Endurance is my master’s pleasure for a carnival of nasty delights. My submission almost defies life. To submit is to ignore that voice inside your head that is urging you to run out of the room. And it takes all my strength not to run.
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There’s certain things. I like certain things. I’m not supposed to, but I do. I like to pretend I’m a little girl. And there’s other things I like to pretend too, about men and about them wanting me in a way that’s wrong. Everybody says it’s wrong. But I like it. My boyfriend knows the way I like to play at being a little girl. So he bought me a T-shirt that says kittie on it. And he watches me from his car, waiting until I’m done with class. Sometimes he follows me home. I see him other times too. Watching.
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I sometimes like to flaunt my girl-ness. My pleated skirt bounces as I walk, swinging and swaying and hinting just enough at what lays beneath. I flaunt my strength, flexing my girl-muscles, the control I imagine I have on the people that I walk past. I approach the building that is now so familiar to me, waiting for the elevator that always takes forever to arrive– I never saw what hit me.
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Her soft flesh is clay to be molded by his skillful hands. Her cries are music to his ears. Her torture is his desire. And his pleasure is her pain. So he covers her pretty, young face in rubber hoods and wraps ropes tight around her limbs. He lifts her to his lap, pulls her close to tug at her stiff nipples and fondle her tenderized cunt. Then he makes her scream, whip lashing hard against glossy, firm skin, breasts bouncing, faceless head shaking hysterically.
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My dreams curdle the night, the heavy, wet November night. Outside, the rustle of corn in the fields, silage of dreams, of a man’s want. And inside, my boner poking up against the sheet. Lightening far off, breaking out the night. The whispering of the house, conversations of ghosts. And the howls. That pack of dogs is come sniffing around the barn again. They always know when I got me another girl. I got me two of them a couple days ago, their pussies ripe and glittery-wet like jewels, nipples as tight and hard as nuggets, cold enough to ripple the skin. November’s got a chill around these parts. When a girl shivers it bones me up fat and hard, strong enough to squirt…
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Bound and half-strangled, 912 stews in a sexual smog. She’s fucked, spanked, flogged, ass-fucked, and whipped in this dark rape fantasy. 912 at her best, drenched with sexual want. She dangles by her neck, already dreamy, half-gone. Her dress is filmy. You see everything. And she is filmy, transparent, as though she’s draining off slowly, and you’re drinking her, taking your time. You pull the rope tighter, so that it digs into her throat. You cover her nose and mouth. She fights for air. Dropping her to the floor, you drag her by the hair, cowing her with a cattle prod. A tray with condoms, dildo, ass plug, and lube is set beside her. She’s forced to plug herself even though she’s shackled. It’s all for you, for your enjoyment. She fucks herself. She’s bent over a stool and spanked. Tears fall. Her mouth is stuffed and taped. She’s spanked harder.
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John never did get it. The sexual stuff, I mean. Like how I wanted him to tie me up. How I wanted to be helpless. I wanted him to use me, use my “holes”, all of them, for his gratification. Put anything you want inside of me, I said to him. Treat me dirty. When we first got married, he tried a few things with me. But then he got disgusted, saying I was crazy. A pervert. John has no idea what I’m doing this weekend. He’s gone for three days on a business trip. I’m on the train to New York.
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An evaluation, he said during the phone interview. An evaluation. He sits her in a chair. “You’ve done this before?” The chair is hard. Wood. She shifts. “A little. You know. With friends.” She doesn’t understand the difference. She’s thinking of rope that remains loose, rope that forgives. And him fumbling with knots. She doesn’t know what she’s thinking.
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Like a diapered newborn in her highchair, 412 fidgets restlessly, anxious to come out and play. Metal restraining her absolutely around the neck and wrists, she fixes her makeup chained to the station. Metal boots tightened at the bottom crush her finely arched feet, causing her large eyes to glaze with tears. With a rubber brake laced over neck and mouth, she is forced to gulp water that drips into her mouth through a long tube.
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I woke up sore and aching. My whole body was a conductor for pain. I reflected on the events of last night. It had started out as fun actually. My school girl clothes put me in the mood for mischief, and I shuffled around, contorting my body and trying to get out of PD’s ropes. PD stood in the corner, laughing at my foolhardy attempts and I grew ever more determined to work my way out. Every success was countered by PD with an adjustment, a larger knot, a rope around my neck pulled continuously higher. Still I kept trying at the ropes, pushing and working at the knots, giggling all the way. PD finally made me sit on my knees and pulled the rope taut. Now I had to struggle to deal with the pressure on my knees, which were quickly becoming sore. I hadn’t realized how much energy I had expended in trying to get out of PD’s ropes earlier, I was getting really tired really fast. I tried to sit back on my feet to relieve my knees, this position put a lot of strain on my thighs, and tightened the rope on my neck further,but I held on…
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Dairy available here.
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