Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

»I will destroy those useless tits, niggerholes!«

Pleasure seeking. Pain avoidance. Energy conservation. Those three fundamental principles guide all animals. Human behaviour is more complicated, I was taught, but subjected to the same principles. So, what am I? A freak of nature? I’m threatened with severe pain, I’m degraded as a woman and specifically as a woman of colour. I should get the fuck of here. I should run like hell. Pain avoidance.

But what I experience feels so natural. I’m terrified, but also excited and aroused. My brain is going on overdrive, pumping out endorphins and adrenaline and whatever other neurotransmitters and hormones that flood my body like a shot of heroin. There’s a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. And my silly cunt gushes at the thought of fulfilment of the threat of unthinkable suffering. It’s a promise rather than a threat. Pleasure avoidance. Pain seeking. Wasting of my energy. My motivational system is turned upside down.

Andy hooks the short chain around my neck to a ring at the beam. As if I would run away from the fulfilment of my deepest dreams. He starts to untie my arms. After I would guess two hours, I feel relief as my joints are able to move again. I flex my arms and rotate the shoulders. But the freedom is short lived. Andy threads a long rope under the centre of the chest harness in the back, pushes me against the rough timber, leads the two ends of the rope back on each side, and threads them under the rope around my shoulders. Oh no!, not my shoulders again! They are painfully bend backwards as Andy pulls the rope tight behind the beam and binds it off. He grabs my hands and ties them behind the beam, fixating them higher than in the natural position. As I’m prevented from bending forward even more pressure is put on my shoulders. Oh no! A few coils of rope, tightly wrapped around the beam and my waist just above the naval and my upper body is immobilized. I can shake my head, wriggle my hips a little, and move my legs. But my chances to move away from pain to my tits like in the van earlier were as slim as a snowballs’ chances in hell.

»So, what do prefer, cuntrat? Blunt force as if you’re nothing more than a punching bag? Or some more sophisticated pain?«

Andy punches me into the stomach with his fist, right between the coils of rope and the belt of my jeans. I gasp for air like a fish out of water. The wings of my nose are fluttering. Some clear snot is pushed out. Instinctively, I want to curl up to protect myself. But the ropes cut into my flesh as I try to do so. Of course, Andy is not looking for an answer. His point is that I don’t have a choice anymore.

My psychiatrist says I crave pain because I’m traumatized. She says I’m traumatized by years of domestic violence and marital rape by my ex-husband. These are her words, after I told her a little bit about the broken rips, the black eyes, the bruises, the anal fissure. The shrink thinks reliving the trauma is one way to cope with it. A natural way, not the ideal way. Ideally, we’d work very hard and within a few years I would learn strategies to live a ›normal‹ life. What I don’t tell her is that when my husband came home drunk, sometimes bringing one or two friends, or even strangers he had just met in a bar, and he or they raped me, kicked me so hard my ribs broke, gave me the bruises and the black eyes, choked me to unconsciousness, I had the most mind-blowing orgasms. I was fearing and hoping for those nights. I doubt she could understand.

Andy fiddles around the back of my neck. I lean my head forward to provide easier access and finally he’s able to unbuckle the gag. A flush of saliva hits my chest.

»You’re such a gross piggy«, Andy taunts me, smearing the liquid all over my tits. I move my stiff lower jaw from side to side.

»I like to hear the torture meats shout out their agony. It’s so funny when they scream and beg me to stop, getting more and more desperate. Just like you will beg shortly, whore. But I won’t stop and nobody else will hear your pointless screams. And for me they’re just the most beautiful melody. Well, there’s the other cunt but that obviously doesn’t count as a person. I’ve made that meat sing earlier. Let’s see if you’re as talented.«

Andy chuckles.

»As a little warmup, I will whip those tits.«

Andy takes a flogger and weighs it in his hands. I have a similar flogger I sometimes use on myself. It has a bunch of leather strips, maybe a bit longer than a foot. But the strips of my flogger are thin and flexible. The strips of the one Andy holds are made from square rigid leather pieces, like candy canes of liquorice. The first stroke to my right tit takes my breath away again. This flogger is not made to deliver a bit of pain spread over an area. It’s made to dish out multiple harsh strokes at the same time efficiently. If that’s the warmup I’m in the antechamber of hell.

Andy watches my reaction, does backswings several times without stroking, and just smiles as I flinch. When he finally hits my left tit, I let out a scream but immediately bite my lips, allowing only for a whimper while I quint my eyes and try to keep composure. I take a few deep breaths before I open my eyes again. I know I will scream. I know I will beg. I know I will be reduced to a sobbing mess. But there is also the nagging force of peculiar submissive pride. ›He’s not going to break you. You’re strong. You can take whatever he dishes out.‹ I must put up a desperate fight. This submissive pride needs to be gradually dismantled until I feel totally defeated and defenceless.

The next stroke takes me a bit by surprise because it lands on my left tit again. I expected alternate flogging, but torture meat is well-advised to not have expectations at all. This time my scream is louder and doesn’t subside as quickly. I try to calm myself with deep breaths again, but they come out as groans of pain. This time Andy doesn’t wait until I composed myself. He hits again, with full force. ›Fuck!‹, I cry out after a few unformed screams. Andy aimed for the left tit again. Tears roll down my cheek.

A series of strokes pelts down onto my tits. Andy doesn’t give me time to recover between them anymore. I scream, each scream feels louder than before. When I finally manage to suppress them, I sob helplessly. Before I’ve processed the last stroke the next one is delivered. Six or eight strokes tear into my tender flesh.

»Do you enjoy yourself yet, painslut?«, Andy askes tauntingly.

»Do I look like I’m enjoying myself?«, I squeeze out between grunts. Andy shakes his head.

»Wow, you’re a stupid bitch! That was a rhetorical question. But a niggercunt like you probably doesn’t even know what that means. I said no talking except for begging, dimwit! Now – what a shame! – I need to punish your asinine ass for disobedience. Ten strokes.«

Andy apparently enjoys my reaction, a mixture of fear and truculence. He asked me a question, after all. If I didn’t answer, he could have punished me for being rude. That was a no-win situation. But I’m not here to be treated fairly. I look at the ceiling to avoid meeting Andy’s eyes. He surely noticed the impetus of resistance.

My psychiatrist is wrong, of course. ›I will whip those tits.‹ ›The tits too, father?‹ ›Yes, even those two disgusting half globes that I hate and loathe.‹ ›O, my father, you will kill me.‹ ›What do I care if I just find my satisfaction?‹ I read de Sade’s Justine, ou Les Malheurs de la Vertu when I was about nineteen years old, years before I met my violent ex-husband. This conversation between Justine and Don Clement always stuck with me. Torturing and even killing somebody just for a tiny bit of fleeting pleasure! Wasn’t that the most horrendous abuse possible? But also, the highest sacrifice imaginable? I craved to be such a martyr. I still do. I don’t know how many orgasms I had thinking about how this self-immolation could happen. The most frequent depraved fantasy probably was being lynched by a racist mob after being raped and thoroughly beaten. I visualized my feet dangling lifelessly in the air while blood and cum were dripping down. When I restrainedly pointed out that my fantasies of being subjected to torture dated back to before my marriage, the psychiatrist just dated back the trauma. Something in my adolescence must have traumatized me. Oh, well.

Andy starts to inflict his savage punishment, whipping my tits with the nasty flogger in quick succession. I scream from the top of my lungs. The outcry of agony echoes in the large basement. Finally, I reach the breaking point.

»Stop! Please!«

Andy really stops, tilts his head and looks at me with a critical gaze.

»Stop? You beg me to stop?«

I nod through the mist of tears. I’m defeated. Andy starts derisive laughter, coming from deep down his belly.

»It’s so sweet of you to ask, stupid shit of a bitch! Of course, I will not stop. That’s what you begged for earlier. Remember, dumbass? In fact, now I must start over with the punishment.«

Andy starts whipping my tits again and I swear he hits even harder than before. My tits feel like their flesh is slowly eaten away. After a few strokes I can’t hold back anymore.

»Please!! Stop!! It’s too much!!«

Andy strokes another time, then he takes a step back and laughs again.

»You’re even more stupid than I thought, whore! I will go through with that punishment no matter what. And deep down you want me to do so because that is what worthless niggercunt scum like you deserves. Isn’t that right?«

I can’t stop sobbing pathetically and feel a lump swelling in my throat. This is the moment of truth, right here. I don’t want to do what I will do next. But I don’t have a choice. I nod. Being tortured mercilessly is what worthless niggercunt scum like me deserves. I nod again, still sobbing. Andy steps closer and looks at me in cold blood, but even with my blurry vision I recognize the massive bulge in his pants.

»Beg me to carry out the full punishment without regard to your despicable pleas to stop, fuckhole!«

»Please do the full punishment on me!«, I whimper. Andy comes very close to my face.

»Not! Good! Enough! Beg me to double the punishment. And do it right this time.«

I sniff and try to muster a convincing voice and expression. I think for a second if this is what I truly want. It’s what I have craved for years. It’s what I am. It’s what I need. It’s what I deserve. I sniffle again and take a deep breath.

»This pathetic fuckhole sincerely begs you, Sir, to administer any punishment or torture you like on this worthless body without any regard to its pleas to stop. It is what worthless niggercunt scum like me deserves.«

Andy laughs again, even more derisive than before. I hate to admit that I love the cruel way he talks to me and treats me. Torture meat. Just torture meat. Fuck! Andy takes a step back.

»Any punishment? Sure, let’s triple the number of strokes.«

Andy starts immediately, whipping as hard as before. One stroke follows the next swiftly. I scream. The ropes cut into my body as I desperately try to get out of the bondage that keeps me unable to evade this unbearable torture. I crash my skull against the timber behind my head. I’m sure my tits are only raw meat by now. Tears, snot, and drool drip from my chin.

»Noooo! Stop!!! Please!!! Stop!!! I can’t …«

As anticipated, Andy doesn’t stop. As yearned for, he just continues to beat my tits mercilessly. I can’t form words anymore and just cry out in overwhelming agony.

At this very moment, the miracle starts to happen. I might be worthless niggercunt scum but I’m offering myself for the pleasure of somebody else. I’m the martyr, suffering just so that Andy has an erection. I’m finally fulfilling my purpose. But that’s all wrong because I’m not here anymore. There is only torture meat. I don’t have the words to describe the intensity of the feelings I experience in this moment. Agonizing pain and complete bliss and acceptance intermingle. One increases the other to unprecedented heights. I scream without any reservation, not a human being anymore, not a person, just a tortured body. All my muscles start shaking uncontrollably. My eyes lose focus, and my sight goes black. Andy pauses briefly between two strokes.

»Oh my God! You are going to cum, right?«

My body replies for me. I shake and moan and scream with pleasure and pain. All my muscles are shaking. All muscles? Yes, even my cunt muscles shake, then clench, then waves of contractions run up and down. I start squirting into my jeans. Andy resumes the strokes with all might, and I ride the mind-blowing, painful, blissful orgasm. My screams are those of an animal and nobody could decide if this animal felt pain or pleasure or both. Stars explode before my closed eyes.

»This fucking niggercunt cums so hard from being whipped!«, Andy shouts enthusiastically. »We will have so much fun, torture meat!«

A second wave of pain-pleasure hits me hard. My body trashes around uncontrollably. My tits hurt so badly. My cunt buzzes like crazy, squirting another gush into my pants. I don’t care. I’m not here. Torture meat doesn’t care about a piece of clothing. Finally, the flogging stops. My screaming subsides. I sob. And I laugh. Oh, fuck! It seems to take ages before I come to my senses again.

My psychiatrist is wrong, of course. I crave pain for as long as I can remember. There’s still the scar of one of my first experiments with self-inflicted pain. My parents were out, and I sneaked into the workshop of my father. I took off my top, got the Bunsen burner, and held a nail into the flame by a pair of pliers. After a while I pushed the nailhead against my barely developed tit, a bit to the left and below my right nipple. There was a sizzle and a bad stink. The hot head of nail easily burned through the outer layers of my skin. I looked at my raw meat, red meat just like the beef they sold in the butcher around the corner. I was more startled than aroused, but I wasn’t discouraged from better thought-out experiments. I had lots of them. My craving for pain awoke at the same time as my sexuality. There was no trauma. My brain and my cunt are just wired in that peculiar way. But of course, that is beyond the understanding of a trained psychiatrist.

One disadvantage of dark skin is that bruises and whip marks don’t really show that much. I’m always envious of those with lighter skin and their impressive violet and red marks. My tits burn. I look down and I’m a bit disappointed. My tits don’t bare good witness of my martyrdom. Andy feels between my legs.

»I knew you were a fucking nasty pig! You squirted into your jeans.«

Andy unbuttons my pants, pulls them down, and throws them onto the ground. Now I’m totally naked but I don’t care. Torture meat doesn’t care about clothing. I slowly calm down but barely realize that Andy starts to lose my bondage. Only when he takes off the coils around my waist, do I recognize that I still tremble, and I can barely stand without holding to the beam.

Andy ties my hands in my back again and pushes me onto my knees. He unzips his pants and takes out his hard veinous cock. Finally, I’ll get my reward for my sacrifice, I think. I desperately want to suck Andy’s dick to show my gratitude. Happy in my devotion I open my mouth. But Andy just stands there with his cock a few inches away. Then his piss starts to gush. I’m surprised, but I keep my mouth open. It’s coming too fast though and when I have to swallow the putrid liquid runs over my chest, burning the freshly roughened skin. I open my mouth again, but Andy guides the stream all over my face and into my hair.

»Disgusting!«, he exclaims as he grabs me by my hair which is still dripping from his urine and pulls me on my feet again. He pushes my limb body forward, towards the wall with the cages. Andy stops in front of the cage with the blonde girl inside.

»Hey, cunt, I brought company.«

Andy removes the lock from the sliding bolt, opens the door and pushes me in. The cage is quite small for two cunts. Um. For two people. No. It’s small for two cunts. We both have given up human status. Here we’re just two cunts. Our bodies are pushed against each other as Andy closes and locks the door again. My burning tits are pressed against the tits of the blonde.

»Why don’t you get to know each other, whores, and start connecting? But remember: no talking.«

Andy walks away, the metal door of the basement closes behind him and I’m alone with this cunt I never met before. It’s not the one I have chatted with because she said she was brunette. I’m maximally humiliated. This blonde has witnesses me cumming from pain. I’m dripping piss onto her fair body. I’m happy for the no-talking rule. I must process what just happened. I lean my head against the shoulder of the unfamiliar cunt. I don’t know her, but she must be a kindred spirit of some kind. I start to cry.