Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

I don’t cry because of the pain. Or more precisely, I don’t cry only because of the pain. Goddammit, my tits do hurt. It seems the blonde girl is rubbing her tits against mine to hurt me even more on purpose. But the cage is rather small and there’s not much room to avoid contact. I’m squeezing my back against the cold metal bars to create some space between us. Even in the dim light in this corner of the basement I can see a red smudge on the girl’s light skin.

My tits have been whipped unto blood. I shudder. For a moment I worry about contracting disease. The girl also has quite fresh whip marks. But every risk is relativized by the fundamental decision: I came here explicitly to be tortured mercilessly and sexually abused by a man I barely know in the presence of his other subs I don’t know at all. And with the prospect of being handed over as sex toy and torture object to other men in the future. Nothing about this is sane.

That’s another reason why I’m crying. I realize that I really, really need this. This craving for pain and abuse is rooted in my identity more deeply than I care to admit. I’m a rational person in everyday life. But here I am, driven to this insane, risky, irresponsible abandonment of myself, of everything that makes me me in every other context. This irrational and irresponsible part of myself scares me. But I don’t have the feeling I have a choice. Despite what I said earlier it’s not that I think I deserve pain and misery. Does any creature »deserve« what happens to them in nature? Does the worker bee deserve a life of toil? It just happens what needs to happen. And nature creates equilibrium and even beauty. This craving for pain, abuse, and misery is rooted in my nature. Those impulses are stronger than my rational thought. I don’t feel fully human. I’m a pathetic slave to my primal urges. I’m a pathetic slave to my cunt. That’s not an easily digestible realization.

Last but not least, there is the orgasm. I used to like orgasms. A lot. As a teenager and even also after I got married, I masturbated almost daily, and every time to the climax. The »normal« sex with my husband wasn’t very good. I rarely had an orgasm with him. »Self do, self have«, I thought and put my own hands to work. That is until my husband came home drunk and horny and didn’t take no for an answer. About an hour later he was snoring loudly next to me on our bed while my mind was racing. My body hurt after he manhandled me harshly and pushed my body around into every position he fancied. I had the bruises to show for it the next day. I was upset and terrified. But I also had had multiple orgasms. Mind-blowing orgasms. Consciousness-expanding orgasms. Orgasms that redefined boundaries. My body could do that? My mind could do that? Actually, neither my body nor my mind did anything and that was the thrill. My mind just switched off and let the body have its way. And, oh boy, did it have its way.

I was bowled over completely. Apart from the awkward feeling looking my husband in the eyes the next day, it was the best experience of my life. Being raped was also the worst experience of my life. It’s complicated. But »normal« orgasms had lost much of their appeal after that. And since my husband got drunk more and more frequently, I still orgasmed a lot at that time. A part of me even looked forward to the day my husband would get his paycheck, he’d play the tough guy at the bar, get hammered and come home, maybe even bring some friends or new acquaintances. It’s distressing to confess all this. I don’t want it to be construed as encouragement to rape. »This woman likes it! All women do.« Yes, this woman likes it when a man forces himself on her. But this woman only likes a part of it. And don’t forget I chose my rapist in a way. To conclude all women like it or another woman likes it is a totally unfounded conclusion though. I’m just talking about myself.

After my divorce and especially after I moved to Europe, I refrained from orgasms more and more. I had sex occasionally but as usual the men didn’t make me cum during such casual sex. Mostly not for the lack of trying which made things even more tricky. It’s hard to tell a stranger what I really want them to do and in the moment they ask what gets me off that ship has sailed anyway. Orgasms from masturbation just didn’t cut it anymore. So, self-denial was the next best thing. That way I didn’t get frustrated from the dull feeling when I came and stayed horny to indulge in my darker fantasies.

More than four years ago! That’s how long I didn’t have such an overwhelming climax. There, standing in the cage next to the naked girl, I realized how much I had missed that feeling. Those orgasms have a special quality. I don’t just cum. I’m not simply forced to cum either. Those orgasms are wrung from my body. I don’t want to cum like that. I pay a high price of pain and suffering and agony for them. But when the pain circuits chuck out everything they have, they jump over to my pleasure circuits with the same incredible intensity. Pain and pleasure are such close cousins for me they are too readily confounded when I’m horny. But it’s not only about the orgasms. This back and forth happens all the time.

I’m lost in those thoughts, locked in a cage in the dark corner of the huge basement that holds so many threats and promises. To be honest, I’m elated, in high spirits, curious what the rest of the weekend will bring. I’m still sobbing though. Not exactly happy tears. My tits hurt like hell.

The blonde girl soothingly caresses my hip. I’m grateful for the gesture of sympathy but I’d rather let my thoughts wander and cherish the moment. I smile as this idea seems so odd: cherishing a moment after having my tits whipped onto blood and I’m cramped in a small cage, at the mercy of a cruel sadist. But my smile freezes. This is surely not a gesture of sympathy anymore. The hand of the blonde girl has made its way between my legs, and now she starts to finger my swollen wet clit! Fuck, what’s she doing? I try to wiggle away from her touch, but the cage of course is too small. I don’t want that. And surely not at this moment. She’s spoiling everything. Does Andy even allow such intimacies between his slaves? But how do I stop the girl without talking? She skillfully circles my clit, and a moan escapes my lips. No, not another orgasm. Not like this! I’m getting desperate.

»Please stop!«

A high, but snarky chuckle is her only reaction. With her free hand she reaches through the bars, grabs my hair and pulls my head hard against the bars. She comes close to my face and grins viciously. That bitch even starts to kiss my neck and mouth. She breathes heavily. She enjoys what she’s doing. I press my lips together.

But she’s so talented in handling my sensitive clit. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right movements, just the right pauses. I moan again. Not long after I sigh while drawing my breath deeply into my belly. The first sign of surrender. I make a final attempt to free my hands, but they are securely tied at my back. I sigh again. Blondie is going to make me cum once more, and there is nothing I can do about it.

The girl is beautiful with fair skin that contrasts with the red whip marks. Her tits are round and firm. She’s pretty young, about twenty years I would guess. Her pale blue eyes shine even in the darkness. With the next moan I open my lips slightly. The blonde girl takes the opportunity and licks over my lips, gently pushing her tongue forward. Next thing I know, I’m making out with that young woman, sharing our breaths and moans. If somebody had told me this morning, I would make out with a girl today it would have cracked me up. The thought of what she thinks about the roughly fifteen years older woman crosses my mind for a second. But there’s not much room for such thoughts when your body starts to tingle from an approaching orgasm.

I had fantasies of being dominated by women before. I imagined strong-willed, cliché dominatrix types and situations charged with racial tension and humiliation. Being helplessly exposed to another slave was surely not what I had imagined. But she was so good with her soft fingertips! And Andy had said we should get to know each other. Without words the options are limited. Maybe he approves of what’s going on? Two cunts in a cage. Bonding over the pain we experienced earlier. I shake my head in mind. No, not over shared pain. She going to make me cum again for fucks sake!

Just as I predict this, it happens. My body tightens, my cunt clenches, I let out the little screams indicating my climax, I squirt another gush. The pleasurable movement on my clit stops immediately, and the blonde woman withdraws from our smooching. She keeps holding my hair for a few seconds, then lets go of that too. Now she seems trying to put as much space between us as possible. As if to say, ›All business, no feelings involved here.‹ That hurts after I just opened up to her. It seems to cheapen the moment we shared. Just like the second orgasm cheapens the first. It was nice but far from the sweeping earlier one.  

Now I really want to cry. That episode in the cage felt just wrong. I plunge from my exalted state of mind to anger and frustration. But I don’t have time to process these feeling as Andy shows up again.

»Hey, did the whores have fun?«

The blonde girl nods and I don’t dare to shake my head.

»Tell me, cunt, did the nigger talk?«

»Yes, Sir, she did. She requested me to stop.«

»Such a rat!«, I think. Of course, I would have done the same. Obedience to the Owner is more important than a strange woman and possible competitor for his attention. »She’s still a rat«, angry and hurt me insists.

Andy blows out some air between his teeth and shakes his head.

»Such impudence by such a lowly beast. Well, the punishment will teach her. Did she cum too?«

The girl just nods and holds up her hand, splaying out thumb and index finger.

»Twice? We really have a slut here, don’t we?«

»Twice?«, I think. »No, no. That’s not true.« I shake my head vehemently, clench my fists behind my back and just extent one index finger.

»You mean you only had one orgasm?«, Andy inquires.

I nod. Andy’s eyes narrow. He takes another step towards the cage.

»Listen and listen carefully. I don’t want to repeat myself. This girl next to you is just an inferior cunt. But you are an inferior cunt and vile niggerscum. I said you will be the lowest of them all permanently. So, if the girl says you had two orgasms, but you had only one, you will happily nod and accept you had two orgasms, nevertheless. Is that understood?«

That’s a really tough pill to swallow. An oversize pill that puts me at the mercy of this malicious blonde girl and possibly the other subs I don’t even know. I expected the other property of Andy – as he likes to call them – to be something like helping hands but not dominants in their own right. Enabling the girl to overwrite whatever I ›say‹ is organized willfulness. But, again, I’m not here to be treated fairly. I’m too far into this. Unless my few hard limits are ignored, I will accept what Andy throws at me. I nod my consent. My stupid cunt clenches and drips.

»Very good. Let’s ask me again, did the niggercunt cum?«

The blonde girl smiles and raises her hand, this time splaying out three fingers.

»Three times?« Andy laughs. »Anything to say, coon?«

I take a deep breath and and show three fingers behind my back. Andy laughs even louder.

»We’re making progress. Let’s add it up. That’s punishment for talking and for three unauthorized orgasms. That nasty shitcunt is going to hurt like hell when I’m done with it!«

Andy opens the lock, slides the bolt to the side, and swings the cage door open. He grabs my hair and violently pulls me out of the cage. Without letting go of my hair he locks the door again. The last thing I see before he drags me away swiftly is the satisfied grin of the girl left back in the comfort of the cage.