Legacy

Her master returned, but the slave was no longer awake.

She was lying in that same place on the floor. She had done as he asked: she had purged herself, and she had done little else; she suspected that he might wish her to be just as uncomfortable, just as filthy on his return as she had been when he left. So she didn't wash. She didn't clean up. She vomited into a bucket and left it there. The idea made her lightheaded: that he might have asked her to purge those condoms and all that cum and piss just so he could watch her force it down again. But she was terribly tired, and she knew she wouldn't be able to wait for him as he instructed. That was his entire plan, or at least she suspected it. He wanted her to fall asleep, and then he would punish her—or maybe he would take that as an excuse to send her to bed, to decline to use her at all.

The golden slave couldn't bear that thought.

For that reason, when her master opened the door that led into the wide open chamber where she had been exhibited, his movement caused the door handle to pull a length of twine. It was sort of twine one might use to bind a woman's breasts, compress them into ugly, purple softballs to be batted and pierced. But the golden slave had small breasts, and there would be no such play with hers. Why, then, had she needed the twine?

Because that length of twine was looped through the other door handle, and it ran quite taut from there around the leg of a couch, and from the leg of the couch across the floor to where the golden slave lay. There it was tied quite securely to a hideous saw-toothed clamp, and that clamp was fastened very painfully to one of her cunt lips. When her master opened the door, the twine snapped taut, and the clamp pulled. When the door didn't open on the first try, he pulled harder. This time, the clamp yanked free, carving a red laceration across the slave's cunt fold and eliciting a sharp cry that she bit down at once. That cry gave her master pause.

By the time he and his friends entered into the chamber, she was awake and kneeling, and she didn't mind that her cunt was dripping little droplets of red blood. She kept her eyes lowered demurely, but she was smiling.

"You made it," he said.

"Yes, Master."

"Have you ever served a true sadist before?" he asked her.

She couldn't simply say no. No wasn't in her vocabulary. "The cunt has longed for it, Master."

He smiled. She didn't look up at him; she could feel it on her skin like the sun. She bowed her head, and he spoke.

"Gentlemen, I would like you to meet my daughter. She's almost nineteen now—a year of training well spent." His hand came to rest on her head, fingers combing gently through sticky hair. "Her name is Dakota—sired on Sara St John. You all remember her."

The soft tone of respect in their voices sent a shiver down her spine. They remembered her mother, even after all this time. Would they remember her, too?

"Slave," said her father, "this is Master Sokolov. He enjoys needles and electricity. He's an expert in both—has patents on several devices I'm sure you would enjoy."

The golden slave fell on her face, touching her forehead to the cold concrete. "The slave is honored, Master Sokolov." He offered her the toe of his shoe, and she kissed it.

"This is Sir Stephen," her master continued. "A connoisseur—a virtuoso—of sensory deprivation. He has a passion for heightening a girl's remaining senses by taking some away."

Her heart began beating faster. She threw herself before Sir Stephen and knelt up to kiss the ring on his hand when he offered it. "The cunt hopes to inspire you, Master."

"Master Anderton, my little girl. And Sir Charles Turner—the slave you've already heard so much about."

"Look at her," said Sir Charles. "Like a wild animal. Like a tigress. Have you filled her with an enema yet?"

"No. You'll be the first, as far as I know. At least you'll be the first to test her limits."

"Delightful. Thank you for this, Sir Preston. Truly a one of a kind opportunity."

The golden slave didn't feel one of a kind. She felt overwhelmed. She was overcome with fear: that she might disappoint him, embarrass him, cause him to lose face in front of these men. She would do her very best to—no! Her best might not be good enough, and that wasn't acceptable. She would do whatever was asked of her, in whatever manner they commanded. She would, without question, and without hesitation. That was all. There was no more to be said. She knelt, stilled her body and her mind, and bowed her head.

Master Sokolov showed her his needle case and nondescript electrical device. There were needles of every size and description: some short and some as long as her arm; some hardly wider than a human hair, others with a triangular cross section and a point like a chisel; all were polished to a mirror shine, and all were horrible in their own special way. Of the device, he said, "It can send bursts of electricity, but also it can build heat within the steel. It can feel like a candle flame burning inside you. You'll find it exhilarating, I think. I can't wait to see how you handle it."

Sir Stephen began to fit her for a hood and other accoutrements. He proudly displayed a pair of black contact lenses. "The fluid in which they are suspended is entirely sterile and perfectly safe," he explained, "but it will cause severe irritation for up to four hours. A little like pepper juice or lemon in your eye. It sounds terrible, but it's really quite helpful: you can be sure that your eyes won't dry out."

Sir Charles set a grocery bag on a table, opened it, and took out what looked to be a root or tuber of some kind. He opened a knife from his pocket and began to peel or carve the root, and the golden slave knew at once what it truly was. Her nipples ached and she lowered her eyes. "Have you used a plug in her?" said Charles.

"No. You'd better cut it larger, just in case."

The black contacts came first. Sir Stephen insisted on flushing out her eyes before putting them in. She was kneeling beneath him, her back arched, looking up at him. He gently daubed at her already irritated eyes with a cloth and washed away the remnants of her abuse. She cried little tears of relief that were lost in the flood of saline, but her relief didn't last. He put on gloves before he placed the black lenses on her eyes, and all light went out of the world. She was blind. Panicked. In pain. Her breathing accelerated, her pulse shot up, and she fought to remain still. It felt like her eyes had been set on fire.

"Thank You, Master," she said. Her voice was shockingly calm, considering. She wasn't even sure it was hers.

She thanked him again for the warm wax plugs that flowed into her ears, filling them so completely that she could hear nothing but her own breath. She couldn't thank him when he began forcing a long gag into her mouth and down her throat. She could only panic in silence, striving to control herself and her gag reflex so that she wouldn't send a surge of bile running out of her nose.

"You'll need to remain very calm now," he said—and she could hear him through tiny earpieces buried deep in the wax, the sound filtering through the bones of her skull. "Once I put the hood in place, we won't be able to release you. Not quickly, at least. The hood makes a lot of girls panic, but I'm sure you have experience with it."

She didn't. None at all.

The long, thick cock gag filled her and then swelled slightly inside her. The hood went on. Her world didn't go black, but it got smaller. The heavy leather encased her, pressed in against her on all sides. There were two holes for her nostrils; they were offset a little, perhaps by mistake or perhaps deliberately; they didn't line up, and her breathing pulled the leather against her face. Every breath was hot and close, thick and moist, and used. All of it was used and recycled. The slave got only the leftovers. Like eating off the floor. Like taking scraps from a master's hand. And even just those little images took form and shape around her, like a waking dream, like a vivid memory: such was the effect of the hood and those contacts and the earplugs. She could feel the concrete beneath her knees, bruising her feet and ankles, and yet her mind could fly away at the least impetus.

The golden slave made herself small, bent nearer the floor. She put her hands on it, gathering herself all in one place so that she could be here. Be present. Be focused on what was asked of her. She bowed her head, thinking—hoping—that the men would see that as her thanks. The burning in her eyes had abated not at all, and tears were running down her cheeks beneath the hood.

Someone took hold of her collar. She thought it might have been her father. He guided her, moved her, and positioned her so that her ass was lifted high and her face was turned to one side against the floor. Gloved fingers and cold lubricant traced the ring of her asshole, and then something hard pushed against it. She was penetrated, and then something hot began to pour into her. She imagined that Sir Charles was talking, explaining his methodology. Was it just hot water, or was it laced with cayenne? With chili powder? She didn't know. She would never know. She could hear nothing.

The soft sounds of Mozart began to play in her ears.

Soon she was pregnant, heavy with child—with pain and with heat and with torment. Sweat ran down her skin as her body sought to cool the mass of too-hot liquid that weighted her down, filled her belly, and ballooned her painfully. She didn't complain, not because she couldn't, but because it would never have occurred to her. She only sought to dwell in this moment. To master herself on their behalf. To give herself to them in whatever way they commanded. Next, ginger root was forced into her anus, and she let a small grunt of pain out through her nose as that, too, was set aflame. She ignored the agony and squeezed the root plug, striving to keep the heavy enema in place within her. Sir Charles slapped her sharply, battering her thigh with his strong hand: the plug wasn't fully inserted yet. The golden slave whimpered and relaxed, and he forced it in deeper.

The inferno trebled. The composer played on, and her head swam with torment. Her eyes were open in the dark and her own sweat burned them, only adding to the torment they already felt. She followed the leash as it moved her, her distended belly making her heavy and awkward as she crawled.

They bade her sit atop what felt like a doghouse: a sharply angled rooftop, rough with sandpaper. The peak pushed the terrible plug deeper into her body; a torment unto itself, and yet also a relief to her. She could let herself relax into the pain—but not yet. First she had to take a metal dildo fixed to the rooftop. Strong hands took her by the arms, lifted her, lowered her. She was impaled. Her thighs sprang tight, quivering with the effort of holding herself up, resisting, slowing that terrible penetration. She felt the whole load of her enema pressing against the burning plug, but it held. She let herself be impaled upon the metal spear: upon a dildo far larger than any she had taken before. She knew she would bleed onto the metal, that she would be sore for days. She knew and accepted this, giving her body to the men.

The men brought her wrists behind her back. She wasn't bound. She held them there. Then Sokolov began to ply his magnificent art.

Each needle, each penetration, was unique. Some were tiny pricks of pain that grew with time. Others were like the sting of a hornet, like a nail being driven through her flesh. Perhaps the needles had been laced with venom? Maybe it was the deprivation. Or maybe even the very smallest of his needles served as a conduit for the electricity that flowed through that metal cock inside her: yes, even her pain-addled mind had finally guessed its nature. She blinked away tears and savored all that she felt, from her scorched eyes to the soft caress of sweat that trailed down her back and down her thighs and dripped from her toes. Sokolov began to fill her breasts with needles, and she could feel them swelling with each sting. He might make her beautiful this way. She prayed to him in silence, arching her back, offering her breasts to the steel.

Her cunt was next. Then her thighs. Then her core muscles. Her entire body began to flex in rhythm, uncontrollably, unavoidably. Perhaps it was timed to the music? To the ebb and the flow of it, to the swell of it—or perhaps she was only trying to make sense of what happened to her, seeking patterns in the indifferent suffering heaped upon her. She didn't mind. Could a slave feel foolish? The answer, it seemed to her, was no. What greater fool can there be than a slave? Than one for whom love and anguish are one, and whose greatest love is the place from which all her sorrow flows. Then let it flow! Let the fool suffer. The golden slave's body ached and all her most powerful muscles bore down until it seemed they were sure to tear, to be ripped from her bones, and then slowly the tension released, and she had never felt less control over herself.

She didn't know how long this went on. Her shoulders felt disjointed; still her wrists were crossed. Her lips were split and bleeding, and not only from being struck. Her every breath was a wheezing gasp around the cock that filled her throat, and her whole body glistened with tears and sweat and diamond-bright drops of perspiration under the burning lights—except that the tears were only hers. No one else could see them.

Mozart became Chopin.

The electricity became heat. At first she felt cold as the muscles of her thighs, her buttocks, her back and her core all became still at once—yet still they twitched with the torture they had endured. Then her breasts were on fire, as though someone were running a candle flame over the needles. This fresh agony caused her back to arch, instinctively pushing her breasts out and up, and Sokolov touched her. She knew it must be him. It was a lover's touch, and this was a man who loved his work. His needles. The pain they wrought. His gloved fingers brushed her side, gathering the dew of perspiration upon her skin and sending it sheeting down in a cascade of heat. She shuddered.

More needles. These felt like the very largest. She imagined knives pushing into her body. He ran them into her nipples, slowly. Achingly. Three around the perimeter and one directly into the center. A moan poured up from her, grunting out her nose when it found no space in her mouth. His hand caressed her cheek, clumsily, through the hood. She imagined Chopin telling her that she was a good girl.

The dildo was wet. It wasn't her blood that wet it.

A last needle scraped at her naked skin. She drew a shocked breath, holding. Waiting. He didn't need her permission, and yet it didn't penetrate her. Not yet. The needle scraped at her clit, and Master Sokolov waited.

The golden slave nodded.

The needle went in deep.

She moaned.

The music stopped. Fear built within her—ice in the pit of her stomach, crushed beneath the weight of the still-hot, still-heavy enema that filled her. Had her moan been too much? Should she have kept silent?

"We are placing a table in front of you," said a voice. Aged and refined. Powerful. Restrained. Sokolov. "It will be as high as your waist. Please rest your hands flat upon it and keep them still."

Wagner. She knew the song. Couldn't name it. Her pulse quickened. She lay her hands on the table and closed her eyes and swallowed. She would not move. No matter what, she would not move. The warmth flowed over her, the needles' heat caressing her in a pattern like a lover's touch. Her breathing slowed. She almost felt calmed and then—

Steel pierced her. It pushed under her fingernail. She caught the instinct just in time—didn't draw back her hand. God! God it hurt. But God was the one holding the needle. God was the one torturing her. God was the one watching as his friends drowned her in agony, because it made his cock hard. She prayed to her God for strength, and she swallowed the pain.

It went deeper. It went all the way to the back. It felt like a nail crawling up her wrist. She bit down until she tasted blood, but she remained still. The pain in her eyes was sweet compared to this. She cried and nodded, asking for another, and her torturer gave her another. She cried in silence and asked again. Another. And another. And another. Her fingers bled and throbbed and every one of them felt broken and she laid them submissively upon the table so that they could be broken and the men took from her and she gave to them and she gave to them so that they could take and for a little while she was watching from some corner of the ceiling. She was looking down at the sweating, writhing girl. She smelled piss as the girl wet herself, spilling urine all over the hard steel dildo that impaled her. The girl didn't notice. The girl was an animal. Less than an animal. Lower than the lowest animal.

The girl was a slave.

The needles—were there three under each nail?—were all embedded now. She felt as though she were swaying, dizzy and on the verge of falling. She couldn't be. That dildo inside her was almost deep enough to come out her throat—she couldn't fall, but she felt like it. She wondered how much more they would do. How much longer she could endure. She had trained herself to the utmost, pushed her body to the limits, but they were beyond her body now. They were stretching her soul, and she was but a soulless beast. The music fell away as the song ended, and she heard only her own breathing, her own heart thundering, as if from a great distance. For a long time, that was the only thing she heard.

They carried away the table. She returned her hands to their place behind her back. The effort needed was almost more than she could give, but she crossed her wrists. Then a voice entered her.

"Fuck yourself," it said.

She didn't move. Didn't understand.

"Up and down. Fuck yourself on that cock."

Her legs didn't have the strength. She twisted her entire body—it felt like she had to bend that iron cock inside her to do it—and she put her hands on the sandpaper peak of the roof, one in front and one behind. She sobbed as the pressure lanced through her fingers, like lifting herself on broken bones, but no one else could hear that sound of agony. No one else could see the tears falling. Using all the discipline she'd earned, all the strength of a lifetime of privation, she lifted her body from the steel cock and then lowered it again—almost an inch.

"Higher. Harder."

The golden slave nodded. The enema made it difficult—she could hardly bend. She felt she might burst. If they wanted her to burst, then she would burst, and so she obeyed. Up and down. Up and down. She wasn't fucking herself. This wasn't sex. It wasn't erotic. She was sliding a bloated corpse up and down the impaling spear that had killed it, all for their pleasure. She wondered if they could see the blood on the metal or if her piss had washed it away. Oh God, please accept my suffering!

"Edge yourself."

No! That wasn't possible. She couldn't do it. She wanted to obey, but how could she possibly find arousal in this? With her skewered fingers and her battered body and with that fist-thick metal dildo breaking her open and nothing to stimulate her clit beyond a needle? The needle... Oh, the needle... The pain it gave her was so exquisite. So perfect. So implacable. So hateful. She grunted as she lifted herself, rolled her hips as she pushed them down again. She made noises like an animal—like a coyote caught in a trap. She made the noises of a beast gnawing itself apart, groaning through her nose and sobbing and trying her best to fuck herself to death.

"Do you want to cum?"

The golden slave nodded.

"Wait. Keep going. Wait for my permission."

She nodded. She kept going. It simply wasn't possible, but she kept going anyway. She sweated and dripped. She bled and dripped. She cried and dripped. She gave the men all that she could, and she knew that they would take still more from her, and so she looked within herself for things she had never thought to give, and she tried to give that too. All of it. All of her. No limits. No regrets. No remorse.

"Stop."

The golden slave froze. Her body quivered. She hovered at the edge of consciousness, her entire body breaking, her soul shattering.

"You won't cum tonight, slave."

She grunted. The sound she made could be linked to no human thought or emotion. It was the sound of a ruined thing that understands and accepts its ruin. A thing that hates itself even more than the thing that ruined it. She collapsed onto the steel cock and was still, her head bowed, her eyes aflame, her belly straining, bowels cramping, body glowing, running with sweat, her fingers dripping blood.

"Someone will release you in the morning."

Chopin returned.