The chamber is cold, damp and dark. a hard and worn box springs setting on cinder blocks with two blocks more at the foot than the head giving it a pronounced, but not absurd slanted angle. It is bolted at the top and bottom to a rusted metal head and foot board. Silence except for the faint sound of water slowly dripping somewhere in the distance and a clock, ticking, ticking, endlessly ticking.
Hooded with heavy material so no light seeps through. Sounds are muffled except for the faint dripping and ticking… always the ticking. Wondering if it has been ten minutes or two hours, time has lost meaning in the dark and the cold. Blood accumulating in your head as your body slopes down feet to head. Springs not digging into your bare flesh but felt through the thin, worn cover that is the old box springs. Shifting an inch this way, that the other to alleviate the ache but none of the small movements that can be accomplished yield relief.
Flesh exposed. Every inch uncovered save for the rough leather of the cuffs on ankles and wrists… and the infernal hood. Damn the hood! The cuffs not so tight that circulation is cut, but tight enough to steal all hope of slipping out of them. Arms and legs pulled taut with rope from cuffs to steel corner posts. No room to adjust, no give to relieve the ache. Legs and thighs aching from the unnaturally wide angle they have been forced into.
Minutes? Hours? Days? And the ticking… the ticking.
Nipples throbbing from the earlier abuse. Was it the clamps? Or maybe the small nooses that were affixed to them and hung with those weights? You don’t know. You don’t remember. Each small torture added to the cumulative ache that just won’t abate. And why won’t the stinging heat on your inner thighs lessen? The open handed slaps followed by the … what? With the hood already affixed, there was no way of knowing what it was … a crop perhaps? Or was it a cane? It makes no difference as the memories of each lash is burning into your mind’s eye.
And the hardened wax on your thighs and your stomach and your breasts. How each drop inflicted its own pinpoint burst of pain for just a moment until the next hit somewhere else. Focusing on the one only to be stolen away by the next. No time to mentally absorb the one before the next was arrived.
And what did you do to earn the earlier lesson? And how could a simple question about just that land you in your current state? How are you expected to learn to please when nothing is told, just punishment received for whatever slight or error that was made with no intent and no knowledge.
And the dripping. Wondering when it will stop only to hear the tick, the tick.
Footsteps. You want to beg for forgiveness. For what you don’t know but that is unimportant. Please forgive. But how can you plead? You are hooded and under the hood your mouth has been pried open with a spider gag, drool running down both cheeks and collecting at the base of your neck in the back. The hood is wet and uncomfortable back there but there is no way to alleviate it.
And then you feel it. Cold, hard and slippery. Your anus clenches as something is worked just a small bit into you. And then it is gone. No, it is back twisting and pushing up your ass, forcing itself in. Wider and wider. It feels as though it will rip you apart. And then it is gone. Nothing. Your eyes jolt open to more blackness as it is suddenly forced hard and completely inside of you in a most uncomfortable yet satisfying way. And then … ticking, ticking.
Your mind races. What have I done? How can I make it right? What will please him? Will I ever know? And if I learn, will it not just change at his whim?
The feeling of the goose bumps growing as the chill in the basement overtakes the aches and the stretched anus. The shivering. It is so cold save for your thighs that still burn. And the tick. The tick.
And you hear a whisper close to your ear… Have you learned your lesson? You want to scream that you have and that you are sorry and that you will never do it again even though you have no idea what to learn or to do or to avoid. But you can’t speak more than a guttural moan. And you drift off, overloaded and overcome. No sensations. No dreams or terrors. Just nothingness.
I’m back.
