through a tough challenge it only gets worse. I need a break. I need time to recover, to process what I’ve experienced. But then I remember it’s only been a few hours since I arrived here. Maybe six hours? Maybe eight? Ten hours tops. Is it the middle of the night already?

Andy puts a strange device onto the adjacent crate. It reminds me of the outdated radio in my grandparents’ house with clunky rotary and flip switches. Andy uncoils a black and a red piece of wire and plugs them into the gadget. The weight on one of the safety pins through my labia increases significantly, so does the weight on the top one when I can see Andy connecting the alligator clamp.

The preparation took so long, now everything moves so quickly my weakened mind can barely keep up. Okay, it’s not a radio. First needles, now electro shocks; one new experience right after the other. I touched a battery with my tongue to feel the current as a kid like probably every kid. My father taught me to stay away from the power outlets because they were very dangerous. That’s the whole extend of my experience with electricity. I don’t know what to expect. But I’m quite afraid of the abstract force of an electrical current.

»The scale ranges from one to twenty«, Andy explains, pointing at one of the rotary switches. »The other bitches say, five is good for punishment, six is the maximum they can stand. But I expect more from a painslut like you. And as a nigger you get extra by default. Eight should do it. Here we go. Let’s see what you are really made off.«

Andy turns the switch, eliciting two clicking noises, then he flicks the switch labelled as “on/off”. But nothing happens, except the device starts ticking like a mechanic clock. Out of sudden an incandescent rod is rammed deeply inside my intestines and burns myself from the inside. My immobilized body doesn’t allow more than a desperate inhuman howl of agony.

The pain subsides to a feeble shadow as quickly as it appeared, but my system is in shock. I’m snap breathing, I inhale deeply several times in a row through mouth and nose simultaneously, before my lungs push out the air violently together with some snot. I pant heavily, my breathing remains irregular even after I calm down a bit. The pain threw off one of the most reliable mechanisms in the human body.

The next power surge hits me even harder because I’m far from recovered from the first one. My whole lower body feels compressed, pushed against the hot rod buried deeply inside it. Every muscle is strained to the maximum, but my body can’t get away from the source of the pain. When the pain stops suddenly, even the reverberation of my pain-stricken, hoarse outcry is frightening. Again, my breathing oscillates from ragged to shallow.

»Very nice!« Andy’s voice barely permeates my consciousness. »Level eight, five seconds once a minute. I’ll go and have some fun with the other cunt. Your screams make a good soundtrack for romantic endeavours. Don’t worry, I’ll see if you’re okay when your bawling stops.«

»No.« This faint plea is all I can squeeze through my twitching lips.

»No? Fuck, yes! That’s exactly what you’re here for, torture meat.«

Andy just disappears from my sight. The device continues to tick. Despite my deranged state of mind, I’m gobsmacked. He leaves me behind like this? Shocked by this evil device every minute and he doesn’t even watch? My bewilderment and chagrin are cruelly interrupted by the next electric impulse to my lower body. The rod seems to heat up every time. My flesh is fried from the inside out. I truly expect to see smoke from burnt meat like in a barbecue, but the safety pin with the cable attached hangs peacefully from my labia, just twitching a bit from the twitching of the body it’s connected to. I know the next shock is approaching, the ticking seems to get louder in tune with my heavy breathing.

But this pain is something I can’t prepare for. Again, my body and spirit are crushed from the brutal assault. All muscles flex, even antagonists in opposite directions. My body tears itself apart, is taken over by electric impulses from the outside. My intestines are cooked. As my screams fade, I panic. This torture will kill me. I will die, right here on this forsaken box, in inexpressible agony. I gag from the mix of tears, sweat, and snot that I draw into my air tube as I struggle to breath. What a pathetic end to my abominable life! Perhaps this way of demise fits quite well for a cunt who went out to be tortured.

One shock follows the next, and while I feel at the end of the road, I’m still alive. My chest rattles from the force my lungs scream for air, I drip a stream of tears, sweat and snot onto my chest. I can feel my heart pumping hard and fast, ready to explode. I’m still alive but I’m getting weaker and weaker with every shock. I scream uncontrollably when they hit, but when they fade I can’t find the strength to call for Andy. That’s just too much. I’m losing the control of my bladder and its content seeps out slowly, burning the fresh wounds the needles tore.

Adding insult to injury, glugging sounds from the other corner of the basement drown out even my heavy breathing between shocks. Andy is skullfucking that blonde bitch while I’m dying here! For a second, I feel a wave of arousal flushing my body, but the next tick from the old-fashioned torture device reminds me of the high price I pay for a slight increase in pleasure Andy might get from hearing my screams.

I grasp the straw jealousy and hate offer me at this moment. I will not die! I will get through this and get my revenge on that blonde cunt! I grrrrrr and rawr during the next shocks but it doesn’t come from pure desperation now. Five seconds! I can endure anything for five seconds! My spirits slowly awake, still burning very low though. If I only knew how many more shocks I must endure! Hearing loud deep groans from Andy and the shrill moans of a female orgasm making their way to my torture chamber reinforce my determination.

But the bouts of agony induced by the electric power continue mercilessly. I fall back into a deep hole of despair, getting deeper and deeper after each time I regain some control of my emotions. I need this torture to end. Why doesn’t my body rescue me from this suffering? I pray to a higher power I don’t believe in to grant me at least a black out. Merciful unconsciousness. Just for the few seconds of the next shock.

»That’s so fucking hot!«

The blonde bitch stands in front of the box, arm in arm with Andy, both showing the afterglows of rough and satisfying sex. She has the audacity to giggle looking down on my tortured body. I will kill that whore! I release a husky snarl. I don’t even know where that came from. The device still ticks, and I’m thrown into another gruesome attack of pain. I unravel again. I’m reduced to a lump of uncoordinated biological processes.

»Wow! That’s so fucking hot!«

»Yes, that’s really hot.« Andy nods and flips the switch. »But it is enough for now.«

The ticking stops, but it seems to take ages before I really believe that the shocks have stopped, and I regain some composure. My breathing slowly gets more regular again, but tears still roll from my eyes and strains of snot drip from my nostrils. Andy and the blonde bitch just stand there, looking down on me as if preparing the autopsy of an alien strapped to a box.

»Look at that puddle of cuntcream on the floor, Master!«

»Yes, it’s absolutely amazing. It’s like her cunt is not connected to the rest of her body. At least, it’s not correctly connected in the usual sense. Despite the pain her body goes through her cunt creams as if she has the best time of her life. I think she has the best time of her life subconsciously. She’s a genuine hardcore masochist.«

If I had the strength I would agree. I think I enjoy pain because it feels pleasurable on a subconscious level. That’s a fucked-up way to feel pleasure though, being forced to take the detour of suffering. However, in a few days, I will remember this time on the box as immensely painful and as equally pleasurable. My subconscious will feed me the thrilling memories.

Andy removes the crocodile clamps. Through the mental haze I feel he is tugging at the needles on my cunt.

»You are chaining her cunt shut, Master?«

»Yes, that niggerbitch is a genuine masochist and painslut. She needs to internalize that suffering is her only gateway to anything resembling pleasure. Her cunt can’t be more than a source of pain. If she stays with me, she can’t ever have a pleasurable orgasm again. Only from pain, suffering, agony. The cunt will be shut down permanently. If she decides to continue her training, she will be mouthcunt and anal only.«

I hear the words, I know Andy is talking about me, but I don’t really understand what he’s saying. Parts of my brain are powered down to balance the overstimulation.

»Do you think she will agree to this, Master?«

»I bet you she will be begging me to pierce her cunt shut permanently. It won’t take long.«

Andy smiles widely.

»Give her a few minutes to recover, take her to the showers first and then to my bedroom. The night’s still young.«

Nwanyị akwụna · Oct 12, 2023

Interlude

Andy M. Today at 20:28 <> Next. I’ve read the new chapters of the account of your first weekend here. Not bad for a numbnuts niggercunt like you.

N. Today at 20:30 <> Thank you, Master.

Andy M. Today at 20:33 <> Henceforth, you will be topless and wear the usual nipple clamps while working on the continuation. Just like when you blog or chat on social media or when you watch porn.

N. Today at 20:34 <> Master, if this cunt may?

Andy M. Today at 20:34 <> Yes, what?

N. Today at 20:36 <> This would delay progress significantly. Until now this cunt can work on this even if it has only limited privacy. This would be impossible with the new rule.

Andy M. Today at 20:42 <> I understand but I don’t care. First, you are my property, and I will enjoy the thought that you were in pain while writing. A good painslut should be in pain as often as possible. While I appreciate your efforts to please the readers this and progress are subsidiary to my order as your Owner. You will prioritize: less browsing porn, less chatting, more writing. Second, reader who stuck with the account thus far will also appreciate to know you’re in pain at each keystroke. My rule stands and you will let your readers know.

N. Today at 20:43 <> Yes, Master. Then so it shall be.

So that’s how it is from now on.

The heavy chain that connects the nipple clamps scratches over the desk surface and the Japanese clamps bite into my nipples since I started to translate the chat.

Back to the regularly scheduled program.

Nwanyị akwụna · Oct 15, 2023

33

»Let me remove those right away. You’ll be able to breathe easier.«

The blonde girl removes the tight belts that sharply constrict my upper body. Indeed, my lungs get access to formerly supressed volume. With the deep inhale I suck in more snot too. I cough feebly.

»Aww. Poor thing. Try to relax. I’ll untie you once I'm done here.«

So now this bitch pretends to be friendly and well-meaning out of the sudden. What a stupid shit-ass cunt! She carefully winds the cables and picks up the hellish electroshock machine to put it in the toolbox.

»Wow! Level 8! I tapped out after a few shocks of level 5, and you got at least 30 of level 8 shocks!«

›Yes, you pathetic blonde wuss!‹ I rejoice internally. ›You may be taller, and you may be more beautiful, but this niggerbody is tough. A little brat like you can’t stump me!‹ Again, the rage helps to rekindle my spirits, but as I wake up from my deranged, trance-like state more and more, I must admit it’s not her fault. I would have done the same thing in her position. She’s just a naked girl with bright red whip marks who’s tidying up the mess after the torment. She returns after the torture devices are neatly stowed away.

The girl starts to remove my remaining bonds, beginning with my hands. My arms remain hanging limply besides the box. They don’t seem to be a part of my body anymore. My ears are ringing, my heart is still racing. My thighs are untied too, then my left foot. But when the girl unties the knot at the shackles of my right foot, she’s unable to hold the weight of my legs, they swing forward, suddenly shifting my body’s centre of gravity. I slide off the box, just slump helplessly in front of it. I painfully fall on my butt. My upper body is leaning crocked against the box.

»Damn! Fuck! I wasn’t careful enough. I’m sorry.« The girl squats next to me. »You’re really banged up.«

She offers me a roll of paper towels. Like in slow-motion I wipe my tear- and snot-stained face. My perceptions are still dampened down. But this setup makes me laugh coarsely. Finally, I can clean my face, but now I’m sitting in the puddle of my own pussy juices. Why should a broken ragdoll even clean its face? Its arms are too heavy. What does it matter? The blonde girl extends her hand towards me.

»Come on. I’ll help you up.«

I guess at some point even the ragdoll needs to get up. I take the offered hand and try to help, but for the most part the girl must lift me up. It gets dark before my eyes; I sway back and forth ominously. The blonde girl puts my arm around her shoulders and her arm around my waist to support me. But I can’t take a step forward. My brain sends the message, but it gets lost on its way. I panic. The torture must have caused permanent damage. The nerves in my lower body must have been fried.

»Take your time.«

Finally, I manage a small step forward. Then another one. It seems parts of my brain reboot. I’m learning to walk again. I’m slower than a centenarian though. And without support I’d probably fall flat on my face. It seems to take minutes to get to the other side of the basement. In my state, the stairs appear as an insurmountable barrier. At first, I must pull myself together at each stair tread. Nearly on the top, I dare to take the last steps without resting every time. A door opens to a long corridor. I sigh, but step by step the distance to the door at the other side decreases. Behind that door I feel soft carpet under my feet. I want to curl up in foetal position and sleep for a week. But the girl leads my onwards. She opens the door to a brightly lit, clean bathroom with white tiled floors and walls.

I’ve made it back from the torture basement to civilization. I hold on to the hand-basin. The person reflecting in the mirror seems to have been through a lot. Tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, confused and empty gaze. Her jaw clatters involuntarily. She gives a pitiful impression.

»Here you’ll find anything you need. There’s also disinfectant spray. You might want to use it on your breast and … well, with the needles down there. Will you be all right by yourself?«

The wretched creature in the mirror nods.

»Take your time but not too long. It’s almost 2am already. Call, if you need help. I'm next door.«

The girl closes the bathroom door behind her. Finally. Alone. Instead of heading for the shower tub I sit down on the toilet seat. Finally. A break. Finally. I sit there, mind completely blank, just feeling the weakness of my body. I don't feel pain. I mean I don’t feel anything I could call pain after the hellish agony I’ve just been through. My tits hurt from the whipping; my cunt hurts from the needle holes. But it’s nothing. It’s registered somewhere in the pain centre of the brain. It works to rule, but I doubt the rules make sense anymore. Does pain tolerance change over time? And if so, does it increase by slow and steady progression or by heavy shocks to the system?

I finally slog along over to the shower tub, hold myself on the shower bar, and turn on the water. The slightly warm water runs over my body, slowly re-charging the energy in my muscles. I start to examine my skin closely. I feel my stomach, my thighs, my ass, my hips, and of course my nether regions. I don’t find anything wrong. It’s a miracle. After my lower body has been barbequed, I can’t find any trace of damage. My strength is greatly reduced. My stamina is virtually non-existent. But my overall health doesn’t seem to be impacted at all. I’ll just need time to recuperate.

I take the shower head from its holder and rinse off my tits and my pussy meticulously. I don’t want an infection. The warm water feels nice, the jets of water make the connected safety pins wobble. I close my eyes and enjoy their dance for a while. But suddenly I have a revelation. If such intense torture can be done without resulting in permanent damage, it can be repeated over an over. The dragon can be unleashed full-scale, again, and yet again. This intensity, even going to such length as doubting I would survive the anguish, is reproduceable and controllable.

But that isn’t the true revelation. That’s just an observation. The true epiphany is that – absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, not without hesitation, but inevitably – I want to experience it all again. No, I don’t want to. I’m compelled to experience it again. Forced. Obliged. I have no say in it. I just know it needs to happen again. That’s a scary realization. I would like to explore further the origin of this dark force inside me. But I’ve been told not to take too long and I’m terribly tired. There will be time for that later.

I turn off the tap and dry myself off. Reluctantly I spray tits and pussy with disinfectant but this time it’s not too bad. Still a little unsteady on the feet I step into the hallway. The house is quiet. I open the next door but only find some kind of storage room. What a strange house tour! Naked, needles through the labia, whip marks on the tits, almost been tortured to death – at least feeling that way. And yet I go on. And what would be the alternative?

I find the living room, but it is empty. So is the adjacent kitchen. Despite of what I’ve just been through I have a hunger pang. I haven’t had anything to eat since the sandwich on the train on my way here. But it’s not my place to loot the fridge. I lean over the sink and drink some cold refreshing water.

The next door opens to the bedroom. Andy lies relaxed on the bed, the duvet pushed aside, only wearing boxer shorts. The blonde hussy sits naked on the edge of the bed. They seemed to have talked about something. I’m sure she’s forging sinister plans. But no, that’s just another bout of jealousy. It hurts to see her so close to Andy while I’m not even allowed to talk. I remain at the door, insecure whether to enter or give them more privacy.

»Oh, the black lady finally grants us the honour of her presence. Won’t you come in?«

Andy’s snarky tone of voice hurts, especially after what I’ve just been through. For him, mind you. I step forward hesitantly.

»You see, I’m a generous host. Even to such a lowlife like you. I even grant you the privilege to sleep in the master bedroom on the first night.«

For a brief wondrous moment, I see myself snuggled up to the warm muscular body on the bed. But Andy turns to the side, facing away.

»But don’t dare to disrupt my sleep, niggerwhore. I’d make you bitterly regret that. The cunt will prepare you for the night.«

The blonde girl stands up and points to the low bedside table. ›My‹ set of white leather shackles is laid out there. Really? After this day, I shall sleep in shackles? I sigh and approach the girl and my fate for the night.

Nwanyị akwụna · Monday at 4:10 AM

29

How long has it been? One hour? Two hours? Three hours maybe? After she had tied me up, the blonde girl had leaned down and whispered: »Good night, bitch. Enjoy your anguish.« She had switched off the lights and closed the bedroom door behind her. How much time had passed since? I have no idea. I hope three hours have already gone by, but I fear it’s only one. Maybe even less. I know how the internal time stretches the more I want it to pass quickly.

We measure time in units of periodic recurrent processes. The rotation of the earth. The swing of a pendulum. The only such level process in the room is Andy’s breathing. But my breathing is fitful and strained. It drowns out the calm breathing from the bed. The other noises in the quiet bedroom are erratic. There are my sighs when I try to find a more comfortable position. Then there are the louder grunts of frustration and pain. They happen less often than the sighs, but I can’t hold them back altogether.

Finally, there’s the clatter of the chain links that bind my ankles to a ring at back of the belt around my waist. My elbows are pulled together behind my back. They are not touching, but the gap between them is not wide and my shoulders had taken a lot of strain today already. My wrists are fastened to the sides of the belt around my waist. I squirm like a fish out of water to find a slightly less uncomfortable position. Clack. Clack. Laying on the side is not less uncomfortable, so I return to laying on my stomach. Clack. Clack. Maybe it’s better to lay on my back? Clickety-clack. It’s not better. Clack, clack, clack, clack. I grunt loudly. I’m holding my breath but the breathing from the bed continues, apparently unaffected by my misery.

Being »allowed« to share a room like that is not a privilege, but only additional torture. I need to sigh, I need to grunt, I need to move around. But at the same time, I’m afraid to do either of it. Not because I’m afraid of the punishment Andy had heralded if I disrupted his sleep. I don’t want to disturb my torturer. His comfort, his undisturbed sleep is important to me. My agony is inconsequential. I get angry at myself for not being able to control myself.

Again, I’m wondering why, when and how I had developed this propensity for suffering. I remember a story my mum had read to me. It must have been at an early age, preschool at least. I don’t remember the details. It was one of those »dragon captures girl, prince rescues girl, and they live happily ever after« fairytales. I was disappointed when I learnt that the dragon kept the girl imprisoned in a cozy tower room. A girl should be kept chained up in the deepest cell in the dungeon, immured if necessary. That’s how it’s done. Every child knows that. I started playing captured girl in my parent’s basement.

»Stop making noise, fuckhead!«

I must admit, my last grunt had been loud. Every muscle in my body hurts. Even worse, in this bondage my tortured tits are being pushed against the ground. The »ground« in this case is a bedside rug. But what sounds comfy and cozy is just the opposite. The rug looks like an oversized crochet blanket. It’s made from some hard and sharp-edged plastic. Who has ever stepped onto an interlocking plastic brick your kid had left on the floor gets an idea of how laying on that bedside rug felt. I’m sure that thing was not there for any aesthetic reason but as a torture device in disguise.

How much time had passed since the blonde girl had switched off the light and left the victim in her agony? When does Andy wake up on Saturdays? I know he can’t sleep in often because of work, but he’s not a natural early bird either. What if he wanted to get a full night’s sleep? I can’t take this for another couple of hours. I yelp constantly now; I just can’t stop it. The chains clang.

»Okay, that’s it, you rude uppity piece of cunt trash!«

Andy jumps out of the bed and storms out of the bedroom. No, he just opens the door, grabs my hair with one hand and the bedside rug with the other. He yanks me and the rug towards the door. I scream in pain.

»I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!«

»Oh, shut the fuck up!«

Andy drags me across the floor like a heavy sack, completely unfazed by my hysterical screaming. Finally, he lets go of my hair, turns toward the bedroom, kicks me hard against the upper body, just under the rib cage, and slams the door shut behind him. I’m alone. I sob uncontrollably. I’m in so much pain. I’m broken. I’m so disappointed by myself. It takes quite a while before I calm down a little, before my sobbing peters out and I return to sighing and grunting. At least I can do this more carefree now.

After my divorce I dated a few »normal« men. I was lonely after I moved to Europe. Most men don’t date single mums. Those that do are kind and compassionate. At least that my experience, based on a rather small sample size. Unfortunately, that’s just the opposite of what I need. It felt just wrong. The sex was unbearably boring to me. One of the guys truly adored me. The more he tried to make me happy the more I drifted away. Finally, I decided to talk about my needs for submission, degradation, and pain. He listened carefully, nodded, smiled, said I shouldn’t worry. He always wanted a woman like that he said. But what he meant was a little slap on the bum. What he meant was calling me ›his sweet little slut‹ teasingly. When I told him what I meant he was shocked and dismayed. »You mean you seriously want me to hurt you? I can’t do that. I love you too much to do that!«

That seemed strange to me at first. That guy was prepared to do almost anything to make me happy. Except for the one thing I felt I really needed. He couldn’t do that because he loved me too much. But then I realized it was not strange at all. Our ideas were irreconcilable. I wasn’t asking for kindness or compassion. I wasn’t asking for happiness. I wasn’t asking for love. I wasn’t asking for roleplay. I was asking for somebody to seriously hurt me. I wasn’t asking for make pretend. I was asking for abuse. Somebody who truly loved me really couldn’t do that.

Andy had kicked me hard. He had lost control and hurt me in a fit of rage. That’s abusive, right? Can anybody understand that I’m happy about that? I’m not here to get to know Andy. I’m not here for a relationship. I’m here to get a need fulfilled. I’m taking advantage of Andy. He makes me feel he genuinely likes to torture and degrade people. He makes me feel he genuinely doesn’t care about me beyond the body that experiences physical pain and the mind that experiences psychological pain. We take advantage of each other. We are both broken in compatible ways. We’re psychopaths in the eyes of everybody else but a perfect match for each other.

I’m smiling as I type these sentences, almost two years after the events. I’m smiling as the Japanese nipple clamps bite into my sensitive nipples. It wasn’t easy and we had our crisis moments. But I remember the feeling I had in this moment, laying naked and bound on a torturous surface, absolutely helpless, in severe pain: This is what I always wanted. I found somebody who was able to give me what I need because he doesn’t give a fuck about me. That’s not entirely true. Andy cares just enough to do what’s necessary to minimize the risk of permanent damage. That’s enough for me.

I slip into blissful agony and agonizing bliss. I scream from pain and happiness. I cry from pain and happiness. Time passes and the pain gets worse, and the happiness explodes. I want it to stop because I can’t take it for a single moment longer. Yet I don’t want it to end, ever. My words are incapable to express what I feel. In fact, I’m losing my words. I’m losing the ability to think. I’m just a body in pain. Just meat. Wincing in agony. Helplessly restrained. But what’s left of me feels liberated and free like never before.

The euphoria wears off a little bit. I’m excited and exhausted at the same time. There’s no window in the hallway and it’s pitch-dark. I have no indication at all of the passing of time. Is it dawning yet? I finally drift of into a very light sleep and back to semi-lucidity. Even if time moves slowly, it can only move into one direction. This night of suffering will end at some point. But the suffering will not, and I’m looking forward to the days and nights to come.

Nwanyị akwụna

Spectator

42

Warpstone

Guard

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41

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39

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38

malins

Stumbling Seeker

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36

Nwanyị akwụna

Spectator

35.5

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35

Nwanyị akwụna

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34

Nwanyị akwụna

Spectator

Interlude

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Spectator

33

Nwanyị akwụna

Spectator

29

Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

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Guard

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41​

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39​

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38​

Stumbling Seeker

Spectator

​

36​

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35.5​

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35​

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34​

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Interlude​

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41

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Interlude

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29