No Good Deed

She played with him for another twenty minutes, a merciless puppeteer controlling the very air he breathed. Each time she turned the disc, it was a lottery. Sometimes it was a decent breath, enough to momentarily calm his racing heart and clear the black spots from his vision. Other times, it was a teasing, insufficient puff that only highlighted his desperation. And sometimes, she turned it, and nothing came, leaving him to thrash and panic in the airtight darkness, his mind screaming with the primal terror of suffocation. He thought he was going to die a number of times, his consciousness fraying at the edges, the will to live shrinking with every denied breath. At some point, his bladder, no longer under his control, gave way. A warm stream of piss trickled down his leg, forming a small, pathetic puddle beneath him.

Finally, she left him. But before she went, she turned the disc so it barely let any air in, just a tiny, constant trickle. It was enough to keep him alive, but not enough to stop the desperate, panicked panting. He was left hanging, a sack of meat in a rubber mask, his shoulders screaming, his lungs burning, his world reduced to the struggle for each insufficient molecule of air. He didn't know how long she had left him. An hour. An eternity. He was lost in a haze of oxygen deprivation and pain when he realized she had returned. The only warning was the whistle of the cane through the air, a split second before it sliced across his backside. It was a new, sharp, searing pain that cut through everything else. It was followed by another, and another, a rapid, vicious drumbeat of agony. His screams were muffled by the gag and the hood, pathetic, useless sounds of torment.

Suddenly, he dropped. The winch released, and he fell the short distance to the floor. His legs, numb and useless from the suspension, collapsed under him, and he landed with a wet splash in his own puddle of piss. The impact sent a fresh wave of pain through his abused body.

Jenny ripped the hood from his head in a single, brutal motion. The world rushed back in – the dusty room, the single window, her triumphant face. His own face was now wet with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. Before he could take a proper breath, her hand was on the back of his head, pushing it down, forcing his face into the stinking, cooling puddle of his own urine. He struggled, his hands still cuffed, but she was stronger, her leverage perfect. She ground his face into the floor, the piss filling his nostrils, seeping into his mouth around the gag.

She placed her boot on the side of his head and twisted, the rough leather grinding against his cheekbone and the flesh of his temple. Then her foot moved, a casual, deliberate shift of weight, until it found its way into his ribs. She kicked him, not with full force, but with a series of sharp, stinging toe punts around his body – his stomach, his sides, his thighs. Each kick was a punctuation mark in a sentence of pure cruelty.

In the magazines and online forums that James used to read, he had often come across stories of sadists, dominant female sadists. The fantasy excited him, the idea of a woman so powerful, so in control that she could derive pleasure from his pain. But here in the real world, that was different. This wasn't a fantasy. This was a cold, detached, systematic process of destruction. This he could never have imagined. This was not a pleasure; at least not for him.

When she was done, she grabbed him by the collar and dragged him. He was a dead weight, his body refusing to cooperate. She pulled him down the two flights of stairs, his bumping, thumping progress a cacophony of suffering. She dragged him into the room she was staying in for the night, a neat, guest bedroom with a double bed. She shoved him onto the floor, his body landing with a dull thud.

She buckled a strap-on from around her waist, a thick, black, phallic device. She lubricated it with a single, perfunctory drop of lube, not for his comfort, but for her ease. She flipped him over onto his stomach, his cuffed hands twisted painfully beneath him. She knelt behind him, and without a word, without any preparation, she drove the dry, barely-lubricated dildo into him.

The pain was blinding. It was a tearing, burning invasion that felt like he was being split in two. He screamed into the gag, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony as she began to fuck him, her hips pistoning, her movements hard and brutal. She wasn't making love; she was claiming. She was using his body as a receptacle for her anger, her power, her contempt. He was just a hole.

When she was finished, she pulled out with a rough, dismissive yank. She stood over him and removed the gag and pushed the strap-on slick with his blood and shit against his lips. "Clean it," she commanded, her voice cold.

He stared, his mind rebelling. She grabbed his hair, twisting his head back. "I said, clean it." She pressed the filthy tip harder against his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek, and opened his mouth. The taste was vile, a metallic, fecal tang that made him gag. He licked and sucked, cleaning the plastic cock with his tongue, the ultimate act of debasement.

When she was satisfied, she pushed him away. She took a bundle of thick leather straps from her bag. She hog-tied him again, but this time with meticulous cruelty. Numerous straps crisscrossed his tortured body, pinning his arms to his legs, his thighs to his calves, pulling him into a tight, immobilized ball of suffering. She left him there on the floor, a broken, bleeding, defiled thing. He could hear her on the bed, A vibrator, soft moans, then louder as she brought herself to an orgasm. 

Sleep was not a refuge; it was a temporary suspension of consciousness, a fragile ceasefire in a war he was losing. James drifted in and out of a pain-filled stupor, his body a tight knot of agony from the hog-tie. Every muscle screamed, every nerve ending throbbed with a dull, persistent fire. He was aware of the soft, rhythmic breathing from the bed, the sound of his tormentor sleeping peacefully, a stark contrast to his own tortured existence. The darkness in the room was absolute, a heavy blanket that offered no comfort, only the company of his own suffering.

The awakening was as sudden and brutal as everything else she had done. There was no gentle nudge, no gradual return to the world. There was only light.

A blinding, searing light.

It was a high-intensity torch that shone directly into his face from inches away. It was a physical attack, a white-hot needle that pierced his eyelids and seared his brain. He cried out, a muffled yelp of pain, and tried to turn his head away, but the straps held him fast, his head immobilized against the floor. The light followed him, an unyielding, all-consuming sun.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Jenny's voice chirped, impossibly cheerful in the face of his agony. "We've got a big day planned."

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use. The light was so intense it seemed to pass right through his eyelids, painting the inside of his skull in brilliant, painful white. He could hear her moving around the room, the rustle of her getting out of bed, the sound of her stretching. Normal, everyday sounds that were grotesquely out of place in his personal hell.

The light was pulled away, leaving dancing purple and green spots floating in the darkness of his vision. He blinked, trying to focus, his eyes watering profusely. He could just make out her silhouette, a tall, imposing figure against the faint pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains.

She knelt down beside him, her face close to his. He could smell her clean scent, a hint of mint from her toothpaste. It was an intimate, domestic smell that felt more violating than any of the violence she had inflicted.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, her voice a mock-sincere whisper. She patted his cheek, a condescending, patronizing gesture. "I know I did. It's so relaxing to get a good night's rest after a thorough workout."

She stood up and walked over to her bag. He heard the familiar, terrifying sound of her rummaging through it, the clink of metal, the rustle of leather. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure fear.

"Today," she said, her back to him as she sorted through her instruments of torture, "we're going to work on your obedience. Last night was about breaking your body. Today is about breaking your will. We're going to start with some simple commands. And for every time you hesitate, for every time you fail, I'm going to introduce you to a new little friend of mine."

She turned around, and he saw what she was holding in her hand. It was a cattle prod. A long, black handle with two metal prongs at the end that glinted ominously in the dim light. She pressed a button on the side, and a loud, menacing crack-CRACK-CRACK of blue electricity arced between the prongs, the sound a promise of unimaginable pain.

She smiled, a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile. "Let's begin, shall we?”