Her steps are lively and light as she makes her way through the garage. Her arms filled with the packages she is excited to wrap, her nostrils with the scent of cinnamon, ginger and cloves, and her head with visions of familial harmony. Silent Night has been playing in the mall and she hums it as she walks. She is always happy this time of year and even though she is grown now, she has not lost her appreciation for the magic of the season. It’s not only her own family that seems to behave better in the weeks and months leading up to Christmas day. But the world just seems a little more festive. A little brighter. People seem to behave less ugly toward one another. They merge civilly and smile more. They seem…hopeful. It means something to her.
The hour is late and it’s cold even in the covered garage and her breath hovers cloudlike about her lips. This amuses her, enough to make her giggle. She is so like a child at times.
She reaches the car and opens the back door, still humming as she arranging her packages neatly on the floor. She does not notice the hooded figure quietly approach. Nor does she know that she’s been followed for hours. Having grown up in New York. She’s walked at ungodly hours in some of the city’s worst neighborhoods without incident or problem. She is generally street smart and knows to stay frosty when walking along in a covered parking lot…but at Christmas time she’s a sitting duck. Prone to a wandering mind and a happy heart she sees only the good.
She gasps and her brown eyes widen as a strong arm quickly covers her mouth. She feels the pressure of cold steel against her exposed throat. For a moment she is frozen in her fear…a split second, but long enough to feel pulled back against the body of the hooded figure and she whimpers and shivers as she feels hot breath wash over her left ear. It smells like peppermint and coffee, an odd realization perhaps but her senses are heightened in her fear. She feels dragged backward and she drops the last few packages as she attempts to pull away, biting and clawing frantically at the arm that holds her. Her struggle is ineffective. The figure is strong. Much stronger than she and her fear seem only to amuse her.
The struggle becomes desperate as comprehension dawns on her. They are headed towards a large box truck with a padlocked door and she fights her captor with increased vigor. Still, the figure says nothing, confident in her success, she merely presses the cold steel into the girl’s throat a little harder and the girl feels a small trickle of wetness run down her neck and pool in her cleavage. It’s warm. A stark contrast to the cold night air. She attempts to scream and feels her air supply cut off by the black sweatshirt. This quiets her enough to make it easy for the hooded figure to slam the back door of the truck shut.
“Now then, my dear, I’m going to release you, but if you scream I’m going to cut out your tongue. Understand?” the command is menacing and oddly emotionless and the girl does not doubt its sincerity, perhaps because the sharp blade is now tracing its way along the long lines of her neck, up towards her chin and to her covered lips. Tears fill her eyes and she nods frantically, desperate to show this person she will comply.
“That’s a good girl,” the praise is taunting but the girl doesn’t care. A moment of relief as she is released and she feels breath flood her nose and mouth once again. But relief is short-lived. She has been taken and locked in the back of this truck for god knows what purpose. She knows nothing apart from this. She has been taken, and whoever it is, she or he is in complete control of her fate. The hooded figure advances and the girl, trembling, cannot stop instinct from taking over. Frantically she backs away from the figure’s slow and casual advance. She however is utterly unconcerned by the girl’s ill fated attempts at escape. She knows she has her trapped, like a rat in a maze. Nowhere to go. No escape. No option but to follow the path that has already been laid out for her.
“Where you going sweet pea?” once again she is taunted. The figure’s voice is muffled by the hooded sweatshirt and the mask she is wearing to conceal her features and sounds oddly androgynous. She whimpers and freezes in terror once again as she feels herself trapped by the back of the truck. Instinctively she curls up into a tight ball, pressed tightly against the wall of the truck, silently wishing she could disappear into it. Her heart is racing. She trembles so hard she is positive she will break in two.
The figure stares down at her and though the girl can’t see it, can’t even see that she is a she, her eyes are dancing with hunger and her sadistic smile is wide. Sunglasses cover her eyes and her mouth is obscured by her clothing. She is dressed in black from head to toe and every inch of her body is covered. No distinguishing features. And the girl is too blinded with fright even to take notice of her stature. Is she tall or short? The girl isn’t sure. From her position on the floor, the figure seems eight feet tall.
“How kind of you, you’ve made my job much easier,” the figure sneers as she grasps her hair and shackles her around the neck in one quick, seemingly effortless move. Her wrists are then grabbed and she is shackled by the wrist and then the ankles in a similar fashion. The metal is cold. Like the knife blade. Her heart is beating so quickly she is certain it will explode.
Her terror becomes even more urgent and she is sure she’ll wet her pants when she sees a dark stain on the wood floor of the back of the truck that looks suspiciously like blood. Tears begin to sparkle on her eyelashes and drip slowly down her cheeks.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she begs. Her eyes wide and imploring. Her color pale. Her cheeks stained with tear tracks.
Once again that sadistic laughter. “Awww, how sweet,” and then a sharp pinch and a prick as a needle is inserted into her neck and though she tries to fight it her eyelids grow heavy and soon close. The back door is slammed shut and locked and soon “Silent Night” wafts in from the radio playing in the front seat. Indeed an odd sort of detail to take comfort in as her body surrenders to the drug cocktail that’s been injected into her jugular and she hears the motor purr to life, but it’s better of course than focusing on the alternative.
Her head pounds as her eyes flutter open and light assaults her pupils. Her body is heavy. So heavy she cannot move her arms and legs. No. Wait. She knows that sensation. The bite of rough hemp around her wrists and ankles and the familiar tightness of plastic wrap holds her still. In another context this would be incredibly hot for her. Bound and helpless, dinner nicely wrapped and served bloody and rare for her Lady’s pleasure. But she has her bearings enough to see that she is not in safe surroundings. Not in the quiet sanctuary of her Lady’s home nor is she mummified to a pole at the club that has come to feel like a second home. No. Wherever she is, it is hostile and forbidding and sterile. Emotionless steel. The smell of decomposition makes her feel queasy. Perhaps it is all a big mindfuck. Her Lady after all has said she’d be abducted at some point, and of course they share an affinity for creepy and forbidding places, but a nagging voice in the back of her head tells her this is not the case. Perhaps it is the drugs that have been injected so unceremoniously into her neck. Perhaps it was the casual ease with which the figure has spilled her blood…
She wiggles a little, testing the strength of her bonds, and she has to fight back tears when she realizes that they hold firm. It seems a cruel irony—how she loves being helpless and vulnerable to her Lady’s will and whim but helpless here for the sake of an unknown stranger’s casual menace with her fate uncertain. ..she is no cherished slave here. No she is merely a piece of meat. An object. A means for whoever has taken her to get his or her sadistic rocks off before disposing of her lifeless corpse. The thought terrifies her. Holy fuck! Where is she? It is dark and the wet cold chills her to the bone. As she turns her head to the right she sees a silver tray lined with various implements for cutting and slicing. Knives, scalpels, and some she does not recognize. Some whose purposes she cannot determine. One or two still have dried blood on the blade. All of them seem menacing. The seriousness of her predicament sets in she begins to hyperventilate, and then to scream, as she pulls desperately at her bonds.
A leather-gloved hand is clasped firmly over her mouth and the scent of blood fills her nostril. That it terrifies her is an irony crueler than her reaction to the mummification. Her eyes widen and her body goes rigid as the bloody glove applies pressure to drown out the sound of her screams. Her breathing becomes more frantic as she erupts in muffled sobs.
The figure in black says nothing as she reaches over to the tray and retrieves an object that the girl is intimately familiar with: a curved needle with a trail of thread already attached. She removes her gloved hand from the girl’s mouth and runs the sharp edge of the suture needle along her bottom lip.
“Your screaming is growing tiresome,” the voice is cold. Eerily emotionless. The girl begins to struggle frantically, the rope bites her flesh and draws blood. “And since you can’t seem to shut yourself up, I suppose it’s up to me. Isn’t it?”
“P…please,” the girl begins to beg but she stops as soon as she starts. Even though the figure’s eyes and face are still obscured, she can see that whoever she or he is, she is utterly unmoved by her distress. In fact, it seems to excite her as she breathes like one aroused.
The proximity of the needle to her face prevents her from seeing exactly how it is done. She feels a sharp, stinging, popping sensation as the needle enters the skin above her top lip. The thread swims through her skin and exits through the skin under her bottom lip. The sensation in intense, far more so than pricking one’s finger with a regular sewing needle and fear makes her flinch.
“You’re going to want to hold still now, and I think perhaps you should rethink screaming. It will only be unpleasant for you.”
Her eyes water after every complete stitch and the process is completed five times until each stitch is in place but untied. The figure then begins working from the first stitch again, pulling the thread tight, tying each one-off in the middle. She works quickly and skillfully and after all five stitches are tied and trimmed the girl can no longer speak scream or move her mouth. She trembles and tears fall rapidly down her cheeks. The pain has been intense and without the context of pleasing her Lady to help her process, she has felt the intense agony of every single stitch. Her lips swell slightly and quickly become dry as she is unable to moisten them. There is only a minimal amount of blood. Stitched silent. Unable to speak, to smile or pout, to curl her lips or frown, she is reduced to pleading eyes in an otherwise blank face. She doesn’t even have the luxury of hand gestures. Her utter inability to communicate, to mitigate her fate if mitigation is at all possible is terrifying. She is forced to confront her utter helplessness. She can no longer beg, plead, or participate in the conversation at all. She is forced into passivity. Into helpless acceptance. In her Lady’s hands it is a state she would find comforting but here there is only terror. Deep and unsettling unease that shakes her to the core.
The figure approaches until she is standing at the edge of the table and strokes the side of her captive victim’s face absentmindedly. The girl shivers and tenses. Her instinct is to whimper and cry but she stops herself as soon as she feels the pull of the stitches in her mouth. Her eyes grow wide and her nostrils flare. Her breathing grows rapid and labored. Again she thinks of her Lady and how utterly bizarre it is that in another context she would probably be begging to cum…not exactly the release she thinks of begging for in this case.
“You know human beings are very funny creatures. We lead such privileged, sheltered lives. Cut off from our own pain. We seek to avoid suffering at any cost. It’s always seemed foolish to me. Suffering can be very instructive. “ She runs her thumb back and forth over the girl’s cheek as she speaks. “I’m going to give you a gift, a gift few are fortunate to receive…but you, darling girl, you are lucky. Today you’ll find out what your life is worth to you. How hard you’re willing to fight for it.”
The girl gasps and as pain floods her senses she instantly regrets it. Her captor breathes deeply, a satisfied smile spreading over her concealed face as she watches the girl’s face contort in obvious pain.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” the playful glee in her voice is as unsettling as the gentle petting which has now founds its way to her hair. Her captor speaks of torture as casually as one might discuss the weather forecast. “What are you willing to do to stay alive girl?”
“ You have no doubt noticed you’ve been stripped and bound and wrapped in plastic. I hope you’ll forgive me but I’ve given you a few more surprises in your sleep. In another minute or so you’ll begin to feel restless. Have you ever heard of Akathisia?”
The question is terrifying? And Wait…she’s…done things to her in her sleep? How violated she feels. Her body’s borders are no longer her own. Consent—a word rendered utterly meaningless. Choice and limits are not freely given up. They’ve been forcibly taken from her and she has no way to prevent it.
“Answer me bitch!” her captor’s playful tone grows instantly hard when she finds herself ignored and the girl whimpers and tenses in terror. She shakes her head vigorously no. Her compliance seems to soothe her captor for the time being, but it has taught her an important lesson. She has a temper and does not like to be ignored, nor does she want to give up any modicum of control. This is her show, her game, her rules. And the only option is to play or die.
“Well dear, akathisia is an intensely unpleasant feeling characterized by muscle discomfort, inability to sit still, continuous agitation, restlessness, and fidgety feelings. It’s a condition that often plagues psychiatric patients but, as is the case here, can be induced with anti-psychotic drugs. Often patients who suffer from it describe the feeling as a need to “jump out of their skin,” and in fact some have killed themselves by jumping or falling after episodes of behavioral hyperactivity where they ran or paced from door to door, tried to climb up walls and doors, tried to reach the nearest exit and get out through windows. Of course we’ve taken precautions against that.”
The girl tenses as her captor pats the tight plastic wrap covering her midsection. The touch is unpleasant and seems to linger on her skin. It begins to crawl slowly up her spinal cord and dances through the nerve endings on the insides of her arms and legs. She begins to wiggle and squirm. The crawling is unpleasant. Incredibly so. As if spiders are crawling through her veins and gnawing on her nerves. The need to get up. To get away. To go…anywhere…is overwhelming.
Her captor takes no notice of her victim’s increased distress. She continues with her speech, “others have complained of a screaming inside. Non psychotic patients have all of a sudden started clinging to their physicians while imploring them for help in what is best described as utter anguish….”
But the girl is no longer capable of ration thought or comprehension. All she can process is. “Get out! Get away! Get anywhere!” Sweat begins to roll down the sides of her face, stinging the little pin pricks where the sutures have cut through her skin, as she fights against her bonds. Her muscles strain and her captor shivers with pleasure as she watches the muscles and veins in her neck, arms and legs bupalge. Her torso tenses and contorts slightly. She is only able to lift herself about half an inch from the cold steel of the autopsy table.
Crimson stripes begin to appear In the natural hemp as the rope cuts deep into her skin. She claws desperately at her palms and drums her feet in the air. The need to run is consuming. The window, not so far away seems to taunt her with its inaccessibility. Bound as she is she can barely squirm for relief. Running is an utter impossibility. Begging too as she cannot speak without ripping the stitches from her lips. No relief, not even through screaming. No option but to suffer. Tears mingle with sweat and burn like acid in the corners of her mouth. She shakes her head vigorously as if to find some way, any way, to let the inexpressible scream out.
“So tell me sweetheart, is it as bad as they say?”
Through her delirium, she vaguely processes the question. But she cannot answer. She is beyond the ability to respond. All she can think about is getting up! Getting away! Getting out!
Beneath her sunglasses, her captor’s eyes growing stormy.
“It’s rude not to answer when you are addressed and questioned little bitch.
Clearly you aren’t paying attention. I’ll have to remedy that!”
The girl only vaguely processes the threat until she sees the knife. Her trembling intensifies and her need to get away increases tenfold.
“If I were you I’d stop your wiggling, dear,” her moment of anger has passed, she is the epitome of poised calm once again. She smiles as she traces the very tip of the knife slowly up the girl’s calf, up the length of her thigh and pussy, stopping at the girl’s hood. The girl’s color pales as she attempts to direct her energy towards staying still, a near-impossible task as every fiber of her being is screaming at her to run. Jump. Dance. Claw. Tear. Anything to take the anguish away. Her breath, rapid and shallow panting. Her nostrils flare. The whites of her eyes prominent. Her sweat is profuse and cold.
The girl’s obvious terror excites the shadowed figure and she feels herself growing wet. Fear turns her on. Her own. Her girl’s. Taking her pleasure and feeding her sadistic desires in the most visceral of ways excites her to fever pitch. She is a sadist in the truest form and sometimes she simply wants to hurt. To take. To force submission even when it would be willingly given. She feels the pressure of fullness and she thinks how good release would feel. For an instant she considers revealing all, freeing the girl from her bonds and commanding her to satisfy her hunger.
But there will be time enough for that and she has put much time and effort into the planning of this scenario. And it’s all going so well, it would be a shame to end it all now She wants to push her girl to the edge of what she can handle, emotionally and physically, and she has taken a great deal of care to ensure that her girl Is too terrified to realize she is indeed under her Lady’ hand and suffering for her pleasure. It is no small feat given that the girl is very much in tune to her Lady’s presence. Her scent. Her voice. Her touch. She has gone to great lengths to mask these things. But she knows the girl is in tune to her energy and once acceptance settles in, she will figure it out. She knows the knowledge that is has been she all along will soothe her when all is revealed and she knows her girl well enough to know that it will serve only to strengthen the trust bond that exists between them. For the moment, however, she wants her to feel unsettled. Pain. Terror. Uncertainty. She wants her helpless. Everything she is, everything she wants taken from her. No limits. No choice. Convinced that her options are to play or die. Confused as to why even though she believes herself in mortal peril her thighs are soaked and a puddle is rapidly forming between her own legs. The scent of the girl’s fear is intoxicating. She drinks it in heavily before slowly running the very tip of the knife along the terrified girl’s labia.
“You know in India, when a woman committed adultery, they used to punish her by stuffing her cunt full of hot pepper. While I liked the principle the image I think lacks a certain dramatic flair. I have remedied the problem by modifying it a bit. I have no doubt it will be effective in keeping your attention, bitch.”
Slowly she inserts the knife’s blade that she has coated in a cinnamon oil solution into the girl’s pussy and her entire body tenses as she processes the danger. One jump. One twitch. One ill fated attempt at escape and she will be cut to ribbons. Her terror is so intense she does not feel Her Lady slip the blade out, replacing it with a finger. Smiling at the evidence of her arousal. Terror has soaked her thighs. How easily she could fuck her to orgasm again and again, but of course that would ruin the scenario that she has so carefully constructed. Slowly. Meaningfully. She removes her finger and waits for the girl to process the new sensation. And it is not long before she does. The spiders are creeping and gnawing with increased vigor. Her lips throb. And now she is being burned alive from the inside out. She loses control of her scream and little droplets of blood begin to form where the stitches have pulled. Tears flow freely over her cheeks. She uses the knife to cut the plastic wrap and the rope that bind her to the table and takes a firm grasp of her hair as she pulls the girl off the autopsy table and drags her over to the corner where a small dog cage has been constructed. There is just barely room for her to curl up inside. Again in a different context this would be a source of great delight. But terrified and convinced as she is that she will jump out of her skin, that she needs to get up…get away at all costs, it is an additional source of agony to her as she is pushed inside. The door slams shut behind her and she hears the click of a padlock locked tight.
It seems incredible but even in her predicament sleep eventually finds her. Relief is sweet once the spiders leave her bloodstream and it lulls her into quiet. She is not asleep for long, however. Her eyelids soon flutter open and she’s terrified to learn that even though her eyes are open, she is shrouded in darkness. She startles when she realizes she’s wet…at least she thinks she does but her body does not move, even though she is no longer bound.
“Wiggle your fingers,” she gives herself a fright filled command and she is shocked when she discovers that her body refuses to obey. All she can feel is the knocking of her heart against her ribcage as it pumps furiously in her chest. It is confirmed. Her body has become utterly alien to her. The utter loss of control over even the simplest of movements makes her feel like a stranger in a strange land, a feeling that is exacerbated by the strange brackish dampness in the air. The silence is thick. Why is she wet? Why the fuck can’t she move? She trembles violently…at least she thinks she does, but she can’t be sure and the uncertainty is terrifying. She wants to cry again…can she cry? Is she dead? She’s not sure but she doesn’t think so. Why is this happening to her, why…and why does it feel as though she’s been flayed alive? A side effect of the drugs? Or has her skin in fact been removed? It’s very possible it has. After all she can’t see, she can’t feel. She feels a slight rocking and a gentle bobbing up and down. She is not in control of these sensations but they are at least, identifiable. Having grown up on an island the sensation is familiar.
She is floating in water, alone. Nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. She can’t move. She assumes its salt water as her lips are stinging something fierce. What is keeping her afloat? What if she tires? She can’t move. Will she drown in the brackish water instead of in the sea of her own terror. Her head and body are filled with an inexpressible scream. The inability to release her fear is driving her insane…she is certain it will eat her alive from the inside out. How long has she been here? Has it been hours? Days? How long will the cat and mouse game entertain her tormentor? How much longer does she have? How much will she be forced to endure and will she be killed or set free when all is said and done? How will s/he do it? Will it hurt? Will she be afraid? Will she plead? Will she fight? Will she simply accept the inevitable? Don’t think about that! She forces herself to push the thought out of her mind. How she wishes she could kick her legs or flail her arms. Hell at this point she’d even take the wiggling of a pinky. Anything to quiet the ghastly, creeping torment. But she can’t move. Her body has betrayed her. She is a brain in a bathtub. Nothing but her own terror to keep her company. How badly she wants to, needs to thrash, flail, free herself from this state of suspended animation but fate is cruel. She can’t. She tries to but she can’t. And Her body refuses to comply. And the searing pain. God it burns. It fucking burns. Agony and anguish are insufficient to describe it. Is something nibbling on her toes? Wait…what? Toes? She’s gone insane, she’s certain of it.
Suddenly a noise pierces through the emptiness, quieting the panicked voice in her head. It is the voice of her captor, but in the state of terror she’s in, any sort of interaction that gets her out of her own head is welcome.
“Horror vacui, have you heard of it? Since you can’t speak or shake your head I’m going to assume the answer is no. Literally it translates as the fear of empty space. In physics it refers to the principle that the universe abhors a vacuum and in art Mario Praz, used it as an explanation for the suffocating and seemingly cluttered atmosphere of Victorian interior design. It’s not surprising that many examples of horror vacui in art come from, or are influenced by the mentally unstable. Also not surprising given that a few hours confronted with the fear is said to be enough to drive anyone crazy. ..especially when they’ve been injected with prolixin and turbocurarine before being subjected to sensory deprivation.”
Prolixin? Turbocurarine? What are they? More drugs? What do they do? Is that why she feels as though she can’t move? As though she’s been chemically flayed alive? Is this in fact what been done to her…has she in fact been injected with psychotropic drugs? Where is she? What is happening to her? Why the fuck can’t she scream?! In her head she’s thrashing madly but her body remains eerily still. Will she be rescued in time or is she destined to die?
“And just so you don’t think me terribly cruel I’m going to give you something to think about while we wait for the drugs to wear off. I’ve got to go out for a bit but when I return we’re going to play a little game. One of my favorites, actually, fairly self explanatory. It’s called death or pain. Ta Ta deary, do try and enjoy your meditation time.”
And then there is silence…well save for the screaming in her head. Death or pain…what the fuck? Is this it for her? What will happen? She knows she has a high tolerance for pain but that is of course in controlled circumstances and at Her Lady’s hand. Here at the hands of a madman or woman whose only interest is in her suffering…can she withstand? She’s always wondered what it would be like to be really tortured…what would her response be? Would she beg for mercy and give in to whatever it is that they wanted or would she be stoic and brave? She knows that the human tolerance for pain in situations of distress can be quite high…but of course she’s only experienced this in controlled settings. And the circumstances here are different. This is not simply distress, this is mortal peril. Will she be mutilated? Does it matter if she is to die anyway? Is the game winnable at all?
“Oh God help…please, someone…anyone help!”
Death or Pain
Has it been minutes, hours, or days? The girl is not sure. She’s been floating in brackish water with no sensory input long enough for time to have ceased to mean. Left to ponder her fate the words death or pain have stuck in her head and they have turned her veins to ice. She’s freezing and terrified, even though the water is far from cold. Suddenly she hears a creaking followed by a loud crash. She jumps…OMG she jumped! Her body actually moved. She begins to kick and flail wildly in the water. With fear. With relief…she isn’t sure which but she doesn’t care. The release is powerful and she’s grateful for the ability to do so. The tears she’s wished she could shed stream rapidly down her face, and just as fast as they flow she blinks them away. Simply because she can. She feels herself lifted by the hair and thrown on the bitterly cold concrete floor. Instantly her nipples harden, her teeth chatter and her hair stands on end. The contrast between the water and the surface of the floor is astounding. Like an unexpected slap in the face.
“Okay sweatpea, let’s get you back on the table,”
That poised calm is unsettling and for a moment fear takes over. She flinches when she feels her captor grab at her hair and begins to back away from her. She knows she is simply prolonging the inevitable…she still can’t see and she doesn’t know the layout of the room and she can’t move very fast. Still, she can’t help herself. Once again she backs away. Her movements are cautious and uncertain. She is not followed. Her Lady stands still, a bemused smile playing about her concealed lips, the girls awkward, terrified crawling heightens her vulnerability, and whets Her Lady’s appetite to hurt.
“While I must say that’s adorable, my patience is growing thin. I’m beginning to grow angered by your resistance and I can assure you, my dear, you do NOT want to see me angry. Be a good girl now and stay still,” she advances towards the girl who can not stop herself from backing away, searching desperately with her hands for any nook or cranny that will put her out of harm’s reach. But fate is not on her side.
“Okay, have it your way,” her captor sighs as she grabs hold of the girl by the hair, pushes her down on the floor and steps down hard on her hair. She begins to slap her face repeatedly and hard. Her teeth Unexpected pain floods her senses as her teeth rattle and her swollen lips throb. A wave of nausea sweeps over her and she sees stars on the backs of her eyelids. Once again the girl’s abdomen and chest rise and fall rapidly and then her body goes limp. She is dragged along the floor by her hair and her body becomes a textured landcape of raised bumps as she feels herself hoisted up and onto a hard surface even colder than the floor. She hears the sounds of ripping and tearing.
Her eyes widen and her limbs go rigid as she feels pinching at her nipples and gentle stroking of her cunt. The touch reignites the unpleasant crawling on her skin. Reminds her of the ways in which she has been violate and the threat of things to come. She wiggles, a desperate attempt to pull away but once again her bonds hold firm. She can do nothing but accept the sensation. Please God, she thinks, please don’t let…
But before she can finish the fear in her head is given an external voice. “You know systematic rape has often been used as a highly effective subjugation technique. Armies have been doing it for centuries,”
The girl’s eyes flood as she feels sharp slapping where before there was gentle tracing. She has to bite down hard on her tongue to keep from attempting to scream and pulling at the stitches. Please let it be an empty threat, she thinks desperately. Please. Not here. Not like this.
“Funny. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enjoying your predicament girl, how very odd. And here I thought you were suffering. I suppose we’ll just have to up the ante, won’t we?”
The thought disgusts her. It’s one thing to cum compulsively from the slightest brush of her Lady’s fingertips, the slightest inkling of her pleasure, but to be brought to arousal in these circumstances…she feels dirty. She shakes with shame and then breathes with relief when the sensation stops. But relief is only momentary. Who knows what could be happening? Not seeing , only feeling in this context is terrifying. She already knows her captor has “done things,” to her in her sleep. What else might she have done? What might she be doing that she isn’t aware of? And what might come next? Where has she gone? The sensation was bad. The lack of it is worse. It reminds her of the uncertainty of her plight.
Her Lady picks up the sharp blade and with one quick and confident stroke she cuts the stitches which have kept the girl silent. The girl feels a slight puff of air brush across her lips and gasps. Her success instantly clues her into what has happened. She has been freed. Her lips part and she sucks hungrily at the air, moistening her lips with quick, kittenish flicks. Relief is bitter sweet as she instantly recalls the name of the “game” she’s been told they will be engaging in. She begins to whimper and sweat. Another puff of air and light suddenly floods her pupils. Though she isn’t aware of it, she’s been hooded for days. She squints and squeezes her eyes shut. Light is painful. Her Lady smiles at the sight. The girl’s distress is intoxicating.
Searing pain in her left breast and then in her right elicits a piercing scream. Warm wetness flows down her torso. Her eyes eventually flutter open as she gasps at what she sees. A flash of silver, close to her skin. The glint of metal. Its shape indistinguishable. She cannot turn her head far enough to see what is missing from the tray of implements.
Casually her captor allows the blade to touch the delicate skin of her torso and she jumps. She has been anticipating torture and the slightest sensation terrifies her. She trembles as the blade is laid flat against skin. It’s cold at first but her body’s heat rapidly warms it. She trembles and cries as the blade is dragged along the edge along her stomach, barely grazing her flesh. Her breath quickens in terror and she screams as the point of the blade pokes playfully at her bellybutton.
“Please!” she sobs.
“Please what?” the response is cold and full of sadistic mirth, spoken as her captor traces the blade down towards her hips. The pressure is increased as it travels.
The girl tenses and sobs as she braces herself for the inevitable. She’s going to be cut. How badly how deep she doesn’t know. A white wall of fear paralyzes her. She has read countless stories of torture murder and the images flood her mind. Another cruel irony. How many dark fantasies have they inspired? In particular her special favorite—the Bathory murders. Will she suffer the same fate?
Her breath is heavy, her legs undulate and she grips the edge of the cold steel table for dear life as the blade is plunged into her skin. Fire floods her senses as her skin is split. The knife probes deeper into her scarlet flesh and she feels her veins opening . She cries as the metal rips and tears, forcing her open. She can not prevent the blade from swimming through her flesh. She simply lays there trembling. A sacrificial lamb. Ripe for slaughter…whimpering only encourages her captor. Her body quivers as she smells fresh blood. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the crimson slash which stretches from her left hip to her right. A spray of fluxive copper trickling playfully down her her inner thighs.
Although she cannot see it, her captor’s glee is tangible as she writes her pleasure in tiger like stripes on the girl’s bound body. Taped down as she is, she feels only searing lines of fire traveling the length of her torso, arms, breasts and legs as she is sliced and carved up, leaving rivers of blood to mark the places where her body has been carved like territories on a map. Sometimes her captor is methodical and slow. Sometimes it seems she slices and dices at random. The sensation is frightening in its intensity on the girl’s virgin flesh.
“Awww, you look like a candycane, how festive,” she taunts as she runs the blade along the girl’s cheek before tossing it casually aside. The girl trembles and tenses. Tortured little sobs escape her lips. They are ignored. Her captor smiles as silently she watches the girl bleed. She whimpers and pants attempting to calm herself by any means.
“You know in China death by cutting was a very popular execution method. In this form of execution, the condemned person was killed by using a knife to methodically remove portions of the body over an extended period of time. The process is a fascinating one. The condemned would be tied to a wooden frame, usually in a public place. His or her flesh would then be cut in multiple slices. And death was said to be slow and lingering, humiliating as it was done publically and damaging to the psychy as the body in pieces meant that the body of the victim would not be ‘whole’ in a spiritual life after death,”
The girl tenses and her mouth hangs open as the knife travels slowly up her torso and Her captor continues, “ the process begins with the torturer wielding an extremely sharp knife, much like this one, to put out the eyes of the torturer which of course means that the victim cannot see the remainder of the torture and, presumably, adding considerably to the psychological terror of the procedure. Afterwards rather minor but painful cuts are made to the face and body. Ears and noses are chopped off, tongues cut out, fingers and toes removed before the executioner proceeds to more severe cuts to thighs and shoulders. The entire process was said to last three days, and to total 3,600 cuts,”
As she speaks she casually runs the knife back and forth along the girl’s trembling lips and down the length of her damp left cheek. She screams as her captor takes a firm hold of the top of her left earlobe and tickles behind the cartIlage with the tip of the blade.
“Awwww you’re scared how sweet,” she simpers as she presses the blade into the tender flesh of her earlobe.
The girl’s crying becomes urgent.
“Awww princess I’m not going to cut it off…not now anyway. There’s so much fun to be had with my little dolly before I break her into pieces and throw her away,” her voice and her demeanor is gleeful as she steps away from the autopsy table and picks up an object that the girl is intimately familiar with. It’s a cane. Simple rattan and thin. A sob escapes the girl’s lips as the cane is slowly run up and down the soles of her bound feet.
“Foot whipping, variously known as bastinado is favoured as a form of torture because, although extremely painful, it leaves few physical marks, and of course unlike other areas of the body which become desensitized over time, the nerve endings in the bottoms of the feel continue to fire so that every stroke is as intense as the first. When used as a form of punishment, the prisoner may be immobilized before application of the beating by tying, securing the feet in stocks, locking the legs into an elevated position, or hanging upside-down. The Persian term falaka refers to a wooden plank which was used to secure the feet prior to beating.”
Each sentence is punctuated with a sharp stroke that makes the girl scream each time the cane impacts the tender flesh of her instep. She trembles and cries but her distress is ignored. Her captor continues:
“Foot whipping is effective due to the clustering of nerve endings in the feet, as you are no doubt discovering, it is particularly painful and take a long time to heal, rendering it a particularly brutal and cruel punishment. So many little bones in the feet too. So easy to break.”
She doesn’t cease in her whipping and the girl has to bite her lip to keep from begging her to stop. She remembers the name of the game and fears that to do so is to risk certain death. All she can do is struggle a little in her bonds and listen as her captor continues,
“This punishment has, at various times, been used in China and throughout the Ottoman empire and until recently, utilized as a form of corporal punishment in schools in the Middle East. It was convenient in that it could be employed on both male and female students in lieu of other forms of punishment considered inappropriate for females.”
The thud as the cane impacts the balls of her feet over and over sickens her. The pain is becoming intolerable. At the best of times the girl can barely stand impact or touch of any kind on her feet, at the moment it is worse than agony. How she wishes she could wiggle or kick, even a little bit, anything to help her process through…if she can wiggle and loosen her bonds a little bit, maybe she can… “dear god make it stop!” loosen her bonds enough to reach out and grab the bloodied knife that is just out of her reach…she’s broken out of duct tape bondage before and…her thought is interrupted by the piercing shriek that she is horrified to realize is hers. Afraid that her mind is drifting her captor has increased the force of impact and the girl instantly can’t comprehend anything but pain. She is a brain connected to the nerve endings in her feet which betray her in their constant firing. She screams again and begins to sob.
“Really my dear you’re being far too melodramatic, I’ve barely even gotten started with you and if you think this is painful, I’m afraid you’re likely to lose this game rather quickly. You don’t want that now do you?”
The girl can’t answer, she can only sob. Her captor has not paused in her ceaseless striking. The girl’s lack of response angers her. She deals her a blow that brings the girl’s screaming to fever pitch then grabs her hair, forcing her to look straight into her covered eyes as she brings her face inches from the girl’s own. The girl’s own eyes widen and Her Lady searches them for a sign of recognition, but all she sees reflected back is terror. She smiles inwardly. She has done her job well.
“Your rudeness is growing tiresome, bitch!” she snarls. “You best be careful, as I’ve told you before, making me angry is unwise. Look around you bitch, and make no mistake, I can be very nasty when I want to be. And if you continue to make me angry, I just might be inclined to show you that when it comes time to dispose of you. You don’t want that now do you?”
The girl’s nostrils flare and her face pales. Tears continue to stream down her cheeks as she shakes her head as vigorously as she possibly can. Her captors face is still inches from her own and the hot breath on her skin, still smelling of peppermint, reminds her of the ways in which she has been violated. Once again she feels the spiders stirring in her veins.
“We understand each other, then,” Her captor says as she deals her another hard slap, her hand, which has been resting in the pool of blood on the girl’s chest leaves a crimson imprint of her hand.
Defeated and a little dazed from the pain the girl weakly nods. Her captor smiles beneath her hood. She feels her stomach being to rumble and her mouth water as she looks at the girl. The sanguine rivers have flown freely where she has been sliced and she’s begun to look like a patchwork girl. Her little living dead doll. An image of the girl hours before, lips sewn shut, eyes wide and glassy, floods her mind and she smiles, “stitch bitch,” she thinks to herself. “Such a shame to waste it,” she thinks, but she can’t very well do as she might want to and lap and bite hungrily, slapping and clawing at her wounds until they pour forth life once more. She looks at the lines of crimson that trickled down the insides of the girl’s thighs and considers tracing just a finger in the girl’s blood and putting it to her lips. Her hand wanders, but she restrains herself, turning her attention instead, to the girl’s weary mind.
“So tell me, how do you like my little game, princess?” her tone is mirthful and light but the girl has learned enough not to be fooled. She cannot speak but looks at her, her feelings written on her face and in her eyes which are clouded with tears.
“Awww that bad huh?” she giggles and claps her hands together as she speaks. “I thought for sure you’d like it. I’ve been studying you for months and I’ve learned about your, shall we say alternative tastes. I think you’re lying to me. Your eyes say you hate it but your cunt suggests otherwise, you’re soaked, princess,”
She has been too frightened to realize that her captor’s hand has traveled between her legs. She tenses as she feels herself forcefully penetrated, but it is only for an instant, long enough for her captor to wet her hands in the girl’s juices . The act is as painful, but the comment is oddly familiar. If she didn’t know any better she’d swear it was something her Lady might say. And although she is mortified by the fact that she could grow wet in these circumstances, she feels for a split second oddly comforted. But the moment of peace is rapidly stripped from her as her captor forcefully smears her own wetness all over her face. “See?”
It’s true, she cannot deny it and she blushes furiously. Her face blushes, the crimson handprint no longer distinguishable from her skin as her own scent floods her nose.
“Open your mouth, you’re going to clean up your fucking mess,” she demands and the girl is surprised to find she obeys instantaneously. Perhaps because her mind has drifted to thoughts of her Lady and the bittersweet comfort has opened her to that state of unthinking obedience. She is not sure…but such questions of how and why don’t matter now anyway. Her thought process is interrupted as she feels her Captor’s fingers inserted forcefully into her mouth and throat, so deep she gags.
“Vomit on my hand and you’ll pay for it,” she warns and the girl fights to quell the nausea rising up from her stomach. She cannot and she fears she will disobey, she struggles to free herself, enough to give her room to swallow, even though she shudders at the thought. She is held firmly however and terror mingles with shame as she realizes she cannot prevent it from happening.
The hand is rapidly removed from her mouth and she is slapped hard once again.
“I warned you, bitch,” the hiss in her voice is menacing.
The girl begins to tremble. “I’m s…s…s..sorry,”
“You’re s..s..s..owwy,” she mocks, “awwww I’m sure you are but sorry isn’t going to cut it.”
The girl begins to whimper as her mind begins to contemplate the consequences of her disobedience.
“Will you shut the fuck up? You sound like a lost puppy,” she removes her gloves as she speaks and purposefully gives the girl a glimpse of something familiar. A delicate gold ring with pretty red stones.
The girl’s eyes widen. And instantly her mistake is forgotten as she attempts to process this new realization. What does it mean? Should she be terrified? Should she be relieved? She isn’t sure.
Her voice drips with incredulity as her voice forms a terrible question. A question she already knows the answer to but that she dreads just the same…
“Hello pet,” Her Lady smiles and the girl gasps.
It can’t be…it just can’t be…the abduction…the things that have been done to her. The threat of death…
“You seem surprised to see me,” her Lady remarks as she removes her sunglasses and the layers of clothing that have been obscuring her face and masking her voice. She lets her beautiful curls out from under the hood and shakes them out vigorously. It is Her Lady in the flesh.
“Really love, does it come as so much of a shock…”
She pauses as she continues to remove layers of clothing, until she is wearing only a pair of black pants, black boots, and a black tank top that the girl is intimately familiar with. How often has she admired her Lady in these same clothes at the club. How many times seeing her dressed thusly has made her flush with arousal. Damn it why is she thinking of this now? What on earth is going on?
“I warned you a number of times, didn’t I?” her Lady continues. “I told you I had a serial killer inside, but you just…didn’t…believe me…well she decided it was time to come out and play.”
For an instant the girl’s heart stops. It can’t be. She’s toying with her head. She has to be. Her Lady though sadistic and even cruel at times ultimately loves her. She’s always said the pain she inflicts is an expression of that love. She wouldn’t. ..she couldn’t.
“You’ve said you’d die for my amusement girl, well, look on the bright side…now you’ll get the chance to prove it…”
The girl searches her face and her voice for any indication that she is toying with her but cannot find one. She is too stunned to react.
“But first things first I believe I owe you something for disobeying me,” she picks up the cane once again and runs it along the girl’s exposed thighs.
The cane? This is her choice after everything she’s done? Instruments of terror, of mortal peril at her disposal and she chooses the cane. For an instant it seems strange, but it instantly becomes clear once she begins.
“You know how this is done, girl, count and thank me.”
The strokes are intense and the rapidity with which they are delivered nearly makes her loose her count. And the girl is surprised to learn that ever here, even now, even under these circumstances, she falls into unquestioned obedience, counting and thanking her. And still no act of pain or torture that has been inflicted upon her up until this point has been nearly as bad as having marks of disobedience inflicted upon her. Her eyes fill with tears that spill rapidly over her cheeks as she counts. She can barely stand the pain of impact. Can it be so? has her mind and heart been so thoroughly taken over that her devotion remains unwavering, that even in these circumstances, no feeling, no torture is worse than feeling as though she has disobeyed her Lady, even if her intent is to torture her to death? The same question fills both their minds as the cane bites into her tender thighs over and over again.
“Do you believe me now, I’m not all flowers and fairies,”
and still she counts and thanks her, as she has been instructed to do.
“50 Thank you Ma’am…51 Thank you Ma’am,”
The moment is a surprisingly intense one for them both. Emotion creeps into her Lady’s face as she increases the force behind her blows and the girl’s voice begins to crack and fill with sobs as she counts and thanks her.
“75 t…t….thank you Ma’am,” the words are barely intelligible by the time they reach this point.
Her Lady lays aside the cane and absentmindedly strokes the girl’s hair while she waits for her to calm herself. She is still crying freely and her breath comes in heavy gasps that linger in the cool moist air. It takes her considerably longer to quiet. Confusion has only heightened her terror. Her eyes, wide and searching, look for her Lady and when she cannot meet her gaze, dart around the dilapidated room desperate for some sort of understanding. But the blue paint peeling off the crumbling walls and the exposed wires reveal no secrets. The smell of decomposition is strong. To her left, steel. To her right the table full of implements, equally cold and impersonal. Hot pain radiates from her thighs where the skin has already welted and began to discolor. More tiger stripes in purples and reds. Her feet throb.
“Well my dear, I am sorry to say our game has reached its end,”
The girl tenses and gasps as she feels the pinch and then subsequent burn of an IV needle being inserted into the vein on the inside of her left arm. The words tear through her chest and for a moment she’s paralyzed by a white wall of fear as their meaning hits her. She cannot respond. Comprehension sets in and she begins to sob with renewed vigor.
“Awww, kitten, no need for tears, it’s not as bad as all that. Since you’ve served me faithfully this past year I’m going to do you a favor and end it painlessly. A luxury most won’t get. I’m simply going to drain your blood and it’ll be quick and easy, just like falling asleep. I’ll even wish you sweet dreams. And the worst part is already over—the needle is already in, see?”
…In and attached to a catheter which is draining over an old basin even as she speaks. Endorphine and stress have had an unusual effect upon the hue of her blood. It’s bright. Eerily so. Nearly fluorescent. Like strawberry sauce being drizzled over cheesecake. Such an innocuous image…the juxtaposition is terrifying. She can’t look away.
Her Lady’s eyes glitter as she watches the girl, eyes wide as silver dollars, chest rising and falling like a ship bobbing in the shallows. She’s not crying now, she simply watches the blood as it runs…a macabre little waterfall. Unsure if time is moving fast or impossibly slow…had she told her husband that she loves him before she left to do the shopping? Perhaps she should have made more of an effort to see her sister before she left town… still how odd to think that soon it will be as if she had never existed at all. This is it. Oh god, it’s really it. She has tried to live simply, tread lightly…will there be a body for the family to bury? How she wishes she had her lamb to comfort her. Is there a god? Holy shit what if she was wrong? Has she led a good life? If there is a god, is there a hell? Has she led a good life? Will she see her grandfather and her loved ones on the other side? Can you feel the moment where the life force slips away? Her eyes close as her head begins to swim. Panic is setting in…
Her body is betraying her. Each pump, each contraction of her heart pushes the blood through her veins, into the cathether, and out. Each beat a step closer to her inevitable death. The faintly melodic plinks as her life force falls drip by agonizingly slow drip against the cold metal are almost tauntingly pleasant. So innocuous a sound. Like the faint humming in her ears. Plink. Plink. Plink. The drops of blood fall and splatter like rain drops. Plink. Plink. Plink. She is eerily alert. Catlike in her fear. She can feel the blood moving in her veins. Hear the dull roar and the frantic thumping. Her ribs are vibrating…
…. Her eyes close in weary defeat. She’s lightheaded. A million tiny fingers tap a gentle lullaby on her skull…an unlikely piano. She sighs as her eyes close and white light eminates from the backs of her eyelids. She is floating on a cushion of air. Too weak to fight or even to giggle at the funny little plinks, her pallid lips soften. The hint of a smile plays in the corners. Haemorrhagic shock is surprisingly painless. She might even find it pleasant…if she weren’t so cold…
Plink…plink…plink…they grow fainter as the bottom of the basin disappears beneath the warm crimson curtain. The smell of iron fills her. ..but her beast is sleeping, curled up quietly at the end of its tether. She can only acknowledge with a muted purr…
Plink…plink…plink…the lullaby fades…the humming dims…the light goes black…
Thud…Thud…Thud…her eyelids flutter open. Does that happen when you’re dead? Can you blink? Why are her wrists crossed? How very odd? She stretches and she is surprised to find that her muscles respond; the hairs on her neck bristle as her toes brush against something soft. It startles her. She jumps and her head connects with wood. Pain floods her temples and fills up the space between her eyes, traveling down her chest, an electric shock to her heart. Torpid unease turns to blind terror as her nostrils are assaulted by the scent of earth. Although it’s dark, she can just make out the outline of a pentagon above her head. Comprehension dawns. She is most assuredly not dead…and yet…Thud…thud…thud…
…The air seems oppressive. A beat. Frozen in terror. She chokes on her fear. Then violently, involuntarily her arms flail. They connect with the hard surface, mere inches from her face. It reanimates her. Releasing her scream. The tinkling of church bells seems oddly out of place as, beastlike, she kicks and claws at the unyielding wood…
…Light floods her pupils. Instinctively she shields her eyes. She feel s strong and loving hands take hold of her arms and lift her upwards, helping her to the ground at her Lady’s feet. She sits in stunned silence for a moment, before bringing her lips to her Lady’s boots. Her hair is softly stroked. Solace floods her being and her eyes close in relaxation.
“Good girl,” her Lady purrs. nothing more need be said.