When you awake from your troubled slumbers she stands before you and you remember that you are bound and helpless in a dark dank basement chamber. Her dungeon.
Poor fool you had no inkling of the consequences of that first letter you wrote to this pitiless woman. Woman? You’ve never see your torturer other than this. Behind that mask, under the corset is their a robot or nonhuman monster. A demon from a Place you don’t believe exists.
The moment you met her you almost fainted. Merely standing in the doorway she seemed to suggest vistas of degradation and pain beyond the edges of your fantasies. So right, so wrongly right.
Hungry with anticipation you almost volunteered your submission before it was solicited. No limits. No safe word. What wouldn’t you have agreed to in your haste to kneel before her.
Nightly you suffered. Who knew there were so many pathways to pain. With what contempt you could regard yourself.
You no longer even wished you could escape. Your doom seemed ordained. Would that it came soon.
More terrifying that the hurt and humiliation was her impersonality.
Does your torturer enjoy her work on your body and spirit. Her emotions remain unguessable behind the the unmoving mask. She never speaks. Her movement is steady, never quick. No visible sign of enthusiasm. It is as if she is a gifted craftswoman of pain performing a routine task with disinterested competence.
What are the motives of her sadism? Even in your near terminal condition you have to believe she enjoys your suffering.
You will never know just as you will never escape the trap you set for yourself.
You await the kindness of oblivion.
Originally posted 2014-09-04 06:57:54.