That said, I WANT the toy that's used in it.
Do You Understand?
By
the time I came to, it was too late to do anything about it. I was already in
the chair, my chest was already strapped down. My ankles were locked in place,
my wrists strapped down and my hands covered in the sensory gloves. I opened my
eyes, but all I could see was static, like television tuned to a dead channel.
I
still struggled. With no idea how I got there in the first place, it would be
insane not to. I had an idea, but until I was sure, I wasn’t taking chances.
“Shh,”
her voice was soft, but so close that I could feel her breath on my ear. “It’s
me,” she said. “Stop struggling.”
And
I did.
I
felt her pat my head before putting in the ear buds, before laying the
electrodes across my chin and over my head. I tried to hold still, tried to
relax, despite having no idea where we were. Or if there was anyone watching.
There
was a sudden jolt of pain, agonizing but so quick that I barely registered it.
Then I was standing in the center of a ring of light. Outside the light, I
couldn’t see anything. But I was there, standing. No chair. No bonds.
“Is
it working?” I asked.
She
stepped to the edge of the light. I could see her silhouette, the expert cut of
her suit jacket, the sleek lines of her skirt, the curve of her legs, the sharp
lines of her expensive shoes. I could see the riding crop in her hand, and I
could see the flow of hair over her shoulders.
But
as hard as I tried, I couldn’t make out any details of her face.
“Welcome,”
she said. It was the wrong voice though. That wasn’t the voice I knew. This
voice was completely lacking in empathy, in concern, or in pity. It didn’t seem
to have even the capacity to feel
pity. I’ve never known a word to be as terrifying as that one.
“Um,”
I said. “Who are you?”
With
a quick flick of her wrist, the riding crop sliced through the air, smacking me
on the jaw and sending a jolt of pain down my face. I reached up, expecting to
find blood.
“Did
that hurt?” she asked in such a clinical way, as if asking whether I had a
family history of diabetes.
I
nodded.
“Then
do not speak unless I instruct you to,” she said.
I
gave her a weak and somewhat desperate smile. Her eyes bored into me. Those I
could see. Her eyes were clear and terrifying, as inhuman as anything I’d ever
imagined. They grabbed me with their intensity and held me so firmly that I
couldn’t even tell if she had other facial features.
“You
are my test subject,” she said. “And I will break you. Do you understand?”
I
nodded again.
Suddenly,
her hand was on my throat. I felt the manicured nails digging into my skin. Her
strength was undeniable, and it was all I could do to stay on my toes as she
crushed any hope I might have of taking a breath.
“When
you spoken to,” she said, her voice as calm and dispassionate as ever, “you
will answer. Any question you are asked requires a verbal answer. Do you
understand?”
“Y-yes,”
I croaked the word out, somewhat surprised I had even enough air to do that.
She
let me go, but before I could gasp in a breath, her knee shot up and sent a
jolt of fractal agony from my abused balls up through my stomach and chest,
down my legs, and into my head, until my fingers and toes tingled and my brain
ached.
“You
will refer to me as Maestro,” she said. I could feel her hair on my back as she
bent over at the waist to speak to me. Something about the movement seemed off,
almost inhuman.
“Do
you understand?” she asked.
“Yes
Maestro,” I said, my voice cracking and whimpering.
She
didn’t tell me I’d done well. Didn’t call me a good boy. Didn’t even say I was
a good slave. No reproach, no compliment, no nothing. No response whatsoever.
The next time I even knew she was there was when the rough hemp rope slipped
over my head and started to pull me upwards.
The
noose lifted me off the ground, the rope digging into my flesh. I could
breathe, but not as well as normal. I doubted I’d pass out any time soon. That
was as small a comfort as I could imagine.
I
reached my hands up to the rope, to try to pull myself free. But those
manicured hands gripped my wrists like iron vices, and no matter how
desperately I pulled against them, I couldn’t even slow their movement down as
they pulled my arms behind my back. I don’t know where she got the cuffs, but I
heard the rattling click as they tightened, and I knew that there would be no
reaching upward.
“I
could dislocate your shoulders,” she said to me. “That might give you the
freedom to reach up to the rope. If you could withstand the pain.”
I
was concentrating on breathing, and didn’t answer.
“You
will remain hanging there until you have satisfied my examination,” she said.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes
Maestro,” I lied, my voice a bare croak.
“First,”
she said, “we will examine your kinetic sensory perceptions.”
I
was about to do something stupid and ask what she meant. But she saved me the
need when she slammed her fist into my side, just below the ribs. It was like
being punched by a professional boxer. The delivery was direct, precise, and
incredibly painful.
She
didn’t let me swing from the impact, though. I was still just registering the
pain to my side when her fist slammed into my thigh. The muscles in my legs
contracted into a tight ball of cramping agony, and I wanted nothing more than
to stretch it out. Briefly, I even forgot about the noose around my neck.
Then
her foot smacked me across the face. I hadn’t seen her jump, but she must have.
The top of her shoe slapped my cheek, and I spun all the way around as stars
danced in my vision.
She
stopped my movement and looked me up and down, briefly touching each of the
places she had hit, cataloging the sources of pain that thrummed in my body.
“Good,” she said. “Now we will examine your capacity for extreme sensation. Do
you understand?”
“No
Maestro,” I said.
She
kicked me between the legs so hard that the pressure from the rope briefly
slackened, before snapping back into place when gravity took hold again. I
couldn’t cough, couldn’t curl into a ball. All I could do was whimper and
clench my teeth so tightly together that I was amazed they didn’t shatter.
“You
will never refuse me,” she said. “The word ‘no’ is not one you are permitted to
use. Do you understand?”
“Yes
Maestro.” I forced the words out between the tears.
Then
I yelped like a little girl as she started spraying something cold between my
legs. It was instantly numbing, that kind of deep cold of winter’s sharpest
teeth digging in to my cock. The numbness was a blessing, but a brief one. The
fangs of winter kept pushing, kept pressing deeper, and the cold seeped down,
past the numbness and into pain. Not just pain, but agony. It was so cold I
thought my blood was freezing, and I wanted to scream.
But
there was no air. And what little air I could get in was hot and thick.
I
opened my eyes, the cold between my legs still intensifying, feeling as if my
legs were crystalizing. She stood in front of me with a torch in one hand and a
spray bottle in the other.
“While
examining your capacity for sensation extremes,” she said, spraying the bottle
above my head, and then at my neck, then on my chest, “we will also examine your
endurance.” She reached the torch above my head, and I smelled something
burning. Something that, thankfully, was not me.
“The
rope will burn through somewhat swiftly,” she said. “Keep your mouth shut
during that time. Do you understand?”
“Yes
Maestro.”
She
shook her head. “Obviously not,” she said.
Then
she tapped my neck with the torch, and a quick flash of fire licked up around
the rope. It didn’t last long enough for the rope to light, just long enough
for me to feel that there had been fire that close to my skin.
At
which point she pressed the torch to my chest, and I felt the flames burn away
any hair I had. I tried again to scream as it felt like my skin began to
sizzle, the contrast between agonizing heat on my chest and pitiless cold on my
crotch leaving me so confused I wasn’t even sure which way was up.
“Focus,”
she said. I forced my eyes open, and found hers waiting like a spider in her
web. “If you fall incorrectly, the frozen flesh will impact the floor. It will
shatter, and you will be castrated. Do you understand?”
Oh
god. It didn’t just feel frozen. It
actually was.
I
nodded.
She
didn’t chastise me for not answering out loud. She was too busy looking up at
the rope. “Four seconds,” she said.
I
landed briefly on my feet, then slipped to the side and let my shoulder take
the brunt of the impact, praying that nothing had broken off. I lay on the
floor, gasping for breath, hoping the burned smell wasn’t me, hoping that my manhood
was intact.
“You
need time to thaw,” she said, pulling the rope from around my neck and rolling
me onto my back. “You should not move. Do you understand?”
“Yes
Maestro,” I said.
My
eyes went wide when I saw the light sparkling off the needle. I bit my lip when
she ran it through the skin on my chest without preamble. The cool metal felt
oddly comforting under the flesh that felt like it was still burning from the
fire. I almost let out a sigh when the second needle followed the first.
She
moved like a machine, sliding needle after needle through my skin. They were
long needles, some as long as a foot, puncturing skin with a crunching feeling.
She twisted them inside me, and I felt them roll under my skin.
Ten
needles. Twenty. I lost track after thirty five.
The
pain in my chest distracted me from everything else as she began lifting the
needles bit by bit. Not enough to rip through the skin, but enough to feel like
they would.
I
went to scream, and she put her hand on my throat again, calmly cutting off any
oxygen. “Do not move,” she said.
She
held me there, sticking needles through my flesh with her other hand, ignoring my
struggles, ignoring my increasingly desperate attempts to get a breath in
edgewise. My vision began to blur, fading at the edges. I couldn’t make out any
shapes, couldn’t hear anything other than the blood pounding in my ears, couldn’t
feel anything other than the pain of needle after needle jabbing into my flesh and
the crushing weight of that manicured hand crushing my windpipe. I knew I was
going to pass out, knew there was nothing I could do to stop it.
My
vision faded, until all I could see was the static. Television, tuned to a dead
channel. I could feel the strap on my chest, the chair under my body, the
electrodes on my skull.
I
was breathing, gasping for air. My body was covered in sweat, but there was no
pain, no lingering sensation of any kind.
She
pulled the buds out of my ears, lifted the glasses off my face, and smiled at
me. She shined a light into my eyes, made me follow her fingers.
“How
was it?” she asked, letting me loose.
I
stretched as I stood, imagining aches that weren’t actually there, checking my
body to make sure that everything that should have been there was still intact.
“Intense,”
I said. “I couldn’t stop it.”
“That’s
the idea. It monitors your brain, though. It won’t push you farther than you
can handle, and it won’t do any lasting damage.”
I
thought about the castration threat. It had seemed real. Too real.
“It
felt like it was pushing me too far.”
“That’s
because you have conscious limits,” she said. “And those aren’t the same. Your unconscious
limits are much more,” she smirked at me, “flexible. You can handle a lot more than
you think you can.”
“I
guess.”
“No
guess,” she said. “It’s a fact.”
Then
she looked at me with eyes that were terrifyingly familiar.
“Do you understand?”
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