Burning Bright

Layla screamed and tried to twist her head away from him, but her body was too sluggish. She heard her own flesh sizzling, felt the heat inside her skull. Even after he tossed the butt away, her skin still felt like it was burning.

“Don’t care what any of this costs you,” he said darkly as he lit another. “Don’t care if you’re a cripple before the night ends, or die in my trunk while we’re going home. You’re nothing but a fucktoy, and you’re going to CRAWL.”

He put this one out on her inner thigh, right next to her still distended labia, and even as she screamed in agony, the redhead knew then that this was about to get much worse. Her limbs shook like leaves as she tried to get them under herself and avoid what was coming. The couple minutes of rest hadn’t restored any of her stamina, just tricked her wounded body into thinking the danger had passed. Now her muscles protested more than ever, refusing to be put to work again so soon.

In this bondage, all fours meant knees and elbows. She managed the unfamiliar position for maybe half a second before her precarious balance failed and she was sprawled on the floor again, helpless as her master leaned in with the next cigarette.

This one he put out on her pussy lips, directly on the exposed inner folds. She shrieked and pissed herself again as he pressed the red hot tip in and held it there. The pain actually eased slightly as he applied pressure, but that brought her no comfort. Less pain meant he was doing permanent damage, burning away the nerve endings that were crying out. It meant he wasn’t just trying to hurt her, he was marking her. Searing a forever reminder of his ownership and abuse into her pussy. And his pack of cigarettes was nowhere near empty.

She’d heard of animals chewing their own legs off when caught in a trap. She felt like one of them now as she forced herself to rise up on knees and elbows again. She was pushing her body past the point of no return, doing lasting damage just to make it obey for a little while longer. But it was that or the trap.

Her owner left two more scars on her pussy before she finally managed to get in position and hold it. Her stomach churned unhappily from all the movement, and she clenched her asshole even tighter than before, scared the piss and cum would leak out if she wasn’t careful. She nearly cried in relief when he put the cigarettes back in her pocket. “Took you damn long enough,” he growled. “Now crawl! All the way around the room!”

That felt like an impossible task. Her dungeon wasn’t huge, but it did take up almost the entire office basement. Walking the perimeter normally would take about a minute if she was in a hurry, two at a more relaxed pace. Crawling that perimeter, her limbs as awkward as a baby deer… but he wasn’t asking.

Layla lifted her left elbow, wavered as her balance shifted, and just barely managed to stay up. She planted it a few inches ahead of where it had been, and then repeated the process with her other elbow. Next was her left knee, then her right, the movement a little easier each time. Elbow, elbow, knee, knee. Elbow, elbow, knee, knee. It was difficult and slow going, but she could do this.

She had no warning before a line of fire cut across her ass cheek. Layla screamed in surprise and pain, and lost her balance again, going down in a tangle of limbs. She looked back just in time to see her master swing the bullwhip again, cutting a fresh line on her ass. “Faster, you lazy cow!” he yelled. “This ain’t a romantic stroll in the park! Move! Move! Move!”

The redhead tried to scramble up, fell again, was whipped again. She made it back up, took a panicked movement forward, lost her balance again, whipped again. The leather bodysuit offered little to no protection from the heavy whip; it sliced right through the thin material each time, leaving behind a bloody line.

Layla had more than ten whip marks across her clenched heart shaped posterior by the time she managed to get up and moving again. Her master walked behind her, swinging the whip again every time she wasn’t fast enough for his liking, which was far too often. “We call this pace a trot, slut,” he announced at one point, “and it’s the absolute bare fucking minimum. I ever catch you moving slower than this back home, it means you need a fire lit under your ass.”

Fuck, she could picture it too. She’d assumed that at some point he’d take these binders off her arms and legs, let her walk around like a human being again, but there was no reason he had to. He could just keep her like this, scurrying around on all fours like an animal for the rest of her life.

She glanced back at him, trying to anticipate when the next whip stroke would fall, and received it immediately. “Eyes forward, bitch! Only place you look is straight ahead!” She flinched and fixed her gaze in front, his presence looming behind her. Her heart raced even harder as she trotted on, anticipating another kiss from the bullwhip at any moment.

Layla fell several more times, and before long her welted ass was almost completely exposed, but she finally completed the full circuit after about ten minutes, stumbling forward more on pure momentum than any sense of balance. Drenched in sweat, panting like a dog, she felt like she’d run a marathon while wearing weights.

She collapsed to the ground once more, so exhausted that when the bullwhip left a fresh bloody stripe on her cheeks, she barely twitched. “Warmup’s over!” her master called out. “Time to gallop!”

Layla whimpered, and the only thing that motivated her to drag her battered body up to all fours again was the certainty that if she didn’t do it herself, he would find a way to make her. “Nine more laps,” he told her. “And I said GALLOP, bitch!” Another stinging, bleeding line across her ass.

The next few minutes were a mad scramble across the dungeon floor. The only way the redhead could move fast enough to satisfy her master was to almost literally throw herself forward, knees and elbows smashing against concrete as she propelled herself. It was painful, exhausting, and completely unsustainable; she couldn’t manage more than a few bounds before ending up in a heap and earning fresh whip marks. Layla’s limbs felt as heavy as steel girders, her lungs were on fire, and her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might genuinely have a heart attack if this continued, but her master was uncompromising. And as she’d already expected, things only grew worse.

“Two down! Keep your head up! I told you to look ahead, not at the floor!”

“Three down! Arch your back and get that ass higher! Show off that fuckhole you let me piss in!”

“Four down! Make those fat tits dance while you’re at it! Don’t you enjoy your jewelry?”

“Y-yes… master…!”

Every lap brought a new addition, another layer of hell to sink into. It wasn’t enough to break herself for him, she also had to make herself look silly and submissive and fuckable at the same time.

“Five down! Show me that winning smile!”’

“Six down! Shake that butt!”

“Seven down! Let me hear some gratitude for helping you get a workout, you selfish cunt!”

“Thank… you… master… for… for… not… letting… me… be… lazy… cow!”

The redhead galloped, wheezed, and galloped some more. There was always something she wasn’t doing right, always some reason for the whip to kiss her cheeks again and again. But there was nothing she could do about it except keep galloping.

“Eight down! Time to really MOVE, slut! Fast as you can!”

“Nine down!  Don’t start slacking now, bitch! I catch you slowing down, that’s another ten laps!”

She barreled to the end, breath rattling in her lungs, arms and legs completely numb. Then she slumped down, half-dead, and waited for him to whip her again and yell that she still had more laps to go. Her body twitched in time with her heartbeat, and drool ran down her chin as she stared blankly ahead.

He nudged her with his foot. “What now, slut? Continue the workout or take a fuck break, see if your cunt has anything to offer?”

“Fuck… break… please… master…” she wheezed, each word a herculean effort.

He dragged over a wooden chair and sat down. “Then get to it, bitch! I’m sick of doing all the work here.”

Layla had to drag herself into his lap, her numb limbs barely cooperating anymore. Despite all the pain she was in, and how tired she was, she went at the task quickly, terrified that if she took too long, he’d change his mind.

His cock had regained its full heft at some point, and pointed straight up at the ceiling. The redhead looked down and nervously shifted herself so that her pussy rested on its head, aware that this wasn’t going to be an easy fit. If he’d fucked her before making her crawl around, when his dick was still slick with her spit and her cunt stretched from the tripod, it would’ve been a different story: a tight squeeze without nearly enough lubricant, but an act that was clearly more sex than torture. Now that his member was dry and her sore insides had regained their usual dimensions, the distinction was going to be blurrier.

There was another problem that was quickly apparent: without her hands free, she couldn’t spread her labia apart. What was already a narrow entrance was now barely accessible. Sitting in her master’s lap had brought their faces so close they were nearly kissing, and she looked up into his eyes, ready to beg him to help rape her.

This close, the burning hatred in her eyes made her freeze. It made the flame she’d cultivated in her own heart seem like a flickering candle. She’d hated men, wanted to see them suffer and submit. He hated HER, and he wanted her dead. She could see clearly, for the first time, how badly he wanted to kill her. The only thing stopping him - barely - from tearing out her throat, was that once she was dead, he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

“P-p-please muh- master,” she stuttered, suddenly more terrified of him than ever. “Can you, um, please, I, I’m trying to…”

He slapped her hard across the face. “Spit it out, bitch,” he snarled as her ears rang.

“Please, I, I want to fuck your cock, master! With my cunt! Can you, can you please spread my, my cunt lips open for me?”

“I’ll do better than that, bitch,” he said darkly. “Think I’m gonna waste time dealing with your cunt flaps whenever I feel like drowning your womb in spunk?” He held up the stapler he’d been concealing in his right hand.

“Thank you, master!” she said automatically, aware that any other response would earn her more abuse, “For, um, for dealing with my c-cunt flaps!” She did her best to smile at him as he pinched her right labia and pulled, stretching it painfully far and pressing it against her upper thigh.

The staple felt like a bee sting as it pierced her pussy lips, only ten times worse. Layla squealed in pain and looked down to see the crude bit of metal fixed to her lips, pinning them to her thigh. The sight was grotesque, but she had no time to dwell on it, because he was already repositioning the stapler again.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The redhead flinched violently every time a new staple punched through her labia. He seemed intent on using every last staple; there were more than thirty haphazardly driven through her flesh at different angles before he moved on to her left side.

By the time he was done, no staple was separated from another by more than millimeters. It was an ugly metal scribble defiling her intimate entrance, and she smiled at her master and thanked him for it. “Please master, may I service you with my cunt now?”

“Get to it, bitch,” he growled. He tossed away the stapler and turned his attention yet again to her tormented breasts, still swollen like balloons in their bondage. The burning and itching of her nettle kissed flesh resurged as he began kneading her mounds like dough, and the clamps on her nipples and clit chewed savagely as they were bounced.

The former dominatrix let out a pitiful groan as the fresh wave of agony rolled over her, and pushed, grinding her spread pussy against her master’s wide cockhead. The action tugged on all the staples buried in her labia, ripping at her sensitive skin in dozens of places, but she continued, determined to get her rapist’s cock inside her.

It slid in impossibly slowly, forcing her to strain for every new millimeter of purchase. Layla felt like she was literally tearing herself in half to fit him inside her, and all the while he kept clawing at her breasts, rewarding her hard work with nothing but more pain.

His head was completely inside her now, gripped tightly by her cunt muscles, her suffering creating his pleasure. Swallowing the rest of his shaft into her cramping, too tight tunnel was no easier now, only more inevitable. Even if she tried to reverse course, his cock was now locked into her as securely as by padlock, an invader that would only retreat after squirting its thick seed into her, marking her womb as his the same way it had her bowels and throat.

Spurred by gravity and her frantic efforts, his member sank into her, his head scrubbing and stretching her sore walls, the pace so slow she almost wanted to beg him to just get it over with. But finally, she felt it: his head kissing her cervix. Almost half of his shaft still waited beneath her stapled lips, but this was the end of the line.

Her cunt clung to his length, wrapped around him as tightly as a condom. She could feel his heartbeat, his breath, every minute motion of his body through her velvet grip on him. Layla had never felt more stuffed, even when he’d been up her ass, and even as she tried to rise up and fuck him like he wanted, she knew it was going to be impossible. His shaft was stuck to her walls like superglue.

Her only hope was to massage him, her cunt muscles rippling across him as she squeezed down. Layla’s insides ached and burned, but this was the only way she could get him off like this, and she needed to get him off. She wanted this man to cum more than she’d ever wanted anything for herself. So she hugged him with her pussy, and she arched her back to press her tortured breasts into his grasping hands, and when his lips found hers she frantically kissed him back, filling her mouth with the taste of old cigarettes and stale beer again. Ever fiber of her being was devoted to being a good fucktoy for him.

Part of her felt like she was watching herself from the outside, and seeing a total stranger. Where was the confident woman who’d entered this basement mere hours ago? There wasn’t anything recognizable about the cringing, half naked creature whose hips rolled as she pleasured her rapist with her sore pussy, whose burning tits bounced and jiggled as they were mauled, whose chin was covered in drool as her tongue slobbered and danced inside his mouth.

This was Layla now. And he was only getting started.

At any other time, the sensation of a man’s cock spurting inside her, thick wads of cum glazing her womb, would have filled the former dominatrix with disgust and outrage, but now she felt only relief, and feigned a purr of delight as his seed began to gush into her. She’d done what he wanted, and given him no excuse - or so she hoped - to punish her.

“M-may I fuck you with my cunt again, master?” she asked nervously as he shrank inside her. “Or, or serve you with my mouth?” He’d mockingly called this rape a fuck break, but she felt even more tired than before. There didn’t seem to be a single muscle left in her body that wasn’t stiff and sore. If he decided to make her crawl again, she’d… she’d do it, she knew that much, but it would cost her terribly. “Or my ass! I’d be, um, honored to fuck you with my ass!”

“Later,” he growled, and Layla’s heart sank. “Plenty of time for all three once we’re home.”

Home. Like he’d promised, he was taking her home with him. Because this… this was never going to end, not until she was dead. It was a future too terrible for her exhausted mind to wrap itself around, and she found herself staring dully into space as he pushed her off of him and began to clean up the basement.

It was the first time all night that his attention had been focused elsewhere, and the redhead knew she should be trying to take advantage of it. But to do what? She was still tied up, unable to fight back or run. She didn’t even dare to glance towards the exits, scared that he’d notice and think she was plotting something. So she just laid there on her side like a discarded doll as he scrubbed the surfaces and equipment with bleach.

It felt like no time at all had passed before his boot was digging into her ribs again. “Crawl, bitch!” he barked, and she stirred to life. Her muscles protested, but she must have had some time to rest after all, because they reluctantly cooperated.

“Make a sound and you’ll regret it for the rest of your pathetic life,” he promised as he led her up the stairs and out of the building. The cool night air made her shiver even as she greedily sucked it in, eager to breathe something that didn’t taste like her owner.

She SHOULD yell, Layla knew that. It had to be roughly three or four in the morning, and there was little reason for anyone to be in earshot and even less for them to respond to cries for help, but she knew that she should do it anyway. But her throat seized up at the very thought, and she choked on that fresh air.

She knew then that he had won, not that there was ever any doubt. Mentally, it was still possible to pretend that she was a fiery dominatrix awaiting her chance to strike back, even if the lie was obvious, but physically? Her body had utterly submitted to him, a prey animal gone limp in a predator’s jaws. The bondage and the threats were just window dressing on the truth: he owned her now.

His car turned out to be a beaten up old Volkswagen, and the old Layla would have confidently sworn that there was no way a person could fit in that cramped alcove of a trunk. The new Layla just scrunched herself up and went to work, squeezing her bound limbs in until they were all inside and she was looking up at her owner, packed away like a sardine in a tin.

She flinched as his spittle struck her cheek. “It’s a little snug, but you won’t be in here long. Enjoy it while it lasts: after this, you’re going to spend the rest of your miserable life in a dank cell getting fucked and tortured and thanking me for every moment of it.” His words were almost solemn despite the obscenity they were describing, delivered like a judge handing down a sentence. “No more sunlight on your face, no more fresh air. No baths or showers except my piss when you stink too bad to fuck. No bed but a metal dog cage even smaller than this trunk. No food and drink but rotten slop and cum and whatever you clean off my dick.

“If I ever think you might be enjoying any part of your treatment, I’ll burn your clit off. If I ever see you look at me again with anything other than terror and worship, I’ll rip your eyes out with my fingernails. If I ever think you’re learning to tolerate your new life, I’ll torture you to death on the spot. That’s where you’re going, bitch. That’s what’s waiting for you when we get home. Any last words?”

Layla opened her mouth to beg him not to do this to her, to offer him money and sexual servitude and whatever else he might desire, but the words refused to come out. She had enough experience with hate to know there was nothing she could offer that would quench his, and nothing she could do to make things right.

“I’m… sorry, master…” she said quietly instead. “About Nathan. I didn’t… I know he can’t forgive me, I know he wouldn’t even if he were alive, but… I’m still sorry. For what I did to him… and what I did to his family…”

He stared at her darkly for a moment, then he slammed the trunk closed and started up the car.

Epilogue

The trip lasted more than an hour. Layla held her breath every time the car slowed to a stop, wondering if they had reached their destination, and exhaled every time they started moving again.

She could still hear the muffled sounds of Chicago around her, and sometimes when they were stopped at a light, she could hear other cars pull up next to theirs. If she were to yell for help, they might hear her. Someone might rescue her, or at least call the cops and report the license plate.

But her owner would definitely hear her, and he would punish her. So instead of shouting and screaming, she did her best to remain silent and still, terrified that even the quietest whimper or shift might be interpreted as an attempt to communicate.

At last, the car came to a stop once more, and the engine switched off. They had arrived.

The trunk opened and her owner loomed over her; she cringed at his attention. “Out!” he barked, and she scrambled to obey, clambering out of the compartment on knees and elbows and falling onto the pavement.

This… she knew where they were. This was the parking lot next to her building. The same parking lot they’d left from.

Layla looked up at him, not daring to move or speak without her master’s permission. This could just be a trick, or a test. Maybe he’d decided to come back to collect some of her tools to use on her. Whatever the reason, he was in charge here, not her, and she wasn’t going to give him a reason to think she’d forgotten that.

“You know why I’m leaving you here, bitch?” he asked.

Leaving her? He wasn’t really going to… She crawled forward to begin kissing his feet. “Thank you, master, thank you, thank you thank you.” Don’t make him angry, she told herself. Don’t make him change his mind. “May I please suck your cock again before you go? Or, or fuck you with my tits or my cunt or my butt? I’d love to satisfy you however you want, master.”

He scowled and kicked her in the ribs. The redhead flinched back, whimpering, and kept her head down and her mouth shut. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but of course she had, she was just a stupid fucktoy. “Do you know why?” he repeated.

Layla looked up and met his eyes, ready to tell him that no, she was just a dumb bitch and he would have to explain it to her, but his gaze held her. There was something slightly different there. He still looked down on her with contempt, but… that fierce blazing hatred for her had changed. It wasn’t gone by any means - he still hated her more than she could have imagined possible - but it no longer burned quite as bright. “Because master is like me,” she whispered. Fueled by hatred, and that hatred had begun to die down.

“I was ready to do exactly what I promised,” he told her, “and you would have deserved every minute… but I already killed that woman tonight. She spent the rest of her life suffering, just as she was meant to, and you? You’re just a whimpering crybaby wearing her corpse.”

She should feel happy, elated that this nightmare was going to pass. But Layla only felt hollow inside as she remained prone at her master’s feet. She’d let him tame her so thoroughly, submitted so completely, that she was just a broken toy. There wasn’t even enough of her left to keep hating.

“What now, master?” she asked quietly, because it was still inconceivable that this man wasn’t going to be in control of her life.

Instead of answering her, he turned around and… just left. He got into his car without looking back and drove off, leaving her alone in the parking lot. She waited in silence for a few minutes, in case he returned, then rose back up to her knees and elbows and slowly tottered towards the dungeon.

It took a minute to get down the stairs and manipulate the door without use of her hands, but eventually she managed to get inside, free herself from the bondage he’d left her in, and peel off what remained of her leather bodysuit. She had a back room with some spare clothes and, more importantly, a shower. She crawled into it, still on all fours, and let the hot water rain down on her back, watching the blood and sweat and cum all flow down the drain.

The pattering drops were enough to jostle the clamps Layla still had affixed to her nipples and clit, sending fresh jabs of pain through her. She looked down at the cruel things. She could finally remove them, right? Her master had never actually said that she could, but it wasn’t up to him anymore. He was gone, she was alone, and the doors were all locked, both to the outside and to this room. She was safe. It was over.

And yet her hand trembled as she reached for them, and it suddenly seemed like she couldn’t get enough oxygen. What if he ever found out? What if he’d left cameras somewhere? What if he saw her without them on the street one day, and her disobedience was enough to change his mind about her? What if he was outside right now, waiting for her to step out so he could punish her for being stupid enough to believe she could be anything but his fucktoy anymore?

She let her hand drop back down, and the panic attack receded.

As tears began to join the fluids swirling down the drain, Layla wondered if she could ever find something to replace the hatred that had burned out completely, or if there would never be anything inside her other than this black oily fear. She wondered if Nathan had felt like this, in his final days.

Still weeping, she finished showering.