The Shower Block
- 2 years ago
- 21
- 0
Writer's Block free porn video
I came round, groggy and confused. It was pitch dark and cold.
The first sensation was the pain in my arms and wrists, which were pointing diagonally upwards, attached to something I could not see. I tried to move to ease the stiffness, but my ankles were similarly spread wide and attached to the floor. Panic followed quickly. I thrashed for a while, breathing quickly as I tugged against the stiff restraints, but it was no use.
"Hey!" I shouted.
The words echoed and as my eyes became used to the gloom, I could see that I was at one end of a very long corridor. At the far end, a door was open which let in a small amount of light, but only enough to give the smallest clue to my location: a long empty corridor with a few doors on either side.
"HEY! HELP!"
Still no response. The place was deathly quiet. Like a morgue.
The cold crept up through the floor. I could not feel any clothes on my body and the air seemed to prickle on my skin, raising goose bumps. I was shivering, though whether from fear or cold I could not say.
Giving up ideas of escape, I tried to reduce the pain in my wrists, standing on tiptoe until my feet screamed for mercy, then letting my wrists take the weight again. My captors clearly wanted me to suffer, even while I waited.
Time crawled by. An hour, perhaps two. I lost all track.
Eventually, a distant booming noise made my heart thump. I had wanted to attract attention, but now that I could hear them, I was afraid to make a noise. They were coming to me, whoever they were, for whatever purpose they intended. And they had not been friendly so far.
Another noise, closer this time. A door opening and slamming shut. And footsteps: regular clicking, like heeled boots on a tiled floor. Eventually a single figure appeared at the end of the corridor, blocking the light from the open door. A switch clicked and a line of fluorescent tubes pinged to life along the length of the room. I squinted, quickly trying to get used to the light and focus on my captor, looking around for some sort of escape. But I was securely chained and there were no exits that I could see at this end of the corridor.
It was a woman. She strode towards me confidently. Her pace said that she was unhurried, but purposeful. She was focused on me. The thought made me start to sweat, suddenly aware of my naked vulnerability and the humiliation of having a female captress. I started to breathe heavily, nervously.
When she was within ten feet she slowed and stopped, her dark eyes locked on mine. She was in her thirties, with short dark hair. An open leather jacket covered a pure white tee shirt. Skin tight black jeans led down to spiked boots. Dark eye shadow and bright red lipstick completed the look. Her expression was neutral. She did not speak, just gazing at me.
I rattled the chains above me. "Let me go," I said, trying to insist but not to threaten her. She did not react, still gazing blankly. "Let me GO!" I repeated, more forcefully. When she still did not respond, I started to thrash and pull at the chains, clenching my teeth and grunting.
I heard her take a long breath and let it out slowly. "Good morning," she said softly. The contrast of her manner with my panic was like a slap in the face. I almost greeted her back, absurdly, but managed to keep silent, nostrils flaring. I tugged one more time at the chains, pathetically.
Her eyes left mine and followed my arms up to the tight leather cuffs and chains holding them. Then they dropped to my ankles, which were similarly caught. Finally they returned to hold my gaze, and she asked quietly, "Do you think you can break those straps?" I gritted my teeth and eventually shook my head. "Do you think that struggling will make me release you?" If she was playing with me, her voice did not betray it, but I felt helplessness wash over me. Again I shook my head stiffly. "Then I would advise that you stay still," she said calmly. "You will only hurt yourself by struggling." She continued to stare at me blankly, as if waiting for an answer.
"My fingers are numb," I said, hoping for some mercy.
Again a long pause, then, "You're putting too much weight on your arms. Stand on your toes for a while." So much for mercy. I felt a flash of anger pass through me - my toes were in hell too - but tried not to show it, adjusting my footing. My calf muscles screamed their objection.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Another long pause. "You don't need to know who we are," she said eventually. "We want to understand you better. We thought it would be appropriate to talk here."
I rattled the chains again in objection. "Are you mad? What do you mean, 'understand me'? Just let me go for God's sake."
"After we've talked," she insisted, softly.
"Talked about what?" I said rather aggressively.
She paused again, as if offended. "Do the numbers one, eight, seven, two, two, seven mean anything to you?" Of course they did. I nodded, and furrowed my brow, puzzled. "And you also use the name PipkinTale, I believe?"
"Yea, so what?"
"So," she paused dramatically. "We are some of your readers."
"What!?"
She was genuinely puzzled now. "You have written stories for a fair number of women. Most of them are professional dominants. They have friends and acquaintances with whom they share your stories. You must have realized you would have a small group of readers in the professional community?"
My mouth started to form some sort of answer, but I was genuinely surprised. Almost all the stories I have written over the years were private commissions. I didn't imagine they would be shared.
"But… How many…?" I asked weakly.
She looked at the ceiling briefly. "Maybe twenty," she said, watching my reaction closely. I nodded. "But we're puzzled by something." She started to walk around me slowly, heels echoing in the empty space. "We can't decide whether or not you have had personal experience of the things you write about."
When she was standing in front of me again, she prompted for an answer by raising her eyebrows. "Well, some," I muttered, "but not as extreme as…", I looked up and rattled the chains again.
She nodded and walked behind me; I struggled to look back over my shoulder at her. There was a wall behind me and some sort of cupboard, but I could not see properly. I heard a metal drawer open and close. She returned carrying a long thin cane, flexing it.
"You write about the cane a great deal," she said. "Have you experienced it?"
The sight of the woman flexing a cane sent shivers down my spine.
"Just a little," I said, "Nothing too… I mean not like…" I trailed off thinking of some of the more brutal scenes I had written.
"Not like what?" she prompted, bringing the cane down sharply on the outside of my thigh. I winced, though it was not that painful.
"Not… I mean, not like some of the stories."
She brushed the cane up my thigh and along the side of my body. "But aren't writers supposed to do their best work when they write about what they know, about what they have experienced?"
"I suppose… but…"
"But you just make it up as you go along," she accused, sarcastically. "Is that right?"
"Yes… I suppose I do," I admitted sheepishly.
She walked to the side of me and stroked the cane down my bare back, patting my arse playfully. "Then a little experience might do you the world of good," she said, with amusement in her voice. Before I could object, she raised the cane and gave me a single stroke across the centre of my butt cheeks.
Jerking against my bonds, I grabbed and held a breath from the shock, growling with my eyes squeezed shut, then let out, "Gaaa... FUCK that HURT!"
After a few seconds I felt her fingers on the back of my head. She grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head backwards, painfully, staring into my eyes as I struggled to breathe. "You will NOT swear," she said darkly into my face. "It is disrespectful. If you swear again, I will beat your ass until it bleeds. Is that clear?"
She stared into my eyes for a long time, fury burning in her eyes. I tried to nod and made gurgling noises of agreement. She eventually shoved my head forward again roughly, snorting in disgust.
"So," she demanded, anger still in her voice. "Have you been caned like that before?"
"Not that hard, no," I whispered.
"That was not hard," she spat. "You may get a little red marking, but it will not welt."
"I've never been hit that hard before."
"Very mild then. It's no wonder your caning scenes are all over the place." I suddenly felt the urge to apologize, but held it back. "The cane is a precision instrument. It is capable of causing great pain, but it is also deliciously accurate. Strokes can be laid down neatly, covering the body methodically." I tensed up again as she held out the cane, touching my bare skin.
"No, please. Please don't."
She stroked the cane softly across my buttocks, ignoring me. "Many people use the cane sensuously like this too. It focuses the mind on the area to be beaten. Some people say it enhances pain to know that it is coming. Anticipation is a powerful tool, where pain is concerned."
"Yes, I see, but please don't -" But before I could say more she gave me another single stroke, much harder this time, the cane making a whooshing noise before it bit. I let out another involuntary scream and tugged at the chains. My breathing became fast and erratic as I struggled not to let out a stream of expletives, gritting my teeth against the pain.
"That was hard enough to welt," she said in a matter of fact tone, ignoring my distress. "Welts rise quite quickly and last a few days usually, fading to a red line and then healing without marks." She laughed softly, adding, "And they hurt like hell when you sit down."
"OK, I get it," I said breathlessly, hoping that was an end to it.
"You notice that the pain is sharp and sudden, but that there is a burning sensation afterwards?" I grunted. "But if strokes are given quickly enough - less than a second apart - then the pain of them blends into a continuous sensation."
"Nnn… no please don't…", I begged.
But she had already made up her mind. She started to lay hard strokes in quick succession across the same area that she had already welted. The beating was relentless. The shock made me thrash and panic, screaming - inarticulate howling - shaking and yanking desperately against the chains. When she finally stopped, I hung my head, groaning rhythmically with each ragged breath.
After a while my head cleared and I realized that she was standing in front of me. She was laughing softly. "Some of your beating scenes are reasonably realistic. But others are really very wide of the mark." She was flexing the cane again, grinning at me. I tried to look at her in pain, pleading for mercy, but she did not look in the least sympathetic. "For example, this business of beating a slave u*********s." She looked at me, seeing me respond with yet more fear. "That is really quite ridiculous." She walked behind me and I tensed again, flinching as she ran a finger along the line of one of the cane marks on my behind. "I'm not saying a slave could never pass out," she said, "but it would require something far harsher than you describe." She came back round to face me, still grinning. "And besides, there are many more interesting aspects of pain that you could describe before your character passes out."
She stood close to me, face to face now. I could feel her breath. "Do you understand the many faces of pain?" she asked. I didn't react, eyes frozen with fear. She came closer still, breathing her question into my face. "Do you know what happens to a man as you cause him pain, then more pain, then yet more pain?" Her eyes looked sweet and yet there was such casual sadism in them. She was enjoying this. I shook my head nervously and she laughed softly again.
"I am interested in the pain in your stories," she said. "Pain is what I do." She looked closely at my terrified eyes. "It's My Thing," she added, pronouncing the words slowly. "I love to cause pain. I work with it. I am paid for it. It is my clay, my paint. I create sculptures in pain." She smiled, as if proud of her chilling career, watching my reaction. "And like any skill, there is an art to it. Any fool can stamp on your toe, but it takes an artist to make you appreciate the pain they cause you. And my clients really… really appreciate what I can do. Am I making sense?"
My head was spinning with the implications of what she was saying and coupled with my predicament, I could feel the fear rising in me again. I nodded, and she pulled away slightly.
"Good. So I don't want to read any more rubbish where you pass out after a few strokes." I nodded again. "Most people's initial reaction to pain is anger, though it is usually suppressed out of respect for me." She waited for me to acknowledge with another nod. "Some people start to laugh at this stage - not mockery, but an angry laugh through gritted teeth. As the pain increases, people who don't know how far I will go - and I often keep them in the dark - will usually start to beg and plead." I nodded again. "Going further, many men will cry, which tells me they are really losing all self control. Beyond that, people sometimes throw up - which means you have to be careful that they do not choke, if you have them restrained. Beyond that, they may lose control of their bladder and bowels - so some sort of plug is useful." She smiled at me, seeing the look of terror on my face. "Between there and losing consciousness, people suffer a kind of insanity. Often they cannot remember what happened when the pain reaches that level. I suppose the mind is starting to cut things out." She was still smiling. "Does this frighten you?" she asked after a pause.
It scared the shit out of me. "A little," I admitted weakly.
"Fear is also part of the process. The way people experience pain is strongly influenced by how afraid they are. Fear intensifies feelings. So being naked, helpless and not knowing what will happen will enhance the experience for most people." She grinned, looking up at the chains holding my wrists. "Perhaps you understand this?"
I nodded. Clearly she had planned this whole scene. And I did not know what would happen next - the feeling gnawed at me all the more for knowing that she had planned it that way.
She went behind me again, and started opening and closing drawers in the cupboard, looking for something. When she came back, she was no longer holding the cane, but instead had something small and metallic on her palm. It looked like an elaborate bottle opener.
"Do you know what this is?"
I didn't, but my heart rate leapt at the prospect of her showing me. I shook my head.
"It's a ball crusher. You've written about these too. I'm guessing no experience here either then?" She had that not-so-sweet smile again. I shook my head. "Well, let me show you." I tugged instinctively at my chains, breath quickening, but she did not react. "This ring opens and clamps around the balls, holding them together." She lifted the device, showing me. "And then when the balls are secured, this screw brings this plate down against them. You'll see the plate is slightly knobbled? They aren't sharp points, but they are very painful." I felt sick and I could feel myself starting to shake. "Let me show you."
"No… it's OK… I get the idea, honestly."
Ignoring me, she reached down and took hold of my balls gently. "It's something you have to experience to really understand," she said. "I want you to write about this in future, so I need you to understand."
"But… please, can't I just… please don't."
She twisted my sack slightly and I could feel the cold metal close around the base. I heard a click and she released them, adjusting them slightly in the collar. "There. Is that comfortable?"
Like a fool, I nodded.
"Good. Now…" She crouched down and could feel something else cold touching the other side of my balls. She flicked something with her finger - a wing nut? Then, I sensed that she tightened the nut while looking up at me for a reaction. I was sweating and breathing heavily, but I felt no pain at first. Then the plate was clearly being pressed against my balls and it started to feel uncomfortable.
She slowed her tightening as I reacted. It was starting to hurt. I let out a hiss, then gritted my teeth, trying to bear the pain. She slowed even more, until eventually I had to cry out. "STOP! Enough! Please! I get the idea… please stop there!"
She stopped and stood up. "Nasty little things, aren't they?" she said, amused. "Now, tell me, where is the pain?" My face was already screwed up, but I managed to twist it some more, not understanding the question. "Think," she explained. "It hurts, but the pain isn't really in your balls, is it?"
At first I thought she was just playing with me, but it was true: the pain did not seem to be in my balls really. Rather it had spread through my belly and legs. "No," I said, my voice straining, "It's… all over the place."
"What else do you notice about the pain, compared to the cane?"
What was this: sado-quiz time? I just wanted it to stop. I pulled another pained, quizzical face.
She sighed. "The cane was a sharp short-lived pain on the skin. This is different, yes?"
"Yes," I grunted. I would have agreed to anything. "Can we stop it now, please?"
"How is it different?"
"I don't know. Please, can we stop? It's deeper inside, eating at me. Please stop it."
"Yes, that's important," she said. "It reaches deeper inside you. Pinching and crushing pain does that. And yes, it eats away at you, like teeth chewing relentlessly. That's important too. It means the pain can last a long time."
"Yes, OK, I see… please stop it now, PLEASE!"
"I just have to loosen the screw and the pain will subside."
"Yes, please please do it."
"Or I could tighten it and the pain will intensify." She grinned at me again. Tears started to form.
"NO! No please don't, PLEASE..."
Smiling, she crouched down and I felt her take the screw in her fingers. "So is it… is it anti-clockwise for… loosening… no that's tightening isn't it… but it's upside down, so… I can never remember." I felt her hand twist suddenly. And the pain in my balls immediately leapt to a horrific intensity.
"Aaaaargghhhh!!! Nooooo! PLEASE!! STOP!!!"
She stood up, level with my face again. I could hear her laughing although the buzzing in my head seemed to drown out everything else. "Was that tighter or looser, I can't tell?" She did not expect an answer, and I could barely speak, tears were running down my face. She stood laughing at me for a while.
"You see, this is another important lesson. I can increase the pain, or I can decrease the pain, or I can leave you in pain for a very long time." My head slumped, but she lifted it with a finger, to look deep into my eyes. "Would you like me to leave you here for an hour?" My eyes popped open in terror. "Or perhaps we should resume our conversation this evening… perhaps six or eight hours would be better?"
I was now a gibbering wreck, tears and snot and sweat, shaking my head and making incoherent sounds. "Nnnnn….nnnnnmmmmm...nnnnoooo…"
She just stared at me for what seemed like minutes, watching me suffer; watching me break. I would have done anything at that point, anything at all to make the pain go away. Curiously, I didn't hate her. I just wanted to make her understand the pain - and yet, of course, she did understand. I realized she was trying to show me that her absolute power was part of the experience as well. Not just the pain, but her control of the pain.
I looked into her eyes then, and perhaps at that moment she knew what I was thinking. She seemed to nod.
Finally she crouched down again, and this time I felt the pain diminish. She fiddled for a while to remove the device, and left me hanging, still breathing hard. I heard her go behind me and put the device back into a drawer.
Several minutes passed. My ragged breathing settled, though there was still a pounding pain throbbing in my balls. She did not re-appear and after a while I craned my neck sideways to see where she was. I could just about see her out of the corner of my eye, sitting on some sort of cupboard, waiting, playing with her mobile phone.
The silence seemed more threatening than her presence, so eventually I spoke, hoarsely. "What is this place?"
She did not answer for a long time, and I began to fear that I would be punished for asking. But eventually she said, "It is a facility that several of us use, usually in a professional capacity."
"Where are we?"
"No one who visits the facility ever learns where it is located. They are d**gged when they come and when they leave, as you will be." The idea chilled me.
"And these are clients of yours?"
"Of mine or my friends, yes. Clients who wish to experience captivity and suffering." Another chilling idea.
"Captivity?"
I heard her get off the cupboard and she walked round to face me. "You're asking a lot of questions?"
"Sorry," I said, meekly.
She stared at my for a while, perhaps trying to decide why I was asking. "Yes, captivity," she repeated after a pause. "These side rooms are prison cells. We can house up to six prisoners here, though all the cells are empty at the moment. But your screams could have been useful." I did not understand. "We often make prisoners listen to each other being punished. Fear conditions the mind, remember."
The idea was terrifying. Eventually, I asked, "How long do you keep them here?"
"This is a business. It depends what they pay for, though in some cases clients do not want to be told how long they are to be held for. They just set an upper limit. There is no natural light down here anyway, so we can fuck with their idea of time. We can make a week seem like a month." She laughed, honestly this time, not as a cruel joke. "How well do you think you would survive in captivity?"
I couldn't believe I was having a casual conversation with a woman who had been torturing my balls just a few minutes earlier. I shook the chains. "Well, I am in captivity aren't I?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But those cells," she nodded over her shoulder, "are about eight feet by four feet. Bare concrete. The punters call them coffins. They have no windows. They're cold. We keep you in the dark for long periods. The only human contact you get is to be taken out, tortured, and put back. The only thing you ever hear is silence or other people being tortured. So how well do you think you would survive?"
I had to admit defeat. "Not long, I guess."
She smiled. "Perhaps not. But there are other forms of captivity that are easier to survive," she said, walking back to the cupboard yet again. She returned with something I most definitely recognized.
"Do you know what this is?"
I nodded. "It's a chastity device, yes."
"You write about chastity very often. Have you had experience of chastity?"
"Yes, I have as a matter of fact." I felt a wave of pride. At least I'm not a complete fraud. "Though mine was plastic, not steel."
"And you had a key holder?" I nodded. "A woman?" I nodded again. "And how long did she keep you locked?"
"The longest was about two weeks."
"Not long then, but better than nothing. I think we all agreed that your writing about chastity was definitely from some sort of personal experience." She smiled. "And how long do you think you would be able to cope in chastity today?"
"Well… you don't mean… I don't really want…"
"Don't want what? To live your fantasy?"
"No, but… yes… but…"
She held up her hand to stop me. "Let me explain how this is going to work." She became suddenly businesslike. "You now write exclusively for me and my friends - you've already written stories for many of us anyway, so that's no big change. You will write what we want, to order. And we are going to keep you locked in this device." She wiggled the chastity device on her finger. "When you deliver some work to our satisfaction, we will remove the device briefly. But then we will lock you again. The idea is that, by keeping your energies nicely pent-up, you will have more passion to spend on your writing. You will be very motivated to deliver on time and to deliver something acceptable - if you fail in either respect, you will be given no release."
"But I don't want that!"
"We don't care what you want," she said bluntly. "You've been living a lie all these years, pretending to be something you're not. So now we're putting that right."
"You can't… you just can't…"
"And if you think you can cut the device off and run away, or run away when you are unlocked, consider this. We went to your house last night, while you were out cold, so we know everything about you. We know all your Facebook contacts, all your LinkedIn contacts, your entire address book. Family, friends, business colleagues. If you try to break free, we will tell them all about your writing career, together with some choice frames from today's video." She looked up at the ceiling. I hadn't noticed, but a small video camera was looking down at us. "Is that clear?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. I was completely at her mercy.
She took the ring of the chastity device and forced my cock and tender balls through it, painfully. Then she pushed the metal cage over my cock. It was tight, even though I was limp, but she forced the two pieces together anyway. Lastly, she threaded a small padlock into the pin, and clicked it shut. My heart sank.
"That just leaves your goodbye present," she said, walking back to the cupboard. This time she came back with a hypodermic syringe and a small vile of a clear liquid. She drew a small amount of the fluid, and held up the needle. I hate needles and she seemed to sense it. She put the point against my bare chest, and scratched it down my belly. As she headed towards my cock, she grinned, watching my reaction. But then she scratched it sideways, stopping at the top of my thigh. "Here, I think." She suddenly jabbed the needle into me, making me flinch. She emptied the contents and yanked it out again. "There, that should take effect in a couple of minutes."
I felt a wave of warmth start to spread over my body.
"So, slave," she grinned triumphantly. "Your first commission is to write up today's experience. And when the job is done to our satisfaction, you will be unlocked." She came closer, speaking quietly. "I want it to turn me on… so if it doesn't… you'll be doing it again." She laughed darkly.
The warmth was growing stronger and I could hardly respond.
She turned on her heel with a final grin and strode off down the corridor, as confidently as when she had arrived. Laughing, she switched out the lights and all I could see was the open door at her end. Then she slammed that shut, and I heard the click of her heels walking away.
The warmth and darkness closed over me.
I awoke, groggy and confused, on the floor of my own kitchen. I was still naked, and shivering from the cold. The pain from my welted arse and crushed balls was still fresh, my wrists and ankles merely sore by comparison. My clothes were in a pile next to me. I reached down and felt the cold steel cage around my cock.
Getting up to my knees, I saw her message, written on the floor in bright red lipstick.
"5000 words. By midnight tomorrow."
The first sensation was the pain in my arms and wrists, which were pointing diagonally upwards, attached to something I could not see. I tried to move to ease the stiffness, but my ankles were similarly spread wide and attached to the floor. Panic followed quickly. I thrashed for a while, breathing quickly as I tugged against the stiff restraints, but it was no use.
"Hey!" I shouted.
The words echoed and as my eyes became used to the gloom, I could see that I was at one end of a very long corridor. At the far end, a door was open which let in a small amount of light, but only enough to give the smallest clue to my location: a long empty corridor with a few doors on either side.
"HEY! HELP!"
Still no response. The place was deathly quiet. Like a morgue.
The cold crept up through the floor. I could not feel any clothes on my body and the air seemed to prickle on my skin, raising goose bumps. I was shivering, though whether from fear or cold I could not say.
Giving up ideas of escape, I tried to reduce the pain in my wrists, standing on tiptoe until my feet screamed for mercy, then letting my wrists take the weight again. My captors clearly wanted me to suffer, even while I waited.
Time crawled by. An hour, perhaps two. I lost all track.
Eventually, a distant booming noise made my heart thump. I had wanted to attract attention, but now that I could hear them, I was afraid to make a noise. They were coming to me, whoever they were, for whatever purpose they intended. And they had not been friendly so far.
Another noise, closer this time. A door opening and slamming shut. And footsteps: regular clicking, like heeled boots on a tiled floor. Eventually a single figure appeared at the end of the corridor, blocking the light from the open door. A switch clicked and a line of fluorescent tubes pinged to life along the length of the room. I squinted, quickly trying to get used to the light and focus on my captor, looking around for some sort of escape. But I was securely chained and there were no exits that I could see at this end of the corridor.
It was a woman. She strode towards me confidently. Her pace said that she was unhurried, but purposeful. She was focused on me. The thought made me start to sweat, suddenly aware of my naked vulnerability and the humiliation of having a female captress. I started to breathe heavily, nervously.
When she was within ten feet she slowed and stopped, her dark eyes locked on mine. She was in her thirties, with short dark hair. An open leather jacket covered a pure white tee shirt. Skin tight black jeans led down to spiked boots. Dark eye shadow and bright red lipstick completed the look. Her expression was neutral. She did not speak, just gazing at me.
I rattled the chains above me. "Let me go," I said, trying to insist but not to threaten her. She did not react, still gazing blankly. "Let me GO!" I repeated, more forcefully. When she still did not respond, I started to thrash and pull at the chains, clenching my teeth and grunting.
I heard her take a long breath and let it out slowly. "Good morning," she said softly. The contrast of her manner with my panic was like a slap in the face. I almost greeted her back, absurdly, but managed to keep silent, nostrils flaring. I tugged one more time at the chains, pathetically.
Her eyes left mine and followed my arms up to the tight leather cuffs and chains holding them. Then they dropped to my ankles, which were similarly caught. Finally they returned to hold my gaze, and she asked quietly, "Do you think you can break those straps?" I gritted my teeth and eventually shook my head. "Do you think that struggling will make me release you?" If she was playing with me, her voice did not betray it, but I felt helplessness wash over me. Again I shook my head stiffly. "Then I would advise that you stay still," she said calmly. "You will only hurt yourself by struggling." She continued to stare at me blankly, as if waiting for an answer.
"My fingers are numb," I said, hoping for some mercy.
Again a long pause, then, "You're putting too much weight on your arms. Stand on your toes for a while." So much for mercy. I felt a flash of anger pass through me - my toes were in hell too - but tried not to show it, adjusting my footing. My calf muscles screamed their objection.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Another long pause. "You don't need to know who we are," she said eventually. "We want to understand you better. We thought it would be appropriate to talk here."
I rattled the chains again in objection. "Are you mad? What do you mean, 'understand me'? Just let me go for God's sake."
"After we've talked," she insisted, softly.
"Talked about what?" I said rather aggressively.
She paused again, as if offended. "Do the numbers one, eight, seven, two, two, seven mean anything to you?" Of course they did. I nodded, and furrowed my brow, puzzled. "And you also use the name PipkinTale, I believe?"
"Yea, so what?"
"So," she paused dramatically. "We are some of your readers."
"What!?"
She was genuinely puzzled now. "You have written stories for a fair number of women. Most of them are professional dominants. They have friends and acquaintances with whom they share your stories. You must have realized you would have a small group of readers in the professional community?"
My mouth started to form some sort of answer, but I was genuinely surprised. Almost all the stories I have written over the years were private commissions. I didn't imagine they would be shared.
"But… How many…?" I asked weakly.
She looked at the ceiling briefly. "Maybe twenty," she said, watching my reaction closely. I nodded. "But we're puzzled by something." She started to walk around me slowly, heels echoing in the empty space. "We can't decide whether or not you have had personal experience of the things you write about."
When she was standing in front of me again, she prompted for an answer by raising her eyebrows. "Well, some," I muttered, "but not as extreme as…", I looked up and rattled the chains again.
She nodded and walked behind me; I struggled to look back over my shoulder at her. There was a wall behind me and some sort of cupboard, but I could not see properly. I heard a metal drawer open and close. She returned carrying a long thin cane, flexing it.
"You write about the cane a great deal," she said. "Have you experienced it?"
The sight of the woman flexing a cane sent shivers down my spine.
"Just a little," I said, "Nothing too… I mean not like…" I trailed off thinking of some of the more brutal scenes I had written.
"Not like what?" she prompted, bringing the cane down sharply on the outside of my thigh. I winced, though it was not that painful.
"Not… I mean, not like some of the stories."
She brushed the cane up my thigh and along the side of my body. "But aren't writers supposed to do their best work when they write about what they know, about what they have experienced?"
"I suppose… but…"
"But you just make it up as you go along," she accused, sarcastically. "Is that right?"
"Yes… I suppose I do," I admitted sheepishly.
She walked to the side of me and stroked the cane down my bare back, patting my arse playfully. "Then a little experience might do you the world of good," she said, with amusement in her voice. Before I could object, she raised the cane and gave me a single stroke across the centre of my butt cheeks.
Jerking against my bonds, I grabbed and held a breath from the shock, growling with my eyes squeezed shut, then let out, "Gaaa... FUCK that HURT!"
After a few seconds I felt her fingers on the back of my head. She grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head backwards, painfully, staring into my eyes as I struggled to breathe. "You will NOT swear," she said darkly into my face. "It is disrespectful. If you swear again, I will beat your ass until it bleeds. Is that clear?"
She stared into my eyes for a long time, fury burning in her eyes. I tried to nod and made gurgling noises of agreement. She eventually shoved my head forward again roughly, snorting in disgust.
"So," she demanded, anger still in her voice. "Have you been caned like that before?"
"Not that hard, no," I whispered.
"That was not hard," she spat. "You may get a little red marking, but it will not welt."
"I've never been hit that hard before."
"Very mild then. It's no wonder your caning scenes are all over the place." I suddenly felt the urge to apologize, but held it back. "The cane is a precision instrument. It is capable of causing great pain, but it is also deliciously accurate. Strokes can be laid down neatly, covering the body methodically." I tensed up again as she held out the cane, touching my bare skin.
"No, please. Please don't."
She stroked the cane softly across my buttocks, ignoring me. "Many people use the cane sensuously like this too. It focuses the mind on the area to be beaten. Some people say it enhances pain to know that it is coming. Anticipation is a powerful tool, where pain is concerned."
"Yes, I see, but please don't -" But before I could say more she gave me another single stroke, much harder this time, the cane making a whooshing noise before it bit. I let out another involuntary scream and tugged at the chains. My breathing became fast and erratic as I struggled not to let out a stream of expletives, gritting my teeth against the pain.
"That was hard enough to welt," she said in a matter of fact tone, ignoring my distress. "Welts rise quite quickly and last a few days usually, fading to a red line and then healing without marks." She laughed softly, adding, "And they hurt like hell when you sit down."
"OK, I get it," I said breathlessly, hoping that was an end to it.
"You notice that the pain is sharp and sudden, but that there is a burning sensation afterwards?" I grunted. "But if strokes are given quickly enough - less than a second apart - then the pain of them blends into a continuous sensation."
"Nnn… no please don't…", I begged.
But she had already made up her mind. She started to lay hard strokes in quick succession across the same area that she had already welted. The beating was relentless. The shock made me thrash and panic, screaming - inarticulate howling - shaking and yanking desperately against the chains. When she finally stopped, I hung my head, groaning rhythmically with each ragged breath.
After a while my head cleared and I realized that she was standing in front of me. She was laughing softly. "Some of your beating scenes are reasonably realistic. But others are really very wide of the mark." She was flexing the cane again, grinning at me. I tried to look at her in pain, pleading for mercy, but she did not look in the least sympathetic. "For example, this business of beating a slave u*********s." She looked at me, seeing me respond with yet more fear. "That is really quite ridiculous." She walked behind me and I tensed again, flinching as she ran a finger along the line of one of the cane marks on my behind. "I'm not saying a slave could never pass out," she said, "but it would require something far harsher than you describe." She came back round to face me, still grinning. "And besides, there are many more interesting aspects of pain that you could describe before your character passes out."
She stood close to me, face to face now. I could feel her breath. "Do you understand the many faces of pain?" she asked. I didn't react, eyes frozen with fear. She came closer still, breathing her question into my face. "Do you know what happens to a man as you cause him pain, then more pain, then yet more pain?" Her eyes looked sweet and yet there was such casual sadism in them. She was enjoying this. I shook my head nervously and she laughed softly again.
"I am interested in the pain in your stories," she said. "Pain is what I do." She looked closely at my terrified eyes. "It's My Thing," she added, pronouncing the words slowly. "I love to cause pain. I work with it. I am paid for it. It is my clay, my paint. I create sculptures in pain." She smiled, as if proud of her chilling career, watching my reaction. "And like any skill, there is an art to it. Any fool can stamp on your toe, but it takes an artist to make you appreciate the pain they cause you. And my clients really… really appreciate what I can do. Am I making sense?"
My head was spinning with the implications of what she was saying and coupled with my predicament, I could feel the fear rising in me again. I nodded, and she pulled away slightly.
"Good. So I don't want to read any more rubbish where you pass out after a few strokes." I nodded again. "Most people's initial reaction to pain is anger, though it is usually suppressed out of respect for me." She waited for me to acknowledge with another nod. "Some people start to laugh at this stage - not mockery, but an angry laugh through gritted teeth. As the pain increases, people who don't know how far I will go - and I often keep them in the dark - will usually start to beg and plead." I nodded again. "Going further, many men will cry, which tells me they are really losing all self control. Beyond that, people sometimes throw up - which means you have to be careful that they do not choke, if you have them restrained. Beyond that, they may lose control of their bladder and bowels - so some sort of plug is useful." She smiled at me, seeing the look of terror on my face. "Between there and losing consciousness, people suffer a kind of insanity. Often they cannot remember what happened when the pain reaches that level. I suppose the mind is starting to cut things out." She was still smiling. "Does this frighten you?" she asked after a pause.
It scared the shit out of me. "A little," I admitted weakly.
"Fear is also part of the process. The way people experience pain is strongly influenced by how afraid they are. Fear intensifies feelings. So being naked, helpless and not knowing what will happen will enhance the experience for most people." She grinned, looking up at the chains holding my wrists. "Perhaps you understand this?"
I nodded. Clearly she had planned this whole scene. And I did not know what would happen next - the feeling gnawed at me all the more for knowing that she had planned it that way.
She went behind me again, and started opening and closing drawers in the cupboard, looking for something. When she came back, she was no longer holding the cane, but instead had something small and metallic on her palm. It looked like an elaborate bottle opener.
"Do you know what this is?"
I didn't, but my heart rate leapt at the prospect of her showing me. I shook my head.
"It's a ball crusher. You've written about these too. I'm guessing no experience here either then?" She had that not-so-sweet smile again. I shook my head. "Well, let me show you." I tugged instinctively at my chains, breath quickening, but she did not react. "This ring opens and clamps around the balls, holding them together." She lifted the device, showing me. "And then when the balls are secured, this screw brings this plate down against them. You'll see the plate is slightly knobbled? They aren't sharp points, but they are very painful." I felt sick and I could feel myself starting to shake. "Let me show you."
"No… it's OK… I get the idea, honestly."
Ignoring me, she reached down and took hold of my balls gently. "It's something you have to experience to really understand," she said. "I want you to write about this in future, so I need you to understand."
"But… please, can't I just… please don't."
She twisted my sack slightly and I could feel the cold metal close around the base. I heard a click and she released them, adjusting them slightly in the collar. "There. Is that comfortable?"
Like a fool, I nodded.
"Good. Now…" She crouched down and could feel something else cold touching the other side of my balls. She flicked something with her finger - a wing nut? Then, I sensed that she tightened the nut while looking up at me for a reaction. I was sweating and breathing heavily, but I felt no pain at first. Then the plate was clearly being pressed against my balls and it started to feel uncomfortable.
She slowed her tightening as I reacted. It was starting to hurt. I let out a hiss, then gritted my teeth, trying to bear the pain. She slowed even more, until eventually I had to cry out. "STOP! Enough! Please! I get the idea… please stop there!"
She stopped and stood up. "Nasty little things, aren't they?" she said, amused. "Now, tell me, where is the pain?" My face was already screwed up, but I managed to twist it some more, not understanding the question. "Think," she explained. "It hurts, but the pain isn't really in your balls, is it?"
At first I thought she was just playing with me, but it was true: the pain did not seem to be in my balls really. Rather it had spread through my belly and legs. "No," I said, my voice straining, "It's… all over the place."
"What else do you notice about the pain, compared to the cane?"
What was this: sado-quiz time? I just wanted it to stop. I pulled another pained, quizzical face.
She sighed. "The cane was a sharp short-lived pain on the skin. This is different, yes?"
"Yes," I grunted. I would have agreed to anything. "Can we stop it now, please?"
"How is it different?"
"I don't know. Please, can we stop? It's deeper inside, eating at me. Please stop it."
"Yes, that's important," she said. "It reaches deeper inside you. Pinching and crushing pain does that. And yes, it eats away at you, like teeth chewing relentlessly. That's important too. It means the pain can last a long time."
"Yes, OK, I see… please stop it now, PLEASE!"
"I just have to loosen the screw and the pain will subside."
"Yes, please please do it."
"Or I could tighten it and the pain will intensify." She grinned at me again. Tears started to form.
"NO! No please don't, PLEASE..."
Smiling, she crouched down and I felt her take the screw in her fingers. "So is it… is it anti-clockwise for… loosening… no that's tightening isn't it… but it's upside down, so… I can never remember." I felt her hand twist suddenly. And the pain in my balls immediately leapt to a horrific intensity.
"Aaaaargghhhh!!! Nooooo! PLEASE!! STOP!!!"
She stood up, level with my face again. I could hear her laughing although the buzzing in my head seemed to drown out everything else. "Was that tighter or looser, I can't tell?" She did not expect an answer, and I could barely speak, tears were running down my face. She stood laughing at me for a while.
"You see, this is another important lesson. I can increase the pain, or I can decrease the pain, or I can leave you in pain for a very long time." My head slumped, but she lifted it with a finger, to look deep into my eyes. "Would you like me to leave you here for an hour?" My eyes popped open in terror. "Or perhaps we should resume our conversation this evening… perhaps six or eight hours would be better?"
I was now a gibbering wreck, tears and snot and sweat, shaking my head and making incoherent sounds. "Nnnnn….nnnnnmmmmm...nnnnoooo…"
She just stared at me for what seemed like minutes, watching me suffer; watching me break. I would have done anything at that point, anything at all to make the pain go away. Curiously, I didn't hate her. I just wanted to make her understand the pain - and yet, of course, she did understand. I realized she was trying to show me that her absolute power was part of the experience as well. Not just the pain, but her control of the pain.
I looked into her eyes then, and perhaps at that moment she knew what I was thinking. She seemed to nod.
Finally she crouched down again, and this time I felt the pain diminish. She fiddled for a while to remove the device, and left me hanging, still breathing hard. I heard her go behind me and put the device back into a drawer.
Several minutes passed. My ragged breathing settled, though there was still a pounding pain throbbing in my balls. She did not re-appear and after a while I craned my neck sideways to see where she was. I could just about see her out of the corner of my eye, sitting on some sort of cupboard, waiting, playing with her mobile phone.
The silence seemed more threatening than her presence, so eventually I spoke, hoarsely. "What is this place?"
She did not answer for a long time, and I began to fear that I would be punished for asking. But eventually she said, "It is a facility that several of us use, usually in a professional capacity."
"Where are we?"
"No one who visits the facility ever learns where it is located. They are d**gged when they come and when they leave, as you will be." The idea chilled me.
"And these are clients of yours?"
"Of mine or my friends, yes. Clients who wish to experience captivity and suffering." Another chilling idea.
"Captivity?"
I heard her get off the cupboard and she walked round to face me. "You're asking a lot of questions?"
"Sorry," I said, meekly.
She stared at my for a while, perhaps trying to decide why I was asking. "Yes, captivity," she repeated after a pause. "These side rooms are prison cells. We can house up to six prisoners here, though all the cells are empty at the moment. But your screams could have been useful." I did not understand. "We often make prisoners listen to each other being punished. Fear conditions the mind, remember."
The idea was terrifying. Eventually, I asked, "How long do you keep them here?"
"This is a business. It depends what they pay for, though in some cases clients do not want to be told how long they are to be held for. They just set an upper limit. There is no natural light down here anyway, so we can fuck with their idea of time. We can make a week seem like a month." She laughed, honestly this time, not as a cruel joke. "How well do you think you would survive in captivity?"
I couldn't believe I was having a casual conversation with a woman who had been torturing my balls just a few minutes earlier. I shook the chains. "Well, I am in captivity aren't I?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But those cells," she nodded over her shoulder, "are about eight feet by four feet. Bare concrete. The punters call them coffins. They have no windows. They're cold. We keep you in the dark for long periods. The only human contact you get is to be taken out, tortured, and put back. The only thing you ever hear is silence or other people being tortured. So how well do you think you would survive?"
I had to admit defeat. "Not long, I guess."
She smiled. "Perhaps not. But there are other forms of captivity that are easier to survive," she said, walking back to the cupboard yet again. She returned with something I most definitely recognized.
"Do you know what this is?"
I nodded. "It's a chastity device, yes."
"You write about chastity very often. Have you had experience of chastity?"
"Yes, I have as a matter of fact." I felt a wave of pride. At least I'm not a complete fraud. "Though mine was plastic, not steel."
"And you had a key holder?" I nodded. "A woman?" I nodded again. "And how long did she keep you locked?"
"The longest was about two weeks."
"Not long then, but better than nothing. I think we all agreed that your writing about chastity was definitely from some sort of personal experience." She smiled. "And how long do you think you would be able to cope in chastity today?"
"Well… you don't mean… I don't really want…"
"Don't want what? To live your fantasy?"
"No, but… yes… but…"
She held up her hand to stop me. "Let me explain how this is going to work." She became suddenly businesslike. "You now write exclusively for me and my friends - you've already written stories for many of us anyway, so that's no big change. You will write what we want, to order. And we are going to keep you locked in this device." She wiggled the chastity device on her finger. "When you deliver some work to our satisfaction, we will remove the device briefly. But then we will lock you again. The idea is that, by keeping your energies nicely pent-up, you will have more passion to spend on your writing. You will be very motivated to deliver on time and to deliver something acceptable - if you fail in either respect, you will be given no release."
"But I don't want that!"
"We don't care what you want," she said bluntly. "You've been living a lie all these years, pretending to be something you're not. So now we're putting that right."
"You can't… you just can't…"
"And if you think you can cut the device off and run away, or run away when you are unlocked, consider this. We went to your house last night, while you were out cold, so we know everything about you. We know all your Facebook contacts, all your LinkedIn contacts, your entire address book. Family, friends, business colleagues. If you try to break free, we will tell them all about your writing career, together with some choice frames from today's video." She looked up at the ceiling. I hadn't noticed, but a small video camera was looking down at us. "Is that clear?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. I was completely at her mercy.
She took the ring of the chastity device and forced my cock and tender balls through it, painfully. Then she pushed the metal cage over my cock. It was tight, even though I was limp, but she forced the two pieces together anyway. Lastly, she threaded a small padlock into the pin, and clicked it shut. My heart sank.
"That just leaves your goodbye present," she said, walking back to the cupboard. This time she came back with a hypodermic syringe and a small vile of a clear liquid. She drew a small amount of the fluid, and held up the needle. I hate needles and she seemed to sense it. She put the point against my bare chest, and scratched it down my belly. As she headed towards my cock, she grinned, watching my reaction. But then she scratched it sideways, stopping at the top of my thigh. "Here, I think." She suddenly jabbed the needle into me, making me flinch. She emptied the contents and yanked it out again. "There, that should take effect in a couple of minutes."
I felt a wave of warmth start to spread over my body.
"So, slave," she grinned triumphantly. "Your first commission is to write up today's experience. And when the job is done to our satisfaction, you will be unlocked." She came closer, speaking quietly. "I want it to turn me on… so if it doesn't… you'll be doing it again." She laughed darkly.
The warmth was growing stronger and I could hardly respond.
She turned on her heel with a final grin and strode off down the corridor, as confidently as when she had arrived. Laughing, she switched out the lights and all I could see was the open door at her end. Then she slammed that shut, and I heard the click of her heels walking away.
The warmth and darkness closed over me.
I awoke, groggy and confused, on the floor of my own kitchen. I was still naked, and shivering from the cold. The pain from my welted arse and crushed balls was still fresh, my wrists and ankles merely sore by comparison. My clothes were in a pile next to me. I reached down and felt the cold steel cage around my cock.
Getting up to my knees, I saw her message, written on the floor in bright red lipstick.
"5000 words. By midnight tomorrow."
Annalisa
- 14.11.2020
- 31
- 0
