Spilled Milk

You’d think she’d be used to the noose by now. But Sally still wails and thrashes every time I hoist her up, cuffed hands beating uselessly against her back, her once dainty toes scrabbling to find a floor that’s just a couple inches too far down.

I lock the winch in place and prepare to get started. In the past, I’d give myself a little more time to watch my latest fucktoy bob and wiggle around like a dying fish. Don’t get me wrong, even though eight months of captivity have her looking a bit bony, with sickly limbs and ribs sticking out, she’s still a delicious sight. Her long red hair now goes halfway down her back, her skin is a beautiful scrapbook of tattoos, piercings, and suffering, her ass is still tight as a drum, and while malnutrition has diminished her once full and bubbly tits, thanks to a bit of DIY they’re looking bigger than ever. Zip ties around the bases ensure that they stand firm and at attention, the flesh swollen and purplish. I could spend hours just soaking up the sight of her.

But we’ve got a lot to cover today, and Sally only has a couple minutes before she passes out forever, so I waste no time checking the tally: fourteen new cigarette burns dotting her throat, ten down her inner thighs, and twelve across her wriggling butt cheeks. “Only thirty six orgasms this time,” I confirm, disappointed. “That’s your worst week yet, slut. I think this might really be the end.”

Sally lets out a choked whimper.

“There was a time you used to clear eighty even on your slow weeks,” I remind her. “You remember those days? Felt like my cock was hard and happy from sunup to sundown. And now you’re only getting me off, what, five times a day? Fuck, slut, I could manage that with my own left hand. The hell do I need a cocksleeve like you for?” I’m pleased to see a genuine look of shame on her face; she’s so far gone at this point that she actually feels bad about disappointing me.

I sigh. “Eight months isn’t a bad run, better than average. But I don’t think you’re going to make the full year, not like this. Should we do both of us a favor and just call it here?” Sally frantically shakes her head, and I make a show of sighing again. “Alright, slut, let’s go over what we’ve done already and see if there’s anything left.”

Over the years, I’ve had plenty of girls down in this basement, and I’ve experimented with various ways to keep them motivated. You see, left to her own devices, a fucktoy will just kinda give up within a few months. Her holes might remain tight and her techniques flawless after the countless hours of practice, but mentally she’s long gone, disassociating or flat out catatonic. I’m sure for some guys that’s not a deal breaker, but me? There’s no point if a fucktoy isn’t suffering.

This is my favorite motivational method, and it starts with a carrot: I promise girls that if they can keep me satisfied for an entire year, I’ll let them go. They’ve got no reason to believe me, but it’s literally their only hope left in the world, so they usually cling to my words like gospel truth. Sally is no exception; after the initial few weeks of swearing revenge someday and vowing to kill me with her bare hands and all that tripe, she eventually embraced her new role as cum dump. By the time she’d been down here for three months, there was hardly a woman in all the world who could be labeled a bigger tongue lapping, thigh pumping, butt jiggling slut.

It never lasts, of course. Even the warmest and most welcoming holes grow familiar over time, familiar becomes boring, and then there’s nothing to do but throw a used up fucktoy out and go looking for a new one. If raw fuckability was the only standard to go by, Sally would’ve been buried in an unmarked grave weeks ago. But luckily for me, and maybe for her, variety is the spice of life.

I tap the top tattoo on Sally’s emaciated stomach: HUNGRY DOGGY. “You’ve been on the new meal plan, what, four months now? My cock used to twitch every time I watched you grimace over a mouthful of kibble. And bending you over for a hard buttfuck while you licked your food bowl clean was so fun that I’d hose down that tight asshole two or three times in a row some days. But turning you into a doggy bitch is old hat by now, isn’t it?” She nods sadly.

“And ASHTRAY?” I say, reading the next tattoo out loud. “That definitely spiced things up for a little while. The way you’d squirm each time I was close to cumming, knowing that your reward would be a hot cigarette kiss and doing your best anyway, mmm. I don’t think we ever topped that really. PISS DRINKER, TITTY PUNCHING BAG, TOILET PAPER, PAIN SLUT… we had some fun with all of them, but it’s always been fleeting. So what do you think, cunt? How do we recapture the magic?”

Sally lets out a little squawk that I interpret as “sorry master, I’m just a dumb little bitch”. To be fair, it’s been nearly two full minutes since I first hoisted her up, long enough that she would’ve passed out already if she wasn’t so experienced with getting choked out She’s barely even squirming now, her eyes dead and hopeless as she stares at me, waiting to find out if she ever gets to breathe again.

I tap my chin, thinking. It’s tempting to just stand back and let it happen. I could spend the evening getting her body chopped, bagged, and disposed of, then swing by a nearby college campus to check out the prospects. With a little luck, I could be enjoying a brand new set of holes in less than a week.

But I’ll admit, I have a bit of a soft spot for Sally. Maybe it was the adorable way she retched and swore to kill me the first time she tasted her own asshole on my cock. Maybe it was the sexy way she broke down sobbing when I showed her her own obituary in her local paper, confirming that no one out there was looking for her anymore. Maybe deep down, I’m just too nice a guy. Whatever the reason, I’ve been rooting for her to make it, and I don’t know if I’m ready to give up on her yet.

Sally’s eyelids droop and piss runs down her leg. Not dead yet, not quite unconscious even, but getting there fast. It’s now or never… Her body jolts in surprise as I give the winch a quick turn, letting her now limp toes reach the floor. Instinct takes over and she draws in a wheezing, ragged breath. I’m letting her live, not being generous, so I raise her a little bit higher once the oxygen wakes her up properly, finding a height where she has to strain to reach the floor again. She can only manage tiny little gasps every few seconds, enough to keep her conscious and alive without easing her agony.

And then, luckily(?) for her, inspiration strikes.

“How much do you hate being choked like this, slut?” I ask her, already feeling myself grow hard. “Is this hell for you? Do you feel like you’d do absolutely anything for a real breath of air?”

Her eyes dart down to my erection, and I see understanding dawn in her. Tears begin to trickle down her cheeks as she slowly nods.

“What if we make this your new normal?” I suggest, savoring the words. “Whenever you’re not eating or fucking, you’re going to hang there, just like that. And when we do bring you down… I’m sure I have a choke collar or two lying around. Something with a leash attached, so I can yank it tight whenever I cum. Does that sound like a living nightmare, slut, blacking out while you feel my jizz paint your insides, knowing I’ll be waking you up with a fresh cigarette? Never catching your breath ever, ever again?”

Hours later, Sally is still hanging there. Still choking, still moments away from asphyxiation. But now fresh cum drools out both her lower holes, and I had to go grab a fresh pack of cigarettes to finish recording all the loads. My cock is hard and throbbing, and the only reason it isn’t balls deep in her again is because I’m trying to decide which way I’d like to fuck her next. Pound her cunt while chewing her nipples bloody, or rail her ass while taking pliers to her clit? I already knew I was going to do both, it was only the order that mattered now.

Sally lets out a soft gurgle of a whimper, and the action makes her belly ripple, her new BREATHLESS tattoo dancing. God, she’s so fucking sexy. I know this feeling won’t last, that all too soon I’m going to need to find new ways to make her the most miserable fucktoy in the world, but right now I’m feeling hopeful. Maybe she can really do it, hold my interest for the entire twelve months and avoid an unmarked grave.

I mean, there’s a first time for everything, right?