Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

»Night is always darkest before the dawn. The hard times will pass. Just a few more minutes. Just one more minute. You can endure one more minute. Just one fucking minute!«

I’ve started playing mind games a while ago. A few hours ago? One hour ago? I don’t know. The blanketing darkness in this corridor without windows and the uninterrupted silence suppress any indication that time is still moving forward. Between groans I try to remain still and listen for noises of people waking up, the closing of doors, an alarm going of somewhere, a car passing by. Nothing. Wait! Clack. Clack. The rattling of my restraints replaces the ticking of a clock. Clack, clack, clack. Yes, time is still moving forward. I wonder how many clacks are in a minute.

I’m terribly cold, naked on the floor, yet I’m sweating profusely. My bondage is tight, but not as tight as it could be. What started out as mere discomfort developed to pain, increasing with the inevitable passing of time. Every minute I endure the pain I’m getting closer to getting untied, but also into more intense pain. Time needs to stop and to pass more quickly at the same time. Fuck! Every muscle and every joint in my body hurts.

Every muscle and every joint? Oh, there’s a distraction. Let me try to figure out what doesn’t hurt. I can eliminate my core, my arms, and my legs immediately. Sure, I can wiggle my toes. I can move my fingers. Apart from feeling slightly numb they don’t hurt. I can wrinkle my nose and pucker up my lips. But that’s about it. No. I can also spread my legs or keep them closer together. Fine, every muscle in my legs hurt despite the abductors.

What is worse, hurting very badly in one place or hurting badly all over? Maybe focussing on one place diminishes the pain radiating everywhere in my body? I try to lay very still. The pain forcing me to move first in the attempt to alleviate it must be the worst pain, right? It doesn’t take more than a few seconds before I raise my upper body. My strained shoulders need a rest, but so do my bruised tits. No, focussing on the worst pain doesn’t work, if anything it makes it worse.

My breathing comes in huffs, interrupted by loud grunts. When I’m trying to be quiet now, I can hear the blood rushing through my head. My body is in full fight or flight mode, flushed with adrenaline, unable to do either though. But I know that as long as I can think, as long as I can play mind games, I’m not in the worst agony possible. It’s bad, but it could be worse. »Streets of London« crosses my mind, a song reminding people that there are always other people who have it worse.

»How can you say for you that the sun don’t shine?«

There are people who suffer more than me at the very moment. People struggling for their last breath with rasping lungs and the only certitude of their imminent demise. Parents praying helplessly over the bed of their mortally ill child to whatever God or Gods there may be. But there my imagination already leaves me. And, of course, there is an important difference: The people in my examples don’t have a choice. They can’t yell from the top of their lungs until somebody awakes, demand to be untied, pack their stuff, and leave for home, a comfy bed and sweet sleep without pain or worries. I could do that.

But I don’t do that. I huff and grunt. I wish my suffering was over, but I don’t do the very thing that would end it. I’ve been tempted a few times though. Maybe I’m just not suffering enough? I almost smile for a moment. »You see, stupid torture meat, you’re not suffering as badly as you think.« But what if? What if I really hurt so much, I couldn’t stand it anymore? What if I screamed and somebody showed up to untie me?

Believe me, I’m not brave. I just don’t feel I have a choice in the matter. I want them to ignore my screams, ignore my pleas, and scoff my idiocy to expect mercy. If torture meat isn’t broken, if it doesn’t scream to be released from its misery, it doesn’t suffer enough. I want to be forced into situations I’m not able to endure. I need help. But not the help of a shrink to resolve those self-destructive thoughts. I need help to experience those situations. I need help to fulfil my purpose as torture meat.

While this is not just empty talk it’s also not the whole truth. Yes, I want to be forced into situations I’m not able to endure. But that seems to be an intractable contradiction. I want something I don’t want. I want something I can’t want. I also don’t want to put it to the test. Again, what if? What if I really hurt so much, I couldn’t stand it anymore? What if I screamed and somebody showed up to untie me? I fear that would be a loose-loose situation. If I got untied, if my suffering ended, a part of me would be disappointed. Maybe not in the moment, but afterwards. My deepest craving would be proved elusive, forever out of reach. But if I was ignored in a situation I really wanted out of, I really couldn’t bear, that would be traumatic. It’s walking on the razor's edge. It all hinges on the small word ›really‹.

At this moment, I’m suffering. And really not just a little. Really – there’s the confusingly innocent word again. I want out. I want the pain to stop. Now. Immediately. In this fucking moment! But what I really want is not jeopardising something I want even more. Nevertheless, I surely don’t want to remain in the situation I’m currently in. I don’t understand myself. I don’t know what I really want. I’m worn out mentally.

»No matter how much I’m suffering right now, my mind and soul will prevail at the end.«

This weak attempt of dissociation is just pathetic. I don’t believe myself for a second. I don’t believe in a soul or in mind-body dualism. My body is in pain. I’m in pain. There’s no rescue coming from my soul or my mind. I’m tired of these mind games. What I crave is a moment of euphoria, of loosing my feeble mind, of brainlessness, just like I had experienced earlier. But such moments are precious and rare. They must be earned by long periods of authentic suffering.

My stream of useless thoughts is suddenly interrupted. After all these hours in the dark I’m blinded by the sudden light from the ceiling lamp. I blink and after my eyes adjust, I can see blurred outlines of black peep toe boots standing just a few inches from my face.

»Seems like the new whore didn’t make it through the night in the master’s bedroom.«

The blonde girl chuckles. But I’m too relieved to mind her mockery. My suffering finally comes to an end.

»Don't take it to heart, honey. I didn’t make it either. In fact, I was hoping to find you here.«

Damn, bitch, stop talking and untie me! But the blonde girl has different plans. She takes a low armchair from a corner of the hallway and brings it close to the bedside rug. With a blissful sigh she sits down.

»We need to talk.«

Oh, fuck you, Blondie! You can’t be serious.

»Well, I need to talk. Why doesn’t the little nigglet kiss my boots while I’m doing just that, hm?«

I love boots and shoes. I own way more pairs than I’ll ever need, and I spend way more money on them than I could rationally justify. But I love them as fashion items. I don’t quite understand the idea of boot worship or feet worship. Yes, I get the symbolism. You pay tribute even to the lowest part of a dominant, to the part that connects a dominant with the filth of the ground. But, damn, if kissing these boots is the hurdle I need to take to get untied that’s what I’m gladly doing at this moment. I grunt as I wiggle closer to the blonde girl’s feet.

»Oooh! What an obedient little nigglet!«

Her sweet voice like she was talking to a toddler is annoying. I press my lips against the soft leather of the boots. As fashion items they are beautiful. They have high thin heels, a cut-out at the back, golden zippers and eyelets, and a golden ornament is dangling from the ends of the shoelaces.

»You must know, nigglet, I didn’t sleep well tonight.«

Neither did I, you dizzy bitch. I’m angry, but I can discern a slight crack in her voice.

»I’ve been horny all night, fantasizing about you struggling against your inescapable bondage. In fact, I’ve been eavesdropping at your groans from behind the door before I entered.«

A few hours ago, the idea that my suffering made somebody horny might have been welcomed news. I would have preferred the somebody to be Andy or another man rather than a girl, but I would have taken it. Now I just wanted to be released. I crane my neck to look upwards. Wow! That blonde slut is not only naked except for the boots. She’s sitting at the edge of the chair, rubbing herself. Of course, I don’t know about her rules, but pleasuring herself just outside Andy’s bedroom seems quite audacious to me.

»You may think, yeah, she’s just a horny floozy, but … this has never happened before. I’m submissive. I get off by fantasizing about being fucked. Hard and rough. Up the ass or in my throat. I also like domestic service, but that’s more of am afterthought. But I never get aroused by thinking about another submissive. Well, at least until now.«

That’s interesting, blonde submissive girl. If I hadn’t been in bondage for hours and if I could get a word in, I might enjoy the conversation. I stop kissing the boots the front of me because their wearer doesn’t care. Blondie is getting into a frenzy. Her breathing gets heavy, she moans. Earlier she made me orgasm, now I’m making her in a roundabout way. I’m wondering if she’s allowed to cum of her own volition.

»Lick the soles, nigglet! Just touching the leather with your dirty lips is too much of an honour for you.«

Come on, Blondie. I know exploring your dominant urges is probably new to you. But could you be any more cliché? I don’t feel it. Yet I obey, grunting from pain as I wiggle myself into a suitable position. On your own, I would laugh you out of the room. But you borrow authority from Andy, and there is no way I would disobey His commands. Even if they come via the detour of an inexperienced wanna-be Domme. Probably I’m doing her injustice. But I’m too worn out to be fair.

If you want me to take you seriously, you need to show me that you get excited to see me obey. But Blondie is in her own headspace right now. She doesn’t care that I’m not putting in the effort. All that is theatrical thunder anyway. Those boots are new; they seem to have never touch the ground outside. I might be able to enjoy being forced to lick the soles of your boots if you’d make me lick the rotting grass leafage in autumn, if you’d make me slurp the melting snow from the outsole in winter, if I could feel the grains of sand irritating my tongue.

Blondie leans back and her breathing becomes steadier again.

»There’s something different about you. I can’t quite put my finger onto what it is though.«

Oh, great! What I really need now is the musings of this girl on something even I don’t understand myself. I don’t know how often I contradict myself in my thoughts and feelings. Do you think you could figure me out within a few hours?

»I’m submissive, but my submission is transactional. I’m giving pleasure to receive pleasure. It’s a quid pro quo. But you … seem to be averse of expecting anything in return. I don’t know if that’s just silly or a purer form of submission. It’s pretty hot though.«

Big words, Blondie. If I could reply I would agree, even if only to get her to finally untie me. I don’t know if she’s right. I don’t know if it would imply a deeper form of submission if she were right. I overthink stuff, but I’m not a deep thinker. Especially not after a restless night in pain.

»I have a confession to make, little sole-licking nigglet.«

I can’t help but sigh in frustration between grunts from pain. Fine, Blondie, get your confession out. I’m not interested in the slightest at the moment.

»I’m not a good person. I hate to share Sir Andy with other girls. If I had any say in this, I’d be his exclusive possession. And you, nigglet, are a fierce competition for his attention. I feel he’s already quite fond of you. Well, maybe not of you, but of your willingness to give yourself into heavy torture. I want to get rid of you, torture meat. I hate it when Sir Andy uses these words like a pet name.«

I’m not shocked. I don’t particularly like you either, Blondie. But the thought of “getting rid of you” wouldn’t have crossed my mind. That’s just not something for me to decide.

»And what is really hot is that I think I could get rid of you. At least I’m tempted to test it. When Sir Andy said earlier that my word would always be more important than yours – because you’re just vile niggerscum and I’m at least blonde and white – he handed tremendous power to me. What if I told Sir Andy, you’d said that he’s just a wimp and fake Dom and that you would be happy to leave after the weekend and never come back? If he was consistent, he’d have to take my word for it no matter how much you’d deny it. No matter that it wouldn’t be true at all.«

I stop licking for a moment and then continue to do so with renewed effort. No, you’re not a good person, Blondie. I’m not here to be treated fairly, but I’m also not here to be kicked out on the lie of a malicious girl.

»I’m really tempted, nigglet. Can you imagine how arousing it is to be able to define your reality? Your reality would become not what really is, but the painful actualization of what I say it is. And I wouldn’t be easy on you. I can decide what is wrong and what is right. I can redefine your perceptions. There’s so much potential for gaslighting. That’s so messed up!«

Now you might be onto something, Blondie. You’re not as naïve as I thought you were which makes your musing even more frightening. She puts one leg over the other and dangles her boot above my face. I must stretch my neck painfully to reach it.

»But don’t worry, nigglet. I won’t do it. At least not at the moment.«

She chuckles viciously.

»I won’t do it. But only because I think you are already on the path to self-destruction. I want to witness you getting destroyed, utterly obliterated. Maybe, when the time is right, I might even be able to give you the final push into the abyss. You should have never come here, nigger.«

These threats are more daunting than the prospect of pain and agony. This young girl might be able to serve more than even I could chew. The threat of taking away what I crave so deeply might be the cruellest torture of all.

Finally, my bully stands up and leans over my sweaty body and starts to untie me. With every limb freed they just helplessly collapse onto the floor. Now my tits are pushed even more against the sharp hard bedside rug pieces. But I just can’t move my muscles that have been forced into a bent position for hours. I end up laying spread eagled, panting, released but still helpless. Blondie chuckles again.

»Get yourself presentable and drag your niggerass to the dining room.«

A new day starts, and I can barely belief that I’ve just been here for a few hours. I slowly start feel my legs, arms and shoulders again. I slowly sit up and wonder what kind of torture and abuse is awaiting me today.