Dear Diary 1977

This story is purely fictitious and is for education and entertainment purposes only. All characters appearing in these works are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are over the age of 18. You may distribute this chapter freely so long as it is unaltered, including the author’s information.

October 3, 1977

Dear Diary,

I am writing this because I cannot forget it. I had been in the dark. I remember opening my eyes and seeing almost nothing. Blackness filled my vision. There was a hole in the wall, at the same level as my mouth. It was bigger than the size of my mouth. Light leaked through it. I could see the glow. It was proof the world still existed outside that room. But I could not move toward or away from it. My head was locked, my gaze fixed against the wall. The restraints denied me even that small escape.

The light was there, but I could not look through it. It mocked me with what I could not reach. The silence was worse. I had strained to hear anything outside of myself. A slow footstep. A creak. A mumbled voice. Nothing came. Only my own breath, my own heartbeat. I remember the sound of the cuffs when I moved. The small, metallic, echoing back at me. That was all. The air inside the booth was thick and stagnant fog. It was heavy with the acrid tang of dried sweat that had soaked into the rug.

It was a musk so pungent it made the breath short. Overlaying that was the overwhelming scent of semen, a salty and sharp odor that seemed to coat the back of my throat. But the odors were not just heavy, they were disgusting. The heavy layer of stale sweat, and the acrid tang of semen created a toxic mix that sat low in the stomach. My body reacted with ferocious spasm, a raw, desperate urge to vomit. My muscles churned intensely against the restraint the forced my mouth open.

I gagged, the sound echoing in the small space, but the leather strap held firm. Saliva dripped from my mouth down onto my breasts. The air itself felt poisoned. I had been kneeling. My knees pressed into tiles. The floor was cold, cracked, and unforgiving. The pain was sharp at first, then it became numb, then sharp again. I shifted, but there was no relief. It felt like I had been kneeling forever. Minutes, hours, days. I do not know. My ankles were not merely planted there, they were secured.

A cold, little iron chain extended from the floor, wrapping securely around my ankles before locking them together with a heavy, metallic clank. The chain was short, forcing my legs to remain wide and my torso to remain low, arching my back painfully as I knelt. There was no giving in and no sliding down. The metal was unyielding, and the angle of the knee was fixed. I was a statue of kneeling intent, unable to shift my weight or find relief, held rigid by the unforgiving length of the chain that bound me to the spot.

The metal of the cuffs against my wrists was cold and unforgiving, a harsh contrast to the heated flush of embarrassment that suffused my skin. They were not the soft velvet of a costume. They were heavy, black leather reinforced with steel buckles. The leather had thinned with age, molding uncomfortably against the sharp ridges of my bones. A D-ring sat on the back of each cuff, linking them together with a short chain that pulled my arms tight, pressing my shoulder blades together until they ached.

I was forced to arch my back, the weight of my upper body pulling on the restraints. There was no slack. No room for error. The leather bit into my wrists, leaving no room for blood to flow freely, and the sound of the metal clicking shut was the final, definitive click of my surrender. The leather strap across my forehead was the final instrument of my helplessness. It was a wide and stiff piece of material. It cinched tight behind my head, anchoring me in place. The O-ring sat directly between my teeth, forced open by the cruel pressure, making swallowing impossible and breaths shallow.

Because my head was immobilized, the positioning was absolute. I was locked in a rigid geometry where my mouth was pressed flat against the circular aperture in the wall. The cold rim of the hole bit into my upper lip, and the air that escaped from the other side was forced directly into my throat. My eyes, unable to turn. They were fixed in a stare directly ahead, focused entirely on the grainy texture of the wall before me. I was a static figure, anchored by the strap and the O-ring, unable to tilt my chin up or turn my face away, condemned to remain in this exact, unchangeable position.

I screamed loudly and aggressively. The sound started as a muffled, gurgling roar because of the metal ring, but the volume was deafening. I thrashed violently, my body arching against the restraints. My shoulders screamed from the weight of my own arms, and my neck muscles burned from the strain of the head strap. I demanded to be free, a torrent of curses and pleas that were swallowed instantly by the gag. I screamed until my voice cracked and broke. I screamed until my lungs burned with the need for oxygen and my jaw ached with the unnatural stretch. I screamed until my throat was raw and bloody, desperate to break the heavy silence of the booth.

But the leather held firm, and the chain held my ankles, trapping me in a tableau of silent rage that faded into exhaustion, ragged panting. In the suffocating silence of the booth, the only sounds were my own. The voice was amplified and distorted. I could hear the wet, rattling intake of breath through the O-ring, a desperate gasping that echoed like a storm. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, a thunderous, erratic beat that I could feel pulsing in my ears.

The metal was not silent. I could hear the relentless, rhythmic clinking of the chain binding my wrists, a sharp, metallic jangle that seemed to get louder with every tiny shift of my body. My ankles, clamped together, emitted a soft scraping sound as they dragged against the floor. The leather strap groaned under the strain of my head, a faint, creaking noise. It was a symphony of confinement, every click and scratch a reminder of my inescapable prison. The floor beneath me was tile.

It was cold. It was smooth in places, rough in others where cracks had formed. My knees ached against it. The pain was sharp, stabbing upward into bone. Numbness spread slowly, dulling sensation until it returned in sudden bursts of tingling. I felt the grind of bone against tile, as if my body had been pressed into the surface for eternity. Each shift brought no relief, only new pain. It felt as if I had been on my knees forever, as if time itself had been measured by the ache in my joints.

The floor was not uniformly smooth. The material had warped over time, slick in some areas where the sweat and fluids had dried into a glossy sheen, yet rough in others. The grime had settled into the crevices of the cheap synthetic material, creating a gritty, abrasive sensation against the sensitive kneecaps. The burgundy Yves Saint Laurent suit pressed against me as I knelt. The jacket weighed on my shoulders. The skirt restricted me. The silk blouse clung to my chest.

The suit had once been armor. Now it was a trap. It reminded me of office meetings, of work. The fabric of the suit was a cruel juxtaposition to the filth of the booth. The burgundy wool of the jacket pressed heavily against my shoulders and the stiff collar digging into the side of my neck. It was a garment of high formality, pristine and expensive, but now it weighed on me like a shroud. The skirt, tailored to perfection, hemmed just above the knee, lay in a tangle around my legs, restricting my movement and emphasizing the vulnerability of my position.

The silk blouse, a pale, flattering contrast to the dark walls, clung tightly to my chest, the silk sheen catching the dim light, highlighting the heaving of my breath. It had been my armor in the boardroom, a symbol of competence and control. I wore it to command attention, to signal authority. But here, in the dark, stripped of the trappings of power, the suit mocked me. It was a ghost of my former self, a visual reminder of the life I had left behind. It whispered of power I no longer possessed, of the sharp suits and the empty chairs, of the authority that had dissolved into the smell of stale sperm and urine.

It was a cruel joke, the suit serving only to make the degradation more complete. I tried again to fight. It was a desperate, primal urge to wrench my arms free. I pulled at the cuffs with everything I had, my muscles screaming in protest as tendons stretched to their limit. The metal D-ring connected to the chain rattled violently against the leather of the strap, a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I tugged my legs back, the iron chain on the floor singing a sharp, metallic song as the links strained against the lock, but the metal held fast.

I thrashed my head side to side, the leather strap cut into my forehead, the O-ring pressing hard against my molars. I grunted and strained, my knuckles turning white as I beat against the immovable wall of my own confinement, but the leather and iron were unyielding, mocking my strength with their silence. I threw myself into the thrashing with a final, absolute desperation. My body was a coil of coiled steel snapping loose, jerking violently against the restraints. I screamed until the leather strap bit into my mouth, the metal ring forcing a gagging, gurgling sound that was more of a roar than a plea.

I kicked my legs, the chain on the floor dragging and clattering against the vinyl, a desperate weapon I had no leverage to use. I thrashed my head, smashing it against the hard wall in front of me, the impact rocking my skull, but I could not turn away. I screamed until my throat was raw, the sound echoing in the small, suffocating space until it was deafening. I screamed until my vision blurred and my lungs burned with a fire that refused to die. And then, slowly, agonizingly, the strength drained from my limbs.

The thrashing became a shuddering tremor, a series of violent spasms that faded into a ragged, shallow panting. My body went limp against the floor, the leather straps holding me up, while my mind went quiet, broken and exhausted, staring into the dark. The sudden sound of activity on the other side of the wall shattered the suffocating silence I had managed to carve out for myself in the aftermath of my exhaustion. It wasn't just a footstep. Tt was the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on a tile floor, muffled but distinct, growing closer to the small circle of darkness that was my only world.

Then came the voices. I could not make out the words immediately, the thick, damp air distorting the sounds, but the tone was unmistakable. It was low, rough, and filled with the lewd, knowing laughter of men who had done this before. They weren't talking about work or weather. They were talking about what was waiting for me. I heard the wet, sloppy sound of lips smacking, followed by a gasp that sounded like a match being struck in a dark room. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

The air, the smell, the positioning. I understood the geometry of my prison. The bootsteps stopped. They were right there. The darkness was about to be breached. My breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that felt like it was tearing my throat apart. I hyperventilated, my chest heaving against the silk blouse, the fabric straining against the rapid rise and the fall of my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that seemed to demand an escape that did not exist.

I knew what was about to happen. The silence was not empty. It was a countdown. I started to panic, my eyes darting frantically around the small, dark booth, searching for a way out that was not there, my mind screaming that it was over. The sound of the men on the other side was the catalyst that reignited the dying flame of my panic. The low, rough laughter that rippled through the thin wood wall was the final straw, a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror that flooded my veins with adrenaline.

It was not just laughter. It was the sound of anticipation, of satisfaction. I roared against the metal ring, a sound of pure defiance and sheer terror. My muscles, which had just gone limp, suddenly seized up again. I pulled at the leather cuffs with renewed ferocity, wrenching my arms until the leather creaked and the iron chain sang a desperate, high-pitched song against the floor mat. I kicked my legs backward, my knees scraping against the rough tiles, but the chain was still too short, and the metal was still too strong.

"Let me out!"

I screamed silently, my eyes wide and bloodshot, staring into the darkness. But the laughter only grew louder, a chorus of cruel amusement that seemed to vibrate through the floor and into my knees. They knew. They knew I was there, trapped, screaming, and they loved it. It was a sound that stripped away my pride, leaving me naked and exposed in the dark. The darkness was suddenly pierced by the light from the other side, revealing a gaping circle of flesh and pulsing veins.

It wasn't a thought or a choice. It was a physical assault. A thick, throbbing cock forced its way through the hole, the tip pushing past the cold metal of the O-ring and diving directly into my mouth. I gagged immediately, the sudden invasion overwhelming my senses. The shock of the intrusion was so intense it broke through my panic, replacing it with a reflexive attempt to pull away. I jerked my head back with all my might, using the restrained muscles in my neck to try and create distance, but the leather strap across my forehead held me fast.

I could feel the hard ridge of the wood behind my head digging in as I strained against the restraints, pulling the fabric of the burgundy suit jacket tight across my shoulders, but the cock remained, unyielding and deep. I spat against it, desperate to create space, my tongue curling and pushing with every ounce of strength I had left. I wanted it to be gone. I wanted to bite down, to use my teeth as a weapon against the intruder, but the O-ring held my jaw open, ensuring the flesh could not retract.

My tongue flattened against the shaft, pushing with a rhythmic, heaving desperation, trying to lever it back through the small aperture, but the weight of the erection was too great. It was a brute force that my tongue alone could not overcome. The cock was lodged deep in my mouth, a heavy, pulsating weight that bobbed with the man’s shallow breaths on the other side. No matter how hard I pushed, it stayed, filling me completely, and the only response from the other side was the wet, sloppy sound of my own futile efforts. The sheer volume of saliva gathering in my mouth was impossible to contain. It was a warm, viscous flood that threatened to drown me from the inside out. Because the metal ring forced my jaw wide open, I could not swallow. Instead, the fluid began to pour out, dripping over my bottom lip in heavy, glistening ropes.

It ran down my chin, hot and sticky, and continued its descent. It pooled in the hollow of my throat, soaking into the collar of the silk blouse, which was already clinging to my heaving chest. The liquid continued its slow, agonizing journey down the fabric, darkening the pale fabric as it spread. It coated the fabric of the burgundy skirt, soaking into the material until it was damp and heavy. A significant amount spilled over my bra, a warm, wet mark that felt like a physical weight on top of the suit. Finally, the rest of the saliva escaped, forming a steaming puddle on the cold floor, right at my knees, mixing with the grime and the smell of the booth. It was a total loss of dignity, a physical manifestation of my submission. The intrusion was no longer a slow slide. It was a vicious assault. He did not wait. He thrust forward, burying the shaft deep into my throat with a rough, unhurried rhythm. I choked, the bulbous head pushing against the back of my tongue, blocking the airway, but he didn't care. He kept going.

I screamed, a raw, muffled howl that vibrated against the cock lodged deep in my mouth. The leather strap around my forehead dug into my skin as I thrashed my head side to side, but I could not get away. The sheer force of the thrusts rocked my entire body, the burgundy jacket straining against my shoulders as I was pushed back by the cock. The saliva poured out in even greater torrents, lubricating the thrusting action, turning my chin and neck into a mess of sticky white fluid.

My eyes watered, tears mixing with the drool, streaming down my face as I was face-fucked into oblivion, the sound of my gagging and screaming the only music in the dark room. The assault was so intense, so overwhelming, that my body began to rebel. It was not just saliva. It was a physical expulsion of fluids triggered by the sheer thickness of the intrusion. I gagged, a convulsive heave that had no escape route, and it came out in a thick, clear stream of mucus. It coated the veiny shaft in one long, viscous string, slickening it even more as he pounded into me.

 I could not stop it. The snot began to run from my nose, a hot, sticky trail that dripped down onto the same invading flesh. It mixed with the saliva, creating a grotesque, frothy mess that coated the cock head and down the shaft. I could taste it, the metallic, saline tang of my own fluids, overwhelming my senses as the man on the other side thrust through the slime. It was a degradation so deep it stripped away any semblance of hygiene or pride, leaving me a mess of bodily fluids. I was completely abused and discarded. I was trembling and sobbing around the penis that was now covered in my own saliva.