CAPTIVEby Teramis **** c. 1998 by Teramis. All rights reserved. This post may be distributed and reproduced for personal use only. For other use, contact author for permissions: Teramis@teramis.com No. Not that way. You won't break me that way, my beautiful tormentor. Not by inflicting pain and then giving me relief from it, as if that surcease were a special gift at your hands. I have a tremendous tolerance for pain. Some parts of me even *like* pain, though I will never admit that to you. You would know too much about me, then. Or maybe you have figured that one out, finally. I think that's what you're assessing right now. I see the calculation in your eyes, brown eyes glittering with tawny highlights. Eyes narrowed, staring piercingly into my own. You hold my jaw in your hand, fingers firm against a lingering bruise you've left there, a spot you've hit more than once. You are close to me, nose to nose; my nerves so acutely sensitive I can feel your breath warm against my skin as you inhale the scent of my pain and sweat. I am kneeling, legs spread so wide apart my thighs are trembling with the tension of holding myself upright in this position. My arms are crossed and tied behind my back; rope bondage around wrists and thumbs link my limbs to a rope coiled around my neck. If I relax my arms and shoulders, their natural weight pulls down on the upper rope, and my air and bloodflow is constricted. The only way to keep breathing, to avoid the pounding throb of my own pulse struggling to pump blood past a binding rope, is to keep my shoulders strained back and my wrists as far up my back as I can. My muscles are trembling with the constant effort. My shoulders and back burn with the strain and a fine sheen of sweat covers me. How long have you had me here like this? An hour? More? There is no sense of time for me anymore, with you. The days and eons I've shivered on the cold floor of a small cell where you leave me, naked and aching and bound, to await your pleasure again. The times you let your boys make use of me - several times in a day? Or were they singular times, over many days? I don't know. You have hardly let me sleep, rousing me with lights or noises or answering my pleas for a drink with the expediant of peeing on me, smiling knowingly as I strained to catch your liquid in my mouth, or lapped it eagerly off the floor where it puddled....Two or three days with nothing to drink will do that to a person. Thirst is a primal imperative, and any liquid becomes welcomed by the body. Any. Surely it isn't really gratitude I feel when you let me drink your urine. It is only relief, a natural relief that the thirst of my body is assuaged.... I thirst again. Still. But I won't ask you for anything to drink. I don't rust myself to speak any more than necessary. My throat is sore, my voice cracked from the screams you have pulled out of me these past hours, and I plead with you, fall to begging you, too readily these days. And the only way you will heed any of my requests is if I call you Ma'am. Subserviant language. Your attempt to put me in a subserviant place. Oh, certainly I will comply with you for a time. That is *my* expedience. It is easier to go along with you in those....little... things. I call you Ma'am, if I must. I eat meager scraps from a bowl at your feet, and lick it clean because I'm constantly hungry. You let your boys use me as a fuck toy and I have learned it hurts less to please them, than to fight them. But I am waiting. One time, you will be inattentive. Or they will. One time I will finally perceive the way out of here, and then I will be able to plan my flight. You had what you wanted from me but now you keep me beyond all reason. The one page of a newspaper you let me see - was that meant to make me despair, seeing my obituary in print? To show me that I am dead to the world, that no one knows where I am, or cares? That I might as well surrender to your tender mercies? Disheartened. Yes. I'll grant you that, that much you accomplished with me. But I know I won't stay in this place forever. There is more to your world than the cell and these torture chambers and the room where you sleep down here, when you are too busy with your amusements to leave. Oh yes, I know you are close by. I hear you, or the sounds that follow you - someone's wail of pain intrudes in my restless dozing, or the sounds of your boys grunting in pain or pleasure, or your passionate outcry, perhaps, when you cum. You are never far away at all, it seems, and the sounds of you are enough to conjure you in my mind's eye instantly. How easy, to see you again: the tension in your body, the scent of your musk as someone kneels before you, that blurred figure and your fulfilment glimpsed through tears of pain as I watch from close by.... Would I rather be standing there in pain, you asked yesterday, or be the one giving you service? I had a choice, you said: Pain versus pleasure. My pain. Your pleasure. I refuse to think it could be my pleasure, too. I didn't answer you then. I couldn't answer you now, though I've thought of your question all night long. But you are not now a vision confined to my restless dreams at night. You are real, and close, entirely too close as you kneel with me on the floor. I feel your body heat - and there, your hand, your fingers suddenly cupping my pussy. I gasp, and wince reflexively at the pressure of your touch. I have wounds there from your earlier tortures, salve upon burns soothes and helps the healing process but I am nowhere near healed yet. The cocks of your boys have hammered away at my insides with no regard for the painful state of my nether lips or ass. Every assault there has brought brilliant pain as its companion, as you had planned, I'm sure. Your touch now is feather-light in contrast. The realization is enough to make me lick my dry lips nervously. Your touch is so deceptively gentle, I've discovered. Luring. Tempting. Then delivering agony at a whim.... Still. It is a lure difficult to resist. I have felt no gentle touch now in what seems like a lifetime. The heat of your hand cups my mons, simply resting there and now I tremble for a different reason. I can't remember the last time I had an orgasm. Surely it was long before I was brought to you, and since you've had me here, I have had no relief at all. I am bound with my hands far distant from my groin when I am left to sleep, and all other times, you are controlling my movements. I have no chance to masturbate and I cannot begin to guess how long its been since I've cum. A week, at least, and many more days than that. Has it been two weeks? Longer? Probably so. My clit pulses with a surge of unthinking desire and I lean slightly forward. I can't help myself. The heel of your hand is so nearly pressing on my clit, just a little more pressure and I could probably cum from that touch alone. I am hardly conscious of my body's response, but an amused smile comes over your face. "Fucking alone doesn't quite do it for you, does it," you observe. "You want to be touched right there so you can cum, don't you, girl?" I still don't want to talk to you, but I can't help that I lean into your hand a little more. Your lips brush along my cheek as you move your head beside mine. I hear your voice, low and husky in my ear. "Say it, baby," you prompt in your gentle drawl. "Say, 'I love you, Mistress', and I'll let you cum." The pressure of your hand is maddening: enough to excite, not to satisfy. I can smell the scent of my arousal in the air between us. I ease my shoulders uncomfortably and struggle to breathe. Would it matter if I finally said what you wanted to hear? Four words, a simple price to pay for relief....Your palm presses against my mons, squeezing my clit, to encourage me. I feel riveted to the spot and a fire has awakened in my groin that floods me with desire. In that moment, I want you. Truly want you. You are incredibly hot. I crave your touch, want to taste you.... "Say it," you urge again, and my head snaps back. You haven't visited this demand since that first day. I will not say it. My lips thin in a tight line. You raise one eyebrow critically, and pull your hand away. I shudder with frustration and lust, and a low moan escapes my lips. I see the mood shift on your face: your near-smile fades, your eyes become shuttered, and I shiver in recognition and fear. This part of you I have come to know all too well since I have been here. This is the part of you that accounts for every bruise and cut and welt and burn on my body. A tendril of fear curls in the pit of my stomach and I watch with a sinking feeling as you stand and step away from me. With a snap of your fingers the two men who serve you come forward. They have been out of sight behind me somewhere and I have no idea how long they've been here. The one who gives you oral service stands immediately behind me, his legs straddling my own. Your toilet boy goes to the cabinet where you keep containers of small torturous devices, and he returns with a metal box. He opens it and stands holding it to one side. You kneel before me again, and reach into the box. I hear metal bits scrape against each other and I watch with trepidation as your hand emerges. Something metal glimmers in your grip and you hold it with two fingers before my face. It is an alligator clip. You squeeze it open and it takes visible pressure of your fingers to do so. The clip is tight-sprung, the edges shiny and toothed. Sharp. Piercing-sharp. The tendril of fear in my stomach grows into a knot. You smile. "We're going to work through a little exercise, darling. You're not in touch with your feelings. Pain alone is not helping you get there. Humiliation alone is not doing it either. I suppose the pleasure principle might be as enlightening to you as it has been for the boys, here. But for you...." You smile, twisting the wicked clip in the light. "For you, it will never be pleasure alone, I don't think. That will always be combined with the other thing that makes you so wet. Pain." You are watching me sharply and must have caught some subtle expression on my face. "Oh yes. I know a pain slut when I see one. But I can work with that, too." Your smile is almost a smirk. Self satisfied. I feel profoundly discomforted, and for a moment it is difficult to follow what you are saying. "I don't want your empty avowal of love." The toothed clip squeezes open, shuts slowly on air. "I am going to show you what it is to crave my approval, to burn for my touch. Eventually you will crawl over broken glass for one kiss from me. That will be because you are feeling much more than a simple desire to please me. It will be because you have come to love me." You shrug one shoulder. "It's a predictable pattern. I'm going to help you see it sooner, rather than later." Your hands move with precision, then. Suddenly you have grasped my left nipple in your fingers, and in the next instant piercing pain shoots through my breast. I gasp in shock and agony. You have released the tooth clip and it bites hard into my flesh. I sway where I kneel and a hand grips the bondage ropes behind me. I am steadied, though my arms ache and the different pain anchors me against the fire in my breast. Your warm fingers stroke my cheek, brush away a tear that has leaked from one eye. "In the end you're going to say the words I want to hear, and you're going to mean them." Your voice is pitched in a bedroom tone, low and confident. "You might only mean them in the moment. But those moments will come more and more often, and then you will be there. At my feet. Right where I want you." Your fingers leave my face, return to the box to pull out another clip, and I am more speechless than ever, torn between the pain, and impact of your words. I want to deny you vehemently, but no denial will come. What is this? The Stockholm syndrome, where one becomes enamored of one's terrorist captor? For you surely are a terrorist. You have tortured me, terrorized me, humiliated me. You have battered down some of my defenses, and I recognize that you have me under siege. Is that why the least kindness from you has become so very, very welcome? Why a smile from you feels like a reprieve from some state of disgrace, and gladdens my heart? I know that you can strip away my pride - you've done that already. But hearing your words, my certainty that I hate you for it cracks. The lust I have felt stirring for you has surprised me. I don't confuse lust with love, and I don't want to think I am simply following a classical psychology pattern - but even if I am, does it truly matter? You are the un-ignorable reality that rules my life, for now. Do I like you? I don't think so. Do I fear you? I have learned to fear what you can do, yes. Do I want your approval? I squirm at the realization that your praise has any meaning to me at all. But it does. It has come to, in these days where only my compliance and my utter abasement has earned me respite or reward or a glass of real water to drink. Does that mean that I love you? That is the thought that is interrupted as your hand moves swiftly and in the next instant, pain spears through my other nipple. Another toothed alligator clip sinks into my flesh. If I could arch my back any further with the pain, I would. My muscles, already trembling, shudder involuntarily. As I pant for breath, I feel something warm trickle down my skin. I flick my eyes down, straining against the angle my head is held at. The clips have pierced my nipples and drawn blood. You flick the handle of each with a long fingernail and chuckle as I groan. "Oh, we've hardly begun, dear." You nod to the boy behind me and my suddenly restricted air tells me he has tightened his grip on the ropes that bind me. In the next moment, you have more clips in your hands - and these go to my labia. Three on the right, three on the left, the sharp points sinking readily into and through my thin inner lips. Without regard for previous injury, burns and punctures ignored, you set the toothy devilments into my aching flesh. I scream, my raw throat making an animal sound of pain. Then more clips, biting like fire into my outer labia, four on each side. They will not be dislodged, for their sharpness and pressure ensure that they will be nothing but points of agony for me as long as you choose to leave them there. As you set the last of them in place, I nearly swoon. Strong hands grip my arms and hold me upright. "It's time to move," you say. Somehow I hear you over the blood pounding in my ears. You reach behind me. There is a tug, and the rope around my neck falls away, loosened from whatever knot had held it in place. My arms remain bound, but with this change in constriction I can suddenly lower my shoulders, and relax the tension in my arms. The relief is excruciating. Tortured muscles protest. It is nearly enough to take my mind off my stinging, tortured pussy and breasts. Nearly. Your two boys haul me to my feet and I am half-dragged to a table. It is a very short and well padded bondage table. I am laid upon it on my back: legs dangling off one end, head lolling back over the padded slope of the other end. The pain in my body is inescapable and it blurs my sight with tears. One of your boys stands between my legs, hands gripping my bruised thighs. The other stands just by my head. Your face looms and I blink to see you better. "I do so love symmetry," you say. "I want to see you all get off this time, not just the boys. Yes, even you, darling....you'll have permission to cum after he's done with your mouth. Because I want your mouth free for speaking. You're going to ask permission before you cum." Your eyes flash. "And don't make the mistake of cumming without permission, or you'll be wearing alligator clips on your clit. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, Ma'am." The response slips out automatically, and earnestly. I barely notice. What I notice is the hard cock near my mouth. The angle of my head will make it easy to deep throat him, and I hope fervently that I can breath through this, catch my breath against the pain of the clips - for there is another cock nudging against my pussy, rubbing through my wetness, jostling each and every clip you have so maliciously fastened in my flesh, and the pain brings new tears to my eyes and makes me gasp for breath. It is on one of those gasps that a hard shaft slides into my mouth; then the one between my legs sinks home in one long hard thrust, his hips grinding into mine, wrenching every toothed clip at my groin. I scream around the cock in my mouth, but I can only work to breathe, and not choke on the tears I am swallowing also. This is no different from what they have been doing with me on so many occasions. They are well-practiced together, thrust and counterthrust. How many other women have they fucked for you like this? But this time is not like the other times, I am in constant, sharp pain from the many damaging clips in my flesh, jostled, tugged, ground into each time my cunt is penetrated. I feel your hands at my breasts and renewed pain blossoms there as you twist what bites into me. Then it is the leather of your flogger, striking my chest, plucking and pulling at the clips in time to the thrusting that penetrates my body.... I make choked cries around the thick cock in my mouth, a vibration that must arouse him more for he pumps harder, in shorter strokes, fucking my face as he holds it between his hands. "You know what to do, darling," you say to me, an ominous casual reminder to swallow his cum. It is that, or be made to beg to drink jism just as I have been made to drink piss, a threat I have no doubt you would make good on.... I moan from the sting of the flogging - then from the lust that flashes through me as you pause to caress me, fingers trailing down between my breasts, to my belly, to my abdomen. I moan again and swallow the hot load that shoots down my throat, fills my mouth as he shudders to a climax. Your hand rests on the top of my mons as he pulls out of my mouth, your light touch firing me with little spikes of arousal at my clit, counterpoint to the burning ache that is my tortured pussy. I cough, swallowing tears and saliva and salty-sweet fluids. The boy instantly moves to kneel before you. I blink to clear my eyes and see his face is nuzzling your pussy. You have removed your jeans while your boys have been making free with me. Now you are doing it again: taking your pleasure while you watch my pain with bemused satisfaction on your face. The thrusting between my legs has become a slow and measured motion, deep probing, still moving every torturous spike afixed to me. Your boy's head begins to move rhythmically as he licks you and your finger strays into my soaking cleft, touching clips incidentally, rubbing me just above the thick cock that impales me again and again. You find my clit and it feels like a jolt of electricity passes through me. The pain you have put me in suffuses my entire groin and chest. I thought I had lost all desire, had it burned away by overwhelming physical stress, as you have inflicted on me again and again. But no: here, now, a direct touch, a swirling stroke that reminds my swollen clit what it is there for, and how very long it has been since I came.... In spite of the pain, rising through the pain, comes arousal. Arousal at your touch, interwoven with the intrusion of the boy fucking me, the agony of tens of points piercing my flesh, the blood that leaks from those wounds....and the desire that ties it together. I look at you and you are studying my face with an analytical, knowing expression. You stand with one hand braced on the shoulder of the boy who is eating you, the other stroking my clit, watching the flush of arousal deepen across my chest. Your own breathing has deepened as well. "Mistress, may I cum?" the boy between my legs asks, his voice tight with restraint. "No." You don't even spare him a glance, but look at me as you address him. "Not until she does. After she's asked permission." "Yes, Ma'am." His stroking slows, but he continues rocking into me, moving the flesh of my cunt, clips pulling with every motion of his body. Your finger burns against my clit, sure strokes that make me feel the orgasm coiling deep inside me, a fist tightening its grip..... The arousal is intertwined with the pain, the two are one, and I know I will cum in just a moment if you continue to swirl your finger just so. "May I cum, Ma'am?" I ask you. You raise an eyebrow. "After you tell me what I want to hear, *then* you may ask permission." I am thunderstruck. Oh god. Now it hits me, what you are doing. In this moment, this bonding of desire and pain and release, you would have me say those words. Those words that admit defeat, that take a stance towards you I do not want to embrace. But it is hard, hard to stand firm on this, for as much as I desire release, I desire you as well: you, with your neck arched, gleam of arousal on your skin, your hips beginning to rock against the tongue that services you, and I wish that was me there, allowed to savor you that way. In this moment half mad with lust, when I need your permission to cum, you would have me seek that permission by linking it with love for you. Evil, devious woman. Your finger slows and my swollen tissues throb around the cock that fills me, rocking in short, slow strokes. The need for release obsesses me. Anything, I would do anything to be allowed to cum right now. My need is so great. Would I crawl across broken glass for you? Yes. Would I beg to drink your piss? Yes. Would I give voice to these heart feelings that have begun to stir in me? How did you ever know they were there? For that is what you want to hear.... Oh god. I tear my eyes from yours and your fingers squeeze my clit. "Say it," you order. Your voice is harsh now, sexual tension and your sadism giving it that distinctive ege. I feel your other hand stroke my breast, linger near the clip there. My hips move of their own accord, rising to meet your hand. Your touch nearly stills. God I want to cum. God I want you. In this moment I would do anything for you, and I do not want to admit it. But you already know, and I can no longer maintain the pretense that I am untouched by you. I surrender to the moment, and force myself to meet your eyes. "I love you, Mistress." My voice is hoarse, but clearly audible. "Please, may I cum?" I'm sure there is an edge of desperation in my voice. You smile. Your finger resumes its sure stroke through my wetness. "You may both cum," you say. "Now." And that cock begins to pump into me harder and faster, the pain from the many alligator clips provoked again, but your touch is bringing me to the edge then over, as energy coiled in my gut wells up and through me. I lose myself in a hard, shaking orgasm, screams torn again from my throat as you remove the alligator clips from my breasts as I cum, your boy finding his release as I clench hard around his cock and ride him til we are both spent. Shortly after, you succumb also to the ministrations of the well-trained tongue that serves you, rocking you where you stand, braced between bondage table and the shoulder of your attentive boy. How beautiful you are in your ecstasy. How I wish that I could do that for you. That thought sustains me through the continuing torture as you remove the alligator clips, and laugh at my reaction to alcohol upon the many small puncture wounds they have left. You bear a look I am getting to know about you too. Pleased. You are pleased with your handiwork this afternoon. I reach out for your hand as you pass by my side where I lay. I am not thinking. It is spontaneous, and seems to surprise you as much as it surprises me. You tolerate my grip for a moment and look at me questioningly. I'm not sure what I was about to say. After that great release, after the continuing discomfort that came after, I no longer feel so submissive to you. But I know I am caught in a strange terrain with you. Your prisoner, until you come to trust me. Until you judge me trained and compliant, obedient as your boys. Some part of me wants to play that as a game. Some other part of me wonders what it would be like to do it for real. To win the closeness to you that only these chosen ones share. You in the moment of your own pleasure; you, pleased because of the result of your tortures or your training. To experience your touch again, freely given, what might I not do? Maybe I will have to find out. I put the back of your hand to my lips and kiss it. "I love you, Mistress." I say it again. Strange affirmation, alien on my lips, especially that last word. You reclaim your hand, run your eye over the scars and welts and wounds upon my body, then give me a short nod. "I know, baby. But that doesn't change a thing for you, not yet." You give me a warm smile, your eyes cold behind it. "We haven't gotten to the obedience part yet, and your responsiveness to my will....?" You laugh, and shake your head. "The nuances seem lost on you, as well as most of the basics. But then, I have nothing but time. And so do you, my girl." You turn sharply and stride from the room, your last words coming over your shoulder. "Tomorrow, we'll begin again." **** c. 1998 by Teramis. All rights reserved. This post may be distributed and reproduced for personal use only. For other use, contact author for permissions: Teramis@teramis.com |