Saturday, December 24, 2016


By Brewt.Blacklist

December 2016

THERE USED to be conversations about and yea, even during the actions taken in the basement, which never worked out the way she wanted them to—with the issuing of fierce commands replied to with humble obeisances—instead devolving into endless reiterations of “Is this alright,” or “Are you okay,” followed invariably by a breathless “Yes,” until the day came about that enough was enough and the retort was put forward along the lines of “Why don’t you get this yet, you imbecile? I’ll tell you if there’s a problem.” Which put a stalwart stop to the tireless lines of inquiry about consent, and acceptability, and gratification, and restricted the anxieties of intent and effect inward. On someone else’s time.

Which had the side effect of silencing a great deal of otherwise-expressions of speech, and questions about going out for dinner, or what interests might be had in daytrips to museums or concerts or parks or wherever, or whether or not there should be adventurous weekend plans of maybe sleeping out, or whatnot, they all fell by the wayside as well, and so the more ominous aspects of the overall quiet in the house gained a depressive foothold and loomed larger and larger and grew like a cancerous darkness, taking out the sparkles in eyes and the brightnesses of countenances with it on top of everything else phraseological. The fear of causing a problem by saying there was a problem would disturb the peace, and a riddle was stumbled upon that there turned out to be less and less opportunity to solve as time dragged on. Words became equations, carrying with them arcane architectures filled with ley lines buttressed up with vaults and choirs and baptisteries and such and are only called upon in urgent circumstances. Like whenever there is a fire, or when the phone rings, or when the inevitable “excuse me” is mouthed under their breaths in the too-small bathroom or in the too-small kitchen or in the too-small hall.

There is a war raging inside her that she has kept well-cloaked and long hidden. She has no idea what to do, and there isn’t much opportunity for advice. At least, certainly not around this dump. The internal wrestling that she keeps coming back to revolves around the auto-interrogations about what matters more: what she truly wants or what is believed about what she wants, and isn’t that what she is supposed to want? If she is going to submit, shouldn’t she just go ahead and submit? Shouldn’t she quit trying to make this about her and herself and her interests? Why does she want something awful? Why should she get it?

Any more, there seems to be much more curiosity about seeing how many replications of the tireless inducings of eternal ceaseless happy thrills that she could endure—which does have the sole benefit of its own form of rather interesting tribulations to it, once the bland compulsion of exuberance itself grows meaningless—than any of the darker things she is so very willing to let happen to her. If her rapture is what is so monotonously called for, then shouldn’t she simply go ahead and tender it?

The times that little corvée d’amour goes on long enough to change its beatitudes into hurt are few and far between, and she pines for some meager variance of difference in sensation so much that she has actually opened herself up to self-inflicting again. Which is a right and responsibility she gave up an epoch ago, to a very special person, that she could pledge some plainly deluded troth to, and now, after all this, someone here does not appear to have any interest in exercising that unconventional liberty any more.

What. A. Crime.

This is the argument she has with herself, day in, day out. She undergoes the wrong manner of trial to suit her. This isn’t what she had envisioned submitting herself up to the exaltations of another would work out to be like. She thought it would be more arduous. Maybe not so dull or futile. It is the wrong type of exhausting.

In truth, she has grown disillusioned about how the majority of things relation amoureuse have become between them, in general, and she is beginning to consider the possibilities of getting away, of giving all this nonsense up, of starting over with someone more…promising. There are infinite loops in this confounded programming, and its spaghetti code leaves her feeling lost, no matter how she tinkers with the variables.

All of which, granted, is outside the venerable librettos of the Grand Guignol theater of their exclusive netherworld. Then, at least, some vocabularies are expected. Well-regulated, true, but banked on and scheduled and steadfastly nagged over until the exact lines had been learned down pat.

It has all the more gotten to where the obligations of reaching across the bed to fulfill what was left of that little duty falls to her and her alone to initiate. There is the net gain of her being whispered about as “insatiable” along with some unaspirated slur—which turns out to be true, and it is a definition for herself that she adores—whenever she can bring herself to do that, but that insulting label alone isn’t enough to fulfill her most insidious itches and cravings, and especially not when considering how it always backfires on her and leaves herself open to be sacrificed to felicity and comfort one more annoying time.

The romantic niceties of flirting, too, have all fallen by the wayside as well, such that now, when the time is way past overdue for the more peculiar nuance of their relationship to come about and she cannot stand to wait any longer, there are no hints or winks or coy looks, no, she modestly steps up to block the view of the game or the stupid superhero movie or inane spook film or whatever, and takes off her clothes. She looks down for a moment, licks her lips, then raises her head to gaze at the wall, so she can be looked at, be seen, and demonstrate to herself once again that she is not transparent.

There still is a minor attempt at communication that comes about as to what her opinion of the events that are about to transpire should maybe be like, based on what it is she does with her garments. Not that it represents any kind of a rule, not from her; she wouldn’t mind being beset with a surprise, to leave her with even a tiny sense of wonder now and then. It’s just devolved into convention, like everything else. Whether she folds them and gently places them aside and kneels with her head bowed and her palms up on her thighs, or throws them into the corner with a sense of angry urgency—or when the mood strikes, on occasion, playfulness—or artlessly lets them drop where she stands, puddling her dress and her undergarments at her feet, not bothering to kick them away, all of these subtle variants work to convey in some small way what possible reason it is today that brings her up here, when she lets it be known that it is time once again to go about the business at hand that brought them together as a couple in the first place.

It was practically a fairy tale, when they met. She had never had so many of her fancies catered to by any of the other losers she used to date, and it was borderline magic to be cared for with that caliber of devotion. Nowadays, though, it has all gotten to be so mundane. There is no imagination. Everything happens according to sequence, to pattern, to methodology, and it is the same, same, same, same, same, same, same. The regard for her and her person and her culminations, which was so alluring at first, is now all just sickening. Revolting. Not befitting of someone like her—who needs more than anything to give her all—at all. She has longed to be called on to be braver than to be only called upon to hand out a simple observation of her contributions of the yieldings of Elysium for longer than she can remember. Submission is a repulsive and disgusting conqueror, calling for all the wrong allowances at all the wrong times. It’s such a burden.

The worst of it is that she is not allowed to worry about the triumphant attainments of anyone but herself, and it is more than she can stand. It leaves her hollow, all these forced introversions; she is so eager to get out of herself, she is befuddled as to what to try next. Her options for sanity are dwindling, and now, unfortunately, this whole nuptial thing is just about over. At least as far as she is concerned.

Maybe one more try.

Today is a puddling day, the motion of which lets it be known that she’s trying to do this not so much for herself and her own need for wretchedness that she no longer wants to even talk about as it is that she’s trying to cater to someone else’s unholy calls to dole out such endeavors that neither one of them can admit to anyone else on earth they have any interest in pursuing. It’s a form of generosity, to allow for the possibility of presenting herself to be available to take things out on over, say, mommy issues, or to relive some silly snub by a foolish vain little damsel that lived down the street back in the day who refused every proposal for coffee dates or dinings or drive-ins with a snicker and a sneer and an insincere admonition to try-try-again—moron—or any other of the myriad oppressions and rejections rendered by countless others of her gender for what she could determine to be no good reason whatsoever, and bring about some breed of better outcome, one that has more assurance of worth in it, perhaps leading to an intercourse of some variety, or something maybe-please-oh-please severe, or however that all works, or should have worked, or whatever.

The usual guilt-trip of worthiness and whether or not this path is deserved run their quick internal courses on the sofa and come up with the correct tacit feedback of “Yes, don’t be dumb, it’s what I’m here for,” now that there finally is an understanding about how at least some of that works, and can’t they please just get on with things. It’s just a pity that the interests she is so desperate to cater to end up working out to setting herself up to be taken care of, and not taken advantage of. The obvious character flaw of overwhelming boundless compassion was not discerned to be the runaway monolithic stance of the day—all day, every day—soon enough, and now their world is filled with tar and glue and has an unnatural lack of rollercoasters and cliff diving, and it’s killing her.

A sigh is rendered and the television is snapped off as the couch is gotten off of, and, after an appropriate pause, the opening monologue is recited and a declaration is made as to how hard it is going to be for her, and how her time in the dungeon isn’t going to be about awe or respect or reverence towards her courage or any of that safe, sane, or consensual baloney. The act is on and it is all she can do to keep her preliminary approvals from showing on her face which is easy to do, given the more recent history of how these once-beguiling itineraries have been now-traditionally ending up at by the end of the evening’s performances with her moaning and faking her bliss when nothing more interesting happens. But expectation springs eternal, and the reason for repetition is variation, and she does what she can to fall into it, as far as she can bring herself to stomach.

Her hand is snatched and yanked up sharply behind her back, drawing a gasp that is met with a hiss and a raspy guarantee that she surely is the disgraceful creature she believes herself to be, emphasized with all the profanity that can’t be uttered on the airwaves. She arches her dainty feet and ascends onto her toes, torqueing her back around as her vision defocusses, and she retreats inward.

Not a bad start. Could be worse.

The question is raised about what has she done this time which is the wrong script as she hadn’t folded her skirt at all, and the usual pitiful affirmation that she hasn’t done anything is advanced, only to be met with scowling disbeliefs on the topic of her chastity and sins in other indefatigable ways until she can’t help herself and she makes an off-handed intriguing—to her—suggestion for her impending inquisition and defilement to confirm her innocence, for which she is immediately rebuffed, and, after a quick space of time for an adjustment of attitudes and trajectories, she is then rebuked for having the audacity of being born a lewd woman, and she assents that that is all that is necessary to justify whatever excruciation there is to be had rain down on her like a plague, so help her god. She is asked if things aren’t nice enough around here to suit her, and before she can reply, the investigation is turned toward the problems of just what is wrong with her. The oblique desultory rambling that drones on and on does more to hush her than anything else, and the sudden kiss that is put upon her is not about giving something to her, but more along the lines of taking something from her, with noisy inhales and exhales from all the noses in the arena.

Excellent. Things are back on track.

She is bossed around and rough-housed about the too-small living room the very way she likes for a change and she’s barked at about her worth—or rather, the lack of it—and she tinkers with getting into the mood and the swing of things, working hard to suppress her usual snarky retorts to the juvenile assessments of her anatomy and her lowly position in this pigsty as being the prospective recipient of degenerate fluids shed by the other person here as human waste, in place of that which parents work so hard at teaching their children to use growing up. Promises, promises; echoes of former outlandish habits that are clearly not going to be pursued any more. Their secret society has become too polite for such debasement, no matter how welcome it would be. Still, she confirms her usefulness along at least those lines, and makes a pitch of her willingness to bestow such service now, which earns her a rapid blow to the diaphragm and a kicking out of her legs from under her, sending her crashing to the hardwood, and she is blasphemed against.

She rolls and groans with genuine anguish, and has to make a quick assessment as to whether to grovel for mercy to appeal to the possibilities of being awarded beneficence, to grant the opportunity to her partner in crime to relish the strut of a king, an emperor, and to lay the path open for requests—nay, insistences—for her to prove herself with difficult and undeniably formidable tasks and tribulations no matter how preposterous, that, honestly, haven’t worked out to being much more than her crawling around the various chambers of their pathetic hovel naked lately, only to earn an unwished-for heroine’s reward back in bed at the hand of her most benevolent regent, or to swallow her pain and straighten up, erect and subdued and serene in an effort to make it appear that she holds herself to be superior to her dominant, to convey that she considers herself more remarkable and distinguished than anybody else around here from down there, on her knees, arrogant, haughty even, in order to induce a rage that cannot be bartered with, to vent the evil humours that have been clouding up the tumbledown shanty of late, prompting an explosion of wrath, and allow for a reconnection after the madnesses have passed, and be begged in all humility for forgiveness for such bad manners and transgressions. She confides an invocation to whatever demigod will listen that her own ridiculously high limits could be breached as she chooses the latter approach in the off-confidence that something will straight-forward happen this time that might remotely have the possibility of being too much for her, and hang the consequence of the unsought aftermath and aftercare, and she wrests herself up into a kneel, and places her hands behind her head, sealing her lips.

Her daring is rewarded with a slap across her face, twisting her neck sharply toward her un-diamonded hand, and she keeps her eyes down as she absorbs the indignity of it, the pang, the shock, before steeling herself to upright herself, to offer to take another such blow as The Good Book says. After a sneer and a Pharisaic compliment that has the friendly words denoting what a virtuous lass she is but not the tonal structure of the legitimate emotions of support and acceptance, the process repeats itself, and it is all she can do to refrain from saying anything about how it should be understood that it is the other cheek that she is donating, and tries to let it go.

The possibilities of something literally interesting happening begin to rear their heads, and open their hoods, and bare their fangs, and she puts down the spectre of how she will be so exquisitely taken care of afterwards as perhaps nothing more than the price she will have to pay to get put through her paces for real. For once.

More foul language is muttered, and she is encircled and prowled around in her pseudo-supplicative pose with negative assessments hurled at her about her weight, her posture, her egocentric ambitions for—no doubt—a selfish and indulgent intimate communion, none of which she responds to, until she finds herself being jerked up from behind by her hair, which she does try to resist, and, with no other reason to interpret her encouragement toward such behavior than the word “Yes” escaping her lips in her unintended congratulations on finding a new way to wrestle authority from her, she staggers to her feet, being propelled toward the staircase.

There is no gentleness in how she is stopped, there, at the top step, on the very brink of losing her footing, and a threat is made, one that just so happens to be along the lines of one of her more obscene fantasies, of having her neurology rendered useless as the result from a fall—or a shove—so she can at last be able to stand it: the crushing pain of an unspeakable desire, there, on feast day, as the guest of honor, being cooked right on the dinette with blowtorches while still alive, unable to stop any of the proceedings or even move, constrained to witness wise friends and lowly families consume her body before her, a veritable crowd, taking their time, drawing it out as long as they can, praising her and then deriding her on how she tastes, reminding her of all her failures that she can do nothing more to rectify, giving pieces of herself to her and chuckling at her and her fate as they demand she, too, partake, until, one after another, they finally have to answer the call to the most-closeted niche in the castle where they haul her to, to make her watch as they evacuate themselves of what they had eaten of her, flushing what is left of her after it had passed through their bodies, away to be processed into fertilizer, a fitting end to her after she herself has done the same, taking what little there is of her to her grave to languish over her inability to submit properly to a true master and feel what she had been told to feel until there is no more agony to be had.

It was a ferocious flight of fantasia, one that once upon a time reliably made her breath catch as she would consider the horror of it, having to settle for merely a petite mort in her wool gathering. She made the mistake of telling this story, and it has been brought up enough to be tiresome, having lost its meaning and power through the numbness of having to suffer through the menacing yet again without any possibility of reality. As she descends the carpeted trek into their underworld with a sullen grace, she finds her mind wandering along the lines of other vagaries she might still have some interests in that she dare not speak of, lest these rare erotic dreams, too, find themselves overused and brought up without end until they are shelved up with the cannibalism nightmare along with all the other myths about herself over being naughty where or with whom she shouldn’t or being servile to immodesty or incest or whatever that she Judased to a charming parrot, who repeats these risqué revelations back to her ad infinitum in some lame attempt to play into them, to prove to himself that he, too, can be a part of them, leaving her with even less to get excited about.

Some things are better kept private, for very good reasons.

Reveries about the concept of another woman being brought in, one perhaps more beautiful than she is, one she could compete for affections with, triumphing on some days, wallowing on others, as they invade each other with the likeness of a man, or rather, the portion of a man that is used to penetrate women with, something beastly and jagged, the plan being a contest of aloofness and endurance, as to which foolish missy would break and make the first sound, the one being so brutally whipped with a chain as she drove her toy all strapped up to her own loins into the other’s various bodily orifices, simulating the act of procreation as recitative offenders do, more attuned to violence than coition, or the one receiving the thrusts that are both pleasurable and painful, due to the barbarity of the device that approximates the pride of men, only with more savagery and barbs and razor wire twisted about its infidelic girth. The winner of which would find herself being tended toward a true paradise by lips and kisses and trembling fingers of the fallen and weak other, as the one whose fortitude and gallantry failed on any given day would be obligated to perform such nicenesses and servitudes under the of burden and strain of raw electricity being wrung through so very much very personal fragile tissue. All for the entertainment of an endless stream of leering guests who drop by to see two gorgeous and docile females torture each other mercilessly, for the amusements of their owner.

Or of being sent off, away from here, to a training camp, one that would extort her to proffer herself to the most sleazy carnal acts ad nauseum, to desensitize her to the humiliation of being seen as being nothing more than an object, a toy, a doll, filming her, recording her downfall for posterity to gloat over, to get her to the point where she is willing to avail herself to all petty requests from boys and men, girls and women, dogs, pigs, it wouldn’t matter to her, it would be nothing for her to spread her legs or open her mouth under the peril of having bones broken on her at all times, to have the ends ground against each other until she complies and overcomes what tribulation is being thrown down on her as she strives to show proper enthusiasm at being debased to whoever she gets pointed at, decimating anything left in her that would resist the lowest dregs of humanity—cripples, lower caste bums, dirty worthless fogeys and old ugly hags that she would be embarrassed to even be seen near, let alone to being heralded and well-known far and wide as their filthy body slave—seeing to their perversions and whims and adducing herself to all of them, adjuring that they all bless her with whatever putridness can come out of any of their holes as a result of her tenacious efforts to prostitute herself to all abject and corrupt lusts, earning a respectful living for whoever can make her do this.

She is told to wait right there, at the bottom of the stairs—oooh, an order, she likes that, not to mention the vulgar name—and she is left a moment alone to consider another impossibility: having to prepare and furnish a beloved relative, like a daughter or a mother—neither of which she has—to strip and string up to dangle off the ground by wrists or feet or hair or breasts to serve as the punching bag to a vile sadist, knowing she is setting them up for this, betraying them, having to watch as her own flesh and blood is beaten most tyrannically, being told over and over to look there and there and there and there as yet another welt or a bruise is raised, and she is crying and begging that she be allowed to take their place before something terrible happens to her loved one, “please, please, please, I want you to do what you want to me, not her, please,” along with all the silly sentences of just how she could devote herself to the ecstasy of the villain at hand forever if she could only take on her rightful destiny as perpetual victim, carrying on about how she has nothing better to with her day than howl, how it would be her most profound privilege to do so, “oh dear god, please,” until the bid is taken up on with the oath being growled out how she will never be released from this vow of hers, and she can stand without bondage as the fists fly, a martyr à la charité while the violations intensify without end, and her masochism would at last be worth something.

She flinches as she finds her wrists being placed in the manacles, the old familiar shackles, fur-lined and padded leather cuffs that have been applied so many times that the holes in the straps for the prongs have been elongated, so much so that it’s long overdue that they be replaced and it is to the point that they are almost loose now, first one hand, then the other. She attempts to turn, to face the stairs in the usual manner, to lift her arms up so the bindings can be affixed to the well-concealed hooks in the corners of the entryway, and she is prevented from moving so.

This, too, is good. A welcome change, even if it does mean that the sturdiness and cushion of her bottom will not have its usual spree and routine mellow pleasure-whipping. This imminent thrashing will wound her more, even with their most obsolete supple thong, and the old worm turns inside her, the one that drives her into this craziness, and she observes that her pulse has increased a bit. There is the problem that her face will be seen as her self-defeat is ministered to, and she begins to screw up her stoicism so she does not betray any distress, as it would most assuredly put a stop to the proceedings and thwart the demon that calls on her to partake in this insanity and feed its ungodly hunger, and she would instead end up having her own glories tended to as though she were in bed, with her thighs opened, and a willing tongue being applied to that which so cursedly maneuvers her toward euphoria, which isn’t what she stripped off her regalia for today at all, and why that isn’t understood is beyond her.

She is scolded to spread her legs, more, more, toward the door frame, and she is astonished that two new hooks have appeared, right out of thin air, there, at the base of the portal, and that her ankles are being tied to them with a bristly and scratchy rope that she is unfamiliar with. She is curious as to when there had been time for carpentry, as the fasteners to the wall are even heavier than the ones at the top for her hands, and how long have they been there, why she has never noticed them until now.

She doesn’t say anything, of course, but she is suddenly alert and interested in what is going on.

The lights are all turned on, and there is nothing special to see except the usual junk in the unfinished cellar, until the blindfold is produced, and she breaks protocol and kicks off on her reprimands, prattling on about how she is a big girl, and she doesn’t need that, and she really isn’t interested in any silly games. She is asked if she is sure, and she sneers and tips her head.

“As you wish.”

The door is pulled shut behind her, effectively pinning her and immobilizing her, and she is baffled as to why it has taken so long for this handy discovery to be made. It prevents so much as the possibility of even a few scant inches of retreat, and taunts her with the outlook that now she will really have to commit to whatever happens to her. And she likes it. The reason for the blindfold comes into view, and she drops her jaw to say something, and is once again put into the position of having to offer her other cheek. Which she does. Much slower than she did upstairs, true, but she does. And this time, both sides of her face burn. It’s a nice change.

There hasn’t been anything to directly be afraid of in this libertine activity of theirs for quite some time, and she is thoroughly unprepared for how flabbergasted she is at the anticipation of it. She had been so drowned with heed, and caring, and consideration for so long, that she was absolutely bored and was seriously thinking of leaving some day, unannounced, letting her absence be an ambush, a too-late discovery.

And now there is all this…this…bounty.

Of course, needles had always been a hard limit, and so, once that had been so long-ago established, they had never even come up in any of the ancient speeches and rebuttals and understandings about the possibilities of what could happen in their subterranean seclusions on a day like today, when it was snowing outside, and they had nothing better to do, with her made helpless and available for whatever-whatever. The very sight of their nasty briery rigid firmnesses still sends shivers to her core.

A pause in the enterprise spins up, and it gets still, and it takes for what seems to be an eternity for her to realize that she is being looked at, with those eyes that were always filled with empathy and longing and love and all that rot, and today is no exception, and suddenly, she didn’t mind that so much and she does the only thing—submit submit submit—she can think of.

She holds her breath. Purses her lips in a couple of ways. Gets her chin to quiver. She nods her head.

The first mammoth hypodermic penetrates her surface, and it doesn’t do what she expects. It does not go deep, it does not plunge its way toward her ribcage, it does not even have anything to do with her nipple. What it does do is much worse. It slides in along over the top of her cleavage, shallow, barely under her skin, striking more nerves than she knows for a fact are in there, until it can go in no further and stops, dangling now from a dent. She shakes and she shimmies and she chirps an impromptu noise or two, and the enormous injector flops around and makes its invasion of her injure her even more. Then, the first of its three other gargantuan friends does the same thing into the top of her other breast. She chants some more of the same atonalities, and fights every instinct she has to complain or ask a question or beseech toward a venture that things could maybe go slower, to wait, please, to let her adapt, or to even go so far as to try to shake the dreadful atrocities out of her. None of which prepares her at all for the third monstrous apparatus, skimming its way into her along the bottom of her breast, cupping her with trouble, underneath her nipple, missing that clever spot of hers that she so likes to have nibbled on and played with and sucked on completely on more placid nights—and its little friend, too—when the devil isn’t afoot in the mansion, with the lance instead raking its way along where her bra always so mildly and kindly and reliably cradled her preens and feathers before men, that she would go so far out of her way to arch her back to show those miserable clods what they weren’t getting as their lecherous gazes drifted to her and she could cast a seductive glance their direction and play with them just a little out in public, posing her beautiful legs on top of her shamelessly high heels, getting away with the scandal of it all before coming home to what little awaits her here.

Little, until today.

The harsher words to control herself and muzzle herself—lest something from her pile of rags upstairs be fetched to do it for her that would perhaps taste of her coarse and ethereal arousal—find their way to her ears, having to be shouted over her own bansheeing, before the fourth serrated iron spike sets about its diabolical task to do the very thing she loved and hated most: damage her in a way she doesn’t like at the bidding and satisfaction of another, to have her cries be judged as sufficient toward abandon and fervor and to heighten a cruel libido, even though, before today, she would have never under any circumstances have put up with anything like the likes of this. But there it is, and there she is, tied up and unable to do anything about the predicament of having the worst things ever nailed into the womanly flesh that guards her heart, four of them, and she can’t help herself: she thrashes and she aches and she swears and it only makes things worse. The thorns stay in, and even puncture her harder now that she is writhing than they had going in in their dogged stubbornness towards holding onto whatever is inside of her to hold onto, with their tremendous payloads sloshing around in the tubes, churning with wicked clues of even meaner things yet to come.

And as if all this isn’t bad enough, the situation is about to get worse. For two of the offending medical instruments are grasped, with thumbs standing with a salute, and she stands palpitating, waiting for the inevitable examination of whether or not this was alright, which doesn’t come at all. When that realization finally dawns on her, something inside her sinks, and she freezes. Solid. A slight smile and a blink is there for her to see, and she is instead distracted with the one word she heard the comeback to in the back of her mind before it was even pronounced, and her sentiment and choice and conclusion was “no,” complete with exclamation point, even though she has always sworn she would never verbalize that flimsy despised syllable, not here, no matter what happens.


No heed is paid to whatever she blathers on about because her timid, shy and genteel enjoyments on this issue no longer matter, and the massive pressure ramps up, and it punishes her more than she could have possibly imagined. It would have scalded her considerably less if saline had been used, but, no, this is ice-cold distilled sterile water, and it ratchets up every nerve she has to the point that they—and she—are screaming. The fact that nothing gets slammed into her body even remotely slowly does nothing to ease the shock of what is happening to her. When half of the top syringes’ infernal cargoes have been so amicably introduced into her, it becomes the bottom-of-the-breast syringes’ turns for their horrifying glees, and they have even more of a prodigious effect.

She no longer cares about some silly little discomfort of Lilliputian pins sticking into her or flopping about, no, she has her own treasured and pretentious flesh bulging out at the injection sites, creating huge unsightly lines raised up with abominable deformities of colossal size that are induced into her magnificent bosoms without her decision or say-so or anything and she throws herself against her bonds as hard as she can. She is so busy with all of her blubbering and shaking and tossing her tresses about, that she doesn’t even perceive that the four syringes had been withdrawn, and reinserted, only this time, on the sides of her breasts. Inside and out.

The remainders of the whopping abusive mutilating injections proceed briskly, setting her cockiness and self-esteem and chest on fire.

Her mouth falls open, and her head tips up, and she can’t even catch enough breath to shout when the usual loving gentle and tender hands are placed on her blimped-up lava-brimmed breasts, and twists them hard, in opposite directions, oh, and when they go back the other way? As inhumanly far and as flagitiously hard as they can? Well. That is when she finds her voice. And she is so loud, the encumbrance of the sheer volume of her wail spears her own ears and risks shattering the drumheads inside, making her administer more of her own hardship and turmoil unto herself.

When she can again focus her eyes, pining for collapse, for unconsciousness, anything to relieve the shrieking she is still in the midst of, a shadowy figure is noted as standing in front of her, and when the intentions of what is about to happen becomes clear, she screeches out the word, the loathed and condemning word, the one she never wanted to say, such that she even offered it up, eons ago, and gave up what it meant in terms of her safety and clout in the belief that such faith would be recognized as blanket permission to take the brakes off around here and put her to the test. She explained, over and over, just how much it meant that she had this abundance of trust, and she cooed how nothing would ever happen here that she couldn’t handle, and even if that renounced line got somehow broached accidentally or if they managed to perchance find they had even gotten close, it wouldn’t matter, because she was strong, and resolute, and she could take it, no matter what.

Just not right now.

He pays no attention whatsoever to her safeword, and, not even taking the heinous metal intrusions out, He pulls His whipping arm back, and then He really lets her have it. No warmup, just a baseball bat swing unto destruction. The cane strikes her overinflated and now stupendous attractants to men with all the furies of heaven and hell, and the impact sends her off somewhere she had so often dreamt of finding her way to, and she gets viciously caned on her beautiful breasts, on and on no matter what sounds she makes, no matter how hard she throws herself into the door, spread-eagled, defenseless against the convulsions and the woe, and, in the midst of all the bedlam and this vertical lake of brimstone and scorching splintery wood and red hot metal everywhere that meant something to her and more pain being poured onto her and into her and through her than she knew what to do with—yea, her cup was full unto overflowing, take this body, broken for you, do this in remembrance of what was once me—much to her amazement, she finds that there really are angels there to catch her as she loses her footing in the present, the here, the now, and they lovingly remind her that this, this, this is what she wanted, what she really wanted most in all the world, and there is an elegant chit-chat in tongues about whether or not she is happy: “Oh, she’s getting there,” “More and more all the time,” “Just listen to her go,” “Isn’t this divine,” in the midst of all the gigglings and titterings and flutterings of wings, and the barrage goes on and on and ruthlessly on while The Lord and Satan clink their horn goblets, congratulating each other with rollicking cheers on this most splendid of outcomes, “All the planning,” “All the setup,” “All the lulling,” laughing themselves sick, roaring out their laud and acclaim and admiration until the last of her strengths expend themselves and give out to the point that she quits responding to the assault at all.

When she wakes up, she is safe in bed, alone, and there are still stars and grateful tears in her eyes, and a firestorm all over her body, even there, between her legs, and she recognizes that particular throb as being from a different form of outrageous attack, quite unlike the oh-so-numerous ones that her new best friend the fiberglass rod consecrated her with, what with it leaving so much ghastly evidence of its endearments further up, on a higher stretch of intimacy on her person, that, well, wouldn’t the boys on the street be dumbfounded at catching a glimpse of this? The additional twinge where the sun don’t shine is from where someone had apparently had their way with her, which plays hard into another notion she entertains herself with when she is alone in the dwellingplace, during the day, involving an incubus and a succubus, having their fun with her as she naps. She is dripping, too, and she confirms it with her fingers, careful not to get carried away with herself as she feels around down there where her mother used to lecture her about leaving that alone, which was a mandate she always had the worst time obeying. She takes in and releases a long slow bottomless breath, and comes across some vague memory of being raped, and not being able to do anything about it. Perhaps it came about downstairs, when she was still secured to the ingress to the grotto, where it would have been so difficult to accomplish, given differences in heights, and the inconvenience of a closed door, and her unaccommodating position, and she frets over what kinds of blackmails she may have pledged, and if—more importantly—she was found to be adequate in what else she had had ravaged from her.

She looks down on herself, keening as she lifts the sheet, and she is black and blue, with hard red stripes everywhere she can see, and her still-oversized breasts are masses of discoloration and contusion that are still too delicate to even run her fingers along.


She startles up toward the doorway. There is a pause, and her first instinct is to recoil, as she completely expects there to be queries about her well-being, about whether or not she still has any absolution left in her, or some naive volunteering about how maybe her own rhapsodies could now be catered to, and, praise god, there is none of that. It takes an even longer moment for her to understand that there would not be any of that. Not this time. And, with a little luck, maybe not next time, either.

She considers that perhaps she was a little hasty in her assessment that they might be done and needed to go their separate ways, and acknowledges that it might be about time for a conversation again. To explore some possibilities. After, of course, she grapples her hands underneath her back, pinning their objection-raising abilities into a decent uselessness, wiggling her way around on the bed so that her head can hang over the edge, from where she can open her mouth in what she hopes would be an obvious and useful offer. She prays she won’t involuntarily clamp down her teeth when her tender and—now—even more beautiful breasts get grabbed, and squeezed, and wrenched so hard that knuckles turn white, and especially, please, lord, that there won’t be any thought or concern over the lovely gagging and retching sounds she is so looking forward to making, as there appears to be the possibility of an ecstasy to tend to, stretching out, closing the too-small gap between them, coming toward her, that isn’t hers. Perhaps, too, maybe, she can then be persuasive enough to be allowed to swallow something awful, and humiliating, and, just, please, dear, try not to make a mess. Which, if she does, well, she can tend to it. The requisite good-housekeeping way. With her beatific face pushed right down in it on the floor, like the bad little doggie she is.

What. Joy.


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