TaintedB
Finished
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2004
- Posts
- 4,579
darkromance6.jpg The Prisoner
I sit in this drab corner of his well-lit basement, day after day, week after week, staring at the blank cement walls, nothing to do, nobody to talk to, wishing with all my heart my tormentor would come to visit me.
When he first abducted me, I hated everything about him. I hated the rough way he'd rape me in every hole, over and over, until I was sore and bleeding. I hated how he'd laugh at my sobs when his hands were on me, tormenting. I even learned to hate his freshly-showered smell. I hated his voice when he'd try to converse with me or, rarely, try to read to me. I'd scream at him to leave me alone or just scream...period, until he slapped me into silence or left in disgust. It became a game to me: to see how quickly I could make this hateful man leave.
And gradually he did start to leave me alone. First his daily visits became less frequent, until they were down to a very brief check-in once a day. Then it seemed days would pass before he'd bother me. Now it's been at least three weeks. I know how long because the woman who comes once a day to clean and exercise me (like the animal I now am!) tells me the date and the time "to keep me oriented." A couple of days ago I swallowed my pride and asked my female keeper what had become of my jailer. She said she wasn't allowed to tell me anything about that.
More and more I find myself spending the long empty hours between my two daily meals reliving in my mind the atrocious things he used to do to me, his arrogant assumption of total ownership of my body, his mostly taunting but occasionaly gentle tone when he spoke to me.
(On that first day, after he'd stripped me and taken me twice in my ass, he sat on my prone shaking body, square on my buttocks, and proceeded to movingly recite aloud, as if only to himself, poetry by Walt Whitman!
"From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.")
To my horror and self-disgust, I find myself missing his abuse and wondering where he is. How he is spending his time. Wondering if he's with somebody else and has forgotten I exist. Imagining that she may be chained up, just like me, and feeling his awful eye on her right this moment--and then I feel insanely jealous. What sort of person does this make me? It's not somebody I like very well.
When I am not thinking of my jailer I find myself wishing I were dead. I devise ingenious ways to kill myself quickly before someone notices. (The video camera, perched high on the wall, is always pointed at my corner, reminding me remorselessly, ironically of how I got into my present horrific position: high on beauty and power and champagne, I let the wrong person (him) see me on my web cam). At night, when the lights go down, I put my head in my arms and allow myself to cry, saving a small shred of dignity by pretending that the camera isn't able to pick it up.
Despite the ministrations of the woman who comes to care for me once a day, the old-fashioned shackles around my wrists and ankles are starting to chafe badly, to open the skin in a few places. I not only welcome this jagged pain, I embrace it with fierce joy, and I pray that it will worsen. It is a sign that to me that my body is breaking down, and given what I am living through now the destruction of my body and the oblivion that would bring would be a most welcome relief.
Today I find to my deep shame that my mental re-living of his furious rapes and, far worse to me, his cruel emotional torments has made me intensely aroused. I've been shifting restlessly around in my chains for hours, trying not to touch myself, trying to think of anything else but this latest and greatest humiliation. To like the vile things that he has done to me, to find them hot, even, is someplace I never imagined I could go. My imprisonment, it sometimes seems, has been comprised entirely of searing moments of truth where I realize that things can't possibly get any worse...until the next, even more terrible moment comes.
I think my cleaner is late today. I think she should have been here by now. I'm rather relieved she's taking her time. Maybe by the time she gets here I'll have cooled down and the shameful wet spot I can feel on these ugly pyjama pants I wear will have dried enough not to be noticable.
Oh shit, I hear someone coming down the stairs. I shouldn't have bothered hoping for even a small relief from my misery. She'll notice the wet spot when she takes my clothes off and probably tell _him_. Not that he'll care. I glance up wearily as the door opens. Oh my god, it's not her!
I've dreamed about this moment for days and now I find I cannot say a single word. Why is he just standing there, with that small, hard, knowing smile? It suddenly clicks for me and my mortification is so intense, not just at being caught feeling this way but at being "handled" until I reached this place, that it feels for a moment as if I have left my body. I cannot stop a small involuntary moan as I turn my face into the wall, cooling my burning cheeks against my thick, black hair.
I sit in this drab corner of his well-lit basement, day after day, week after week, staring at the blank cement walls, nothing to do, nobody to talk to, wishing with all my heart my tormentor would come to visit me.
When he first abducted me, I hated everything about him. I hated the rough way he'd rape me in every hole, over and over, until I was sore and bleeding. I hated how he'd laugh at my sobs when his hands were on me, tormenting. I even learned to hate his freshly-showered smell. I hated his voice when he'd try to converse with me or, rarely, try to read to me. I'd scream at him to leave me alone or just scream...period, until he slapped me into silence or left in disgust. It became a game to me: to see how quickly I could make this hateful man leave.
And gradually he did start to leave me alone. First his daily visits became less frequent, until they were down to a very brief check-in once a day. Then it seemed days would pass before he'd bother me. Now it's been at least three weeks. I know how long because the woman who comes once a day to clean and exercise me (like the animal I now am!) tells me the date and the time "to keep me oriented." A couple of days ago I swallowed my pride and asked my female keeper what had become of my jailer. She said she wasn't allowed to tell me anything about that.
More and more I find myself spending the long empty hours between my two daily meals reliving in my mind the atrocious things he used to do to me, his arrogant assumption of total ownership of my body, his mostly taunting but occasionaly gentle tone when he spoke to me.
(On that first day, after he'd stripped me and taken me twice in my ass, he sat on my prone shaking body, square on my buttocks, and proceeded to movingly recite aloud, as if only to himself, poetry by Walt Whitman!
"From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.")
To my horror and self-disgust, I find myself missing his abuse and wondering where he is. How he is spending his time. Wondering if he's with somebody else and has forgotten I exist. Imagining that she may be chained up, just like me, and feeling his awful eye on her right this moment--and then I feel insanely jealous. What sort of person does this make me? It's not somebody I like very well.
When I am not thinking of my jailer I find myself wishing I were dead. I devise ingenious ways to kill myself quickly before someone notices. (The video camera, perched high on the wall, is always pointed at my corner, reminding me remorselessly, ironically of how I got into my present horrific position: high on beauty and power and champagne, I let the wrong person (him) see me on my web cam). At night, when the lights go down, I put my head in my arms and allow myself to cry, saving a small shred of dignity by pretending that the camera isn't able to pick it up.
Despite the ministrations of the woman who comes to care for me once a day, the old-fashioned shackles around my wrists and ankles are starting to chafe badly, to open the skin in a few places. I not only welcome this jagged pain, I embrace it with fierce joy, and I pray that it will worsen. It is a sign that to me that my body is breaking down, and given what I am living through now the destruction of my body and the oblivion that would bring would be a most welcome relief.
Today I find to my deep shame that my mental re-living of his furious rapes and, far worse to me, his cruel emotional torments has made me intensely aroused. I've been shifting restlessly around in my chains for hours, trying not to touch myself, trying to think of anything else but this latest and greatest humiliation. To like the vile things that he has done to me, to find them hot, even, is someplace I never imagined I could go. My imprisonment, it sometimes seems, has been comprised entirely of searing moments of truth where I realize that things can't possibly get any worse...until the next, even more terrible moment comes.
I think my cleaner is late today. I think she should have been here by now. I'm rather relieved she's taking her time. Maybe by the time she gets here I'll have cooled down and the shameful wet spot I can feel on these ugly pyjama pants I wear will have dried enough not to be noticable.
Oh shit, I hear someone coming down the stairs. I shouldn't have bothered hoping for even a small relief from my misery. She'll notice the wet spot when she takes my clothes off and probably tell _him_. Not that he'll care. I glance up wearily as the door opens. Oh my god, it's not her!
I've dreamed about this moment for days and now I find I cannot say a single word. Why is he just standing there, with that small, hard, knowing smile? It suddenly clicks for me and my mortification is so intense, not just at being caught feeling this way but at being "handled" until I reached this place, that it feels for a moment as if I have left my body. I cannot stop a small involuntary moan as I turn my face into the wall, cooling my burning cheeks against my thick, black hair.
I'm coming off of a very long dry spell, so I think I've got enough stories in me to tide us over until others start posting.
