TIME TO WAKE UP, SUICIDE GIRL

“Time to wake up, suicide girl.”

His voice is soft, gentle, but with the force of command behind it, just like the hand that caresses your cheek, then delivers the softest of slaps, surgically precise, right to the meatiest part of your face. 

It’s just enough to jump your consciousness up into the next level from this delicious sense of non-being you’ve been drifting through for gods know how long. You notice you’re not in pain, not really, just a general kind of overall soreness that you associate with oversleeping. You don’t really have time to wonder why you expect so much more pain than that.

Your eyes flutter, you do something that’s one part burp, one part hiccough, one part cough, and try to sit up. He meets your eyes as his hand presses between your breasts. His mouth is quirked in a Mona Lisa smirk, but his eyes are smiling. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired. His face is unshaven. He has the beard of a much older man, not a college boy of nineteen or twenty. He presses harder.

“It’s not time to try sitting up just yet, suicide girl,”  he says with just the faintest hint of a chuckle in his voice. “You’ve had a rough go of it.”

It’s an undoubtedly American voice, with just the faintest hint of British in the vowels and phrasing like “You’ve had a rough go of it.” He presses your torso down into the welcoming mattress so gently, gently but authoritatively, just like the way he commanded you to wake and the way he smacked your cheek.

Why can’t you remember his name? You’ve been obsessed with him ever since that long talk at the fountain you had after class about the veiled eroticism in Alice in  Wonderland and you suddenly can’t remember for the life of you what his name is! You’ve written it dozens of times, but you just can’t begin to have a clue about what his name actually is!

It’s only now you realize you’re naked.

You can see your naked feet behind your naked breasts and feel the cool air on your naked pussy as his naked hand presses your naked back down into the mattress. Reflexively, you start to struggle.

Now you realize why you’d expected so much more pain. The pain comes on like a forest fire. White hot, searing agony tearing through you, centered on the insides of your wrists. Your wrists are bound to the rails of the bed, so pulling against the restraints sends harsh signals of horrible damage already done, more to come if you move, but you can’t help but move, you have to get away! You’re naked! You’re naked and the boy you can’t stop thinking about has his hand just between your tits!

His hand is no longer pressing on your chest. Its mate has joined it in holding your head still. Gently, but firmly, insistently,  his smooth, strong hands force your head to be still until his voice penetrates your distress.

“That’s okay, my suicide girl,” he croons. “It’s a natural reaction. Just be still. Let it pass. You’re all right. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Be still. That’s it. Be still.”

Your struggles deteriorate to tremors, then to shivers. You’re acutely aware you’re breathing in huge heaving gasps. You hear a strange animal keening. The pain is rapidly fading into a low throb that’s just this side of pleasant until the moment you realize that the keening’s coming from you and you’re making this horrible sound because you just now realized that you did this to yourself.

You tense again, triggering another flare of pain, that almost feels like it’s pulled away by the strong warm hands holding your head still. You collapse and he lets you go.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl. My good little suicide girl,” he croons as he strokes down your neck, over your collarbones, down your sides. You once again feel very peaceful, like you’re floating in a cool swimming pool, or maybe drifting in the middle of a cloud. His face is like the sun.

“Are you ready for some water, suicide girl?” he asks. You nod enthusiastically, suddenly acutely aware of how dry your mouth is. Gluey tendrils of dried spit are pasted to the roof of your mouth. He takes up a remote, presses a button. The bed hums, your head and shoulders smoothly elevate to some near approximation of a sitting position. He takes a glass of ice water, holds it close enough to your head so you can feel its coldness, drizzles a few droplets on your parched lips. You lick up the icy drops and it feels sooo good. He takes his fingers away, puts down the glass he’s had his fingers in, picks up a fresh one, and brings a straw to your lips. He only lets you drink about half the glass before he takes it away. You moan and probe the air with your tongue. Then his wet fingers stroke your lips and you find yourself suckling them like a pacifier. His cold wet fingers warm in your mouth as your eyes slip shut.

“I’m going you give you a pill now,” he says. “It’s a cocktail. Mostly just ibuprofen and caffeine, to help with the pain and the swelling and also to help you feel a little more awake for what comes next.” The pill is bitter. More cool water and it goes straight down. His fingers return to your mouth and again you suckle them like a little baby.

“Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, my suicide girl,” he says. “Don’t bother trying to speak. Nod for yes and shake for no. understand?” you nod.

“You come from a quaint little suburb of the next big city over in whatever direction that may be. It’s at closest barely day-trippable. It’s the kind of place where everyone has perfect lawns and your options for teenage hijinks were to say the least limited. Yes?” You nod.

“Both your parents work. Both went to college. Both spend a lot of time and energy keeping up with the Joneses. Your… Dad? Describes himself as a classic WASP, but he’s from where you get that naturally black, decidedly un-caucasian hair. Yes?” You nod.

“Your mom’s Latina, but passes for white, right?” He takes his fingers out of your mouth.

You nod. “Columbian,” you murmur. “I was already in gradeschool ‘fore I figured out it din’t mean she was from Caroliney.” You hate how weak your voice sounds. And decide to go back to nodding.

“Appearances’ sake is about the only use either has for organized religion.” You nod again. You swallow and begin to drown in his eyes. His eyes would have to be called brown on his drivers license, but on because they don’t allow for colors like deep amber with burnt umber rings at the DMV.

“You’re the oldest child and you have one younger… brother?” you shake your head. “Sister?” you nod. “She’s five years younger? Thirteen?” shake. “Fourteen? Four years younger?” nod.

“You were a bit of a late bloomer. Your little sister’s an early bloomer. She gets all the attention. Cheerleader?” You nod.

“Most people think you’re shy, but you’re not particularly. You’re instead reserved and rather quiet. But you don’t have any trouble making friends even though you struggle with believing how pretty you actually are. Which is very, by the way.” You sniffle and sob. How could he have read so much about you just from your letters? Waitaminute?!? Does he mean he thinks you’re pretty not just pretty but very pretty?

“You got over 700 on your SAT Verbal and a perfect 6 on the writing, yes? You’d have to to write like you do.” you nod and quiver a little, blushing with pride.

“You could have gone all Ivy League, but you won a partial scholarship here to our sleepy little Research I state university and got turned on by its reputation as a top ten party school. You came here to fuck.” You bite your lip and nod, knowing his questioning is just about to get devastatingly embarrassing.

“You’ve been sending me scented handwritten letters, signed ‘SG,’ silver ink, textured purple paper, uncial differenced with a thin nib, longer tails, spirally flourishes… “ he grins, drawing your eyes to those perfect perfect teeth.

“…and really hot content.” You bite your lip, look away, look back, and nod. He’s holding one of your letters.

“I want you to be my first,” he reads. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not completely naïve. I’ve sucked enough cock to get pretty good at it if I do say so in behalf of my own damn self. But I’ve been saving my cherry and I want to give it to you.

“I want you to claim me at the Dressed for Success Party next weekend right there in front of everybody. I’ll be wearing red and white so you’ll know it’s me.

“Strip me, order me to strip, cut off my clothes with a linoleum knife, whatever you want, it’s all for you. Collar me, leash me, and lead me away like I’m your slave or just stick it in me right there in the middle of the dancing and the pot smoke and all the other naked girls.

“I’m your fucktoy. I’m your whore. I’m your own personal pornstar. I’m your fuckslave. i’m whatever you want me to need me to be. Fuck my pussy. Pop my cherry.  You can fuck my ass, but you’ll have to clean me out yourself if you don’t want santorum on your cock because I’m just a little too chickenshit to give myself my own enema. You don’t even have to wear a rubber. If you trust that I’m on the Depo, I’ll trust that you won’t give me any gifts that I can’t return at the campus med center.

“You can even share me with your friends, just so long as you’re the one to fuck me first. Nothing at all is off the table because just the thought of you inside me gets me so wet that I have to stop to finger myself just to get on to the next sentence.

“There’s more,” he says. “But I need to be sure of this right now. Nod for Yes or shake for No: You wrote this to me. You wrote this yourself without anyone else reviewing the content. This is your work. And you meant. Every. Word. Nod for Yes. Shake for No.”

You shudder hard enough to hurt your wrists again, sort of a whole body nod.

“Well.” He says with a chuckle. “That could easily be interpreted as both a nod and a shake. Or neither but rather a quiet little orgasm.” He pinches your clitty and inspires the same reaction.

“Since I’m just not going to accept a mixed message here, I guess I need to hear you say it, suicide girl. Did you mean what you wrote?”

He runs his hand through his bronzed baby shoe hair and suddenly he’s not the commanding compassionate alpha male, confident and strong, but a twenty year old college junior studying to become that man. He needs an honest answer here and you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and give him what he needs.

“Yes.”

The alpha male is back and strokes your hair. “So you put on that red gingham alice dress that you’d worked so hard to alter so it’d come off completely with one long pull of the bow of the pinafore perched just above your pretty posterior. You put on those lacy little girl panties that you’d done the same stripper thing to. You put on your white knee high stockings, your platformed mary-janes, and braided your hair.

You went to Dress for Success counting on canoodling with me. You somehow mis-timed your entry so as to see me leading Kimiko Watanabe away nearly naked on a leash. Just like you asked me to do.”

“Yes,” you whimper.

“You pluckily picked up the pieces of your pulverized expectations, proceeded to get drunk enough to settle for second best, whomever he might be, but by that time there wasn’t anyone tasteful enough or curious enough left around to pull on that pinafore and right around ten past two you snapped and decided to off yourself.”

“Yes,” you nearly sob.

“You assumed that I was not in fact into getting into you, that my failure to respond to your letters was my sick way of leading you on for the fun of reading you pouring your soul out to me, that I’m the kind of dickhead who’d rather fuck an easy little catgirl like Kimiko Watanabe than someone mysterious and literate like you.”

You try to say, “Yes,” but it doesn’t even come out as intelligible to you.

“What you didn’t realize is that first of all, that I am the kind of dickhead who would treasure the kind of girl I think you are above all others. And while I am that sort of dickhead, I am only just twenty years old and I wasn’t going to initiate contact because my confidence frankly isn’t what I hope it’ll be once I get my degree. It could’ve been a joke, or even worse a trap, and while I was pretty sure it was you, I did not in fact know.

“I also think you don’t have the fullest appreciation of just how easy it is to mistake a Kimmy in white gogo boots, red short shorts, a white domino mask, and dim lighting for you. Same height, same build, same decidedly non-caucasian glossy black hair, same pale dusty skin, no tats, no piercings.

“Third, I don’t think you realize that while Kimmy’s indeed a prize, I’m not the type to settle for second best and that I was on my way back to the party in hopes of collecting you when I got your little text message suicide note.”

That’s all it takes and you’re bawling like a five year old who just lost her doggie. Before you can open your stitches or anything, he’s in bed beside you and he’s gently releasing your arms from the rails, deftly trapping your flaming wrists, minimizing your agony as he pulls you into his lap and holds you close.

“That’s okay, my perfect little suicide girl. Just let it out. Let it all out,” he croons.

The pain actually helps you here. The harder the cry the worse the pain, the stiller you are the, better you feel, the better you feel the less you cry until you’re just whimpering and sniffling again, and then you’re rapidly drifting back into that cloudy neverland but one thing fetches you up.

You shift your leg against the front his sweatpants and you feel his boner. Ooh, it’s a terrific boner. It’s a full ready sitting up at attention ready to go boner. It’s the boner you’ve been dreaming about, trying to catch glimpses of, writing to, masturbating to all fucking term. You want to feel it but he’s trapping your hands because moving your arms is agony. You want to taste it but you can’t get your head down there because he’s holding you up and trapping your hands because moving your arms is agony. Maybe you can shift and wriggle and get that boner up into you somehow using your virgin hips and inexperienced ass…

And then you notice where his other hand is. It’s squeezing your boob. He’s squeezing your boob and it feels really good, but the more you move, the harder the squeeze, and the harder the squeeze the less good it feels and the less good it feels, the less you want the boner so you settle down and listen to him again.

“I see you’re ready for the next step, suicide girl,” he says. His lips are right by your ear, so he speaks very softly. “But I’m afraid that in all fairness, I have to disclose some things first so you’re as well informed as I can make you before I’m ready to proceed.”

“You’re probably wondering where you are,” you nod and something like an ‘uh-huh’ escapes your lips and you burn with shame. Uh-huh is one of your pet peeves and you have to bite your tongue to keep from correcting everybody who uses that horrible adult diaper of a word.

“You’re in my home. I’m the youngest of seven children, fourth of three brothers. Dad’s in several for-profit businesses, Mom’s in several charities and plays the cello on a professional level and a semiprofessional basis. Both of them hold PhDs from our fine university. My family would like to describe themselves as ‘comfortably well-off’ but the truth is we’re rich, just not flashy about it.

“My grandmother, Dad’s mom, built this bungalow herself, meaning she was her own architect and stonemason, after retiring from the university’s building trust in 1969. She left the place to me when she died just before my Freshman year. It’s about ten miles from campus and my scholarship covers room and board so I sleep in my dorm room at Albert Hall most weeknights and live here for breaks and weekends. I drive a hand-me-down car and I work summers so I can put a lot of that into this place so I can do most of my serious play here and I do this here because by any rational standard I am batshit crazy.”

His hand strays from your boob to your nipple, which he softly rolls and pinches gently, pulling it out, letting it go. You gasp and roll your head back against his shoulder.

“You see, I don’t feel things the way most other people do. My emotions are characterized by a distinct lack of nuance. I feel things very little or very nearly completely. I can’t feel the difference between guilt and fear, annoyance and anger, love and lust.

“This makes me a colossal pervert. A colossal pervert and a domineering prick who’s learned to lie a little. Normal vanilla sex is a means to an end  for me. It’s something I do, I’ve learned to enjoy even, in order to show a girl that I can be a thoughtful and attentive lover en route to tempting her into learning to like the sort of stuff I live for.”

He cups your breast and squeezes it like a handshake, then his hand wanders south, ruffling your short-trimmed pubes. You are so turned on right now that you’re finding it quite difficult to pay attention to what he has to say.

“That’s why you’re here, not hospitalized and about to be subjected to a nice long round of group therapy and personality improvement medication. I claimed Kimmy, thinking she was you, fucked her good and hard anyhow, got your despairing little goodbye while on the way back for you, detoured to your nearly empty dormitory, found you unconscious but alive, fished you out of that bloody tub, got tourniquets on your arms, and called my friend Cameron.

“Cameron works for about $10.50 an hour as an EMT and part-time for my family at a rather higher rate of pay because ten years ago, he graduated from medical school about six months before getting caught accepting the gratitude of a patient who was only sixteen years old. He’s very lucky that he’s allowed to even work for peanuts at the second or third most thankless job his industry has to offer.

“I got to you in time and gave you first aid. He pumped you full of fluids, oxygen, and antibiotics, stitched you up, then gave you about 3 quarts of someone else’s blood. You bled away quite a bit more than half of your oxygen transfer system. Cameron said that means that when I found you, you were as little as two minutes from becoming a sad little tragedy, suicide girl.

“You’re going to feel weak and shaky for the next few days. You’re going to want to sleep at least eighteen hours a day, your wrists are going to take a while to heal completely, but you’re going to be fine. The way I see it, you owe Cameron about exactly half the gratitude for that.”

“Oh, I agree completely,” you murmur. “And I can’t wait to show him how grateful that is. But you’re going to fuck me first, right?” you wiggle your butt against his boner.

“Most definitely,” he says with a chuckle. “Indeed, here’s where I proceed us to the next scene in this little drama.” He slides across the bed and lifts you in his arms and carries you across the room to where you notice there’s a gynecologist’s chair that he seats you in. You look around while he gently uses gauze to bind your hands into the oh-jesus handles. It’s a small room, obviously originally a small guest bedroom or maybe a study. There are two generously sized windows shaded with roman-style canvas shades that look like sails. There is a door to what has to be a closet and another door to what must be an attached bathroom. There doesn’t appear to be a door to anyplace else. Weird, you think idly as he moves to strap in your legs. In the corner across from you is a large wooden toybox. In the final corner is a large oaken chair. It’s massive and bolted to the floor. There are leather cuffs permanently installed on the armrests and front legs. There is what looks at first to be a reading lamp attached to the back. Then you look to the wall and see the huge industrial strength switch and put it together. That can’t be real, you think.

He’s strapped your legs in good and tight, ankles, shins, and thighs. Your hands are loosely and securely tied your upper arms cuffed to the back of the chair. Your legs are spread wide and you’re reclining backward, the oh-jesus handles your hands are bound into are giving you further support. You’re in perfect fucking position, you realize. You must be about to get fucked. It’s finally going to happen. Finally you’re going to know. Where is he? You take a deep breath and relax against the headrest, closing your eyes, breathing deeply, trying to get ready to be impaled on his boner, hoping it’s going to be good.

The sudden pain is not what you expected. You shriek and convulse. It’s hot. It’s a hot burning fiery pain. It’s a hot burning fiery pain, wet like lava, not dry like a blowtorch. It’s a hot wet burning fiery pain but it’s only on the outside of your pussy. There’s no sensation of penetration. And you do know what that should feel like. You’ve kept your cherry intact, at least mostly intact, but you used tampons before you went on the Depo. You’ve had your fingers up there, and even a skinny little vibrator Kimmy called “Willie the Wonder Weasel Worm.” This isn’t right. You look down.

He’s… diapered you?

No. It’s a hot towel. A hot towel that’s rapidly cooling off to feel oh. So. Good.

The cold air on your hot pussy rouses you from the driftiness you didn’t realize you’d settled into as he removes the towel and smiles down at you. “You just look so cute there with your legs spread and your nipples hard like a little kitty wants to play.” He leans in and kisses you. He kisses you tenderly and passionately but all too briefly and all too chastely. You whimper in disappointment, trying to chase his lips with your own, but of course you  can’t move far with your arms and legs immobilized. You can, you discover, get a fair amount of movement out of your hips and ass.

While you drifted he set a tea table beside you on which he placed a bowl full of frothy suds, a shaving brush, more clean pristine white shaving towels, three bottles of lotions, and the 1909 Scheiffler and Sons of New York brass handled straight razor your grandfather shaved with every day until you were thirteen and his hands started to give out. He reluctantly moved to Gillette, passed on to your father who rather offhandedly asked you if you wanted it. You’ve shaved your legs with it your whole short adult life and it’s what you used to slit your wrists. He opens your razor. “We know this is good and sharp, right?” he asks with a perfectly evil smile. Then, he’s lathering your pussy and you’re moving your hips in counter-time to his ministrations and if it feels this good fucking is going to must be pure heaven because you’re getting off from just having your pussy brushed and suddenly he stops.

“Better hold still, suicide girl. I wouldn’t want to cut you…” he pauses, smiling dangerously. “…inadvertently.”

You hold still.

Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. That’s all it takes. Five quick strokes and your neatly groomed pussy is as bald as it was when you were ten and in the bathtub and discovered that rubbing your clitty feels really good and tinglie.

Now he’s wiping your bald pussy and now he’s treating it with lotion and now he’s standing up and pulling off his t-shirt pulling off his sweats and there’s that beautiful boner sticking straight out well not straight out now it’s sticking slightly up and it curves up a little like a cucumber but he’s been cut so it’s like a cucumber with a mushroom stuck in its tip but it’s not green it’s this wonderful rich reddy purply color and he’s about to stick it in you.

He leans down to kiss you and this is the real kiss, the full kiss that mirrors what his boner is going to do to your pussy.

You treat his tongue like it was his boner and swirl your tongue around it and suck and swirl and you feel his hands on your tits stroking and cupping and squeezing, lightly pinching your nipples and now he’s eased in just the tip, it’s not really even in your vag yet, not even pressing against your cherry so you thrust your hips forward and he pulls back with you so now you’re straining to keep the tip of his boner pressed against your cherry and it’s really starting to hurt and he freezes.

He freezes just from the hips on down as you strain and start to tremble, as he backs up and strokes your lips your face. “Is there anything you want to ask before we continue, my suicide girl?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you find yourself saying. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

He looks a little confused.

You continue. “I mean I know you’re gonna fuck me. You’re gonna fuck me and I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum and then you’re gonna give me to your EMT friend who stitched me up and he’s gonna fuck me to his heart’s content and I’m gonna cum some more and I mean what after that?”

“Hmmm. To be frank, I don’t really know for sure. A lot of it depends on you and the choices that you make, the kind of person you really are, not just the kind of person you are when you write scented lust-letters.”

“Okay.”

“I plan to keep you through the break. I already talked to Uncle Rupert and he’s going to enroll you in one of his extracurricular workshop things that’ll explain your absence to your parents.”

“Heap Big Professor Wooly Rupert’s your Uncle?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“I guess I’ve kinda had a lot on my mind.”

“I guess so. Anyhow, he doesn’t know all the details, just enough so that you’re covered through the break.”

“Are you gonna send someone to the dorm to get my clothes?”

“You won’t be needing clothes.”

“Ohhhh. I see.” You lick your lips and swallow, trying the concept out in full for the first time. “So I really am gonna be your slave for real?”

“Through the break, at least. After that, who knows? One thing I can promise, however, my suicide girl…”

“What’s that?”

“You will not take your own life. I forbid it absolutely. Whatever else happens I will not let these magnificent tits…” which he squeezes, “…go to waste.”

At that moment, you realize that in your weakened, imprisoned state, your hips have slipped back, just a bit, and his have slipped forward just enough to maintain that tenuous connection vag to dick, boner to pussy.

With a savage cry, you thrust your hips forward explosively just as he thrusts his forward in the opposite direction, your pelvises colliding in the middle. You feel your cherry-pop feel exactly like getting hit with a broken rubber band. He pulls back. You pull back. You thrust together again. His mouth descends to meet yours. Your tongues touch. His hands push up the bottoms of your magnificent tits.

And your head explodes.

To be continued.

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.