The Bad Slave.

He fucks my mouth with one and my cunt with the other. With nine-inches of glass, he hurts my cunt so I want to scream, the wider I open my mouth to scream, the deeper into my throat he pushes whatever marginal segment of the eighteen-inches of silicone I can accommodate.

“No teeth,” he instructs through gritted teeth, “Open wide, open your fucking mouth."

I try, but my tongue wants to push it out instead. He pulls out of my mouth and smacks my lips with it. It’s very heavy, I feel them swell instantly. I move my head around to avoid the blows landing on my face, so he punches the glass dildo that is lodged deep inside me. I scream. It is unavoidable, I am only vying for inhumane levels of silent endurance, I don’t really intend to achieve them, I couldn’t. He smacks my mouth with the comically huge dildo again.

“Scream again,” he dares me as he shoves it back inside my mouth, “Scream and I’ll shove the glass dildo in your mouth and fuck it until you’re swallowing your teeth."

I resolve to be more complaisant for the thirteenth time this evening, I suck on the cock in my mouth and spread my legs. As I breathe deeply, I remind myself to behave, and it seems to work, through the soporific haze and moisture in my eyes, I see him nod approvingly. You’d think that if he wants me to have a bunch of cocks in me at once, he’d bring a few people over and have them fuck me instead of this, but I know it’s not about that. If there were people attached to these cocks, it wouldn’t hurt as much, their humanity and sentience would interfere in this. He wouldn’t even fuck me like this with his own cock, because he would feel it too, and he wouldn’t be able to be as unyielding. It’s about obliterating me with pain. It’s also about the vulgarity of making me choke on a cock that feels nothing and scream for another that’s been vitrified. He doesn’t just want me to beg him to stop, he wants me to beg *them*, it makes him happy when I appeal to the mercy of the inanimate over his.

As I focus my attention on sucking the cock in my mouth, he pulls the other one out of me in one swift motion. I don’t know if this is the case for everyone, but I hate being evacuated, I hate having things pulled out of me. It’s not because I want to keep it in, it’s the sensation of pulling out, it feels like something is being clawed from within me. He pulls out of my mouth and puts both of them down on my chest. The silicone feels cold and the glass feels warm, there’s something wrong about that. He grabs my jaw and pushes it open, staring into my eyes in that horrible manner that makes you feel just a little too seen, it’s like realising you’re being watched when you’re scratching a persistent itch. His other hand hovers over my cunt, and I know he can see me seize up in panic as he starts to stroke my skin, inspecting it for imaginary flaws I know he will find.

“You are pathetic,” he says to me, “I have to play with a pathetic toy.”

“I’m sorry for being pathetic,” the words come out of me, without any thought.

He laughs and continues to stroke my cunt. His fingers do horrible things to me down there. Gentle things, designed to evoke desire and debasement, to remind me of shame and warn me of impending humiliation. Maybe somewhere in this universe there is a version of me that’s being touched to incite pleasure, but he touches me to remind me how dirty I am, and I feel dirty enough to span every multiverse in which I may exist. He touches me to put me in a specific space, one he painstakingly built with shattered fragments of my shame and fished out of boxes of my secrets that I thought I had successfully hidden. When he touches me, I disappear, a version of me that has been trained to be a plaything is all that remains. It does what he wants, it has no idea what else it could do. It feels what he wants, terrified to want for itself.

“May I please moan?” I ask, because I must ask, even though I have no idea when that happened or how, but at some point, it became egregious that I express pleasure without his permission, and sometimes, venial that I express it at all.

“Aww! It behaves!” he says pressing down on my mouth with his thumb, “You may moan, but only so long as you follow the rules. You know what you have to do, right?”

“I have to be a good slave,” I say, immediately.

Good slave. I have no idea what that means, it changes all the time, sometimes I am good when I cry and sometimes good slaves don’t cry, sometimes I am good when I beg, and sometimes good slaves keep their mouths shut. Good is a Utopian place, it doesn’t exist, but even in its unachievable state, it morphs to his convenience. Good isn’t something I know to be, good is only being what he wants me to be right now, and one minute later, he could decide what was then *good* is now bad. Maybe good is being okay with that. He permits me to moan so I moan as he teases me, reminding me as he does that I am dirty, that I deserve to feel ashamed and denied. I thank him for touching me even though I am pathetic, I apologise for being dirty, I disparage myself for being desperate and aroused; I make amends on behalf of my body, on behalf of my cunt for being wet, and my voice for being heard. It’s all part of being good. It’s all part of being his slave.

“Do you feel like coming?” he asks me, as he runs circles around my clit.

“No master,” I promise, “I don’t deserve to come.”

I know that is good. I know that is what this is about. There are rules, and then there are beliefs, and the belief he has been teaching me for a few years now is that good slaves don’t have orgasms, this touch is not for my pleasure, it is for his amusement and my humiliation. If perchance, I even do orgasm because he permits it, it now immediately causes panic and fear. Apologies and orgasms come together for me now, and moments later, so does pain. I don’t know how he did that to my body, how did he teach it to hurt me in ways I didn’t fathom?

“That’s right, you don’t deserve to come, good slaves don’t do that,” he reiterates as I moan into his fingers, “But you want to, don’t you?”

“I don’t, I promise I don’t, I won’t think about it,” I beg in the form of tearful resolution, “I want to be a good slave.”

I really don’t want to come, but I will want it, eventually, if he doesn’t stop. I won’t be able to help it. Of late, he enjoys teasing me until I admit that I *feel* like coming, that I thought about it, and if I did, then I’m bad, and so I know, I know exactly where this is going and the more I resolve to be good, the more her teases me. The more his fingers stroke, up and down, over my cunt, as if to test my intention to be *good.* The worse his words become, more specific, like an arrow he bores into my heart, pulls out and then bores into my tongue, the closer I get to being bad. To begging him to let me come, he wont and I don’t want to feel this way, but I don’t stand a chance, he wants this to happen. He wants to punish me for being bad, more than he wants me to be good.

“I’m sorry,” I say, it’s an act of defeat, of horrid admittance that I cannot withstand any more of this without breaking.

“You want to come?” he asks, his fingers as horrendously honeyed as his tongue, “You’re a bad slave.”

As soon as he says the words, he starts to slap my cunt. He does it repeatedly, without any inkling of a slow escalation, he just attacks my cunt as he would my face, *because I thought about coming*. I promise I won’t do it again, I promise I’ll learn to quash even the thought of desire, but I know it doesn’t matter.

“You have to be punished,” he declares, and my heart clenches like it’s a cunt, “You know what to do.”

I do know. This is the shibboleth of our love, this ritual is the dirtiest dance we perform together, the most private act of violence, the one that has become a collective compulsion; the one I dream of longingly when he’s away and have nightmares about when he is sleeping beside me. I turn around and get my knees, I bury my face into the pillow and put my hands behind my back. It’s the hands that do it for him, I never met a man so aroused by the willing surrender of as wrist as he. I bite the pillow as I feel something cold and hard against my asshole, I want to beg him to spare me but I know that will only make it worse. He pushes inside me, crass and cruel, and I chew on the covers to keep myself from screaming.

“I deserve this,” I say in my head, or out loud, I am not certain.

I repeat it to myself as he fucks me with the phallic appendage, he is inside my head, and inside places I once resolved no one else would ever access, but my resolve means nothing here, I deserve this. I retreat inside my head to a place of eerie quietude, a place from which it takes a few days to emerge, but it is capacious enough to accommodate all of my suffering. It is silence. In this place, I can cry, but cannot speak. Sometimes, it feels like I will never speak again. As I drown in the silence, he pulls out of me and grabs me by the hair. He pulls me up and drags me, I bump into the bedpost and the chair, it’s like I am collecting injuries to keep me warm, like gathering blankets on a cold day. He drags me into the bathroom and throws me against the wall, before I can balance myself, he hits me in the face.

“You are useless,” he tells me, punching my arms and face, in an onslaught of blows delivered too fast to register, “I give you every opportunity to be good but you’re a bad fucking slave.”

He continues to beat me with his fists and throw me around until I fall, I fall onto my hands and knees and he continues to beat me with his feet. He kicks my hip and I cower, I gravitate towards the drain as if I am liquid, and I could be saved, if I just poured myself into these little holes. I hide my face in my arms and try to cram myself into the corner, as if the act of latibulation will make me disappear, but he pulls me out and puts me back on my hands and knees. He puts his foot on my head and pushes it down onto the bathroom floor. For a moment, there is stillness, and I close myself. As I do I feel a warm liquid pouring onto my back, rolling down towards my neck and pooling onto the floor beside me. Theoretically, I see no reason to be humiliated by him pissing on me, but as a more sensory experience, in the sensation of the warmth and the smell of the refuse, I know exactly why it is humiliating. As he finishes, he retreats off me, I wait for instruction, the warmth turns to sticky coldness, so quickly.

“Sit up,” he says as a spray of ice-cold water hits me in neck, “Squat on the floor, put your hands behind your head.”

I do as I am told and I see the health-faucet in his hand, the source of the chill running down my spine. He aims it at my face and sprays, the water hits me and drowns me at the same moment. I fall backwards but it finds me with ease. He walks closer to me, holds me by the head and sprays it right into my face. When I struggle, he wraps my face in my hair and pours to water onto it. I hate this feeling, I hate it when half my body is dry and somehow I am still drowning. I would cry, but it feels pointless, my tears wont even make it out of my eyes before they are washed away. Finally, he flings the health faucet back across the room, and I am able to breathe. He pushes the hair out of my face.

“You cannot do anything right,” he says to me, “You will never be a good slave.

I know I shouldn’t believe that, but I do, and I cry as he stares into my face. The tears aren’t loud, they aren’t attempting to garner sympathy from him, they’re just there. It’s just how I feel.

“Clean the floor,” he orders me.

I lower my head to lick it, because I don’t know what he means.

“No,” he says, grabbing me by my hair, “Scrub the floor clean with your hair.”

I hold my hair in my hands and look at it, I don’t know why this feels so sad, I grew this hair for him because he told me he would choke me with it, and he did, but he also told me it is pretty. That he loves touching it and looking at it, and now he makes me scrub the bathroom floor with it, but I do it. It feels right, it feels like I deserve this.

“You can wash yourself up once the floor is dry and clean,” he says as he turns to walk away.

I look up and watch him leave. For a moment, I gaze at the doorway from where he disappeared, the tears fall out of my eyes and onto the floor. I scrub them out with my hair. I scrub and I scrub. I scrub and cry in a frenzy, pulling at my own hair and lowering myself as close to the tile as I can get. I scrub and I scrub. I must. If I s

crub it all out, master, will I be a good slave?

Please.