(CNC play, possible triggers)
(Fiction...or not)
(unfinished)
She bowed her head low to the floor, felt the resilience of the lacquered wood surface under her knees as its chill sank into her skin. Her loose hair fell forward to cover her face, her cheeks, her eyes, but that didn’t matter. She was still exposed, ass up, everything available to see.
Later she would realize she hadn’t closed the cracked window she kept open for fresh air. It had remained open, like the shocked gaping mouths of her neighbors. Were the blinds open, too? They had been, hadn’t they, to let in the sun, the way she liked it in the morning and the curtains too, so that she could look out at the street.
Later.
But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, she was lost, lost to a voice, a rumble, a taking, a feeding. He was making her wait for it, wait on his bite, his teeth. Wait on the lashing and churning. It had been more than a week, and he was still making her wait.
Her hair trapped her breath. Made her face hot. Made the room small. The afternoon turned humid.
“Turn so I can see. Rotate,” the voice on the computer speaker said.
She did. A scooting, graceless movement. He didn’t say anything about that; for all his thousand little cruelties and humiliations, there were lines of truth he never crossed, and that made her ridiculously grateful.
“I want to see all my holes. Look at that. Look at my slut. You are a lovely girl, aren’t you? Very wet today, also, yes?”
She didn’t answer.
“Aren’t you?”
The question stung like a prod. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to do this. But she was doing this because she had made an agreement months ago and still refused to use the one out he’d given her.
When she said stop, he would stop. But then, he would stop everything, and she would never have this, have him, again.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Yes what?”
A small delay, as if she was thinking, then finally, “Yes, Sir.”
He laughed. “You want to play with me? When you’re showing me your wet pussy and your asshole like a bitch in heat? You want games, Princess?”
“No, Sir.” She didn’t wait to answer. She wasn’t trying to be a brat, but the split in what she wanted and what she hated was a real thing. She’d do anything to get to that point where she stopped caring about what he wanted, that sweet, empty space of possibility and pleasure, and he knew it.
He was a faceless voice on her screen, who could see her, but she saw nothing, not since the very first video call. Then, as if turning out a light switch, that was it. All she got now was darkness. Two months later, and she still hadn’t seen his face. Just his voice.
His voice that he poured into her veins and left behind to boil and cook her soul.
“Are you sure? Did you get the packages I sent? Maybe you are ready for the real games? Turn and sit up, show me those big tits. Shoulders back. Hurry the fuck up, you really don’t want to make me wait again.”
She moved. Followed directions. But her insides quivered with the demand, stars of want bursting from the seed pods where she’d tried to bury and forget them. He was right. She was wet, getting more slick and more swollen by the second.
“Grab your left nipple hard. Pinch. Lift, pull. Do it like a man is touching you, slut. Now.”
She did it, not hiding the grimace on her face.
“Do you like that?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, Sir.”
“Are you sure? I can see how the color on your face is changing. I fucking love how you blush down to your tits, how red you get when you are aroused. And you are very aroused, aren’t you, Pretty? Very fucking aroused. Spread your legs apart, show me that little fat cunt of yours. Do it. And look at that, even your clit is swollen.”
He narrated her condition as if she wasn’t there experiencing it, seeing everything about her that she couldn’t deny. But she was sinking deep now, into the place where she forgot how old she was, how her body looked after carrying four children, how she wore time on her skin like a map of every life choice.
All of her reality evaporated in the addictive, intoxicating fumes of his voice.
In this cruelty, where she was made ugly, she also was made beautiful. Desired. She didn’t understand why or how, only that this profane, humiliating journey had made her whole in ways she had never been before.
She hated it.
But how could she walk away from it?