Saturday, July 9, 2016

The Stanford Prison Experiment, fs01, and Learned Helplessness in lifestyle D/s

Well, my thoughts are swirling all over the place.  Writing Arc 6 of fs01 brought back some memories of a handful of Psych courses I took in college (I had debated majoring in it for a while).  If you have taken any Psych courses (or read a lot) you are likely aware of the rather infamous 1973 Stanford Prison Experiment.  I had reviewed a few case studies of these ~15 years ago and remembered a handful of things.  I did a little bit of brush up work on the study as well as watched the (not so great) movie adaptation that came out last year as I was curious to see how they would portray the mental aspects of it.

If you aren't familiar with the study, in 1973 a Stanford Psych professor set up a two week mock prison simulation that students were paid to take part in and the results observed.  His focus was heavily based around finding whether prison guard brutality was a factor of the guard's natural personalities or if the prison environment created such behaviors.  24 students were screened for mental issues and selected.  A coin toss was used to determine if they would be a guard or prisoner.

The prisoners were given smocks (dresses) as uniforms and forced to wear a pantyhose hat and a chain around their ankle. The guards dressed in uniforms, carried batons, and always wore sunglasses that prevented eye contact.  The guards were prohibited from physically harming the prisoners but they were granted freedom on how to treat them otherwise, using verbal abuse and forced exercises and the like as punishments. 

The findings were that the guards became abusive during the first day and that behavior continued to grow day by day.  The prisoners adapted more slowly, resisting at first but eventually fell into line and grew more submissive as the simulation continued.  The simulation was terminated on the 6th day after the guards had become too sadistic and cruel.  It's rather fascinating at how quickly people adapted to their roles and that authority had a tendency to abuse its power.

Something that had bothered me with Arcs 5 and 6 was whether or not the mental adaptation of fs01 would happen within the reasonable time frame that I have been working with in regards to chronological progression.  The findings of the Stanford experiment lead me to believe that the pace is working without being unrealistic.  Only time will tell if it continues to feel that way in the writing.

While reading up some summary analysis of the experiment it made me think of what I wrote yesterday on the progression of sadism and development of emotional masochism.  The term "Learned Helplessness" came up.  The basic idea of learned helplessness is the idea that if someone believes they have no control in avoiding unpleasant stimuli, they will simply give up in trying to avoid it.

I realize through my experiences in D/s that I have/had basically reached that point in certain ways.  While there were rules to adhere to and related punishments, these were avoidable as long as the rules were followed with great detail.  When you serve a sadist, you learn that there are many things that are unavoidable.  If F was bored and wanted to hit me for fun or to "remind me of my place," I would simply comply, knowing that anything I could do or say would simply make things worse. 

As sadism grows, I believe learned helplessness is the catalyst that led to my own emotional masochism.  The more helpless I felt, the deeper my subspace would go, the less I would/could resist and I simply accepted whatever was done to me.  Occasionally I would test to see if some of this was avoidable, but it was usually smacked right back at me and in a worse way than it would have been.

Interesting stuff.

Fiction: fs01 - Part 38


I never knew it was possible to feel like time was dragging in forever yet still feel like there was not enough of it.  Mistress blows a whistle signaling the end of the first hour.  I drop my sand bag in the snow, fall to my knees, and place my hands behind my head. I fail to meet the first quota.  Mistress finishes her count and switches out with Dominique.  I watch her disappear from view as she heads back to the building.

I moved 26 bags in the first hour.  I must move 54 bags in hour two if I wish to catch up to the pace needed to earn a coat for tomorrow.  Dominique is surprisingly tame.  She looks uncomfortable moving in the snowshoes and based upon my experiences, she likely hasn’t fully woken up yet.  After about 5 minutes she turns and heads back to the prison building.  I feel a sense of relief.  The final 14 bags from the first stack are the hardest as they fall just out of reach.  The final 5 require me to lie on my back and move them with my feet so that I can reach them. 

Upon finishing the 40th bag I stand and raise my arms.  I feel time slip away as I wait for Dominique to arrive from the building for inspection.  She’s in no hurry to comply.  To my surprise she walks right past the sandbags and approaches me. 

“I swear to God I will bring my whip on the next shift.”
I feel a pit in my chest.  She still makes me afraid.
“Turn around, inmate.”

I follow her instructions.  She startles me with a shove to the back that sends me toppling down the incline face first into the snow.  I rise slowly, her cackles fill the air.  I wonder if she is touching herself.  She departs for the building without a word.  The bags move easily now that I can reach them all.  Each repetition helps me improve.  I figure out the best way to lift the bags, the best way to carry them.  I learn more efficient ways of moving quickly and the best ways to navigate the inclines.  As the snow packs from my repeated steps, each trip back and forth becomes a little bit easier.  I miss the quota again but I managed to move 39 bags and I fall 15 behind the pace. 

The second hour ends with a full guard change.  Tabitha and Lauren replace Mistress and Dominique.  The latter 2 hop on the snowmobiles and head to Dominique’s home.  Tabitha is more vocal than both Mistress and Dominique.  She stays with me step by step breaking me down verbally like a drill sergeant. 

“You deserve to suffer like this, you sissy sack of shit.”
“Prove to me that you’re worth saving.  You look pretty useless right now.”
“You can only blame yourself for being here.”

I speed up my pace to escape her words.  I toe the line between the true reality and this make-believe reality.  Her words sting.  I find myself believing them as they creep their way into my heart.  I start to feel worthless.  I start to feel like I deserve this. 

“Halt, inmate.  Get on your hands and knees.”

I freeze in my tracks, set the sandbag in the snow, and fall to my hands and knees.  My knees and fingers start to sting after a few seconds in the snow.  She approaches me; her steps crunch the snow beneath her feet.  I brace myself, expecting the sting of her strap or a kick to the ribs.  She turns and sits on my back, crossing one of her legs over the other. 

My back strains under her weight.  She isn’t heavy but my muscles are sore and tired from the pains of this fruitless labor.  I hear the click of a Zippo.  A pop.  I glance up and watch clouds of smoke circle up in the cold air.  I am her chair for her cigarette break.  Her body heat slowly reaches me.  It feels nice as it shields me from some of the cold.  A few minutes pass as she inhales and exhales slowly.  Anxiety builds as I realize this steals from my quota time.  I am truly helpless.

She rises off of me and paces away.  I climb to my feet and continue moving the sandbags.  Tabitha stays with me the entire time.  The inspection goes faster than with Dominique.  Her words continue to rain down on me every few steps.  Even if I’m not truly a criminal, I am still her prisoner and completely at her mercy.  My mind inches closer to acceptance.  Do it, or else…

The 3rd hour ends with 42 bags moved.  I meet my first hourly quota.  I feel my spirits rise slightly knowing that it is possible.  Lauren takes over for Tabitha on guard duty.  She moves with me silently, gliding.  Her motions aren’t aggressive, it’s almost like she’s out for a stroll.  I feel like she is studying me.  I feel my inner motivation kick up a notch, almost as if I wish to impress her. 

I continue moving bags, tuning out the aches and pains of my muscles and the sting of the cold.  On a return trip I stumble on the chain locked to my belt and take a spill headfirst into the snow.  Lauren rushes to my side.  She takes me a little by surprise.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I lift my head and nod. 
“Are you cold?” I nod again. 
“Hold still.” 

I feel her hand press between the belt and my uniform.  Something warm against my body.  She removes her hand but the warmth stays.  I figure it must be one of those heating packs.  She pulls up her mask revealing her face.   She holds her finger in front of her lips.

“Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

I rise to my feet.  The heat from the warming pack feels like it reaches my heart.  It seems like forever since the last time I experienced kindness.  The feelings energize me.  I manage to move 49 bags this hour.  Lauren’s voice hums with pride as she does her final inspection count.  I miss lunch by 4 bags but I bask in the glow of her approval. 

The day continues in cycles.  The guards change each hour and every 2 hours they cycle back to the house.  Mistress continues her cruelty.  Dominique continues to avoid being outdoors as much as possible.  Tabitha continues her verbal onslaught and makes sure to take her cigarette break sitting on my back.  I find myself looking forward to seeing Lauren.  She is my symbol of hope.

On our second rotation she pats me down and checks me for contraband.  She slyly uses this time to sneak me more heating packs.  The warmth enters my collar, my mittens, my boots, and my tights.  She lifts her mask and cracks a smile, again holding her finger in front of her lips.  The sun peaks its way through the cloudy sky.  The second cycle passes more quickly than the first.  I finish with counts of 41, 40, 39, and 52.  If there really are bonuses, Lauren is winning.  I hope I am making her proud.

I watch from a distance as the four of them play rock, paper, scissors, for the next cycle.  I watch Mistress and Lauren depart on snowmobiles.  My spirits fall as they shrink into the distance.  Dominique doesn’t even approach me this time around; she just heads straight to the building without a glance.  I feel relief that her threats to bring her whip were empty.  Being alone out here makes time seem to drag.  I move 40 bags.  It could have been more but I had to wait for 10 minutes for her to inspect my completed stack. 

Tabitha’s negative energy has come down a notch.  I sense her growing boredom.  I lose time as she sits on my back for two cigarette breaks.  I manage 40 bags again but I feel helpless as I realize that I am not supposed to win this game today.

My eyes light up as Lauren takes over.  She again finds a reason to pat me down and manages to replace the worn out heat packs with fresh ones.  She lifts her mask and rubs her hand across my mask-covered cheek.  My eyes reach out to her, telling her about my fatigue, the pain in my back, arms, and legs, the constantly rumbling of my stomach, the fear and hopelessness of this situation.  My heart reaches out, starving, searching for anything resembling a connection. 

She leans forward and whispers in my ear.
“It’s okay, I’m on your side.  Everything will be okay, just do your best.”

Her words answer my call.  Lauren is kind.  My insides warm up as she saves me from this desperation.  It’s amazing what morale can do; I feel rejuvenated.

I have done my best to keep count.  If I finish this stack and the next I will meet the quota of 480.  Under Lauren’s watchful gaze I feel like I can do anything.  I power through this stack and into the next one with ease.  I move 55 bags, leaving 17 to complete in the final hour.

Mistress replaces Lauren for the last stretch.  The sun has long since set and I work under the moonlight and a handful of floodlights mounted on posts surrounding the field.  I pace myself, giving my body a chance to rest and recover what it can.  I will be sore tomorrow.  Mistress moves with me, pacing her strides to match my speed. 

My eyes beam as I place the last bag on the pile.  Mistress approaches them for inspection.  I close my eyes and breath deeply; the day is finally over.  Her voice breaks the silence.

“Inmate, these bags aren’t stacked neatly enough!” 

I watch in horror as she topples the stacks of bags with her feet. 

“Drop and give me 50!”  Is she serious?  I look over at her.  Bad move.

Mistress takes the strap from its hook on her belt and slaps it against her palm a few times.  Terror enters my heart.  I quickly drop to my knees in the snow and get into a push-up position.  I lift my body with my arms.  As I near the top I feel pressure on my back that stops me.  My arms quiver and shake under the strain.  She presses down with her leg and her foot drives me back down to the snow.  I try again, this time I reach the top.

“Hold that position, inmate.”

My arms feel weak and exhausted.  Please, Mistress, don’t do this.  I feel her hand grip my collar. 
“What the fuck, inmate?”  

I feel her fingers ruffle through the fur.  Panic charges my body.  She found a heating pack.  Smack.  The strap lands on my back.  I grunt from behind the gag on its impact.  Smack Smack Smack Smack Smack.  I shriek in pain and tears fill my eyes. 
“Get up.” 

I quickly stand up.  I keep my head down and my eyes on the ground.  I feel her hands frisk my body.  The warmth leaves as she takes the packets one by one.  A quick shove gets me moving toward the other side of the field.  As we approach the center I feel my waist chain snag. 

“On your knees, hands behind your head.”

I comply with her orders.  She tugs at my wrists, the sound of metal clatters behind me.  The handcuffs click behind me, cleverly threaded through the eyelet of the metal post, suspending my hands behind my head.  She wraps the excess chain from my belt around and around my body and the post.  The metal links are painfully cold and the discomfort easily passes through my uniform.  Around and around she continues with the slack.  After a number of layers she tugs on the chains, making sure they will hold me in place.  She drops the slack and walks away toward the building without a second look.

The wind blows and I shiver in the cold dark air.  I am alone.  I can’t speak, I can’t move, I’m starving, and my body aches all over.  Time passes.  No one comes for me.  I am alone.  Mistress?  Lauren?  Please come save me.  


Friday, July 8, 2016

The Evolution of Sadism and Emotional Masochism Part 2

I realized after making my last post that it felt a bit incomplete.  I have some more thoughts on the subject that could use some expansion.

I believe the most important factor in the growth of mental sadism is time.  Trust comes in at a close second.  The changes that occur in both Domme and sub must be nurtured.  Standard interactions require time to become ordinary.  The freedom for a Domme to experiment and process what is going on within her takes time, confidence, and communication.  The sub must trust her enough to subject himself to her whims.  She must trust that he can endure what she throws at him. 

As things progress, symbolism often takes on a larger role and what an act represents often outweighs the act itself.  e.g. to kneel and bow takes relatively little effort.  The mental reinforcement of difference in status between Domme and sub ends up being the more important part.

Since well... nearly all of the responsibility for pushing the intensity forward falls upon the Domme, the desire to go farther is heavily dependent upon her growing appreciation for greater symbols of submission and devotion.  This is how it touches her heart.  I don't pretend to understand the sexual connection of sadism, but I believe things connect when she understands that emotional suffering is as powerful of a tool as physical suffering. 

The end result here is that the growth of her sadism always leads, his emotional masochism follows. 

Things progress, step by step.  Make him feel more helpless, take away more choices, force him to do more things he doesn't like, limit his pleasure, restrain him tighter, and increase his suffering. 

After say, 10 years of the lifestyle, it becomes a lot more clear how couples reach the point of prolonged chastity, cuckolding, feminization, TPE, branding, and the like.  It doesn't always happen, but the elements seem to always continue down a path towards more extreme events... which keeps things fresh and exciting for both Domme and sub.

There is one important boundary that I think should be considered carefully when reaching the extreme end of the spectrum.  I believe a sub can eventually endure just about anything... if he knows the Domme will never leave him as long as he remains loyal, loving, and obedient.  This may just be my own block on things, but I tend to believe that if he feels he could be easily cast aside, the insecurity and fear of this act could bring about some severe emotional damage and not desirable in any way.  I know in my own case, this is the line where my desire for emotional stress stops and it becomes more of a panic induced neurosis that isn't fun or beneficial for anyone.

The Evolution of Sadism and Emotional Masochism

Recently I've come across a few new terms that weren't commonly used back when I was blogging years ago.  Things like Emotional Masochist, Mental Bondage, Mental Slavery, etc. weren't thrown around very often.

I've been lucky enough to be part of the evolving growth of a sadist and the accompanying changes it invoked in me.

One thing that I find fascinating is that in D/s, most sadists have very little trouble expressing that side of themselves in play situations.  She can spank, flog, whip, or slap with ease, free from the burdens of guilt.  I believe this is strongly to connected with the consensual nature of these activities in relationships and the idea of it being mutually pleasurable.

What is interesting is that the physical side seems to drastically outpace the mental side of sadism.  This side is harder to quantify and understand.  It is harder to grasp the appeal for the sub.  It feels almost non-consensual in some ways to force a sub through mental anguish without a meaningful reason.

The idea of emotional masochism is an interesting one.  It intrigues me partly because I have experienced its development and evolution over time, but mostly because the concept is able to free a Domme from her self-imposed limits. If I get aroused from being teased, tortured, and tormented emotionally, she is free to do those things guilt free.  Being able to slap a term on it is easier than trying to explain the ins and outs of what it is doing inside of me emotionally.

One of the difficult aspects of emotional masochism is trying to convey a sub's "benefits" from it.  I dare not say "pleasure"  because I don't feel that term to be an adequate description.  If I had to describe it as best I can I would say that certain types of emotional stress induces sexual arousal and a desirable state of subspace.  Subjecting a submissive to this isn't so much as "playing to give them pleasure," but more a means manipulating their subspace. 

I do not think most subs are into this.  I do believe that most subs that have lived a prolonged period of lifestyle Femdom usually end up developing this.  I think the subspace is addictive and it requires triggers that hit on more levels than just physical ones.   Addiction is probably the most accurate term here.

As a newbie sub, being ordered to strip naked for inspection is enough to send our mind spiraling deep into space.  By the 10th time, out tolerance has built up and it doesn't have the same effect.  What is it about this act that "does it"?  Initially, it's the first taste of following orders, realizing there are expectations for us, sensing we are vulnerable, and the like.  When the "high" fades, we crave more.  The first time you are restrained, the mental acceptance of loss of freedom, feeling helpless, being more vulnerable and so on.  By the 10th time, it doesn't have the same mental effect.  It becomes normal.

I believe this is the path that governs the progression into emotional masochism.  It drives that craving for needing more.  Bondage may progress from nylons to tape to rope to chains.  Each stage increases the sense of helplessness, the sense of vulnerability, the symbol of her control over your freedom.  In all honesty, in the short run, a few layers of duct tape are just as effective physically as chains and locks.  Mentally, they are not equal.

It is that mental side... the relativity of situations that seems to keep things evolving.  In certain activities, you reach a point where what it does physically is almost indistinguishable from something else.  e.g. an over the knee spanking can sting, hurt, and bruise when delivered with a number of different objects.  However, the perception that something is "worse" than a previous experience can have significant mental effects.  Once that new extreme has been reached, the previous methods seem like they are easier to handle than the worst one.  If the worst one becomes normal, something yet worse must be discovered to keep it going.  The mind continues to react even if the body's reaction is identical.

I find this process fascinating as I can now put terms to ideas.  My "growth" as an emotional masochist is what has brought me to where I am today... what I crave... what I need.  None of it was really by choice, it just sort of happened that way.  My emotional masochism grew in response to her evolution of mental sadism.

This explains why a lot of activities continue to drive my subspace, such as humiliation, feminization, chastity, pegging, and the like.  Each involved a loss of choice, freedom, or dignity in addition to increased vulnerability and mental anguish.  Those broke through the previous barriers and pushed things to a deeper, more addicting level.

Chasing the Unicorn: The Awkwardness of BDSM Dating

I will start this off by saying that I am not good at nor confident about vanilla dating.  I am not the type who can walk into a bar or a club and approach a woman and hit on her.  I am the guy who is more likely to be found relaxing in a coffee shop reading by myself and wishing that I was confident enough to just jump in and meet people.

While physical characteristics or style may influence what I find visually attractive, an interesting personality, a warm smile, and a variety of human quirks and flaws are usually what win my heart.  Those are the things that make someone unique.  Those are the things that make me treasure knowing someone on a deeper level.

I don't feel comfortable approaching someone on a romantic level unless I see something that draws me to them.  I need to see something special... something below the surface... something that gives me more to say than, "Hi, I think you're pretty."  I don't want to judge someone on something that doesn't say anything about who they are.  I don't want to be judged on something that doesn't say anything about who I am.

Did I mention that I'm terrible at dating?

On some levels, BDSM dating is even more awkward.  There is a false pretense on which to connect.  "Oh, you like bondage?  I like bondage too."  Unfortunately on many levels this is similar to, "Oh, you like sex?  I like sex too."  It says something, but not enough to act on a deeper level.  I look at how someone makes me feel in my heart more than how they make me feel in my pants. This can happen in any (legal) age, size, shape, color, background, etc. 

I've written at length about the astronomically bad odds for male subs seeking Dommes, so I won't go into detail on that except to say that it's common for the male to have to make more compromises or sacrifices than the Domme when choosing potential matches.  It isn't easy for either party to find a "perfect match," but what the hell is perfect anyways?

In a perfect world, no one would have to settle for anything less than their amazing ideal of looks, personality, and sexuality.  Unfortunately, there are far more people of average or below average looks than "pretty" people, which pretty much ensures that there aren't enough Prince Charmings or beautiful Goddesses to go around. What I have learned over the years is that with an emotional connection and an open heart, a woman of any shape, size, color, etc. can get me going in my pants.  I have also know that not everyone that is pretty can make me happy. 

Where things get complicated is the massive variance among Dommes and how they present what they are looking for.  The concept of the Unicorn is that finding the perfect submissive is almost a myth.  Having seen what a Domme's inbox on a BDSM social media site looks like, I have no doubt that spending time in this environment makes the Unicorn seem even further away while sifting through piles of dick pics and "i wun u 2 sit on my face" messages.  Having recently jumped back into social media with the hope of making friends, I have been reminded at just how strange a lot of this seems.

There are veterans of the lifestyle that have pretty much given up on finding a Unicorn.  The profiles are often hostile and intimidating to approach.  I suppose this is meant to weed out the obvious rejects but it also makes things a little scary.

There are the people that aren't looking for relationships, just play.  I'm sure there are many out there searching for this, but not everyone. 

There also exists a profile type that always leaves me a little bit puzzled.  Actually, seeing these sort of make me cry inside a little.  Often they start out intriguing and interesting, saying quite a bit about the type of person that they are.  They usually continue along the lines of:  "You must be white, within 5 years of age of me, 6'2" or taller, handsome with a full head of hair, nice teeth, in good physical shape, a Masters degree or PHD, a job with $80k salary or higher, no physical ailments, must enjoy musical theater, antique shopping, and being outdoors, good at conversation, great sense of humor, no baggage, etc."  I keep reading longer than I should because I'm curious if the man has to own a white horse and what are acceptable locations for his castle.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't believe anyone should be forced to "settle," or not chase after their Mr. Perfect.  I merely question what people consider settling to be and what sort of things they actually need to be happy.  You can derive a lot from this.  Would this person really willingly miss out on a great guy because he is 5'10"?  If so, are they really someone emotionally grounded enough to connect with?  If no, why did they put that as a "must"? It's hard enough finding a Unicorn, why make it a search for a Unicorn among Unicorns? 

I know I get a little bit overly sensitive about some of these topics, mostly because I inevitably fail many superficial filters when it comes to dating.  This happened in my vanilla days all the time, less so in the realm of BDSM.  I will admit that getting to know people takes time.  Building trust and connection takes time.  A lot of people don't want to waste time investing in someone that will end up being a poor fit.  However, this is also where you learn what the person can do for you on the inside.  Can he make you feel like a beautiful Goddess?  Can she make you feel like you are her prince (or beloved servant)?  If the answer to either of those is yes, I am certain the connection goes beyond being skin deep.

People's looks will fade with age.  A deep connection of the heart can last forever. 

It's funny that the awkwardness of BDSM dating feels a lot like the awkwardness of vanilla dating... and that's even without considering kinks and kink overlap. 

I'm going to whine more about Arc 6

I think I have finally understood what is bothering me about writing this arc.  In the absence of meaningful emotional contact between fs and Cassandra, it's not reaching me on the same emotional level as some of the precious arcs.  While Arc 6 is based off of a fatasy I had initially hoped to draw as a comic, I am struggling to write it out in words and like part 2 in the first arc, portions that I had hoped to cover in 1-2 pages of comic panels are coming off a bit too harsh and are taking me 3000+ words.  It is also turning out a bit too fantasy for what I had hoped.

That being said I do plan to finish this arc as planned and it will likely be the longest arc of them all.  Arc 7 will likely return to a more realistically sustainable lifestyle dynamic.

Unless I find a way to really fast forward the parts I expect another 10-20k words or more in Arc 6.

If you are enjoying this arc please let me know if there are specific aspects that "speak to you" and I can try to carry those over into the future.

Fiction: fs01 - Part 37

Author’s Note:  This takes place the morning after Part 36



Day 01

The clank of metal jolts me awake.  I squint my eyes in the light, cobwebs fill my dizzy head.  My wrists ache and yesterday’s bruises throb across my body.  The chill bites through the thin cloth of my uniform, my body trembles in the cold.  Mistress’s scent lingers in my nose.  I slowly regain my bearings as I slump against the cold metal walls of my cage.  The feeding bottle hitched to the bars catches my eye.  I’m starving and dehydrated. 

I prop myself up on my knees and shuffle to the cage door, the chains between my ankles rattling as I go.  I tip forward and lean my head toward the metal straw.  Clang.  A fist slams against the bars.  I slump back in fear, my mind fully awakened by the shock.  The guard steps into view.  Based upon her height and hair, it’s Tabitha.  She taps the glass bottle with her gloved finger.  The light shines through glass showing its half full contents.

“Inmates must prove their commitment to rehabilitation before they get a full portion.”
Her tone is cold and clinical, the mask and goggles blocking any display of emotion.  I long to see Mistress.

“Two minutes to eat, inmate.”

I lean forward again and press my face to the bars.  I struggle to line up the straw with the hole in the gag.  It’s close. 

She tilts the bottle just out of reach.  I strain and push forward with all my might.  I hear her foot tap against the floor.  She torments me. 

“One minute left, inmate.”  She releases the bottle and it sways back into reach.  I quickly press the gag into the straw and drink. 

My hunger outweighs the foul taste.  I take it down in gulps. 

“Time.”  Tabitha pulls the bottle from me.  I moan behind the gag as I watch the bottom inch of the bottle slosh around as she detaches it from the bars.  I feel even hungrier and thirstier than before.  I watch her from behind as she casually strolls away.  The sense of loss would be unbearable if not for my past experiences with food being withheld.  I must endure.

I sit in silence as the battle rages on in my mind.  I know this torture will end but I don’t know when.  They aren’t pretending I’m a prisoner, I am their prisoner.  Am I playing along or is this my reality?

Two guards approach me from across the building.  Their presence fills me with a mix of fear and anticipation for release from this tiny cell.  Lauren steps up with a clipboard. 

“Head count!”

Dominique approaches and unlocks my cages.  The latch clangs and the door swings open.  I shuffle out of the cage with my head down and struggle onto my feet.  Her gloved hand grabs me by the collar as she leans her face close to mine.  I close my eyes and tremble in fear.  I hear her inhale deeply through her nose.  I’m certain she smells Mistress’s scent. 

“001 present and accounted for,” announces Dominique.

Lauren approaches me, tapping the clipboard with her pen. 
“Welcome to your first day of rehabilitation, inmate.  Bathroom privileges are provided twice a day.  Shower privileges and uniform changes twice a week.  Two meals a day and a third meal if you meet your work quota.  Prep the inmate for the bathroom break.”

Dominique extends her hands and puts them on my shoulders.  She quickly spins me and slams me up against the cages.  I grunt on impact as my breath is forced out of me.  She unlocks the handcuffs from around my wrists.  I immediately rub my wrists, restoring circulation.  Dominique gives me a shove. 

They take my arms and lead me to a toilet sitting against the wall.  My face flushes red with shame; there will be no privacy.  I lift the back of my dress and sit on the seat.  I lower the tights down to my knees.  I hang my head; this is a humiliation I was not expecting.

“I think our poor little inmate, has stage fright,” says Dominique, followed by a laugh.  I close my eyes, clench my hands into fists, and force with all my might.  The all-liquid diet makes things simple and I finish urinating in a matter of seconds.  The chastity belt makes aiming a moot point.

Dominique makes a motion with her hand.  I rise slowly as both guards approach.  Hands force me face first against the wall.  I let my body fall limp in their grip.  I am at their mercy.  They force my arms behind me and I feel the metal cuffs close around my wrists, securing with a series of clicks.  A hand grips my neck and bends me down.  They lead me across the building while I shuffle my feet as the leg irons jingle and clank with each labored step.  Mistress and Tabitha await me at the other end. 

A boot to the back of my knee sends me to my knees.  I look up at the women surrounding me.  The masks and goggles hide their expressions completely and unnerve me.  Tabitha steps forward.

“Inmate, today is day 1 of your rehabilitation.  You are entering stage 1 of 3 of the process.  Think of this as the ‘penance’ stage.  You will suffer as a punishment for the crimes you have committed.  The suffering will be pointless except in the lesson that it carries.  It is up to you to earn the privilege of returning to society.  40 bags of sand await you in the field.  Each bag weighs 50 lbs.  You will move them 1 by 1 across the field and stack them neatly 50 yards away at the other end.  When you have completed this task, kneel with your hands behind your head and wait for guard approval.  You will have 60 minutes to complete this task and meet your labor quota.”

She paces back and forth before me, her boots clicking on the hard floor.

“You will repeat this task 12 times today and move a total of 480 sand bags.  If you move 160 bags in the first 4 hours you will be rewarded with lunch.  If you complete all 480 bags within 12 hours tomorrow you will be rewarded with a coat.  To move on to stage 2 you must meet every hourly quota for 2 consecutive days.”

My fear and the cold leave me trembling.  This will be painful.

“First guard shift, Cassandra and Dominique.  Mount up your snowshoes, we got a few inches last night.  Prep the prisoner for labor transport.”

Mistress approaches me and closes a metal collar around my neck.  She tugs the attached chain in her hand making sure it holds secure.  Another pull and I struggle to my feet.  She avoids looking at me.  My heart longs for her.  My throat still feels the pressure from her thumbs. 

We exit the building in a line with 2 guards in front and 2 guards behind me.  The wind howls and bites through the thin cloth of the uniform.  The gag is the only thing preventing my teeth from chattering.  Tabitha and Lauren walk towards a pair of snowmobiles parked next to the building.  I turn my head and see Dominique’s home in the distance.  The prison building is only slightly fancier than a shed and located somewhere on her estate.  I find it a little disturbing that she has a building with rows of cages, almost like a scene out of the old OWK.

Mistress leads me by the metal leash across the snowy field.  Dominique follows behind me.  I have no idea what time it is but I can picture her caffeine starved morning face behind her mask.  My boots sink into the snow.  Each step is a labor as I struggle against the leg irons and barely keep up.  At the center of the field is a metal post with an eyelet at the top.  A very thick chain hangs from the top.  Mistress reaches into the snow and pulls in its length.  Hand over hand she continues, the snow collapses in a trail as its end approaches.

She picks up the end in her hand.  Dominique turns my shoulders away as the chain is locked to the back of my belt.  She removes the handcuffs and walks away back toward the shed. 

Smack.  A strap stings my back and I spin quickly remembering my task.  Mistress towers over me with her snowshoes keeping her near the top of the snow while I shiver as the snow begins to penetrate my boot tops.  She taps her wrist and points to the sandbags across the field.  I bow and hustle as fast as I can, stumbling in the uneven depths of snow as the chains prevent me from lifting my feet high enough to avoid it.  I try to remind myself this isn’t real.  The wind gusts and I raise my hands to my face, it burns my eyes.  The chill cuts through my entire body, the fur on the uniform is mostly for show, it provides minimal warmth if any at all.  This is very real.

As I approach the sandbags I feel the ground slope upward.  It will provide a downhill run at the start but it will be harder at the end when I am tired.  I reach out for the top bag.  Clink.  The chain attached to my waist stops me in my tracks, an inch or two out of reach.  I grab the chain with both hands and pull.

My leg buckles as the baton strikes my thigh.  I tumble face down to the ground.  A knee digs into my back.  A hand pins my arm behind me.  I thrash my legs in vain.  The cold on my body intensifies as the snow presses against my body.  What did I do Mistress? 

With her other hand she presses my face into the snow, mashing it deep.  I struggle as snow melts against the exposed skin of the eyeholes.  The gag’s air hole plugs, my nose presses against the packed snow.  I can’t breathe. 

“Inmate, it is against the rules to touch the guide chain.  This will be marked as an escape attempt on your record.”

I struggle in her grip to no avail.  Her knee presses painfully into my spine, she presses my arm tighter.  The wind drowns out my muffled pleas.  I let myself fall limp in her grasp.  She rubs my face from side to side into the snow and dismounts hard, knocking the little bit of air left in my lungs out of me.  Instinct takes over.  I kneel and bow before her.  She kicks me in the arm and paces away.  I lie motionless and catch my breath.  She terrifies me. 

I sprawl out on the ground and reach out with all my might.  I barely reach a corner of a bag.  I latch on and tug with all my might.  The bag weighs a ton.  The sand is frozen and the snow accumulation doesn’t help.  I shake it back and forth, my hand numbs with the pressure.  It finally slides an inch.  I reach out with both hands and strain.  I give a firm tug, and it slides.  Another tug results in more movement.  I rise to my feet and pull the frozen bag toward me.  It slips off the pile and tumbles into the snow in front of me. 

I bend down and lift.  It’s not so much heavy as uncomfortable, bulky, and awkward.  My arms and back strain to hoist it to my shoulder.  I wobble at first while trying to find a grip and begin the 50-yard trudge across the snowy field.  I mince my steps to avoid tripping on the ankle chain.  Running will not be possible.  As I shuffle through the snow, Mistress approaches and matches pace with me.  Her snowshoes and long strides easily keep up. 

“Welcome to hell, inmate.  By the time we’re done with you, you’ll never want to commit a crime ever again.  You have 42 minutes remaining to meet your labor quota.”

She breaks my resolve.  I had resigned myself to working my ass off and trying to keep myself from thinking about anything except the task at hand.  If anything is clear to me it is the knowledge that I will suffer.  My morale hits rock bottom. 

I pass the metal stake in the ground signifying the halfway mark.  My arms and back tighten.  In warmer weather or adequate clothing this wouldn’t be nearly as bad.  I shake the thoughts from my head.  This is supposed to be painful, be miserable, and its design is purely to make me suffer. 

Smack.  I recoil and grunt as the strap hits my back. 

“Pick up the pace, inmate.  I get a bonus if you meet your quota under my watch.  If I miss out, you’ll just have to make it up to me later.  I have a strap on that’s itching to split you in half.”

50-yards may as well be a mile in these conditions.  My steps slow as I reach the incline on the far end.  My heart lifts as I trudge up the grade, I am almost there.  The snow crunches under my boots, my heaving breaths dissipate like smoke into the cold air.  The chain stops me in my tracks.  I drop the bag into the snow in front of me.  I straighten it so it is oriented like the others back at the pile.  That’s one down, 479 to go.


Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Mental Gymnastics

I have to say that writing Arc 6 of fs01 has really done a number on me. 

I can't recall if I have stated this overtly before, but my writing process  is very personal.  I basically envision a scene, scenario, event, or dynamic and try to put myself into the main character's role.  Some of these situations are modified versions of things I have actually experienced, others are pure fiction but based upon emotional space that I am familiar with.

For the most part, most of my writing comes while I am in a self-induced subspace.  While I write it often feels heavily like a trance or lucid dream.  Events are tossed my way and my submissive self reacts.  It often feels like things are writing themselves, and letting 1000 words flow out is quite effortless.  When someone gives feedback that things feel "authentic," that is about the highest compliment I could hope for.

Each Arc has followed one of two formulas for me:
1. Event-based.  Situations occur that I have thought/fantasized/wondered about happen and I picture myself within them.  Much of what changes by the end of the arc is emotional growth and lessons learned by the end.
2. Emotional Theme-based.  A series of situations occur that invoke a certain emotional trigger and I attempt to sort out the feelings and find a suitable means of coping. This often revolves around how a positive resolution could be found that works for the involved parties.  Think of these as emotional problem solving.

I have a lot of experience with events that I would deem "life changing."  While some of the events in the stories may seem a bit extreme or intense, much of the character growth is reliant upon emotional responses that are strong enough to change them deep inside.  There needs to be enough trauma or desperation to force them to look at life and relationships in a different way than before.

Arcs 5 and 6 are completely new territory for me.  They reach levels of subspace I have not experienced personally, and involve exploration of sadism that I have only seen in bits and pieces in my own life.  To complicate things even more, the emotional spectrum is not a pleasant one.  I feel emotionally exhausted upon completing each chapter, and even moreso when there isn't a tender moment to bring things to an emotionally balanced place (e.g. the spooning scenes).  

The feedback so far on pushing the dynamics ever harder has been fairly positive but I may need to dial them back a bit in future arcs as it really is difficult for me to write from this headspace.  I'm not firmly committed to this yet, it's just what my gut is telling me.

As always, I'm open to ideas, comments, or requests.  I write to please the readers so if you would like to see something in the story from an event or play standpoint or want to see more of a specific character, please let me know and I will make an effort to work it in.

Monday, July 4, 2016

Fiction: fs01 - Part 36

Author’s Note:  This takes place several weeks after Part 35.



I stand naked and shivering in the dungeon.  My legs are spread, my hands behind my head.  Four women stand before me.  Masks and goggles similar to the ones used in paintball cover their faces.   They wear long leather coats trimmed in fur at the collar and cuffs.  Fur hats.  Knee high leather boots.  They look like they belong in a movie portraying Soviet-era Russian military.  My eyes drift to their belts.  My breathing becomes heavy with fear.  Handcuffs.  A leather strap.  Pepper spray.  A flashlight.  A baton. 

This feels too real to be a game.  My fingers fidget.  I am exposed and vulnerable.  I blush in shame.  I can tell them apart by their heights and hair.  The uniform fits Mistress beautifully.  My eyes find her.  The mirrored finish on her goggles hides her eyes from me.  My sex strains against the belt. 

She nods her head to the right.  Another guard steps forward.  It must be Tabitha.  The voice confirms it.

She tosses a bundle at my feet.

“Inmate, get ready for transport.”

I nod and open the bundle.  A neon pink jumpsuit with “D.O.C.” stenciled on the back along with a pair of canvas slip-on shoes.  I quickly dress in front of them.  Even as a prisoner I’m forced to wear pink.

Tabitha and Lauren approach me.  They feed a belly-chain around my waist and lock it in place.  Tabitha secures the leg irons while Lauren secures my wrists with handcuffs.  Full prisoner transport shackles.  They lock them tight.  It hurts.  This isn’t a game to them.  I throw a concerned glance at Mistress.  She doesn’t react.

Hands from behind pull a black bag over my head, covering my face and eyes.  I feel it cinch at the waist.  Ear mufflers over the top.  I start to shake, remembering my previous experiences with Renee.  I’m freed from that moment by firm grips on my arms.  They drag me forwards.  I stumble to keep up.  The ankle cuffs dig into my muscles with each step. 

They drag me along with force.  Up the stairs.  Across the rooms.  Voices are muffled.  I see only glimmers of light through the fabric of the bag.  The lights get brighter.  I feel the cold bite of the wind through the cotton suit.  Snow in my shoes.  It’s freezing.  I play along.  This is what Mistress expects of me.  This is what will make her happy. 

Up a step.  I’m forced into a seat.  Straps cross over my chest.  On the ride I remind myself this is just for a university project.  This isn’t real.  Stay calm.  Make Mistress proud.  My seat thumps.  The ride gets bumpy.  I breathe slowly and keep my eyes closed. 

The vehicle lurches to a halt.  I feel the straps release.  Hands grip my arms again.  I’m dragged down a step.  My feet land in some deep snow.  It easily penetrates the pant leg and its cold covers my ankles and feet.  A gust of wind makes me shiver. 

They drag me along.  The ground under my feet changes from snow to a hard, flat surface.  They remove the ear mufflers and bag.  My eyes squint as they adjust to the light.  I’m in plain and drab building with a concrete floor.  There’s no wind but it’s still freezing. 

Mistress grabs my arm again.  Her fingers dig into the muscle and find a pressure point.  I wince.

“A new inmate for processing.”  She speaks calmly, without emotion.
“Strip search him,” replies Tabitha.

Mistress and the final guard, who must be Dominique, release my shackles.  The rush of blood to my hands and feet tingles.  They unzip my jump suit and drag me out of it. 

“He’s resisting,” says Mistress.  In an instant she bars my arm, a blow to the knee makes it buckle and she puts me face down on the ground.  The concrete is freezing on my bare chest.  She digs her knee into my back and pins my arm behind me.  A rain of straps follows.  Over and over they land on my back, buttocks, arms, and legs. 

I scream and thrash about.  Tears soon fill my eyes.  My body falls limp.  The blows stop. 

“We’ll do this the hard way.”

Mistress and Dominique force me to my feet.  They lead me to a table and force me face down.  My wrists are secured by a pair of shackles on the far end.  The tears continue.  This isn’t real. 

“Body cavity search time!”   It’s definitely Dominique.  She sounds excited.  I hear the snap of a rubber glove.  A squishing sound.  I pull my legs together.  I feel a hand grip the back of my neck, pinning my face to the table.  A boot forces its way between my feet.  It shoves my right foot out to the side.  Another boot repeats that with the same. 

I sob. 

“Please don’t do this.  I don’t have anything.  Please don’t do this.”

The hand tightens on my neck.
“Shut up, inmate.  Speak again and you’ll get the strap.”

My body tenses.  My muscles twitch.  I feel a pair of lubed fingers slide their way between my cheeks.  I whimper.  Please don’t do this. 

They violate me.  I bawl.  The fingers move around, inspecting my insides.  My body slumps in defeat.  This isn’t a game.  I am a prisoner. 

“He’s clean.”  The fingers leave my body.

A guard sits at the head of the table.  It’s Tabitha.

“Inmate, you have been sent to this prison to complete your rehabilitation.  The length of your sentence is determined by your ability to change yourself into someone that can contribute positively to society.  Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”  My response is feeble and weak.

“From now on, you are prisoner number zero-zero-one.  You do not have a name.  Names are granted to those who deserve them.  You are merely a number until you have earned the right to a name upon your release.  Your file says you have pled guilty to sexual assault and indecent exposure.  Is this true?”
“No, ma’am.”

SMACK.  A strap bites into the frozen skin on my rear.  I yelp.  They tell me who I am. 
“Is this true?”
“Yes, ma’am.  It is true.”
“Good, inmate.  Admitting your crime is the first step.  I’m sure you have a long list of crimes against women.  Confess and we can start your rehabilitation.”
“I have nothing to confess, ma’am.”

SMACK.  SMACK.  I wail and sob. 
“I’ve committed crimes against women, ma’am.  I lust for them.  I see them as prey.  I treat them as inferiors.”  I lie out of necessity. 
“Inmate, by the end of your rehabilitation, I can promise you that you will see women in a new light.  Get him into uniform and take him to his cell.”

The hand releases its grip on my neck.  The shackles are unlocked from my wrists.  The skin on my back, arms, legs, and buttocks burns.  I can feel my heart pulse in them.  There will be bruises soon.  A bundle lands on the table in front of me.  I open it and find my uniform.  My heart sinks even more.  It too is pink.  I unfold the uniform.  If its design was meant to demoralize me it has succeeded. 

I reluctantly pull the pink dress over my head.  It’s almost identical to my maid’s uniform with fur at the collar, cuffs, and hem.  There’s a startling difference.  The prison uniform is made of thin cotton.  It is rough and scratchy.  A hand zips the back up for me.  I rub my arms for warmth.  A pair of cotton tights.  Thin mittens.  Pink moon boots.  I finish dressing and present my finished self to the guards.  My face burns red.   Lauren secures a gag in my mouth.  She buckles it behind my head and locks it in place.  The gag has an air hole in its center.  She then pulls a pink spandex mask over my head.  It has eyeholes and a small hole to leave the gag’s air hole unblocked.  I feel a pom pom dance back and forth on top of the mask as I move. 

I feel a belt cinch tightly around my waist.  It buckles behind me.  A lock clicks.

Lauren stands directly in front of me.

“Inmate 001, this is your prison uniform.  You will be inspected several times a day.  Your uniform will remain in place and in presentable condition.  Any uniform violations will increase the length of time before your first parole hearing.  Your current parole hearing is scheduled for 7 days from now.”

I hang my head.  This isn’t a game.  I feel leg irons click shut around my ankles.  The boots provide enough padding to keep them from hurting. 

“Hands behind your back.” 

I turn and do as I am instructed.  Her hand grips my wrist and turns it palm out.  I feel the handcuff close around my wrist.  She repeats with the other hand.  A tug on the chain. 

“Escort the prisoner to his cell.” 

Hands grip my arms.  I keep my head down.  Is this what you wanted, Mistress? 

They direct me to the back of the building.  Along the rear wall stand a row of stacked cages.  I approach the left side of the row.  Mistress opens the latch and swings the door open. 

“Welcome to your new home, inmate.”

I drop to my knees and shuffle into the cage.  The door closes behind me.  A lock clicks.  I turn to the bars.  I can smell Mistress’s sex.  I want to touch her.  Without a glance she turns and walks away, Dominique beside her.  When they are across the room I see them getting friendly.  Talking, giving each other playful shoves.  I feel sad and alone now.

I slump down in the cage.  I hate being restrained with my hands behind me.  It’s uncomfortable.  The inside of the cage is small.  It’s too short to stand.  It’s not deep enough to lie down.  It’s too narrow to turn easily.  Solid metal surrounds me on 5 sides.  The barred front door is the only opening.  I lie on the ground and curl up into a ball, a feeble attempt to huddle for warmth.  I close my eyes.

A clink of metal startles me.  I open my eyes. 

“Feeding time, inmate.” 

I rise in the cage and struggle to turn.  I shuffle toward the bars.  A bottle clamps to the bars.  A bent metal tube at the bottom acts as a sort of straw.  It’s a larger version of the water feeders we had for our pet gerbils when I was a child.  I glance around, wondering how I’m supposed to eat.  The guard is already across the room. 

I let out a sigh.  I press my face to the bars.  Line the metal tube up with the air hole on the gag.  It takes a few tries to insert it.  Finally secure, I suck.  Liquid slowly enters my mouth through the hole in the gag.  It tastes awful.  I’m starving and dehydrated and I know better than to complain.  I choke down the foul and perverse liquid meal sip by sip, gulp by gulp.  The rumbling in my belly slowly ceases.  I empty the bottle and slump back into the cage.  I close my eyes.

A bang of metal on metal makes me jump.  My eyes fly open. 

“Head count!”  The latch on the cage door clangs and the door swings open.  I shuffle my way out of the cage.  I struggle to my feet.  Lauren stands before me with a clipboard. 

“001 present and accounted for.  Get back in your cell, inmate.”

I again drop to my knees.  I shuffle my way back.  A foot shoves my backside forward.  I topple onto my face, my cheek bears the brunt of the impact. 

“I haven’t got all day, hurry up, inmate.”

I pull my legs in.  The cage door clangs shut.  The latch bangs.  The lock clicks.  I slump against the cage floor.  My wrists hurt.  This isn’t a game.  I miss you, Mistress.  I close my eyes.

Time passes.  I lay motionless.  A voice shouts.

“Lights out!” 

I open my eyes in time to see the ceiling light near the cages turn off.  It’s dark.  I’m cold and lonely.  This isn’t a game.  I close my eyes.  I repeat a mantra in my head: This will all be over soon.  I doze off.

I jerk awake.  Metal on metal.  I shift my body in the cage.  Light blinds my eyes.  A guard with a flashlight.  She drags the end against the bars.  The lock clicks.  The latch clangs.  The cage door swings open.  I shake the cobwebs from my head, rise to my knees, and shuffle my way out.    The light continues to blind me. 

Her hand pulls up my mask.  She fidgets with the gag strap.  I feel the buckle release.  She pulls the gag from my mouth.  I can smell her.  It’s Mistress.  My heart jumps. 

“Mistress, I love you.”
“Silence, inmate!”

Smack.  Her hand meets me squarely on the cheek.  It stings.  Tears fill my eyes.  Her mirrored goggles hide her eyes.  I lower my head. 

“Don’t you dare get familiar with me, inmate, or I will beat you.”

Smack.  She slaps me again, even harder. 

“You’re the fresh meat here.  We played rock, paper, scissors to see who would get to use you first, and I won.” 

I mentally retreat.  I feel small and helpless.  Endure.  She unbuckles her belt.  It falls to the ground around her with a clank.  Her coat opens.  Her hands slide down her body to the waist of the leather pants.  She unsnaps a frontal codpiece from the crotch and drops it on the floor.

I fight back a grin.  The design is what I would have expected from Mistress.  Her sex glistens in the light.  She’s wet.  Her palm extends on the top of my head and holds it in place.  Her boot lightly taps the front of my chastity belt.  My breathing grows heavy. 

I whimper a low moan.  SMACK.  Her hand meets my cheek.  I cringe and shut my eyes tight.  She hisses.

“Criminals don’t deserve to enjoy this.  Pleasure me well or I will have no issue with hurting you.”

She pulls my face into her sex.  Her other hand grips my neck and presses firmly on my throat.  I gasp for air.  Her scent fills my nose.  I’m not a person.  I’m her masturbation toy.  My lips kiss her erect clit.  I want to love her but she frightens me.  My body takes over, the years of conditioning and training shining through.  I lick my lips and press them around her clit.  My tongue flattens and massages it.  Her juices soak into the fabric of the mask.  She is all I can smell.

She pulls my head tighter.  I swirl my tongue over her.  Back and forth, up and down.  Small circles.  She rocks her pelvis and meets me.  I continue to lick.  My lips form a suction.  She moans.  She grinds into my face.  I press my tongue harder and increase its pace.  I feel her juices flowing.  I press firmer and find the sweet spot.  She lets out a pleasure cry.  Her hand pulls my head harder.  Her thumb presses firmly on my throat. 

My breaths heave through my nose.  In and out.  The hot air flows from my nose in pulses.  I know she can feel me.  My tongue and lips continue their work.  She grinds onto me harder.  I feel her thighs flex.  She moans again, louder.  My tongue flicks and slides across her.  She is close.

Her hand slides down the back of my head.  It mirrors the other.  I feel both of her thumbs over my throat.  I tremble.  I take a deep breath and continue to lick.  Her thumbs press tighter.  The air passage closes.  I feel the blood throb in my face.  My body reacts in panic.  Her fingers tighten at the back of my neck and press my head tightly against her.  My mouth opens and my tongue stops moving.  Panic.  My head shakes violently.  My face rubs back and forth over her sex.  She moans and loosens her thumbs. 

I heave a deep breath.  My throat swallows, shaking away the unfamiliar sensation.  She lets out a deep laugh.  Her hand pulls my head, burying my face in her sex.  Her hips press her firmly against my lips.  I work faster.  My tongue finds the sweet spot.  Her voice pulses in a series of cries and moans. 

Her hands slide down.  Her thumbs again find my throat.  I let out a small whimper.  They press down.  My head fights against her grip.  She pulls me tighter.  My eyes feel like they are bulging.  My face pulses.  My head shakes rapidly.  My lips and nose spasm against her crotch.  I feel her clit rubbing against my quivering face.  She digs her fingers in tighter.  She cries out.  Her juices soak my face. 

She shoves me to my back, releasing her grip on my throat.  I topple over hard, gasping for air.  Coughing.  Choking.  I swallow repeatedly.  My breathing calms.  I slowly regain my composure.  I can still feel where her thumbs pressed my throat. 

Her boots click against the floor as she gets closer.

“On your stomach, inmate!”

I turn over onto my stomach.  I want to cry out to her.  Mistress, you are hurting me.  Mistress, you are scaring me.  Mistress, I love you. 

She digs her knee into my back.  I grunt.  The gag presses against my lips.  I part them and it fills my mouth.  The buckle pulls tight, digging the straps into my cheeks.  The lock clicks.  She pulls the mask down over my face.  It’s soaked with her fluids.  Her scent dominates my senses. 

She presses her hand on the back of my head. 
“The other ladies are going to be so disappointed at your pathetic oral abilities, inmate.  I’m sure they won’t even bother trying and they will go straight for that ass.  They were a bit worried our ‘past experiences’ might cause me to go easier on you out of sympathy.”

She grabs the handcuff chain and pulls my arms up.  Click, click, click.  Click, click, click.  She tightens each cuff, removing any amount of play in them.

“Let’s just say it has the opposite effect.  To think that someone I once cared about is now a convicted criminal and sex offender.  I’m mortified that I knew you and I hope you suffer like the piece of shit that you are.”

She dismounts my back.  I whimper and sob on the ground.

“Get back in your cell, inmate.” 

I rise with difficulty and begin to shuffle to my cage.  Smack.  A leather strip lands on my back.  I move as fast as I can.  I fall into the cage onto my chest.  She shoves my legs with her boot.  The door swings shut with a clang.  The latch closes.  The lock clicks.  The light vanishes behind me.  I lay alone in the dark.  I cry.