Weekend Trip to the Inscrutable

Andy detaches the snap hook, grabs me under the armpits, lifts me up and sits me onto the box, effortless like he’s putting a doll onto a shelf. I always admire the physical prowess of men. I imagine construction work is physically demanding, but Andy is the owner of the company. I’m not sure how much he is involved in the day-to-day work. But he surely has no problem lifting the equivalent of two large bags of cement. A burly man of maybe hundred kilograms of muscle and a petite female about half his weight. Heavyweight unleashed against strawweight; that’s not a fair fight. If it wasn’t for his white hair and some wrinkles around his eyes, Andy could easily pass as in his late thirties.

My ex-husband worked at an office and didn’t take care of his body. But when he was drunk and angry and horny, he easily subdued me. Usually, I didn’t put up a fierce fight, mostly because I didn’t want the children to wake up and notice what was happening. But the few times the kids where with their aunt I fought back. I needed to see what he was capable of. It took a while, but he wrestled me down and immobilized my body as in a bench-vise. It isn’t easy to admit but those marital rapes were the best fucks I have experienced yet. In these moments, even my lazy, out of shape, pencil pushing ex-husband was redoubtable. And when he brought his equally drunk, angry, and horny ›friends‹ I was nothing more like a plaything, bounced around like a ball on the pitch. I can’t help imagining a gangbang with Andy’s work crew. I wonder if they know about the recreational activities of their boss down here in the basement.

Andy starts to buckle on the white leather shackles, starting with my ankles. The shackles are well-padded, light, but sturdy.

»I’ll have one of the cunts take your measurements. If you prove yourself worthy, you’ll get custom-made heavy metal shackles, belt, and a few extras. I look forward to putting your worthless body in chains, as a niggercunt should be. Maybe one day, when your kids are grown up, I’ll weld the locks shut. But for now, those leather shackles are the stopgap measure. I expect you work hard to earn the upgrade.«

I always wanted to feel the helplessness that comes from inescapable unrelenting metal bondage. I want to feel their heavy weight. Permanently? Damn, that would be a dream come true! But for now, I’m happier to hear that Andy makes plans for the future. He’s not a guy who lives in never-never land. I hope those thoughts are a sign I’ve passed at least the first test task.

Andy fixates the next pair of leather shackles around my thighs, not far above my knees. He’s totally focused, checking that they fit perfectly and don’t fold at the edges. He had written that he considers domination and submission as a form of art. Now he’s the artist, doing the work that produces the artwork. I’m not sure if ›torture meat‹ and ›piece of art‹ aren’t contradictions in terms.

Andy seems so calm and collected. My ex-husband was intoxicated and horny when he forced himself onto me. I cherished his unrestrained drive and desire when he hurt and raped me. In these moments, he was his true self, not holding back his anger and frustration. I liked this uninhibited abusive guy more than the socially acceptable person he pretended to be most of the time. That wasn’t him. I wonder if I can feel the same drive and desire from Andy too. It feels like recognition when a guy loses his cool over you. At least I could see a bulge in Andy’s pants.

In the meantime, Andy has untied my hands and buckled on leather shackles around my wrists. He puts his arm under my knees and shoulders as if he wants to pick me up, but he just sets me down lying on the box. But ›lying‹ is the wrong word. The box is too short to lie on it. Only my upper body fits while my ass sticks out over the edge. Andy blithely pushes the meat equivalent of two bags of cement closer towards the wall. Now my neck is bent upwards, and my chin is pushed against my sternum.

Two ropes are the next items Andy takes from his toolbox. He steps towards the wall by the left side of the box. I can’t see what he’s doing before he steps over to the other side. One of the rope hangs from an O-ring maybe half a meter above my head and to its left. I get an idea of what Andy is intending to do. Indeed, he threads the rope through the ring of the leather shackles on my right foot and pulls it towards the wall ring until my toes touch the cold concrete wall. After my left foot is fixed in place in the same way on the other side, my body is folded up like the front legs of a praying mantis. Only the area from my shoulders to my tail bone touches the cushion. My ass still sticks out over the edge but is now lifted. At least I don’t have to use my core muscles any more to balance the weight of my ass and legs.

Andy casually slaps my exposed pussy and smiles as his work of art takes shape.

»Damn, you have rather long legs. I need to adjust the rings to spread you wider.«

I don’t think I have particularly long legs, surely not longer ones than the blonde from the cage. I’m quite outstretched already and my most private parts are utterly unprotected. But Andy is the type of guy who always demands the maximum.

The box is not even as wide as my shoulders and hips, and my arms are hanging to its sides. Andy routinely attaches the leather shackles on my left wrist to a ring at the floor, and, of course, moves to the other side to bind my right wrist too. He pulls the ropes tight. And I mean really tight. My arms are maximally stretched out and my upper body is forced down against the cushion. I couldn’t lift it to fit a piece of paper under it.

I squirm and start to sweat. It’s getting pretty uncomfortable, and Andy isn’t finished yet. He connects the leather shackles around my thighs to O-rings screwed to the wall almost at floor level. My legs are spread even wider, and now it’s impossible to bring them together the tiniest bit. From shoulders to tail bone I’m caked on the cushion. Andy takes another look, checks the shackles and ropes again, and nods with satisfaction.

»Almost done, but we need some belts. You will squirm and writhe like an eel and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt when I torture you.«

Andy laughs at his own quip. During my experiments with self-torture, I often poked myself with sharp objects, usually knives. I never penetrated the skin, but I doubt needles could be that much worse that I would gain the superpowers required to unfetter myself. More restraints seem to be excessive. I can wiggle my toes and fingers and flutter my eyelashes, but not much more. I’m pretty sure I’m not in danger of falling from the box.

Nevertheless, Andy takes three white broad leather belts, attaches them to the side of the box, drapes them over my body, and moves to the other side to lash the belts down tightly. One belt runs between my shoulders and nipples, the next just under my tits, the third along my waistline. It’s getting tough to breathe in this tightly folded position and additional pressure on the ribcage. A part of me admires Andy’s proverbial Teutonic thoroughness, the other part starts getting impatient.

Suddenly I’m blinded by a flashlight. After being in the semi-darkness of the basement for so long, I can only determine vague contours for a few seconds. Then I can see Andy, standing in front of the box and looking at a mobile phone. He shakes his head and takes another shot. And another shot. The blinding lights let me squint, but I recognize the phone case. We had agreed beforehand that Andy would only take pictures with my cell phone. Of course, he could transfer them to another device if he really wanted to. There's no such thing as complete security. Andy holds the screen in front of my face.

»Look at it, whore! Look really closely at this nasty doodah!«

The ›doodah‹ is my pussy. A close shot of it is on display before my eyes.

»Look at this nasty thing really carefully!«

I’m confused. I know how the ›thing‹ looks like. I even took close-ups of it myself for the avatar I use in D/s chatgroups. What’s Andy’s point? I stare at the screen and notice my bumhole is partially shown too. From this perspective and with my legs spread widely, it looks very deep and dark, like a pointed cone with grooves leading into a bottomless abyss. Before the invention of photography, people couldn’t see their own bumholes. I doubt Andy offers a lesson in appreciation of technology though.

»Look closely, coonslut! Explore every little detail!«

I look but I don’t know what I’m supposed to see. I need to be more thorough with shaving though. A few rather long hairs have escaped the clearing.

»That is a portrait of you. That! … That gash between your legs is you! It ultimately determines what you are. This filthy gash controls you. It has led you here. It leads you down the road of self-destruction. It will annihilate you as a human being. But it also bestows me with the power to rekindle your true self as a mere afterthought of this gash.«

More stereotypes. ›You have a cunt, you are a cunt.‹ ›Your cunt controls you.‹ I’ve read those or similar gems of wisdom often on misogynistic websites. Of course, ›You have a dick, you are a dick‹ and ›Your dick controls you‹ are equally valid, but constant repetition enabled through algorithms and confirmation bias work. Read something often enough, nod at it, and if you want to believe it, it will become self-evident. Especially if you read it with your hand down your panties. ›You have a cunt, you are a cunt.‹ I don’t accept it as unshakable dogma yet but hearing it from Andy boosts its credibility. Hearing it while being tied down painfully and with the ›thing‹ in question utterly exposed and about to be tortured definitely adds to its profoundness. There’s no doubt the higher calling of my cunt led me here, onto this box. If my cunt controls whatever ›I‹ identify as ›me‹, isn’t it my true essence?    

»See, I don’t think all females are inferior to all men. My sample is biased as I’m introduced mostly to submissive cunts like you. There are some … a few … very few women who manage to withstand the temptations from the nasty gash between their legs. Those few exceptions have a chance to become fully capable human beings and I treat them accordingly. But they lose anything feminine in the process. Sadly, they seem very unhappy to me when I learn more about them.«

It's hard to listen to such a lecture in my situation. I’m excited and apprehensive about what is supposed to happen. I don’t have the nerves to listen to such broad generalisations. What a load of mush! Andy said we have talked enough, so maybe he should heed his own advice.  

»Most females recognize the power their cunts have over them, but they manage to restrain its influence. They treat it like a wild, dangerous animal they occasionally visit in the zoo. They may get off to misogynistic porn sometimes or engage in some soft-washed fifty shades shit. Good for them, if it works, but they are always torn, in a state of cognitive dissonance, and – in my opinion – dishonest to themselves. Most of them seem unhappy too.«

Andy sighs as if really saddened by the lost potential. But what’s wrong with visiting the zoo? Isn’t it better to watch a tiger in a cage than to be devoured by one in the wild? That’s pretty wimpy coming from somebody who wanted to unleash the dragon with all its might a few hours ago. But then the dragon was close but out of sight yet. Now it stands close to the box with its defenceless victim strapped to it. ›Coward!‹, I berate myself, immediately taken aback by my inner chatter. I’m not sure what to think. Am I just timid to think what I really think?  

»And finally, there are those like you. Some event or some thought made them realize that the calling of their cunts is impossible to overcome. That the gash is stronger than them. They are restless, they fight, but inevitably they are drawn towards surrendering. They clearly see the watershed. They are drawn to it like metal to a magnet. Sometimes they might manage to move away from the watershed. But it tires them out, they always relapse and end up closer than before. Deep down they know that the watershed is the point of no return. It’s a tough decision to cross the line. It requires a leap of faith to give up the identity, the sense of self, the ego we are taught to protect with our lives. But tell me, N., what’s better? Pretending to be a person while unhappy, fearful, inhibited by societal norms, and ultimately frustrated because you know you can never succeed? Or taking off that mask, let the façade burn down completely and rise as a beautiful phoenix from the ashes? Not as a person, but as a sub-human cunt, perfectly at peace with your inferiority, form and content perfectly aligned, one with your true nature?«

I start struggling against my bondage because I catch myself nodding inwardly to anything Andy says. There’s nothing new in his sermon. He plays my thoughts, fantasies, insecurities, and doubts like an organist. He’s not talking to me, despite he called me by name the first time. He’s talking directly to my subconscious. He has studied it well. And he’s taking full advantage of my vulnerable condition, physically restrained and mentally weakened. I knew Andy is a sadist. I knew he is a strong man with the power and determination to overpower me. What I didn’t see clearly is that Andy also is well versed in the psychology of submission and identity and willing to exploit that knowledge for ruthless manipulation. I tug at the ropes and struggle against the belts but of course they don’t yield.

»Look at that!«

Andy shows me the close up picture again. I close my eyes for a few seconds. But I can’t avoid for long looking into the mouth of the fire-breathing dragon again. I realise that the dragon had settled inside me. I open my eyes and stare at the trespasser who’s ready to burn down the façade.

»What is that? Some disgusting wrinkly folds of flesh! That’s what controls you! That’s what you are! It even doesn’t look like its part of your body. Darker wrinkly folds of flesh flanged-mounted to control a weak body and an even weaker mind. How can you think anybody could take a creature controlled by those silly folds between your legs seriously? Do you understand that this inability of self-control ensures that you will always be inferior?«

Those words, spoken loudly and firmly, not in an angry way, but in a tone of deep conviction, hit harder than the earlier lashes on my tits. I start to sob uncontrollably. I’m overwhelmed by waves of contradictory emotions. There’s anger, desperation, disbelief, the spirit of contradiction and defiance. But there’s also the urge to surrender, to lean into the self-abandonment, to rejoice watching the raging fire. Because the façade is standing in bright flames at this point.

»And what in the world in this??«

Andy has magnified a part of the close up. The lower half between my labia is glistening from my juices. Further downward they have solidified to a more viscous, milky patch. A strain of this liquid with some small bubbles inside spills over the edge, forming a droplet ready to run down the rim.

»After all that has already happened to you today, with the expectation of being severely punished and tortured you are still horny as fuck, leaking like an untight faucet. Don’t tell me you are more than an afterthought of that folds.«

He spits at me, aiming at my face, but only reaching my chest. My sobbing becomes uncontrolled. Hysterical. Yes, I’m horny. But I don’t want to be. I don’t want to surrender myself. I don’t want to abandon my identity, humanity, personhood. I’m not just an afterthought of my cunt. It might control a huge part of my life. But I’m also a mother, a sister, a daughter, I have friends, I have a job, I want to help making the world a better place, I have other ambitions and dreams than being just a cunt, just a fuckhole, just an object, or just torture meat. This is just a part of me, a role, limited in time. I’m not a cunt just because I have a cunt!

This is not jilling while viewing a misogynistic website. It’s not chatting with some anonymous men. It’s not even negotiating the terms of this weekend anymore. This is it. As close to the ›real thing‹ as it can get. If it’s just a role, just play, just a part of me, why does everything Andy has said rings true? It’s just a role, it’s just play, it’s not real, it ends when I get home … Is this the façade I’m afraid to burn down? Andy watches me and is ready to administer his final blow.

»How pathetic! You went from ›I want to be subjected to merciless torture‹ to snivelling cry-baby in a jiffy. The truth is not easy to bear, right niggercunt? Instead of spending the extended weekend with your kids you came here. You lied to your parents, told them you wanted to go to a continuing education seminar so they would look after the kids. Your cunt is ruthless. It will get what it wants.«

Through my tear-stained eyes I see Andy look down on my helpless body, on my exposed cunt. On me.

»You are the most despicable woman I’ve ever met. If you manage to accept that you have the potential to become the most beautiful phoenix cunt. I’ll give you a few minutes to let this sink in.«

Andy disappears in the dark. I know everything he has said is utterly objectifying and dehumanizing me. But I’m proud of what he said. The most beautiful phoenix cunt. That seems to be an attainable goal for a fucked up cunt like me. My sobbing intensifies again. I realized I just made another step towards the watershed. Andy is right. Suffering the physical pain is the easier part. Suffering the breaking down of mind and spirit is more painful.