TIME TO WAKE UP, SUICIDE GIRL

TIME TO WAKE UP, SUICIDE GIRL

Part II

Later, when you’re hanging in the cage, experimenting with finding a comfortable position to wait it all out, you’ll reflect how you scoffed at the French for seeing a profound connection between orgasm and death. You’ve been making yourself cum every day, almost every day, and most days more than once ever since you got the trick of doing it reliably back when you were thirteen. But to you, a nice cum was always something like a nice hamburger. That was then.

Maybe coming (cumming!) so close on the heels of a handshake with death is what did it.

They say your first time’s your worst time, you’ll think, and be glad that in a way it’s not exactly true at least purely in its own sense at least for you. If it only got better from that baseline, you’d have really been fucked. Your first time was so magical, colossally mind blowing, so fan-fucking-tastic, you’ll not be able to be sure whether everything from that second time he thrust into your counterthrust up til your time alone in the cage was not, in fact, one huge big great enormous fuck, or a lucid dream or just exactly what. If your first had been your worst time, it’d have been all you’d ever want to do. You’re already a complete fuckbeast, fuckable by any fuck who’ll fuck you. But there’s so much more you want to do, want to see, than just sex.

But that will be then, later. Later than now. Now, you’re looking down on yourself afloat in a tub almost big enough to be a pool. Your damaged wrists dangle over the lips of the rim, they’re un-bandaged, seeping just a little. There’s a cheery cherry tone to the water, like taking a bath during heavy flow before you went on the Depo.

He’s sitting at the back of the tub or is it the side? The tap is in the side, so maybe front and back together are trivial or maybe not. He’s bracing your head against his chest. He’s bathing you. He’s bathing you with a loofah, paying special attention to your tits. Soft music is playing. David Gilmour on guitar, Nick Mason on keyboards, Roger Waters bass.

You don’t know what’s going on. why are you looking down on yourself? Was your salvation at his hands just a dream and how the dream is over? Are you in the morgue and he’s washing you down for a date with a box and your mother’s uniquely deplorable taste in clothes for you? They don’t bathe the corpses in tubs in the morgue, do they? Could he have fucked you to death? Is that it? Now, he’s ooching over to open  the drain with his toe, lifting you limp up out of the wet water and… Oh. It was a mirror on the ceiling. Good.

He’s dressing your wrists now, first pads, then gauze, then ace bandages, finally tough rubberized bandages. Your wrists are wrapped as well as a fighter’s fists. He deftly plants a peck on your slack lips and returns to your hands.

He slips a padded tube sort of like the handle for a Bowflex home gym into each palm. There is a tough silky strap that must be ballistic nylon across your fingers which he tightens. There is a strap across the back of  each hand which he tightens. The backstrap of each apparatus has a pocket for your thumb which as he tightens each one, cements each hand into a comfortable fist. Then there are cross straps that further entomb your hands. A powerful d-ring sits across your knuckles, providing attachment options. He seals each restraint with a little padlock.

“Buh-bye hands,” you murmur giddily. “Gonna miss you.”

He chuckles at that and moves to your ankles. These restraints are more conventional, just a stout nylon band with an O-ring on the outside, which he also padlocks on.

Then he comes back to your hands, testing their range of movement.

“How does that feel” he asks, rolling each imprisoned hand around its range of motion.

“Hurts,” you reply. “But nothing like before.”

“Good,” he says. Then he takes a metal collar with an O-ring in the front and affixes it around your neck with a very final-sounding ‘click.’

“Now. You are ready. For bed,” he pronounces and lifts you up and carries you into the master bedroom.

It’s actually a fairly small room, totally dominated by the Grand Emperor sized four-poster bed. There is a four-section mirror dominating the double closet doors, giving you a very good view of yourself as he clips your hands together and lays you at the foot of the bed.

Gods, you look sexy! A pale little collared shackled fuckslave, a pretty little naked body capped by a tangle of long wet black hair.

It takes too much effort to stretch out your legs over the foot of the bed, but it’s effort well spent, since it give you the impetus to roll over onto your stomach and press your feet against the floor.

You straighten your legs and point your toes and admire your inviting glistening quim and your tiny pale asshole, push back, pull forward, grinding your nipples against the bedspread, then drop down, grinding your clit against the same, then up, back forward, down working your hips, your ass like it was a drill.

Then he’s behind you, his hand flat on the small of your back, right where he’s going to have the tattooist put your tramp stamp a few days from now. He strokes down along your flank, then around to your ass, delivering a playful smack, right in the sweetest of that sweet spot, just hard enough to make you yelp. You keep wiggling your ass enticingly, wordlessly begging for more of his beautiful boner.

“Half the blood bled out of your body, your cherry just popped, can you even stand up, suicide girl?”

“Maybe with a little help?” you say.

Now he’s parting your lips and sliding two fingers into your pussy, palm up at first, then rolling it over to scratch your G-spot. You cum a quick little yipping cum just at that. He takes his slimy fingers out and slicks them across your lips. You eagerly lick him clean, glad you’ve long accustomed yourself to your own taste.

“Can’t even stand on your own, yet this hot little quim of yours is still rarin’ to go isn’t it?” he squeezes your pussy and pinches your clitty. “If you’re like this now, once you’re fully recovered, if I’m gonna get any sleep at all, I’m gonna have to whore you out to half the male population of campus.”

“Promise?” you murmur, jiggling your bottom even more energetically, noticing his boner has come to life.

Now he’s entering you and you keep doing what you were doing. He holds still, letting you fuck yourself on him. Now he’s fucking you back. Fucking you at half speed relative to your fucking. Now his hands are on your hips and he’s guiding your motions, up back forward, in out down, up back forward, in out down, fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck and now you’re cumming and now he’s cumming and now you’re blissfully passing out. You’ve had a busy day.

It’s dark. It’s totally dark. Totally velvety dark that doesn’t change although you’re sure your eyes are open. Now you can feel the soft heavy fabric wound round your eyes. Blindfolded, then. Your hands in their bindings are clipped together, clipped to a chain attached somewhere above your head. Your legs are free, the restraints on your ankles just a reminder he can immobilize your legs too anytime he wants. You’re on your side. Your head is pillowed on his arm. Why can’t you remember his name? You explore his neck, ear, cheek with your lips. He’s shaved at some point. You conclude he’s still asleep.

You shift around, wriggling against him, trying to situate his limp little dickie between your thighs, awaken that beautiful boner. Your thighs are dry, it’s more than a little uncomfortable at first. But as you begin to awaken the beast, your own sweat and secretions slicken things up. Now his boner almost is all there and now his thighs are starting to pump against yours, but you think maybe he’s still asleep. This gets you even wetter as you lift your leg like a boy doggie taking a leak and fuck him into you. Slow, slippery luxurious delicious sleepy fuck. It’s a fuck like you fucked with your pillows before now, before he saved you, before he took you, before he popped your cherry with a feeling exactly like getting hit with a broken rubber band, before he denied you your hands, before he made you his.

Of course, clutching a clutch of pillows, you had to imagine how that beautiful boner would feel in your juicy pussy and your pillows never rolled onto their backs like a great ship righting herself in heavy seas.  Your pillows never pulled you over to be on top. Your pillows never bucked back while you rode them like a bronco. And your pillows never had hands that rise to fondle your bouncing boobies, or teeth to nip at your nipples and start that whole splodiehead thing again and oh no!

Nothing’s working anymore! You’re suddenly as limp as a wet sock. You want to keep the explosion going, want to feel his boner jerk inside you, want to please him like he pleases you, but suddenly it’s like you’re all pudding and pretzel-sticks surprise, just a dribbling blob collapsed on top of him, breathing now in long deep even strokes with a little bit of snore.

With a sense of violence you haven’t felt from him before, he’s throwing you off him, and you can only register your despair with a meek little, “meep?” that does absolutely nothing to convey that this is worse than seeing him lead a giggling Kimmy away from Dress of Success, worse than realizing that you seem to be the only one still there fully clothed and un-coupled but then you realize he’s got you on your back. He’s got your imprisoned hands pulled high above your head and he’s positioning your legs and slamming hard into you and you joyfully grip his waist with your legs, holding on with what little strength you have until his thrusts become erratic and you feel his boner jerk once twice three times as his face dives down into yours kissing you violently, which you’re happily able to decently return and his hand is mauling your titty as he rolls to his side and you roll to your side so as to stay face to face with him and keep him still inside you as the engine you awoke ticks and cools like Daddy’s old Cadillac after a long Christmas drive to grandmother’s house and you descend into the pit of sleep.

It’s dark. Totally velvety inkily dark. Still dark? Dark again? You can’t remember. Still blindfolded? You think so. You try to move your arms, but you awaken some pain and that’s how you realize your arms are well spread and well elevated. There’s just enough slack that there isn’t much. Probably tied to the posts of the superhuge bed. You test your ankles and they’re restrained well-spread too. Spread eagle on the bed. This seems promising, you think, even though you can’t avoid feeling a pretty hefty dose of anxiety as just then you realize your head has a full range of motion. You’re tied spread eagle to the bed, feet towards the head, head draped free of the foot. Does this mean you’re finally gonna taste that beautiful boner? Oh gods you so hope so.

Footsteps. Jingling metal. A sharp feminine gasp. He’s brought in another woman, another slave? “Shut up, slut,” he growls. “On the bed. Now.” Jingle jangle, a bare foot caresses your calf, your shin. Cold metal follows close on the heels of the foot. You feel something soft and silky on your tummy. Hair? Long hair? She’s kneeling between your spread legs. Click-clack-shickle-shack Shack! Correction: she’s bound and kneeling between your legs. You feel her hot breath on your bald and open pussy. There’s another click. A low hum. A high-pitched sound that’s half moan, half squeal. “You know what to do. Do it!” he commands. Your clitty comes in contact with something wet. You hear a high pitched sound that’s half squeal, half moan. Oh. That’s you. The wet again. It’s her tongue. Another chained slavegirl is eating your pussy. You don’t know whether to be jealous or just revel in it.

And now he’s feeding you his beautiful boner. Mixed feelings put aside, you devote yourself to giving him the best BJ he’s ever had. You want to blow his mind the way he’s blown yours. This is the 15th? Or is the 16th? Cock you’ve had your lips around, maybe your hundredth time pleasing a guy with your mouth. It’s not even your first time taking it upside down, which helps deep throating. Easier to straighten out and give his boner a nice long channel to sink all the way in. In theory, you could take a boner almost three feet long. Deep throating is the same skill as sword swallowing after all. If you ever wanted to join the circus, you could make money as a sword-swallower because you learned to deep throat back in 10th grade and got plenty of practice.

In HS, it was a way to get through it without getting knocked up or diseased. Being willing to suck cock kept you from being damned as a prude, saving your pussy kept you from getting outed as the slut you really are. You learned to like the taste of latex, but you never had to learn to like the taste of cockmeat. Cock is yummy. Smegma’s kind of nasty, but with a cut cock, that just isn’t a problem.

You tongue the naked cockhead like it was a tootsie pop, take it into your mouth, make a seal with your lips and suck it like a margarita through a straw. You suck it and you swirl your tongue and you invite more of it into your mouth by bobbing your upside-down head. Now he’s fucking your mouth. Now you’re taking more and more. Now he’s balls deep in your mouth and you’re swallowing him down down down.

His balls are bouncing against your nose and you’re suddenly aware of how your clitty’s sandwiched between your pelvis and the other slave’s tongue and how your hips are grinding your clitty against the unseen tongue seemingly of their own volition. Now her teeth are bumping against you and it hurts a little and you hear him growl, “Remember what I said, slut. You cum first and it’ll be hell to pay.” The slave gives a sharp little, “Meep!” and dives in with renewed vigor. You grind your clitty against her tongue and wonder what’s propelling your sister-slave towards her cum, a vibrator maybe? But then things are happening too fast.

You’re getting all lightheaded from the restricted airway and your head is starting to explode as you feel your hips jerking erratically and some pain in your wrists as his boner begins to pulse and he pulls it out of your throat and he spurts once, twice, three times into your mouth and you gulp it all down as your ears are tattooed by a distinctive cum-cry from the slave between your legs, “Ah! Ah! Ah-HEEEE-yah!”

And then you pass out.

“Ah! Ah! Ah-HEEEE-yah!” Hearing it again wakes you up. How much later is it? You’re unblindfolded and unbound, except for your imprisoned hands, and clean. You think your dressings have been changed. You see sunlight from behind the closed drapes. You’re hungry and thirsty, more than a little sore, and your wrists are throbbing. You feel a little stronger. You stumble into the gigantic master bath, sit on the toilet, squeeze out a trickle of stinky pee and crap out a huge dry painful chalky turd. Then you realize you can’t wipe your own ass.

This evokes a flood of emotion that inspires a rush of weeping hysterics that end abruptly the moment you notice there’s a bidet. You use the bidet, feeling sheepish, and come back to the bedroom and study yourself in the gigantic mirrored closet doors while your genitals drip dry.

Somebody must have given your hair a good brushing while you were dead to the world. It’s only mildly mussed. He’s also shaved you again, arms, legs, pits, pussy. You’re completely bare from the neck down. You’re still way too pale, even your lips, your nipples are pale. You’re kind of a pale and dusty gray. There are bruisy little patches under your big tragic gray eyes. You turn this way and that, critically surveying your too short legs and your little boy rump, but remain pleased by your boobies. “Magnificent tits,” he called them and they are pretty nice, you have to admit. They’re not particularly big, but since the rest of you is particularly small, they stand out superbly. Their shape is the kind of shape the docs who shape boobies that are out of shape into. They’re firm but not too firm. Your nipples stick out even at rest, which they aren’t exactly right now. Seeing yourself dressed in a collar, ankle cuffs, wrist bandages and hand restraints, dressed for success in the sexiest way, dressed to get bound and fucked, is starting to get you hot.

“Ah! Ah! Ah-HEEEE-yah!” you hear it again, through the half open door and down the hall. It sounds canned. You wander in the canned cum-cry’s direction. The living room is nice and big. It has a huge bay window, in front of which is a small low stage with a stripper pole. There are three nice big plush leather sofas. There is a whore-horse off to one corner. Pornography is playing on the huge-screen tv. There is a small cage in the center of the room. Squatting on the floor of the cage is that little slut Kimiko Watanabe.

Kimmy is dressed like you are, naked but for a collar and restraints. Unlike you, her wrists are shackled in simple metal bands that match those around both of your ankles and her hands are free. Upon seeing you, she gasps, “Renni!” she exclaims as she rises to her feet and thrusts her arms through the cage pretty much demanding your embrace. Kimmy’s the first person to call you ‘Renni’ like a follower of renaissance faires, though it’s been catching on over the course of the newly expired term. Everyone else gives your name the full four syllables just like the spaceship, though your sister used to call you ‘Renidy’ when she was little.

Seeing Kimmy naked in the cage, you’re struck by how much you do resemble each other from the collarbones down. Same height, just over five feet nothing. Same little boy’s figure and perky nipples. Your boobs are better, a little bigger and shapelier. Your skin is rosier, her skin is more golden in color, but you both have the same kind of dusky tone. Your faces are nothing alike, she’s got the chubby moony kind of face with a tiny mouth similar to many of Asiatic origins. She’s probably had her eyes done, because they aren’t the same kind of squinty you see so often.

You cross to the cage and into her arms. She holds you close and explodes into tears. Your crotch is pressing against the union of a bar and a ring. You find this more than a little distracting. “Oh Renni! I’m so so sorry! It’s all my fault,” Kimmy wails. “I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

You kiss away her tears, rubbing your boobies against hers. “Hush now,” you soothe. “How could this possibly be your fault?”

“It was me!” She insists. “I was the one who told him I thought you were a bonfire waiting for a match. You- you’d still be whole if not for me! Your poor pretty hands!”

“My hands?” you ask. “What’s wrong with my hands?”

“They’re go-one! He cut ‘em o-off!”

“My hands are fine, Kimmy.” This news causes her clutch to slacken, allowing you to back off and show her. “See? Fine. Or they will be once I can use them again without popping my stitches.”

“Stitches? I don’t understa-yand,” Kimmy says sniffling.

“I tried to kill myself, Kimmy,” you say, feeling the blush spread from your cheeks all over your visible surface area.

“Why’dja do that?” Kimmy asks.

“I’m kinda trying to work that out for myself,” you say, digging your toe into the carpet. “Best I can figure, it was some sort of more than half-crazy leap of faith.”

“Huh?”

“I think I must’ve wanted him so bad, I launched myself at him at the highest velocity I could think of. At least I hope that’s what I was thinking. I don’t really remember.”

“It’s good to hear you say that, suicide girl,” he says, striding into the room from what must be the kitchen. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt and carrying a big tall frosty glass with a bendy straw, full of what must be some kind of smoothie. He comes up behind you, encircling you in one arm, reaching across your chest to first cup your breast, then pinch your nipple. You want his boner deep inside you right now. Kimmy whimpers and cringes against the back of the cage. You groan and rub your face against his neck and stand on tiptoe so you can rub your butt against his boner, which is standing nicely at attention.

“I see you’re feeling frisky this morning,” he says. “Good. You’re going to need plenty of energy today. For now, however, it’s time for breakfast.” He guides you to the couch and eases you onto his lap. He brings the glass over close to your mouth and dredges the straw across your lips. “Drink up,” he says. You do and it’s good. You taste bananas and strawberries, royal jelly and bee pollen. While you drink, his free hand teses you, cupping a breast, pinching a nipple, straying down to tweak your clitty, then back up to tease a breast again.

While you drink your breakfast, you notice the pornography on screen. It was shot here in this room. On the whore-horse over there. He’s the top. The bottom is, Kimmy, the occupant of the cage. She’s attached to the horse for doggie style fucking, laid across its padded back, legs straight down and well spread. Her wrists are attached to her ankles, giving her a pose like Pepe le Pew bounding after his bleached black kitty. He’s fucking her in slow sure strokes. “Oh God please no please don’t please stop,” she begs.

“You really want me to stop, slave?” he asks.

“Pul-lee-heeze!” she wails.

He stops.

“I take it you want me to let you go now?”

“Muh-huh?” she says, bobbing her head.

“Sure. With pleasure,” he says. “But we have a problem. I don’t believe you.”

Kimmy wails.

“I think you’re having the time of your life. I think you were born to be a slave and I think you’re loving every minute, but you’re having trouble processing it all. So let’s make a little bargain. Okay?”

“Oh-ho-kay.”

“You hold back a cum for just five minutes, and I’ll let you go. If not, I’m training you as my slave and I won’t take no for an answer. Got it?”

He starts fucking again, fucking with long slow sure strokes, gradually building speed to a nice gentle fucking rhythm. Kimmy starts yipping and squirming and he reaches down and pinches her clitty. “Ah! Ah! Ah-HEEEE-yah!” she cries.

He stops fucking. “That was just under a minute and a half, Kimmyslave,” he says. “I guess that means you’re mine.” He fucks some more and it doesn’t even take another minute before she’s cumming again, “Ah! Ah! Ah-HEEEE-yah!”

The scene goes to montage, a cavalcade of Kimmy-cums. Kimmy on the whore horse, Kimmy in the chair, Kimmy hanging in the shower, Kimmy eating pussy with a vibe crammed way up there. Oh that’s you she’s eating. No wonder she’d thought he’d amputated your hands. By now you’ve finished your drink. You’re already feeling a lot perkier. “Yummy,” you say.

“What do you think about your sister-slave, my suicide girl?”

You get up off his lap and circle the cage, lean in and kiss Kimmy’s ear. Kimmy whimpers. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together,” you say. Then you’re kissing her neck, her cheek, now her lips are coming to meet yours and you’re making out with a girl for the first time.

“So I see you’re okay with this?”

“More than okay.”

“I think it’s time you start calling me Master.”

“Yes Master,” you say, beaming. Great! You think. Now you don’t need to worry about the indignity of forgetting his name, which still isn’t coming back to you.

“Well, it’s time for Kimmyslave here’s cleaning. While I do that, I think I’m going to give you a taste of the cage.”

So now he’s leashing Kimmy and now he’s yanking her out of the cage and deftly connecting her cuffs together behind her. Kimmy cowers at the end of her leash, while you enter the cage of your own accord. Instead of just closing you in, however, he first hangs your fist-cuffs from the top of the cage. Then he shits you in and clicks shut the lock. Now he’s pulling Kimmy out to the bathroom and now you have time to reflect.

End Part II

To be continued.