Subject: STORY "Images 23" (NC, extreme cruelty, Long)



My "Images" (a term I stole from Suki) are short ideas, images,
and sketches.   They are generally cruel and nonconsensual and 
of interest only to sickphuxs, so please read no further if such 
doesn't appeal to you.

The Images are impurely the products of a warped imagination, and
should not be seen as a reflection of the scene, nor should they be 
imitated by anyone not interested in a protracted term as the ward 
of the state.

Steven S. Davis

---------------------------------------------------------

Hello,


I thought you might perhaps enjoy a quick image I prepared for
a femsub spanko friend.


*************


Pondering a punishment image (aka "A Study of System Responses
to Stresses of System Extremities" (another friend of mine asks
for scientific sounding subject lines in zir emails)).

It starts with me telling you that if you aren't going to use your 
hands to type away on your project, then other uses can be found 
for them, and grabbing you by the hair and bringing you to tiptoe 
and making you walk on tiptoe to a table where your hands are 
strapped down on the heavy table in front of you (with your palms 
against some leather belts with sharp, heavy studs which were
prepositioned on the table), and your legs are pulled back and 
apart and tied in place and your skirt and slip and panties are 
cut/torn off you, and you're blindfolded and made to wait for 
the torment to begin.

But not for very long....

It starts with a few strokes of a flexible steel ruler across
the back or your hand.  Then a couple strokes across the back
of the other hand.  None of them particularly painful.  But
as the strokes keep coming - 2L 2R 3L 3R 2R 2L 5R (and so on,
trying hard to avoid sticking to any pattern that would allow
you to guess which heand will be hit next or how many times
it will be hit) - the sting accumulates till you are squirming
and whimpering nicely.  Somewhere in this series a few quick
strokes begin finding the backs of your thighs and your upper
arms.

Then there's what seems a massive blow atop your left hand,
pushing the soft palm down hard against the sharp, hard studs.
Followed by a few quick stings with the ruler and them the
rubber mallet wrapped in cloth crashes down on your right hand.
A few quick strikes with the mallet, LRLRLR, have you squirming
and twisting and your knees trembling and nearly failing until
a leg goes between your knees and pushed you upwards, then
your hips are grasped and you are slided and turned against the
bare leg between your bare legs before your hair is pushed away
and teeth clamp hard of the back of your neck and shake your
head and pull you up as far as you can stand before releasing you,
and a rough rope goes round your waist, then something is tied
to the front of it and then you feel a smooth rubber hose being
pulled between your legs, taut against your pussy, and the end
of the hose is fastened to something, and as it remains taut
against you it's tucked back and forth and pulled side to side
a few times.

"Now, slut, if you don't want to stand, then you can ride".

And then something stingier, some sort of crop, perhaps, begins
striking your thighs, front, back, and inner, and then it begins
finding your ass, striking one check or the other, then it works
across your shoulders as the hose is pulled back and forth, and 
sometimes a hand finds its way in front of you and slides between
you and the hose to rub you for a few minutes while I'm biting the
back of your neck and then kissing the bite marks.

And then that stops, and you hear me move in front of you and
then there's nothing for a long moment.  And then nothing for
a longer moment.

And then your face is slapped, both sides, several times,
not real hard but still it stings, and then the riding crop
finds the back of your hands and works them over before
moving up your arms, hurting them severely until you can't
help but ask for mercy, and then I put my hands over yours
and lean down, much of my weight pressing your hands against
the studs, the pressure fluctating as I lean from side to
side, and I keep this up till you're crying unreservedly
and then stop leaning on them, but before you can stop
crying enough to thank you, I've taken a very small hammer
and begun tapping your knuckles.  This scares you more than
it hurts you - though with your hands as they are, it hurts
a lot - and you plead pitiably for mercy so I go back to
pressing your hands under mine and tell you to thank me for
it, reminding you that both the small metal hammer and the
large rubber mallet are still at hand, and you thank me
through your tears, and then I move behind you with a hairbrush
and begin spanking you hard and for a long time, before dropping 
cord holding the rubber hose and taking a cane to put some
welts on your ass before I take a wide paddle and beat your
atop your welts till your sobs convince me you need mercy -
whether you deserve it or not is irrelevant - and I switch
to spanking you with my bare hands, at first hard and quickly 
and w/o interruption, and then intermingled with stroking and
squeezing your burning asscheeks and rubbing and massaging your
wet pussy.  

And then between the spanking and the squeezing you feel one
foot being freed, then, after a long while, the other, and
then some more spanking and fondling and then I'm in front of
and grapping the hair behind your head with one hand and 
pulling your forward to kiss me and kissing your face and 
mouth and neck while unbuckling your hands and then pulling 
you off the table and pushing you onto the floor and then
the short rubber flogger begins finding your back and your ass
and your thighs and the place between your legs while 
you plead for mercy and I step away from you to get my belt
and a coupe strokes land across your shoulders and I say
"you want mercy, bitch ? Crawl over here and ask for it properly"
and you crawl towards me, feeling for my feet, and finding them
sink to your belly and begin kissing my foot, and after a suitable
amount of time I take you by your hair and pull you to your knees
and make you walk on your knees after me as I back up into a chair
and sit back and spread my legs and bring your head to me so you
can pleasure and placate me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dance


More a vision, perhaps, than what I generally mean by an "Image".

I'm seeing two women. They're friends.  They're in heels and hose, 
elbows cinched and wrists cuffed behind them and their wrists 
attached to overhead chains so that they have to bend forward.  
Each woman's ankles are bound together, with ropes that are snug
against her stockings but which allow a few inches between her 
ankles, so she can take small steps.

They are facing each other. Each woman is in a head harness and
the head harnesses are linked together by very straps which make
them keep their heads up and look at each other, each woman's
face a foot away from the other's.

At first they are ball gagged, and left to stand looking at each
other as their arms and legs and feet and jaws begin to tire and
ache.  After a time nipple clamps are hung from each woman's
nipples, and after some more time weights are added to the clamps.
They are paddled in turn, not all that severely, but enough to
redden their asses and make the weights from their nipples sway
nicely.

Then the straps between their head harnesses are detached, and
the ball gags pulled from their mouths. Then they are shown 
a very thick, long two headed dildo.  The dildo is pushed deep
inside one woman's mouth and down onto her throat, before she is
moved forward so the other end is deep inside the other woman's
mouth, but not in her throat, and the straps to the head harnesses
are attached again.  The dildo is wide enough not to allow either 
woman to breath through her mouth.  It's long enough that, as the
women are fastened together, it will be inside one woman's throat
always.  While it's there, that woman can't breath, and the other
woman can breath through her nose so long as she doesn't panic
or cry.

In order for both of them to survive, the woman who can breath
needs to hold still and make her mouth and throat as loose as
she can while the other woman grips the dildo in her mouth as
tightly as she can and makes several small steps forwards,
pushing the dildo down her counterpart's throat until it is
out of her throat and she can then wobble a few steps backwards
(with her mouth loosened and the other woman holding) until she
take some breaths.  Then they have to repeat the process in 
reverse.  Bound as they are they can't move quickly, so neither
woman can take more than a few breaths, and they most keep
moving constantly, which trying to hold back their fear and
deal with their fatigue and the pain in their feet and legs
and backs and arms (their arms having extra stress applied 
when they move) and their ever shorter breathe.  And each
must deal with her own desires to push push the dildo down 
her friend's throat and then hold it there, allowing her to
breathe and condemning her friend to death - and with the fear
that her friend is fighting the same impulse.

Each change of steps in this dance the bent, bound women
are doing requires not only exertion and pain and trying to
hold it together and stay in control despite the fear and
fatigue and pain, but a huge act of trust, as neither woman,
aceepting the dildo down her throat, knows if she's drawn
her last breathe.  She has to trust her friend will take 
the dildo back in a few seconds and give up the joy of 
breathing so that her friend can breath.  But she also knows
how much she hates to take it back each time, how horrible
it is when the dildo blocks her throat, however short the
time, how much her lungs are burning - and that her friend
is suffering the same way.  What she doesn't know is how
long her friend can hold back the horror; she does know 
that when her friend cracks and betrays her, there will be
nothing she can do to save herself (as there would be nothing
her friend could do; they might struggle some, but the one 
who could breath when the struggle began would be sure to
win).

So each woman keeps up her precarious dance, wobbling 
forward and back in tiny steps, watching her friend's
face when the sweat in her eyes allows it, and trying to
see if her friend's eyes will show her intent and dreading
that her own eyes might show her wretched desired while
each woman wonders how long she can last and how long her
friend can last and when, and if, their captors will
spare them this agony and terror, and the horrible choice.


*****

In the versions in which they are spared the choice,
their ankles are untied and spread (stretching and straining
their arms even further) and locked in spreader bars, and
while their aching legs and hips scream from having to stand
so spread in high highs) people stand behind them and push
them closer together until both women's throats are blocked,
and then the people begin to fuck them from behind, while 
the captive women do all they can to move their cunts as
sensually as they can upon the intruding dicks, whether
flesh or fake, hoping desperately that their intruding
captors will come quickly, and praying that if their captors
come, then they will allow their captives the chance to breathe 
again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Wages of Brattiness


A friend posed this question: what response would be appropriate
if she were bratty enough to put her dominant's favorite batch
of clothespins beyond reach during his visit.  My response
follows:

*****


The first thing which comes to mind is to go out and buy some more
just like them.  But perhaps they aren't easily replaced.  In that
case, we'd have to estimate how much more severe were they than
clothespins we can obtain (and, of course, add a brattiness penalty).

Or, if the number of replacement pins required is less than 169,
we'd use 169 clothespins.  Why 169 ?  Because I used to think it
would be fun to tell a woman I was going to get gross with her, and
bring out 144 clamps.  This became 156 (baker's dozen).  And then
169, because I wanted her to be aware just how very unlucky she
was, so she'd get 13 squared clamps.

Now, how to use them.  I do like the idea of including clotheslines
into this.  And the object is to teach you that the wages of brattiness
is extreme pain, and to teach you what all submissives and all
captives need to be taught: you can be certain of one thing (well,
slaves and submissives should be certain of at least two things,
the first being their owner/dominant's respect and care): that
however much it hurts to comply, it will hurt more to resist.

So I'm seeing you taken out to some private spot, one which gets
a lot of wind.  You'd walk much of the way, with your hands tied 
and your high heel shod feet hobbled at the ankles, and being urged 
to greater velocity by the merciless application of a cane to your ass.

When we get where we are going, you have to strip.  Then your hands,
released so you could strip, will be tied above your head so you
can receive a flogging.  You're blindfolded first, so you can't
see from where the blows come, as I circle you, striking you
arhythmically and unpredictably, sometimes stopping to stroke
and fondle you, or to pinch your welts.  Continuing for a long
time, until you are marked all over from shoulders to knees.

Then you are retied in a standing spreadeagle (and back in your
heels again).  Clotheslines are strung up around you, and sheets
and towels hung from the lines (note: the 169 clothespins that will 
be counted are those that biting into your skin, any others used
in a supporting capacity don't count; this means that clothespins
placed on clothespins, either as additional weight or to make them
squeeze more tightly the special spots under their bite, will not
count against the 169).  Clothespins are then attached to the sheets, 
and their partners, at the ends of cords of varyng length, are applied 
to your skin, with great care taken to be sure the cords are taut and 
that the pins are biting into either some carefully squeezed flesh (ie 
to get some very thin skin between the tight grip of these clothespins 
(I did mention that they would be tight gripping ?) or on some very
sore spots where the flogger bit your bare flesh.

You'll have clothespins *everywhere*.  Many of them, especially
the ones biting thin bits of skin, linked in zippers so that
when a strong gust hits the sheet to which they are connected,
the pull is distributed and the pins less likely to pull off.
Most of the pins will be attached to sheets and towels.  Some
will be attached to the ends of tree branches.  All these
will move and pull as the object to which they are attached is 
blown by the wind.  A few pins will not be attached to another
clothespin.  The one's on your ears will not be.  Nor will the
the row of pins on each labia.  These rows of clothespins will,
however, be supporting windchimes.  And the long cord dangling
from the pins securely clamped on your hit will be attached to
the plastic parachute taken from a toy paratrooper, which will
occasionally catch a gust of wind.

Oh, and BTW, the clothespins that do pull off will be reattached.
Not always to the same spot they came off, but very often to the
spot where another pin had been up until a few minutes earlier.

So when will the torture stop ?

Well, not before you (not necessarily in this order):

1) Sob.  Not merely cry, but sob

2) Scream

3) Beg for mercy.  Piteously, at length, and in a way 
   that I consider sincere.

4) Apologize.  Repeatedly.

5) Swear never to do this again (please note the narrowness
   of the promise, and that it does not foreclose future
   brattyness of other forms)

6) Tell me what wonderful things you will do for me if
   I stop the torture.

Oh, and not before I have enjoyed your suffering sufficiently
(expect to be there for a very long time, my dear).


When these conditions are met, I'll start removing the 
clothespins.

The 169 clothespins.


For reasons which I'm sure you'll understand, you will not
be untied until a long time after the removal is complete
(well, not completely untied; a way would be found to
lower you w/o releasing you).

___________________________________________________________
A Fireplay Image

[Written for a hot friend]


I'm getting an image of you keeping two fires going, with a naked man 
tied spreadeagle on the ground between the fires, as you fondle and
scratch and pinch him and periodically pull sticks (some sharpened) 
from (or place them in) the fire, and prod him in various places, 
with the sharpened sticks, or beat him with them, or pull hot sticks
(sometime trailing hot ashes, sometimes with the top bits aflame; 
sometime when the ends of the sticks catch fire you pass the flame back
and forth along his sides and his inner thighs and near the soles of 
his feet and much closer to his testicles than he is able to bear with
stoicism or equanimity) or use very warm wood to manipulate his hot 
woody (perhaps sometimes using metal tongs to twist and squeeze his 
cock and balls, and sometimes dropping a set of tongs in one of the 
fires (as you move from one fire to another, you are frequently crawling
or rolling over his prone body) while, carefully concealed, there's 
another set of tongs chilling in ice, and when he see you put on the 
"hot objects glove" and retrieve the hot tongs from the fire and 
playfully wave them around his balls so he can feel the heat, and 
then sit on his belly, your back to him, as you fondle his balls and 
then pinch one testicle out and hold it steady as you pick up the hot
tongs and brandish them where he can see them then slowly move your 
hand towards the target testicle while teasing and taunting him, and 
then dropping the hot tongs and picking up the icy cold set and squeezing
that ball.



{with proper credit to John Warren for the "substitute cold for
hot" idea}
----------------------------------------------------------

"Not till she's 18"

I think that a recent idea of mine might be appealing to you.  
It involves kidnapping a sexy young lady on her 18th birthday 
(because we would *not* want to be doing anything involving sex 
or cigarettes with a minor) and securing her to a special sort 
of chair with her legs raised and spread and her arms outspread 
and attached to a pole (turned so the insides of her arms are 
facing up) and there's a thin wooden board between her legs 
(well, it would be between her legs if her legs weren't stretched
out in front of her).  She's left tied to the chair for several
hours (hmmm... alteration: we take her when she's 17 and make
her wait a few hours until she's 18 before we start doing 
anything with her (it means we have to cut and pull away
her clothes after the time of her birth has come).  Then we
torture her for awhile.  She's very pretty, so when the pain 
becomes more than she can bear, she offers her sexual favors 
in exchange for mercy.  And is shocked to find that we don't 
intend to fuck her, just to torture her until she begs for 
death and then kill her, so her sexual charms are useless, 
and she has absolutely nothing to bargain with.  

"I'll do anything you want" means nothing when she's already doing
exactly what we want her to do:  suffer  (but it's still really 
sweet to hear).

As it happens, we know that she smokes, so during one of
the "let her rest so she doesn't go crazy or catatonic
before we're through with her" breaks, she's offered a
cigarette, and being so eager to accept any hint of kindness
(silly girl) that we seem to be offering, she accepts.
So we put a cigarette between her lips and let it dangle
there, and occasionally hold it for her so she can inhale
and then blow out the smoke (and we flick the ashes onto
her bare skin).  Until the cigarette is nearly done, 
when one of us takes it by the filter tip and puts it out
by crushing the hot tip into the skin of her upper inner arm.

And then we offer another cigarette.  And since she's 
a smart girl - someone who would likely have gone far
in life if she were going to make it past her 18th
birthday, which she isn't - she gets the game: she can
choose between having a cigarette put out on her bare flesh
every few minutes (and on sensitive bits of flesh (inner arms,
palms of hands, inner thighs, the arches of her feet, the back 
of her neck; her breasts and labia and clit, naturally; and,
of course, her face (while holding a mirror up so she can
see it better, and better observe (when her eyes are open
again and the tears clear sufficiently) the effect on her
fine facial features), and having us resume our tortures.

If we've done it right up until then, she'll accept the 
cigarette (if we haven't done it right, then we will do
it right so she does accept the next offered cigarette).

Of course, as time goes on, we'll be crushing the cigarettes
sooner and sooner (but by that time the effect of having to
smoke so much - she's not a heavy smoker, she just smoked 
some because it made her seem more on the edge - will be making
her sick).  So eventually, sick and unable to bear another
cigarette crushed into her skin, she'll refuse the offered
cigarette.  And we can start torturing her again.  Until she
begs for death, and then torture her a bit more (no topping 
from the bottom allowed !).  After which we'll lay her on a 
table,  strap her head down, and drip hot wax (from tapered 
beeswax candles held at a low height; sure, she'll blow some 
out, but we'll have plenty of them) over her nose and screaming 
mouth until the accumulated wax makes it impossible for her to 
breathe, and she suffocates.

And then we turn to her bound and gagged best friend, who's
been watching the whole time, and tell her that it's her
turn tomorrow, and leave her alone in the dark dungeon
with her dead friend (but with some candles burning for
light) to think about what is to come.

-------------------------------------------------------
"A Femsadist's Diversion"

It's not as if you'd enjoy taking a man into the desert, making
him strip, tying his hands behind him and tying a cord tightly
around his balls and walking him around in the hot sun for a
couple hours (his only water being what you decide to allow
him to lick off your boots, or whatever else you might wish
licked), until you decide to stop at a cactus, which you'd
make him kneel facing it and then bind him to the cactus, not
tightly so he'd be pressed into the spines, but snuggly enough
that he can't get loose and can't move away from them more
than an inch or so (with the leash to his balls fastened around
the cactus, with the effect - among others - of making it certain
he can't stand up or sit down (and taut enough that you could,
if you wished, take a stick and "strum" the leash to make him
make pretty noises (well, noises which a pretty female sadist
might enjoy))).  And then come up behind him and pour water
over his head and neck and shoulders, then dry them, and start
stroking him and kissing his neck and the sides of his face
while reminding him what's going to happen if his cock rises,
which it's going to do because you are going to keep kissing
and stroking him until his penis is punctured by the pins of
the cactus, and there's nothing he can do to stop this, because
he's under your power and his body will do what you want it
to do, not what he wants it to, and no matter how much it may
hurt him.  He's powerless, and you're going to be merciless
(until he does what you want), and while he may try to resist 
you, you will prove irresistible.  And those pins will pierce
him, while you lean across his shoulders giggling at his pain
and his powerlessness, before untying him from the cactus
and shoving him down (his hands still tied behind him), and 
shoving a dildo up his ass while using your favorite non-animant 
toy on yourself, turning and twisting that dildo with him to
make him gasp and groan as much as you gasp and moan, until
you're satisfied.

After which you'll be merciful, and take him back to your vehicle
(only moments aware, despite the hours of walking), where you
will clean and disinfect is punctured penis, then put him in
the back seat and be sure to hit plenty of bumps while taking him
back to where you are <dumping/keeping> him.  Or maybe to where
his clothes are, so he can walk back himself.

Of course, when you tie his balls-leash to the back bumper and
start to drive away, that's just a joke.


Not that you'd find any of this enjoyable, of course.

Or even a brief diversion from your toils.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
"Fencing in the Pet"

I've been having some interesting thoughts of you and electrified
dog collars.  Making you put on garter belt and stockings, with
the collars placed on your thighs where the electrodes will be
pressing into the bare flesh.  But I'm not thinking of you being
tortured like that girl in the story (at least not right now).

What I'm thinking about is using "invisible fence" technology
in such a way that, if you go past where you are allowed to
go, your left thigh will receive a strong shock.  And if you
go into a spot that is forbidden to you, your right thigh will
receive a strong shock.

If you don't withdraw, the shocks continue, and if you don't
withdraw within some (short) period, the belt around your
waist will deliver disabling shocks to you.  And you'll be
collected to receive punishment (*now* I'm thinking of you
experiencing what the woman in the story experienced).

Oh, and if either thigh collar is removed, the waist belt
will disable you (and send a signal that you were a bad
slave and should be punished).  And the waist belt (which can't
be removed without a combination you don't have, and attempting
to remove it will result in ... well, you know) will have
a device like those used in house arrest, so your location is
always known.

Of course, neither you nor I have enough space to make this
very interesting.  I'm imagining you as a guest at a nice
sizeable estate.  Oh, and here's an interesting side to all
this: you won't know, moment to moment, where you can and can't
go.  Oh, you'll know that some places are always barred to you.
You know that you can't go near the border of the estate.  You
know you can't go near a car.  You know you can't enter any room
which contains a telphone.

Not that you want to leave.  This is not an NC fantasy of that
sort.  Despite the sometimes cruel games we play with you, you
don't wish to leave.

I just want you to understand - to know with absolute certainty -
that you cannot leave.  No matter how much you might wish to,
you would be incapable of getting out of the estate or or summoning
any help.  The only way you could ever leave is by going to the
owner of the estate (me, as it's my fantasy) and asking very
nicely.  Then you might be allowed out.  Possibly without the
belt and collars.  More probably with them on, and knowing that
there was a timer on them and/or a distance setting, so you can
only go where you were given permission to go, and can only be
gone for as long as you were allowed to be gone.

And since I'd miss you while you were gone, when you got back
I'd chain you quite securely so you had to stay where I put
you for a long time.


But aside from those known limits, you'd not know where you
could go and be sure not to get a shock.  The range that you
could walk would be constantly changing, and areas which 
weren't off limits would be changed to off limits w/o you
knowing it.  Not while you were in them (if you receive a
shock while stationary it would be me letting you know that
I'm thinking about you); well, one exception: sometimes staying
in your room would not be an option.  But the room you stepped 
out of minutes ago, if you attempt to reenter it you might get 
a shock to your right.  And you won't know if you can enter
the garden, or if so how far into it you can go (I'd try
to have your favorite parts far inside it).  Or if you
can approach the brook on a warm day, or sit in the arbor
on a sunny day.  You might find yourself inside an invisible
pen on the lawn some warm, bright summer day, unable to 
step more than a few feet in any direction without a shock;
you might even find that your thigh-collars have to stay
a certain height, so you couldn't sit down.

No, my dear, I wouldn't make your life unrelenting misery.
Most of the time the collars would be uncomfortable
and perhaps embarrassing (did I mention the short skirts
you'd have to wear ?), but not painful.  You'd generally
be allowed to move about freely, within the known limits.

But you'd be reminded often enough that you were under
control, and that you can be toyed with and there's nothing
you can do about it.  Because you're a slave, and your
owner's plaything.

How often is often enough ?

Often enough to be sure that you never for even a moment
forget that you are owned.  And that nothing you can do
will change that fact.

---------------------------------------------------
Some thoughts for/of a femsub friend


I was flicking channels a few days ago and saw an American Justice
segment on kidnapping.  One segment concerned an Exxon executive
who'd been kidnapped, blindfolded, chained, and locked in a box.
So far standard enough.  

What struck me is where they took him next: to a commercial
storage facility.

I have often had fantasies about putting slaves literally
"on the shelf" and making them wait there (bound and blindfolded,
of course) until I was ready to use them again.  But putting
someone in storage was an idea which hadn't occured to me before.

I wouldn't use their method, of course.  I'd given some thought
to simply taking someone to a storage location and locking her in.
I seem to remember some such locations which were just about the
size that could accomodate a chair and a woman sitting on the
chair (with a couple water bottles at her feet).  Some are rather
larger, and could allow her to move about.

But I don't want her moving.

I do rather like having her hands cuffed behind her and her
chained to the wall by her neck.  But I can't leave someone 
standing like that for a long time.  Sitting on the floor chained 
by her neck is safer but still not safe enough.   And chained around 
the waist with several feet of slack is fun but not fun enough.


What I decided that I wanted is a nice strong (with padding)
suspension harness, which I could put her in and hang her up,
with the weight and strain distributed over her body.
Not hung terribly high.  Just high enough that even if she 
stretched her legs and reached down as far as she could with 
her toes (lovely image, that) she couldn't quite touch the floor 
(if she could, of course, then I'd elevate her a bit higher, as 
the optimal situation is her outstreteched toes oh-so-close to 
touching the floor, but not quite making it).

My romantic and my practical sides were in dispute after this.


My practical side wants her in the skimpiest bikini legal
in her locality, with her hands locked in leather cuffs in 
front of her, but otherwise free so she could reach up and 
remove the blindfold and pull the release cord with would 
drop her unto the wrestling mat on the floor, and with her 
purse (with cash, ID, driver's license, car keys, handcuff
keys, and key to storage garage) by the door, and herr car
just outside (so if she wished, or if she needed to, she could
get out).  She'd be given a password, and told to go with anyone
who had a key for the storage site and had the password.  When
they came for her, she'd be taken, blindfolded (and being 
distracted so she'd not know where she was going), to a secure 
destination (i.e. "scream if you want to, dear"), and fucked.

Only after her master's cock was moving within her would she
hear her master's voice (certainly an interesting variation on
the old RCA slogan/image), so she'd know this was ravishment
by her master rather than rape by a stranger (but if she thought
for a short time that it could be rape (and wondered for a long time
if she might be raped), that's not so bad (for her; mileage varies)).

And when she'd been used sexually - used without regard for
her pleasure, without interest in her orgasm or lack of one
(actually, lack of one at this time would be prefered, but the 
pretense is that her reaction is irrelevant, as she's an object 
being used), used as her master's sex toy - she'd be taken
back to storage and hung up again, to wait to be summoned 
again.

When summoned again, she'd be taken out of the harness, and
left standing blindfolded (the thick blindfold she'd be wearing
would also provide eye protection), arms folded and bound behind
her, waiting for the whip to find her again and again and again, 
until she was on the ground crying, at which point she'd be used
again. And again and again, with whatever instruments are available
for use on her (hands and tongue and other tools if/when other
instruments wear out).  But this time (well, after the first 
usage, anyway) with attention to making her come again and again 
and again.


My romantic side wants much of the same, but wants to start with
her naked and her hands locked to the body harness, and with her 
blindfold part of a locked head harness she can't escape from.  
And wants her with way of releasing the harness, and no way out 
of the storage even if she got her hands free and reached the floor.  
Her ankles would be closely hobbled and there'd be a bit in her
teeth to take away kicking and biting as means of resistance.
And there'd be no passwords and no warning about people coming 
for her; when they did, she'd go with them because she had no choice, 
and any resistance she offered would make no difference whatsoever.

She'd have no way out of the suspension, and if she could
get down, no way out of the harness/handcuffs/hobble/head-harness,
and if she could get out of them, no way out of the room, and
if she could get out of the room, the problem of how to get anyplace 
naked and w/o transport or money.  


My romantic side doesn't want her choice and freedom and any
possibility of resistance or refusal removed because she'd escape 
if only she could.  But rather because I want her to feel, and
to know, the impossibility of escape.  I want her to feel totally
powerless and utterly helpless, to know that nothing she can do
will alter her fate.  To know that anything at all can be done 
to her.

And that the only reason she isn't going to be harmed (hurt very
much, but not harmed) is not because of law or fear or morality
or because of her inalienable rights or because of anything that
she can do.  Her captors are not the sort to be cowed by such
things, so no law will keep her alive and whole if they want her
dead or dismembered, and there is *nothing* that she can do to
stop them from doing whatever they want to do with her.  

She is going to survive unharmed for one reason and one reason
only.  Which is that that captors and tormentors - who hurt 
her so cruelly and with such immense joy in her pain and 
powerlessness, and who revel in her squirms and pleas and 
tears - her captors and tormentors love her.  And every minute 
that she thinks she is hanging alone and forgotten in that 
storage garage, they are thinking of her and aching at the thought 
of her and wanting her so badly, but exercising restraint so as 
to induce her to feel what they want her to feel, to feel the 
objectification and the powerlessness.


Whch, of course, my practical side also wishes her to feel, that
combination of utter powerlessness and complete safety, the knowledge
that there is nothing at all she can do to protect herself, and
also nothing at all she needs to do to protect herself, as she is
totally safe in her captivity (well, safe from death or lasting
damage, physical or emotional; safe from harm; decidely not safe
from restraint, pain, and sexual use).

But my practical side worries a bit more about unforeseen events,
and so would sacrifice some of the thrill for additional safety.
Because she's much too valuable to risk losing.

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