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It might be the night before Christmas, it could well be day, but there is no way to tell. There was a creature stirring fitfully, waking up to unfamiliar smells, musk, blood and sex in the pitch blackness. Waking up in limbo, in a half-dream of being at home, in a familiar bed, but the smell of and feel of safety was now obscenely replaced. The space is small, easily inducing claustrophobia without regard for whether one is new blood, seasoned veteran, and compounded by incessant bouts of pain here, there and all over. When there is no marker of time, one starts to lose their selves, imagine what is not there, to hear the one thing they come to anticipate single-mindedly. The association between Pavlov’s dog, the tuning fork and food proved a more perverse aspect of the psyche – cruel anticipation of the little chime. Even more perverse since your chime only means fresh pain, which, by this time, is not even half-reward for the almost broken creature at your whim. Your voice brings constant fear, fresh tears and a primal, stupid lust.
The only real marker of reality, the last vestige of the mind’s connection to the body of the creature, now almost abjectly object, animal, property is in her movement. There is no part of my body that is not physically, palpably hurting, aching dully or stinging with pain without reprieve. The endorphins have long worn off – a frustrating paradox. What is now pain that I want direly to escape was precisely what was integral in bringing about the incredible rush that I had craved all my life in the first place. Such sadistic pain giving such perverse pleasure, and now, even feeling the full extent of hurt and no longer able enjoy it, there remained a deep need, an almost mechanical response to you. Like a child awaiting Santa, the Gothic version of that tale.
It starts from my toes to my feet, neatly caned in rows from sole up, the design similar to that on my back, ass and thighs, only from different instruments of torture. The layered stripes now a mix of angry red, bruised purple and sickly yellow welts, the old never having had the time to heal before the new were laid. These methodical, exacted patterns of lines were matched by circles of burns caused by rough ropes, around my breasts, wrists, ankles, knees and stomach. Some of these rope marks would have never been as beautifully vivid if my body had not responded so violently against the bonds during the last whipping. You said I had never squirmed nor whimper-begged as much as when you were raping me after that beating. My breasts bear the significant brunt of the struggle, from my weight and from the movement. The awful throb in the two orbs has been constant, almost as if close to detached from my being if not for the sensation of utter pain. You thought they looked rather joyfully Christmassy, and enjoyed the colorations of my bruising.
I breathe in deeply to stop moving completely, so I do not feel anything – futility. My jaw hurts from gags, and you using my face as your cum-hole. The sharp breath and tightening of my stomach makes my cunt and ass hurt deeply, raw, loose, sloppy, feeling the stretch of cock, fist and object. Blink. The blinking red light, the evil eye above in the corner of the room distracts for a second. Fresh humiliation hits home, only half able to process the potential, further degradation, but no longer able to cry – tears like icicles, as you described them. You had said you would publish my suffering, sluttiness and your ownership of me to the world. I thought you were merely pandering to fantasy, with safety net, without intention of ever making it real, of exposing my shameful need for debasement to one and all.
The light goes off. Silence and darkness for forever until I think I hear something else that may not be real. Heavy, firm footsteps, keys, the creak of the door, and I shut all of these illusions out, along with the dim light bathing the room. There are surely creatures stirring. “On your knees, slave-girl”, and I obey, automaton to your will. I do not look up at you, nor reply but feel your gaze burning down on my body, your property. Even when you come down to my level, my head remains bowed, reverently, fearfully, lustfully, obediently. I try hard not to cry out as you take my intensely swollen and sore nipples between cruel thumb-forefinger grips, but fail miserably, and for a moment, catch your gaze.
“It is Christmas today, slave, and since you have been such a good girl, you get what every girl asks for – five golden rings.” Icicles start to fall down my cheeks even as I feel my cunt betray me, my body aroused by your impending gift. “Two here,” my nipples fiery as you mercilessly twist in opposing directions. “One in your clitoris, one in your tongue... and the last, where do you guess?”
I seal my own fate when I see you smile. “Septum, Sir.”
“Correct. It’s going to be a good Christmas, slave.”
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