“You trust me, boy, don’t you?”
Your question is rhetorical and, sitting on my knees, I quietly stare at the floor between them. You are my Master, of course I trust you. How could I not, you rule every aspect of my life. I love you and I trust you absolutely.
“Well?”
“Yes, Master.” The question wasn’t rhetorical after all, it seems.
Our relationship wasn’t always like this. It started with a curious leap into the unknown on my part three years ago. I’d turned 18 and I had just realised that I had a fascination for bondage that badly needed to be fulfilled. We met on the internet forums and you offered to introduce me to the subject; it took a month of doubt and all my courage to accept your offer. When I returned home after a painful afternoon of stocks, whippings and slappings, I decided that maybe it wasn’t for me after all.
To my own astonishment, the urges returned after a few weeks and I just had to ask you whether I could come over once more. I could and I did, again and again. Gradually, I grew accustomed to the treatment. You were only a couple of years my senior, but you were confident and persuasive, while I was insecure and looking for protection. You were so strong and handsome as you took me in hand every time I needed chastising. As months went by, my visits became more regular and your ‘punishments’ more elaborate. Rather than a few hours in handcuffs, I would spend a whole day hanging from the ceiling by my wrists, or a whole weekend caged in an oak box barely big enough for me to fit in. Regularly you would rape me while I was helplessly bound, bent over a wooden frame, but I knew you did it because you loved me dearly.
“That is good, boy, because you have to realise that I only have your own best interests in mind.”
About a year ago you invited me to become your fulltime house slave, as I seemed to spend almost every free hour in your house anyway. It didn’t take me long to make up my mind, because those hours at your mercy were all I lived for in those days. Early on, we lived together almost as a normal couple. I would cook and clean for you, at night you would roughly fuck me. Only when I had done something to displease you, I would be taken to The Room to be reprimanded.
When the recession started to bite, however, your work grew more and more stressful and you developed a short fuse. Even the slightest transgression would set you off. I would be punished more often than not. The end result is that I haven’t left The Room in at least four months now.
“I bought you a present, boy. A present that will test how much you love me and trust me.”
Not that I dislike living in The Room. Most of the time I am fairly free to move about, usually handcuffed or manacled, of course, but not caged or bound. I have a dog basket to sleep in and a small bathroom. Best of all, I am always surrounded by the bondage tools I have learned to love. Two months ago without explanation you smeared my entire body with a biting cream. When I was allowed to shower an hour later, every hair on my body flushed away with the cold water and not a single one has returned since. The boldness further emphasises that I am permanently naked, but it is warm enough in the house to be bare without being uncomfortable.
Regularly you need to punish me; whipping and beating, crushing my limbs or twisting my nipples. Almost daily you cage or hang me, tie me to the beams or wrap me in plastic until I loose consciousness from lack of air. We still pretend it is my fault that I need to be disciplined, but in reality you need to vent some of the work pressure and I gladly provide that service. It is the real motivation of my slavedom: I feel a desperate need to keep you happy in any way you may want from me, even if that is just as a target for your frustration.
You put a box on the floor in front of me and tell me to open it; I can see a gleaming metal dome inside it. Carefully, you lift the object from the box. It is a head. It is my head. At various places there are rings welded to it, but otherwise it is my head perfectly reproduced in cold, shiny steel.
“It was produced by a master-smith using the plaster cast I made of your head and neck last month. It cost me a small fortune, but it will be worth it.”
With some difficulty, you manage to prise open the steel helmet, separating the face from the back of the head. The front half you put down on the floor before me, about a foot away from my bound knees. The inside surface is facing me: it lies ready to be lifted onto my head. I know that that is what is going to happen, it has to be.
“Look here, boy!”
Obediently, I look up at your hands. Not at your face or eyes; never the eyes! In your left hand is the rear half of the head. The other hand holds a small bottle with a nozzle.
“This is not a normal glue, boy. It is a molecular adhesive specifically for gluing steel.”
You are applying the solution to the rim of the steel dome.
“When the two halves of the helmet are pushed together, the adhesive will create a bond as strong as or stronger than welding. Once it is on your head, it will be impossible to remove this helmet without some serious cutting equipment.”
You have finished your preparations and have moved behind me. I am suddenly filled with fear. This is not what I expected. Please don’t lock me away permanently, Master!
“I am not going to force this on you, boy. I want you to do this for me, voluntarily. Will you? Are you willing to make this sacrifice for me?”
My heart is thumping as I pick up the mask with my cuffed hands. It is heavier than I expected; the steel is thick and completely inflexible. There is a small hole where my mouth will be, but otherwise there is no interruption in the metal surface: one continuous hard shell that, if I went along, would cover my face, my throat and the top of my shoulders.
“There’s a good boy.”
Almost in a trance I raise the mask; it slowly closes in on my face.
“For me, boy, for your Master … Show your Master that you love him more than you love your sight, and that you trust him to take care of you. Show your Master that you are willing to do anything to please him.”
I can see my own distorted face in the shiny curved surface. The anxiety makes me feel nauseous and I have to close my eyes. My hands are trembling as they hold on to the heavy mask. I want to do it, I want you to be pleased and proud of me, Master, but I can’t. I am so afraid …
You gently run your hand over my cheek and my bold head.
“Your Master loves you, boy. Your Master wants to take care of when you are dependent on his help. Are you brave enough to give him that opportunity?”
I breathe in deeply, blank my mind and, with a groan, I push the mask onto my face. The cold steel fits perfectly around my features, tightly pushing against my skin. Almost immediately, I feel how you press the other part of the helmet over my skull. I realise what I have just done and in a panic I want to pull it off, but your strong arms pull me to your chest, simultaneously keeping the two halves of the mask firmly pressed together.
“Shhhh … it’s alright, you’re alright … I’ll take care of you …”
I give up my struggle: I can’t fight you, Master. We sit together like that for ages, me lying trembling in your arms, your hard-on pushing against my back. Maybe you are only making sure that the glue has the time to set, but I imagine that you want to comfort me in my moment of crisis.
“I am so proud of you, boy,” you whisper while you remove my handcuffs and the rope that bound my legs, “you have deserved your freedom for today.”
Blindly feeling my way around the room, I have managed to find my basket and now I try to make myself comfy enough to get some rest, knowing that I won’t be successful. Not only is there too much turmoil on my mind, but the steel shell over my head is shockingly uncomfortable. It is so tight over my skull and so hard inside that my head is sore from the pressure. The edge of the helmet digs into my shoulders and I cannot move my head, not at all. It simply won’t turn or bend. I can’t even open my mouth more than a fraction of an inch, because the mask pushes my jaw so firmly shut. I get another panic attack when it hits me that this is what my life will be like from now on: blind and almost mute, my head completely immovable inside a thick steel shell. With my bare hands I desperately try to pry apart the helmet, but you were right when you said that the adhesive would be stronger than welding. Despite hours of frantic clutching, the mask stays firmly on.
With my hands, uncuffed for the first time in two weeks, I explore the surface over my head. The experience of pushing on the smooth, hard and featureless steel where my face should be is stomach-turning. The join that connects the two halves of the helmet runs over the top of my head, over my ears and along the sides of my neck. A steel ring is attached to the top of the mask, two more are welded at the back of the neck, one on either side. I shudder to think what you plan to do with them. Why did you ask me to do this? I want you to be proud of me and I would do anything for you, but I am so afraid.
I lie on my left side, my knees pulled up to my chest to fit inside the basket. The left side of my face feels bruised where it is resting against the hard metal. I have been crying for a while; long enough for a puddle to form inside the helmet. I have to get up, because I cannot endure the pain any longer. Clumsily, I get onto my hands and knees and I start to follow the wall in search of the bathroom. The heavy steel pulls down my head, straining my neck; it seems to weigh a tonne. I bump my head against a table, but the metal prevents me hurting myself.
I spend a while sitting on the toilet, because it is more comfortable than lying down. Then the load pressing down on my shoulders begins to hurt me there and I carefully make my way back to my sleeping place. This is going to be a long and painful night and it is likely to be the first of many.
Your hand stroking the inside of my thigh wakes me. Against all odds I must have fallen asleep somehow last night. My head feels like it has been crushed in a giant nutcracker, my neck cramps from lack of movement and my shoulders hurt from the permanent pressure.
“Wakey, wakey, my brave little slave.”
I groan to let you know that I am awake and stiffly I sit up. You embrace me and I think you kiss the mask over my face; I can feel your warm breath through the hole, even if I cannot feel your lips.
“It’s time for breakfast, boy.”
You push a straw between my lips and I suck up a milky solution. It doesn’t taste particularly nice or rather it doesn’t taste of much at all.
“Liquid food for tube feeding of comatose patients. It contains all the nutrients you might ever need …”
You leave me a bottle of water and another bottle of the ‘food’ before you go to work, leaving me to get to grips with my new situation.
When you return, I guess it must be evening. Without sight and with limited hearing I have very little idea about the passage of time. I have spent the day sitting in my basket, leaning the heavy metal hood against the wall. I have come to the conclusion that that is the least awful position to endure the pressure and the weight. The first I know about your presence is your hand wrapping itself around my cock, which immediately reacts. You massage my hairless balls, squeezing them hard enough to hurt, without being overwhelming.
“Come, boy!”
You pull me to my feet by my hard tool and lead me away. The carpet under my feet tells me I have left The Room (I never think of it as My Room, I don’t own anything anymore, I am a slave) for the first time in months. Four steps, left turn, three steps … We are in your bedroom! I am sure of it.
“You have been very good boy, the best slave a Master could wish,” you tell me as you pull me into your bed, “tonight I will allow you to sleep here as a reward for your bravery.”
I am rolled onto my back and you straddle my naked body. Your strong hands rub my belly and chest, sliding smoothly over my skin. Through the small opening in the helmet, I can detect the smell of massage oil. Your fingers push themselves between my shoulders and the edge of the metal.
“Such a tight fit …”
Your tender massage moves south to my groin and thighs. Even though you do not touch my cock, the intense stroking of my skin makes me go rock hard. The rest of my body slowly relaxes under your ministrations. I am almost in trance when you tell me to lie on my front. Obediently, I turn over, folding my arms under my head to prevent me suffocating as the breathing hole is pushed into the mattress. A shiver runs down my spine when you pour oil down the middle of my back from shoulder blades to the crack of my arse.
“Just relax, my slave boy. Master will take care of you tonight.”
Strong fingers dig into my shoulders and upper arms. You take your time to loosen up my muscles, in my shoulders, in my lower back and finally in my arse. I moan in excitement as you massage the cheeks and run a finger very slowly up and down the crack. Your hands push underneath my hips and lift me to my knees. With my encased head still touching the mattress, my arse sticks up in the air. A slippery finger again runs down between my cheeks, until it finds my hole and with very little pressure, it slips inside. Immediately it is joined by a second and you start opening me up. Your tenderness fills me with gratitude. So often you roughly fuck me even when I am not ready for it; now you reward me for my suffering.
When my sphincter is relaxed and welcoming, your fingers leave me, only to be replaced by your long thick tool. Smoothly, your huge meat disappears into my body. You take your time, probing and pushing until I can feel your pubes. After I have managed to adjust to the invasion, you begin to move in and out, gently at first, but with ever longer strokes. I hear you groan every time you slam your dick hard into me. Finally, you scream as you fill my gut with your cum. I want to scream too, but I can’t utter more than a high pitched whimper.
“What a fantastic arse,” you sigh, as you collapse on top of my back. For a while we lie together like that; then you roll off me and pull me against you. You fall asleep, spooning me, your spent manhood pushing against my back. I try to make myself as comfortable as the hard confines of the mask allow me. It is not very pleasant really, but at least I can enjoy the erotic feeling of your warm body.
Your tenderness as we made love turned out to be a one off. The next morning you returned me to The Room, where I have been since. I think that was three or four days ago, but either my day-night rhythm is hopelessly upset or you are deliberately trying to confuse me by feeding me at times I least expect it. At last I am slowly adapting to my predicament. My head hurts less from the pressure of the tight metal and I am learning to move around The Room by touch alone. The desperation I felt earlier is gently lifting, as I come to realise that I can endure living like this; I will even do it gladly, if it makes you happy.
“I think you have had enough time to get used to that mask now.”
As so often you have managed to slip into The Room without me noticing.
“Get into the basket!”
I scuttle along the floor on all fours until I find my sanctuary, and I submissively sit down waiting for you. You grab my right hand and I feel a familiar wide leather cuff being buckled around my wrist. There is an icy stab through my heart as I realise my wrists are going to be cuffed again. I have depended on my hands these past days and you have now decided to take them too?
“You are not going to make a fuss, are you, boy?” I must have frozen up in fear, because I would never dispute your power, Master. You know when I need to be cuffed, even if I don’t realise it yet.
You raise my arm and a second later my wrist is locked to the ring on the right side of my neck. In this position, my elbow is angled uncomfortably high. You gently take my other hand and I struggle to suppress the urge to pull it away. You will lock it to the helmet in the same way and I will be even more helpless than I imagined. You do exactly as I fear; you take your time doing it, and all that time I shudder, barely controlling my dread.
“Freedom is corrupting, boy, especially to a slave. A few days of a little more freedom than you are used to and you have betrayed me already!”
What did I do, Master?
“You have been masturbating, haven’t you, slave? Haven’t you!?”
No, Master! No, I would never do that without your permission. You forbade me to touch myself years ago, and I have always been good.
“Well it will have been the last time you got to touch your cock, because your hands will not get near it ever again.”
I want to shout out that I did nothing wrong, but it would only aggravate your anger. Besides, the steel shell prevents me from uttering more than a mumbled whisper.
You grab my wrists and pull me up; I struggle to get to my feet. Roughly, I am dragged across The Room and pushed across the trestle. You tie the mask to the frame, somewhere near the floor, so that I am folded double at the hips with my behind up in the air. Without any consideration, you ram your manhood all the way into my unprepared arse. As you go on to rape me, I mew every time your cock bottoms out inside me.
“Take that … you fucking … ungrateful … Fuck …,” you swear with every crash until you finally shoot your load.
I could cry when you pull out of my burning hole, which feels as if it has been torn apart. You’ve raped me before, but never more malicious than this time. You slam the door to The Room behind you, leaving me hanging over the frame.
You come back to take me down much later, the muscles in my legs trembling as they try to support my impossible position. Without a word, you disconnect the mask from the frame and pull me up by the wrists. I stumble after you and collapse into the basket.
“I am so disappointed in you!” Your first words reveal that the rape has not managed to improve your mood.
“You’ve betrayed my faith in you and I am not sure I can ever forgive that. Once a slave has proved to be dishonest, he can never be trusted again …”
You are walking through the room, while you are talking to me. I can make out the sound of metal clinging.
“… Therefore I will have to take precautions to ensure your faithfulness. I could put you into a chastity device, but they are ugly and I hate ugly. Instead, we’ll make sure your hands won’t get near your cock again. I’ll have some steel wrist cuffs made, so that I can change the temporary position of your arms into a permanent one.”
I want to tell you I didn’t wank and I try to beg you not to connect my wrists to the helmet forever, but the garbled sounds that leave the steel shell only seem to encourage your anger.
“Shut up, boy! There is more to this incident. I’ve always trusted you to walk around free, confident that you would not leave The Room without permission. Now that I know you are unreliable, though, I will have to take precautions.”
I recognise the metallic sound as the rattle of the heavy steel chain. It runs through the winch attached to the ceiling and in the past you have used it to hang me by my wrists in the middle of the room. This time the chain is connected to the eye on the top of my helmet and the heavy steel links add even more weight to my head.
“I’ll give you enough slack to move around the room for now. Whether it remains that way depends on your future conduct.”
Leaning against the wall, I manage to pull my legs underneath me and get to my feet. Carefully, I shuffle along the wall until I hit the stocks, right turn of about 45 degrees, shuffle forward. I will hit the other wall just next to the door to the bathroom.
Living with the heavy blinding mask on my head and my wrists locked to my neck is difficult, but after at least a week like this I am starting to get used to it. Surprisingly, the most difficult thing has been learning to feed myself. Every morning you leave the bottles of food and drink on the floor next to the sleeping basket, but unable to see or feel them, it is almost impossible to find the straw with the hole in the mask. For three days I didn’t eat a thing, toppling the bottles with a clumsy knock of the steel helmet. Now I know to hunch deep while sitting on my knees. I feel for the exact position of the bottle with my elbow and very carefully move forward, hoping I won’t lose my balance again and fall flat on my face, spilling my meal.
With my foot I open the door to the bathroom, but the moment I want to enter, I hear the distinctive rattle of the winch. Almost immediately, the chain attached to the helmet tightens and pulls me back into The Room.
“I suggest you try to hold that in for a while to teach you discipline. One drop on the floor and you will know about it.”
I am standing in the middle of The Room, prevented from sitting by the taut chain. My bladder has filled up and with your embargo on pissing occupying my mind it seems I cannot hold it back much longer. The pressure on my sphincter is enormous, but I desperately want to show you that I can be trusted, that I will do anything you tell me to. How long have I been standing here? Three hours, four, even six maybe? Surely, you will come back and let me relieve myself soon. I can wait that long; I can make you proud of your boy.
A trickle of warm liquid forces itself past the clenched muscle on which my whole mind is focused. No! I am not losing this battle. But I feel the small pocket of piss seep its way down my cock and I am unable to stop it. I despair as it drips out and runs down my thigh. It is such a small amount, maybe you won’t notice.
It is as if the tiny breach has opened the floodgates, though, as suddenly my body gives in and the sphincter bursts open. Even through the thick steel I can hear the splattering of piss on the concrete floor and I know I have lost more of your trust. The warm liquid pools around my feet, growing colder as I stand here in shame at my own inadequacy. You didn’t ask much of me, but I failed you miserably.
When you return, your words are knives that pierce my heart, “you didn’t even try to hold it in, did you? You spiteful little shit!”
I can’t protest that I did try, but that it was too much.
“There was only one thing I asked! Most Masters demand huge sacrifices from their slaves, but not me. I just asked one little effort from you to begin rebuilding our trust and you piss all over it.”
The chain has slackened and you drag me along the floor. I’ve long lost my sense of direction and I have no idea where you are taking me. It turns out you’ve chosen the rack this time. I am pushed with my back against the wooden frame and a leather strap around my chest binds me to it. Quickly more straps follow over my elbows, thighs and ankles, until I am unable to move anywhere.
“I suppose I will have to let you feel how much that exercise meant to me. If you can’t control your own actions, I’ll have to teach you discipline.”
I had known this was coming from the moment you had told me not to urinate and deep inside I had wanted it to happen. I did genuinely try to hold up my piss, because I wanted to show you how much I try to please you, Master, but I knew you would not release me until I had failed to obey your order.
You fiddle with my cock and it takes me a while to realise you are attaching a parachute harness to my balls. “I can’t remember the maximum load you have carried, but let’s make sure we beat it anyway this time.” The sudden weight hanging from my testicles forces a groan. “Don’t worry, this is only the beginning, but I’ll build it up slowly to let you get accustomed.” You lift the burden off my balls and let it drop, yanking them hard. You’ve done this to me before, of course, but rarely blindfolded. The fact that I cannot see what you are doing, makes the experience a hundred times worse – or better? Another lead weight is added to the harness and again the heavy load is dropped from a height, making me yelp inside the steel dome. It feels like my balls are by now a foot away from my body.
A flame of agony explodes along my torso where your whip lashes my skin. In quick succession ten strokes flog my belly. Involuntarily, I jerk with every hit, sending the lead weight between my legs swinging wildly and adding further to the excruciating pressure on my poor testicles.
“Let me help you with that …”
I am grateful when you stop the pendulum that yanks my balls, but you use to opportunity to add another weight. At least you don’t drop it hard this time. Suddenly the airflow through the breathing hole stops: you’ve blocked the opening. In my panic my breathing speeds up, worsening the lack of air. A little oxygen slips past my neck, but it only manages to prolong the torment and after minutes struggling for air, I pass out.
I am brought to by a stinging blow against my arse. Before my mind clears, a second one and a third one hit me. You are swatting me with the heavy hard-wood paddle which is your favourite. While I was out, you must have turned me around to get access to my arse cheeks. Subconsciously, I count the strokes as they land on my burning skin, until we reach fifteen: the usual punishment for minor infractions.
“That should teach you to listen to my demands.”
A sudden increase in the weight hanging from my balls blows my mind. Hyperventilating I try to deal with the crushing pressure that pulls my balls down; they feel like they are wrenched far enough to touch the floor.
“This must be a new weight record. I’ve hung all the lead I have from the harness. I’ll leave you to reflect on your behaviour today …”
Over the weeks, I manage to get used to my new life. It is not all that different than the previous one, even if I cannot see or talk anymore. Despite the blindness and the bound wrists, I spent most days pottering around The Room, unless you have decided I need to be restrained further while you are at work. Your work must be stressful at the moment, as your punishments are crueller and more frequent than ever. At least four or five times a week, I am bound and hit, slapped or fucked. About a week ago, you strapped me to the table and stuck electrodes to my cock and balls. I have always hated it when you applied electroshocks to my body, but at least it was never for very long, because you prefer the punishments to be more hands-on. This time, however, you turned on the random shock generator and left me there for the rest of the night. Every few seconds or minutes an electrical flash would surge through my genitals. Some would be relatively gentle, others were excruciating, burning my cock like molten lava and making me cry in fear. The worst thing though was the anticipation that the next second might be filled with more agony.
“Your new cuffs have arrived, boy.”
From the direction of your voice, I can tell that you are standing in front of the basket. Your hands rest on my left wrist and loosen the straps that hold the leather cuff. Carefully you lower my arm, massaging my stiff muscles and joints which haven’t moved for so long. When they have recovered sufficiently, you tell me to hold my arm out in front of me and I can feel cold metal being wrapped my arm. The tight new cuff is wide, at least six inches wide, at a guess.
“I’ve applied the metal glue to it, so I won’t be able to remove the cuff again,” you say as you gently raise my arm back to its old position, “I will also glue together the link that will connect you wrist cuff to the helmet.”
I know that my arm will never be loose again, but I am resigned to that, because it is what you want from me. That is what love is about: giving and taking. In our relationship I give you control, while you give me assurance.
When my right arm has been connected to my head in the same way, the unexpected rattle of the hoist manages to surprise me. I scramble to my feet to follow the chain, but I fail to get upright before I am pulled over. Lying on the concrete floor, I am dragged towards the centre of the room, the chain pulling at the top of the steel helmet. When I am underneath the winch, the pull of the chain hauls me to my feet. The rattle doesn’t stop there, though; the helmet is pulled up against my jaw. I stand on tiptoes, but it is not enough and I am lifted into the air, hanging from the metal helmet.
When the hoist stops turning, I am hanging freely in midair, the steel digging into my base of my skull and my jaw. It is difficult to breathe like this, as my ribcage is heaved upward. Pulling at my arms, I manage to relieve some of the pressure on my head, but because of their position they tire within minutes and I end up hanging by my neck with all my weight.
I long for you to reassure me, I would like you to tell me that this is all part of a plan rather then just plain cruelty. I strain to hear what you are doing, but I cannot hear a sound. Please, don’t leave me hanging like this. I’ve only been here for a few minutes and I cannot bear much more already. I am surrounded by complete silence, though.
You leave me hanging for hours, maybe a whole day. For a while I try to find some support with my legs, but my futile movements cause me to swing, making the pressure on my head even worse. Soon I resign myself to the situation and hang still trying to ignore the crushing pain in my head. If the agony gets too much, I can temporarily get some relief with my arms, but it never lasts long enough to make a real difference. Thankfully, the worst of the pain goes when the base of my skull goes numb from the crushing strain.
The first thing I know about your return is the presence of a hand on my left hip. Seconds later, the fingers of your other hand find my pucker and two of them slide in, lubing up my hole. Something cold and hard is pushed an inch or two into my body. It takes me a few moments to realise it is the Impaler: an eighteen inch steel dildo attached to an adjustable stand. On occasion, I have spent hours standing still, as you slowly forced it higher and higher up my arse. This time, I am sure, you are going to lower me onto it.
Indeed, the winch lowers me rapidly and the thick metal pole drives into me equally fast. I wriggle desperately to make room inside my gut for the invader, and my toes urgently seek the floor, hoping to stop the rapid assault. When I stand on the tips of my toes at last, the hoist stops turning. The impaler feels like a red hot poker, burning my innards as it is forced deeper and harder than anything ever before. I have no idea how deep the dildo has penetrated, but I know that I cannot feel it base yet, and the knowledge that it could be driven in further fills me with fear.
You still haven’t said a word to me. Are you mad about something? Is it something I have done and is your silence a punishment for it?
Standing on my toes, I can relieve the pressure on my head. All too soon though, my calf muscles start complaining that I cannot stand on tiptoes for much longer. My legs shudder in a desperate attempt to support me a little longer, but inevitably they collapse to leave me hanging from my bruised skull once again. The numbness has gone now and the full horror of the punishment returns.
Slowly, very slowly, the long hours pass. For short periods I manage to take some weight with my legs, or sporadically my arms, but most of the time I am hanging from my tortured head. I even manage the occasional slumber, hanging limply by the neck. I have lost count of the days I have been suspended like this, but I am pretty sure it has been more than a week. Because I only get liquid food, I don’t produce any solid waste, so at least the huge dildo up my arse doesn’t cause constipation.
I want to get through this ordeal, because I want to please you; I want to show you how much I love you and I hope to earn your love in return. However, I am finding it more and more difficult to stay strong.
The door to The Room slams closed. Did you just come in, or were you here without telling me and did you just leave? Worryingly, you still haven’t spoken to me since you started my ‘suspended sentence’. The hoist turns, meaning you just entered. Gratefully, I let myself be lowered until I can stand flat on my feet, even though that means the impaler forces itself another three inches down my gut. The base plate of the dildo pushes against my ring, telling me that I have the full eighteen inches of steel running straight into my body. The fact that I have taken the dildo at least 6 or 7 inches further up my arse than anything before fills me with unexpected pride. If only you would tell me that you are proud of me too.
You push a metal ring around each ankle and attach the manacles to the base of the impaler. My mind fills with a panic at the thought that you might have applied the special glue to them too. Surely not! Surely you haven’t just glued me permanently to the impaler.
“Boy!” You say to my huge relief. At least you are talking to me again. “Boy, this is your predecessor; my first permanent slave. As you can see he is locked away in an iron mask, a mask that cannot be removed ever again.”
You are not talking to me! You have got a new boy …
“His arms are permanently stuck to the helmet and his legs are connected to the stand forever, so the impaler cannot be removed ever again.”
Oh my God, you are leaving me skewered like this for the rest of my life!
“I thought putting my boy in that mask would be good fun, but he has been disappointing. After a few days the attraction disappeared and I lost interest in him, so you will replace him, boy. I cannot get rid of him of course, but like that he won’t cause too much trouble.”
The tears run down the mask and over my chest, as I realise that while I would have died for you, Master, you were only ever interested in a body to punish.
“I think I should warm up this tight little bubble butt with my favourite paddle before I fuck you, boy,” I hear you tell your newest victim, and I imagine how you grab the heavy wooden bat. I realise you will never pay any attention to me again; you have a new toy.
SMACK!
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26.04.10 | updated - 07.05.17