Scary Shit

The apartment was dimly lit, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of leather and latex. Mila stood in the center of the room, her green eyes wide but determined. She had asked for it - specifically, she had begged to be "scared to death." As her Dom, I was duty-bound to deliver.

I circled her slowly, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. I wore only a pair of black slacks, my chest bare to display the scars and ink that marked my dominance. Mila was dressed in a simple white sundress - virginal, unassuming. It would be the last thing she wore for a long time.

"Nervous?" I asked, my voice a low rumble.

She shook her head. "No. Just... ready."

I smiled coldly. Ready. That was a dangerous word with me.

"First things first," I said, moving behind her. "Strip."

Mila hesitated for a second, then slipped the dress over her head. Underneath, she wore a matching set of red lace - a concession to vanity, not comfort.

"Wrong choice," I muttered, grabbing the waistband of her panties. "You won't need these where we're going."

With one sharp tug, I tore them off, leaving her naked except for her bra. I tossed the ruined fabric aside.

"Now, stand still."

I retrieved a roll of thick, waxed hemp rope from the table. It was my favorite tool - flexible yet unforgiving, soft to the touch but cutting into flesh if pulled too tight. Which it always was.

I started at her wrists. I folded her arms behind her back, binding her elbows tightly together. The position forced her shoulders back and her tits forward. I cinched the knot until she gasped, testing the tension.

"Comfortable?" I asked.

"Y-yes, Sir," she lied, her voice trembling slightly.

I moved down to her ankles. I bound them together at the ankle joints, bringing them close enough that her heels touched. Then I looped the rope up around her thighs. Her knees were bent slightly, her pussy hid in the shadow beneath her tummy.

"Stay like that," I ordered, stepping back to admire my handiwork.

Mila swayed slightly, trying to maintain balance. With her hands tied behind her back and her feet bound, she looked like a human package, ready for unraveling.

"Look at you," I said, walking around her. "Helpless. Vulnerable. Just the way I like you."

She whimpered, a sound of anticipation rather than fear.

Mila's reaction wasn't fear - yet. It was excitement, laced with a healthy dose of adrenaline. I could see the pulse at her throat fluttering rapidly. She liked the ropes; they made her feel secure in a twisted way. But security was the last thing on my agenda tonight.

I nodded, satisfied. "Good. You're doing well so far."

I walked over to the chair in the corner, where I had prepared my tools. I picked up a black silk scarf - a soft touch compared to what was coming. I stepped behind her again.

"Close your eyes," I commanded.

She obeyed immediately. I slipped the scarf over her head, tying it tightly at the back of her skull. The room went dark for her.

"Can you see?" I asked.

"No, Sir."

"Good. Let's move on to the next phase."

I grabbed a wad of thick cloth - a cotton rag I kept specifically for gagging - and a length of duct tape. I moved in front of her face.

"Open wide," I said.

She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out nervously.

I stuffed the rag in, packing it tight against her teeth and cheek until she couldn't close her lips fully. I heard her muffled protest, a choked sound that sent a thrill down my spine.

I took the duct tape and wrapped it around her head, covering her mouth completely. I circled it twice more, ensuring the seal was airtight. A drop of sweat or saliva trickled down her chin.

I stepped back to observe. Blindfolded, gagged, bound at wrists, elbows, ankles, and knees. She was my perfect canvas.

I grabbed the collar of her bra and ripped it down the middle, exposing her small but firm tits. Her nipples were already hard from the cool air and the ropes digging into her skin.

I walked over to the kitchen counter where I had set up the main event. This wasn't just a play session; this was a test of survival. I picked up a heavy, silver metal object - an industrial-grade enema bag, hooked to a standard IV stand.

"First, we need to clear the decks," I said, picking up a bottle of lubricant. "And by 'decks,' I mean your tight little asshole."

She froze. She knew the procedure. I poured a generous amount of lube onto my fingers and stepped between her legs, which were still hobbled and spread wide. With my free hand, I pinched one of her nipples, twisting it until she gasped against the gag.

Using my lubricated fingers, I probed her tight sphincter, pushing past the initial resistance. I curled my fingers inside her, scissoring them to stretch her open. It wasn't about pleasure - it was about preparation for the invasion to come.

"Mmm... very nice," I muttered, feeling her clench around me. "So tight. So eager."

I withdrew my fingers and wiped them on a towel. Then I attached the nozzle of the enema bag to the IV stand and hung it high above us. Gravity would do the work tonight.

I approached her with the nozzle in hand. She tensed, trying to twist away, but the ropes held her fast.

"Stay still," I snapped, landing a sharp smack on her bare ass.

The sound echoed through the room. She cried out into the rag, a muffled scream of pain and fear.

I knelt behind her, spreading her cheeks with my hands. I pressed the cold tip against her anus, applying gentle pressure at first. She clamped down instinctively.

"Not yet, Mila," I whispered. "Don't fight it. You know you need this."

I pumped up the balloon, expanding the nozzle inside her. Mila whimpered and shifted her weight, trying vainly to avoid the painful intrusion.

I opened the clamp on the valve. The liquid inside the bag began to flow, the sound of dripping water filling the silence.

The reaction was beautiful. The initial resistance, the silent acceptance, followed by the inevitable panic. That was the arc I loved to see.

I watched intently as her body responded. The flow was steady, controlled. I knew exactly how much I had put in there - two liters of warm saline solution mixed with a laxative cocktail designed for maximum effect. It wasn't just about cleaning her out; it was about stretching her capacity to the limit.

"You look so pretty right now," I said, running a hand over her sweating back. "Full of my intentions."

The liquid filled her fast. I could hear the sloshing inside her belly. Her stomach started to distend, pushing out against her skin. She looked pregnant, swollen and tight.

Her breathing changed through the nose - short, quick pants. I could tell she was trying to hold it in, but nature has a way of fighting back.

"Let it out, Mila," I taunted, standing beside her. "Let that pressure build. You know what happens when you hold it too long."

Her eyes widened behind the blindfold. She did know. We had talked about this - prolonged retention could cause ruptures, internal damage, or worse. It wasn't a game anymore; it was a battle against her own body.

I saw the moment the cramps hit. Her whole body convulsed. Her bound elbows strained against the ropes at her back, her fingers clawing at nothing. Her feet stamped on the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to run from the sensation.

Her muffled scream came next. A high-pitched, desperate sound that vibrated against the duct tape. It was music to my ears.

I stepped closer, leaning in to whisper into her ear. "How does it feel? Does it feel like you're going to explode?"

She nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"It's only the beginning," I warned.

I moved around to stand in front of her. She was panting heavily now, her chest heaving. I reached up and grabbed the blindfold. With one swift pull, I ripped it off.

Mila blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim light. She stared at me with wide, terror-filled eyes. The fear was finally there - raw, primal, and uncontrollable.

"Bjorn..." she tried to say, but the gag turned it into a mumbled whimper.

"Shh," I said, placing a finger over the tape. "Don't waste your energy."

I walked over to a cabinet and retrieved a length of clear rubber tubing.

I stepped behind her again. With her ankles bound and knees hobbled, she was bent over at the waist, a perfect position for what I had in mind. I clamped down the enema valve and reconnected the nozzle, still lodged inside her rectum, to the tubing. She tensed up immediately.

"Not yet," I ordered. "Relax, or you'll just hurt yourself worse."

She let out a shaky breath, trying to comply, but the muscles in her pelvic floor were spasming uncontrollably from the cramps.

Mila tried to look back over her shoulder, twisting her head. She couldn't see behind her, but she knew I was there.

"Please..." she tried to beg through the gag. It came out as a muffled plea.

I grabbed a pair of heavy-duty leather gloves from my tool belt. "Time to get dirty."

"You know, the human colon can stretch significantly," I explained, my voice calm and educational despite the scene unfolding. "We haven't even hit the limit yet. But we are going to test that limit tonight."

I picked up the other end of the rubber tubing, walked over to the other side of the room, where I had set up a heavy-duty water pump connected to the main tap. It was designed for industrial cleaning - high pressure, high flow.

"Watch this," I said, standing near the machine.

Mila's eyes followed me. Confusion turned to horror when she saw the pump. She started shaking her head violently, shaking her whole body bound with ropes.

I flipped the switch on the pump. The motor hummed to life. Water began to rush through the hose, flowing directly into her ass.

Oh, she understood now. The fear in her eyes went from "this hurts" to "I am going to die." That was the sweet spot. That was where I liked to live.

I stood by the pump, watching the gauge. 60 PSI. 80 PSI. The water flowed into her faster than any human intestines could process it. I heard the sound change inside her - from the sloshing of liquid to a tight, hydraulic pressure.

Her body reacted instantly. Her back arched as far as the ropes would allow. Her hands fisted behind her back, the knuckles turning white. Her belly swelled before my eyes, distending grotesquely. She looked like a balloon filled with water.

I increased the pressure. 120 PSI. The pump roared.

Mila couldn't scream anymore; she was past screaming. She was making a low, guttural animal sound deep in her throat. Her face turned red, then purple, veins popping out on her forehead. She was holding her breath, trying to hold everything in. The pressure in her abdomen was crushing her diaphragm.

"Breathe, Mila," I commanded, stepping closer. "You need to exhale to make room!"

But she was frozen. Her mind was screaming "No!" but her body was betraying her. The pressure was building up against the valve at the top of her stomach - the sphincter of Oddi. If that gave way...

I walked over to the sink and grabbed a glass of cold water. I splashed it onto her face. It shocked her system enough to make her gasp for air, inhaling through her nose.

The moment she inhaled, the pressure inside her shifted. A violent wave of cramps hit her hard. Her abdominal muscles spasmed uncontrollably. She let out a wet, choked sound.

She was full. I mean FULL. Her stomach looked like a second head had grown on her torso. The skin there was stretched taut, shiny with sweat. Any more pressure and we would cross the point of no return. Rupture was imminent.

I killed the pump. Suddenly, the silence of the room was deafening.

Mila stood there, panting heavily through her nose, her chest heaving. She was shaking violently. Not from the cold, but from pure terror.

I walked around her slowly, inspecting my handiwork. "Look at you," I said softly. "You look pregnant with a bunch of basketballs."

She whimpered, a pathetic sound.

"Now comes the fun part," I continued. "We have to get that water out of you."

I pulled a pair of bolt cutters from my belt. Mila's eyes widened at the sight of them. I knelt behind her, placing the jaws of the cutters on the rope that bound her ankles together.

Snap.

The rope severed instantly. Her legs were suddenly free, but they were weak and jelly-like from lack of circulation. They buckled beneath her, but because her elbows were still tied behind her back, she couldn't catch herself. She collapsed forward onto her knees, landing hard on the floor.

"Get up," I barked, grabbing her by the hair.

She struggled to rise, trying to use her legs to push up while keeping her balance with her tied elbows. She looked like an injured animal.

I grabbed a length of chain attached to a heavy leather collar I kept for these situations. I fastened it around her neck, securing the other end to a hook mounted high on the wall. I adjusted the length so she was standing on her tiptoes, arms pulled tight behind her back.

"Bjorn..." she tried to beg again.

I stepped behind her again. With her neck stretched by the chain and her body hanging forward, her ass was presented to me perfectly. The muscles there were clenched tight, a vice grip of fear and cramping.

"Push," I ordered.

She pushed. The nozzle, still inflated, distended her puckered passage a little.

"More!"

She pushed more, still not enough. I grabbed the flared base of the nozzle and yanked. It came out with a loud pop.

A stream of water squirted out, mixed with bile and waste, splashing onto the floor.

"Push harder!" I shouted.

She grunted, straining against the ropes and the chain. Another gush of liquid came out.

I reached around and grabbed her throat, squeezing just enough to cut off her air supply slightly.

"Open that hole for me, or I will squeeze until you pass out right here," I hissed.

She panicked, gasping for breath. In her desperation to breathe, she pushed with all her strength. Mila let out a primal, blood-curdling scream that pierced the duct tape and echoed through the room. The sound of tearing flesh wasn't just in her mind; I heard it too - something tore inside her.

It flowed out fast. Gallons of it. It was a violent, rushing torrent, tinted red. Mila convulsed with each wave of release, her body spasm after spasm as the pressure inside her dropped rapidly.

Eventually, the flow finally slowed to a trickle.

Mila hung from the chain, limp and panting. Her legs were covered in waste. She looked broken, spent, and utterly humiliated.

I stood back, looking at the mess on the floor and the state of the woman hanging from the chain. Mila was pale, sweating, and trembling. The color of her face was wrong - too gray, too clammy. Shock.

I walked over to the mirror and checked myself. My breathing was heavy, my cock was rock hard, but I felt a twinge of... not regret, exactly, but calculation.

"Mila," I called out, grabbing the collar to turn her head so she faced me. "You wanted to be scared to death."

She tried to nod, but the movement was weak. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused.

I reached up and ripped the duct tape off her mouth. It came away with a painful tear. I had to reach into her mouth to get the cloth out.

"Bjorn..." she rasped, her voice hoarse. "It hurts... inside..."

"I know," I said softly.

I untied the rope binding her arms. She collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, gasping for air.

I knelt beside her, supporting her head with one hand. With the other, I checked the pulse at her neck. It was thready, fast.

"You're bleeding internally," I said. "Something's torn inside you. There's nothing we can do about that here."

I let the reality sink in. We weren't roleplaying anymore. We were in crisis mode.

"We have to get you help," I said, grabbing my phone. "But first..."

I stood up and walked over to the cabinet. I retrieved a syringe filled with morphine - strong enough to stop the pain, slow down the panic, but not enough to kill her. Yet.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, watching me approach.

"Because you asked me to scare you," I replied, injecting the morphine into her thigh. "And because you need to be calm for what comes next."

The morphine hit her system fast. She sagged back against the floor, her breathing evening out, the sharp edges of the pain blurring slightly.

"But we can't just call an ambulance," I explained. "If we do that, they will ask questions. They will look at the bondage, the equipment, the pump. They will think I did this to you on purpose."

Mila looked up at me, confusion warring with the haze of drugs. "Didn't you?"

"I didn't mean to kill you," I admitted. "I meant to push you to the edge. But the edge is sharp, Mila. And you cut yourself."

She tried to laugh, but it turned into a wet cough. "So... what now?"

"I have a friend," I said. "A doctor. He owes me a favor. But he won't come unless I make it worth his while."

I grabbed a wad of cash from the safe and threw it onto the table.

"And I need to clean this up," I added, looking around the room. "We can't leave evidence of... everything."

I stepped over to her and lifted her head gently. "Listen to me. You are going to die if we don't get that hole stitched up. And by 'hole,' I mean your gut."

She nodded weakly.

"The ambulance will take too long. The police will ask too many questions. We have to get you to a private clinic. Do you trust me?"

She hesitated for a long moment. Then, a faint smile crossed her lips - whether from the morphine or the absurdity of the situation, I wasn't sure.

"Always," she whispered.

I smiled back, a cold, tight smile. "Good. Because if you don't make it, I'm the only one who knows how to dispose of the body."

I looked down at Mila, still lying on the floor in a pool of sweat, waste, and her own blood. The morphine was working; her pain was subsiding into a floaty, disconnected state. Her eyes met mine, searching.

"Bjorn..." she mumbled. "It... it hurts. But not like before. It hurts like... breaking something."

"That's because you are," I said bluntly. "Internal bleeding isn't just messy; it's a slow death by drowning in your own fluids."

I grabbed my phone, dialing a number I hadn't used in years. Dr. Vincent. A plastic surgeon turned underground trauma specialist. He was the kind of man who didn't ask questions about how the bullet got there, only about which artery it missed.

"Vincent. It's Bjorn," I said into the receiver.

"Bjorn? Jesus Christ. What time is it?" came the groggy response.

"It's 'time to earn that favor' time," I snapped. "I have a submissive here. Complications during an advanced retention enema. Catheter perforated the colon. She's bleeding out on my kitchen floor. And before you ask - yes, she signed the waiver."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You're a fucking idiot, Bjorn."

"I know. Now get your bag and get over here. 24 Elm Street."

Mila watched me, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and gratitude. She trusted me, even now. That trust was the most dangerous drug of all.

"I'm going to pick you up," I told her, sliding my arms under her knees and back. I lifted her effortlessly off the floor, cradling her against my chest.

She let out a soft sigh, resting her head against my shoulder. "Bjorn... if I die..."

"Shh," I hushed her. "Don't talk like that. We are just getting started."

I laid her down gently on the couch in the living room. I grabbed a clean towel from the bathroom and pressed it firmly against her anus to staunch the bleeding for now.

"We need to keep your body temperature up," I muttered, grabbing a blanket. "Hypothermia is the next enemy."

I wrapped her in the heavy wool blanket, tucking it around her tightly. Her skin was clammy and cold.

"You are going to be fine," I said, more to convince myself than her. "Vincent is the best at this sort of thing. He'll patch you up like new. Maybe even leave a scar to remember the night by."

Mila managed a weak smile. "Scar... sounds kinky."