Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

Bent forward and with my hands tied behind my back, I can only take small steps. But Andy drags me across the basement quickly. I wobble from the stiff rapid steps as I try to keep up with him. Some strains of hair that escaped Andy’s grasp dangle before my face. They are still wet and reek of urine. I feel a pang of self-disgust before a wave of arousal permeates my body. That’s the usual dynamic. I hate being degraded. Nevertheless, a strong part of me craves being subjected to harsh humiliation. Precisely because I hate it. The other part of me feels shame, guilt, and disgust. However, I can’t control the craving and the humiliation from this lack of self-control creates the perfect feedback loop. ›Torture meat deserves whatever may happen‹, I remind myself, and the thought sends another wave of arousal to my lower body. I’m fucked up. The sane but powerless part of me would like to take a shower.

My tits swing back and forth in my field of vision. I don’t like seeing them from this perspective. They look saggy, like two heavy balls that have been sewn into old, worn-out socks. When they swing towards my face, I clearly see the deep stretchmarks. On white skin stretchmarks are far less noticeable. Mine are clearly visible, on my thighs, on my ass, on my belly, and on my tits. Maybe I shouldn’t care about them. But which woman doesn’t want to be flawlessly beautiful? Even crazy women who offer themselves to be tortured do.

I can also see the red stripes from the earlier whipping. One of them commands my special attention. It connects a string of pearls, in dark red and black, glistening from the barely clotted blood. I will be able to feel the eschar for days. I would like to touch my marks now, caress the raised hot areas. I was battered up several times by my ex-husband and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I wear them as badges of honor. I’m proud of them. I’m ashamed of my stretchmarks, but I’m proud of my scars. It should be the other way around.

My scars are a visible consequence of my weakness, my inadequacies, and my depravation. My stretchmarks are an inevitable consequence of gravity and giving birth to and nursing two wonderful children. But I don’t feel like my head tells me how I should better feel. Even I want to be flawlessly beautiful. My perception of beauty is unusual though. I feel most beautiful in suffering. Or rather after suffering. I don’t like the sweat, the tears, the blood, the tangled and sticky hair, the vomit, the pee. But severe pain overshadows this aversion easily. But how magnificent are the visible reminders of such agony! Bruises, scars on the body and the mind, the exhaustion, the bloodshot milky eyes, the dull, slowly receding pain, the band-aids, bandages, and casts. Well, I’m fucked up. I think I already said that.

»On your knees, niggerwhore!«

I can’t help but smile. It took a few hours, yet here it is, probably the most stereotypical order in such scenarios. In D/s chatgroups subs warn that it is a sign of a bad dominant. But Andy doesn’t bark an order. He says it very calmly, matter-of-factly, like something perfectly obvious. After all, niggerwhores belong on their knees naturally. Everybody knows that. That’s the way of the world. Nothing to make a fuss about. Not even worth raising the voice. In fact, I even hear the slight disappointment in his tone of voice that the niggerwhore couldn’t figure it out herself. Maybe this is just my imagination, but my legs become jelly and I drop to my knees. It’s where I belong in the presence of my superior and tormentor. Andy attaches a snap hook to the short heavy chain around my neck and secures it to an O-ring before he vanishes into the darker parts of the basement without another word.

The chain is too short, and the attachment point too high to lower myself to sit back on my heels. But the O-ring is also too low to kneel up properly. I’m forced in a crouched position between kneeling down and kneeling up, straining my legs muscles adding to the pain from kneeling on the bare concrete floor. My predicament seems rather harmless compared to the whipping and to the anticipated punishment for having three unauthorized orgasms. Yet I hope Andy comes back soon. I can hear what seems to be the opening and closing of metal lockers.

I grunt in discomfort. There’s nothing to do but wait and look around. I’m hooked to the front of a kind of small table. But the object seems to be to high for a table. It reminds me of the vaulting boxes we used at grade school. It even has a similar cushion made of leather that has seen its better days. The box is not very long, not very wide, but quite high. There are O-rings screwed into the box itself, at its sides. There are also more O-rings on the floor next to the box and on the wall behind it.

I can’t figure out the exact purpose of the box. Some kind of bondage device, sure. And it’s not just one box. There are four identical boxes evenly spaced with the same pattern of O-rings attached to the boxes, the floor around them and the wall behind them. There are even number plates from one to four attached to the wall above the boxes. They are old signs; the enamel is flaking. ›Four torture stations. Does Andy really torture four girls at the same time?‹, I ask myself and shiver at the thought of the girls who suffered here before me.

I grunt again and shift my weight to alleviate some of the pain in my knees and legs. Then it suddenly hits me, and I understand what troubles me about the incident in the cage. I’m confused by the hierarchy among Andy’s subs. I’m here to suffer. I’m here to suffer for him. Not for a bratty sub of his. Maybe I can’t accept being treated as the lowest of Andy’s subs permanently as well as I thought. I’m jealous. I want at least the chance to show Andy that I’m worthy of his attention. That I can take more than this fledgling blonde girl. How can I prove myself when my status is set in concrete like that? When I’m demoted to a plaything for this kid, subjected to her every whim? How many subs does Andy even have? ›Torture meat deserves whatever may happen‹, flashes through my mind. Fuck! I’m just a niggercunt and expressly here as torture meat stripped of its rights. Stripped of all rights, forbidden to speak. I need to be the lowest of the subs. Why is it so hard then? I grunt. I sigh. I need to talk.

Andy returns with a box, maybe a tool case, and a tray. He starts to lay out the things he brought on the box next to the one I’m locked to.

»Andy?« My voice is coarse. I have a huge lump in my throat. I’m breaking a rule. It almost feels like blasphemy. But Andy and I agree that good communication is essential for the relationship we both want to build.

Andy stops the preparation for my punishment, turns to me, and gives me a quizzical look. He gives no hint of approval or rejection. If I continue, I must do so on my own responsibility. I pant from the exhaustion in my legs. A part of me fears ruining everything. But communication is essential!

»I would like to talk about what happened in the cage«, I whisper through gritted teeth.

Andy frowns and my spirit sinks lower. He takes several pairs of white leather shackles and belts from the tray before he turns to me again. White shackles for dark skin. I wonder if he bought them just for his new niggerwhore. He’s detail-oriented like that. I bite my lips. He’s everything I want. If there only wasn’t that blonde bitch.

»No«, he says, calmly but firmly. »We talked a lot before you came here. We talked about everything that needed to be talked about. You agreed to that. We will talk again after this weekend. You can say anything you want from the safety of your home. But this, here and now, is not play. It’s a foretaste of the life you can have if you want.«

A very long few seconds pass before Andy continues to talk.

»Maybe I wasn’t entirely clear. I will repeat it once more. Then you can take your decision.«

The wrinkles on Andy’s forehead disappear but he looks very seriously. I get the feeling it’s all or nothing. The lump in my throat grows.

»This weekend is a test. Unfortunately, you live quite far away, and we don’t have the opportunity to explore things as diligently as I would like. Usually, I take months to figure out if somebody is suitable. You agreed to cut corners in this preliminary phase.«

I nod sheepishly. It’s hard to focus while kneeling in pain though.

»The time we have this weekend is precious. I need to test your body and your mind. Testing your mind is more important though. Your body will follow where your mind leads. I need to know if I just chatted with a horny slut when you agreed to the goals of your training and conditioning.«

Andy sits on one of the boxes. He will remind me of the goals. As if I could forget them. In this moment, I’m not sure if they are too ambitious for me though.

»You need a realistic experience as a basis for your decision to continue. I don’t want to waste time, mine or yours. I need you to pass a relentless stress test to be sure that this is what you really want. If you want it from your very essence, not only when you are horny.«

I’m embarrassed but I’m actually pretty horny again. The way Andy talks about training and conditioning, about relentlessness, about testing me, makes my stupid cunt cream again. His words reach deeply into my fucked up mind.

»I will mold your body and mind according to my desires. I will need you to understand that this body and mind are no longer yours. I will make you feel like property and nothing else. I will make you feel like an object without any right to self-determination. You will be utterly controlled by me, used as I wish, abused, and tortured just for my pleasure. But you will also be cared. You will be just property, rightless property, but cherished property.«

Andy jumps from the box, takes the tray, and shows the content. I can see medical gloves and maybe a dozen huge safety-pins. So that’s going to be the punishment for the unauthorized orgasms. I haven’t experienced needle play yet, but again my pussy clenches. Andy squats in front of me and looks directly into my eyes.

»One more thing before you decide. The blonde cunt you’ve met did exactly what I ordered her to do. If you didn’t like what she did you can blame it on me.«

I hurt badly; my legs are shaky. Decision time approaches.

»There’s no way back to negotiating. I will ask for consent once, and never again. Either you agree to the course of action I have outlined. Or you speak up now, leave immediately and we will never meet or communicate again. The decision is absolute and final. So, niggercunt, what is it going to be? Speak and leave? Or stay quiet and become the abject object you say you crave to be?«

I understand that there is a huge amount of coercion in this setup of ›giving consent‹. But I’m not free anymore anyway. I lower my gaze and nod subsequent approval to a decision that was taken a long time ago.

Andy’s voice is still serious, but also vibrates from deep satisfaction:

»Great! Let’s start transforming you into the despicable lump of torture meat that you were born to be, niggercunt!«