Painting Nyctophobia "Slut and lust are the same word, only spelled differently". The footsteps echo around the room. The room is big and dark. The ceiling is invisible, lost in the shadows. There are shapes around the room. Mechanical. Straight lines. Dark glisten. They have no names, no obvious purpose. The source of light is a dim naked bulb hanging from somewhere. It dances like a pendulum. It shifts the room from one shadow to another. From one imagined vision to another. The bonds bite deep into the flesh of the wrists. The leather sinks into the skin with cold malice. The hands are becoming dead and weak from the lack of blood. In return, a thin stream of blood slowly makes its way towards the elbow, the skin giving way to the leather. The blood is thick and hot. "A whore is not about selling her body." The voice is soft, whispered. At the same time it is hard, unforgiving, harsh. At the same time it is cold and detached. The voice that drifts around, makes slow circles, bounces off distant, bare walls. "A whore is about disappearing in her own lust. In stealing others' freedom to feed hers." The voice has no gender to it. The whisper is cold, harsh and genderless. The sound of breathing through nostrils. As the excitement and fear take over, the breathing has to get heavier. The mouth - gagged. A thick plastic ball. Choking, threatening. The room is vast and it is cold which makes the nipples become unusually hard. Yet, there is sweat running down the forehead, the salt in it making the eyes hurt. "You are a whore." There are letters on the skin. Pale and almost invisible. They form words. Harsh, derogatory. Words that describe the body that carries them. There is black lace against the skin. And gold and silver. There is rope. There is pain from being spread wide, there is humiliation and shame. Being exposed, helpless, open. Being vulnerable. "A slut", the figure spits the word out. The feet shaped by shoes: curved, hanging in the air. High, spiky heels casting long shadows. Bonds around the ankle. Ropes and chains too. "A whore". It is dressed in black leather. There is no telling the gender as the outfit conceals the body as much as it makes it look more threatening. As it moves around the centre of the room in circles, the dim light doesn't even allow for the size to be told. It wears hard leather boots and it has no face. "Your body no more than a tool for your own lust." There is a thin, fine, flesh-coloured mask on its face and head. Thus, the face has no features, it looks like empty skin that talks. There is no hair either. The creature has no name, no face, no gender. It is black and cold. "You need to be punished. Lust has no moral values, no creative strength. It just eats whatever it can sink its teeth in." The fear is greater for the fact that there is no emotion in the voice. There is no anger, there is no passion, there is no jealousy. Outside it rains. The sound is distant but permanent. The trees weep under the wind. There are no birds on branches. There are no voices in the street. There is no Moon, no stars. There are no cars. Just clouds and the night and drops of rain. There is no music, no pianos, no flutes, no saxes nor cymbals. Just rain and slow, heavy footsteps around the room and a voice that whispers. The hands in black gloves work slowly and methodically. The touch is clinical and calculated. The breasts are being squeezed and pulled. Then tied up with harsh hemp rope. First the left one. The letters swell up to grotesque proportions. Then the right one. The nipples grow deep red. Then there are metallic clips, placed on each one. Heavy and strong, cold and shiny. The sweat of fear and pain is wiped off the forehead and face by the figure, as an afterthought. There are muffled screams but the gag prevents them from being really heard. Maybe they are pleas for mercy, maybe they are defiant curses. Only one person in the world might know. There is bizarre contrast between the agony one body goes through and carefully measured gestures of the other. "This is just the beginning." The surface beneath is hard. The legs, high up in the air are being spread even wider with the rope. "You need to realise. I have to make you realise." Out comes the whip. There is a painting on the opposite wall of the room. Then again, it probably has no significance to any of this whatsoever. There are not four elements to this world. There aren't even two. Certainly not hundreds. There is, in fact only one. In the whole thing that humans call universe. "Now." There is no begging, there is no falling to one's knees. Because the one is tied up and helpless. The one is prepared to be tortured and violated. The whip touches the skin and slides across it slowly. It follows a drawing on the skin that is not even there. A drawing of an invisible object, a name of an impossible creature. The screams all remain contained in the mind and throat and mouth. What comes out is more akin to a puppy weeping. Deafening on the inside, barely audible outside. There is just sound of leather croaking and flesh being punished. Repeat. The hands in black gloves remove the gag. "I need to hear you. I am very interested in hearing you." It is. It sounds like it is. The lashes are repeated in the same way. Elegant, efficient, full of cruel grace. The smell of sweat fills the room. Now that there is screaming it looks smaller, more intimate. Twitching, struggling. The pain comes again. And again. And again. And again. The impossibility of escaping is as frightening as the pain itself. The blood runs down forearms as the bonds bite deeper, challenged by the struggling. Hands become fists as the effort to break free forces nails into palms. The skin of breasts goes deep red and purple and black. There are whip marks there, wriggling shapes covering the letters, defacing them, never succeeding in erasing them. There are screams for mercy. And there is none. "Scream and beg." The leather has it's own smell and it mixes with the smell of sweat to draw a mental picture. "I want you to beg, to plea for mercy. Let me hear you beg, whore." Every plea is rewarded by another lash. The breasts, the belly, the crotch, the thighs. Silk and skin are being bruised and torn. "I wish I could feel your pain." The body beneath is burning. Eyes can almost see the red glow of pain and boiling blood. "I wish I was the one to be punished and cleansed and saved. Instead I have to cleanse you, help you change your depraved ways." The hand touches the skin. Almost gently. It slides across the belly and between thighs. The fingers penetrate the cunt. Three and then four. "I expected this." it says. The fingers go in and out, then move left and right, examining the limits, stretching the flesh. At first slowly and then harder and harder. The sense of being prepared for something horrible takes over. "I expected this." The look on the face that isn't there examines the black fingers closely. Stray rays of light deflect from the shiny black surface. The sticky, transparent mucus. "I knew you would be this way." There is no tone in the voice. No sense of triumph, no feel of disappointment. The figure reaches back and one of the odd shapes is brought into the light. A large mirror placed in front. "You need to watch to understand." The body is bruised and covered in red and purple whip-marks. The forearms and hands are bloody. The breasts are swollen and purple, the nipples as if they are about to burst. The face is a mess of make up, sweat and tears. The figure approaches. "This" it says. Swift movement of one hand lifts the mask just above the lips. The warm spit hits the face beneath. The mask back in its place in a blink of an eye. "And this" One hand grabs the hair and holds the head firmly in place. The other uses red lipstick on the face. There is nowhere to go. Nothing to do to stop it. The words in large red letters leap back from the mirror. They are inverted but simple enough to read. Both have only four letters. On the cheeks, under the eyes. Red and impossible to ignore. They state their point and carry the message previously known to but a few. "This is being filmed, you know.", the figure whispers. "You and others need to be reminded of this in future." The fingers are back inside. This time they aren't examining. This time they are invading, punishing and penetrating. Deeper and without mercy. "That's it." Deeper and harder. Scream. Fingers. Latex. Impatient, cruel shoves. "You dirty whore, your cunt sucks my hand in. You are a bigger slut than anyone could think" The pain of being penetrated and taken like this. The humiliation. The pelvic movements as it thrashes back and forth. The saliva that runs down the chin. "All of it. Yes, all of it." The fingers stretch the warm, slippery flesh. The hand sinks in. There is a sense of being invaded, filled. And pain. "With my fist, because you don't deserve any better" The fist fucks the cunt, deep and hard. At the same time, the other hand squeezes already hurting breasts. "This is you. This is you being a slut, a whore that needs to be punished and degraded. Slut." The body rocks and twitches and thrashes in its bonds. The screams fill the room. Everything is in the mirror. Everything and then some. Red letters on the face, punished breasts, slut clothes and gaping cunt being fist-fucked. The light and the shadows. The spasms and the eyes that beg and cry. "Real whore. A real whore. I knew." There is no mercy. There is no acting, the hand buried deep inside the cunt, down to the wrist. There is no lying, the pain is real. There are no fake orgasms. The body being tied up and tortured and forced to lose control. Spasms and tears and screams. No escape. It is inside. Inside. No denying. The figure gets up. The fingers part lips and fill the mouth. "Lick it. Suck your own cum, come on, slut. I want you to taste your own cum, your own dirty cunt in your mouth." The tongue dances around fingers. Swallow. It is cold. "I know you are hot" it says. The hot wax drips from the candle. Hair and face. Closed eyelids and lips. neck. breasts. belly. thighs. feet. The wax hits the skin and the lace and becomes hard as it transfers the heat and the pain. "I know you are hot." The skin is red and blue from the lashing, burning from wax. "I know you are hot" the fingers hold a transparent shiny cube between them. It is then forced between the lips. The bite of cold on burning tongue. Then the nipples, then the cunt and the belly and the arse. The ice burns like fire. Pleas for mercy and limbs that thrash and struggle to break free of their bonds. No. "You are hot. I need to cool you down. I need to freeze your cunt and your tits until you can't feel anything." The ice bites the labia and the clit and nipples and lips and belly. It melts and cold water washes bruised and broken body. The candle is then placed into the gaping cunt, the burning end sticking out. "You can't feel anything now." Seconds. "I wonder if you'll feel your cunt getting burned." There is a change in shape. For a second the figure stops shifting between genders and looks male. Then it is clearer. A large strap-on is tied around its waist. Black and big and dangerous. The legs are spread, the ass cheeks are spread. "This is what you need. To be fucked like a dirty whore, fucked in your dirty arse." A scream and a shove. Then some more. The candle trembles and sends shadows dancing. The fucking is methodical and calculated but no less brutal because of it. "It doesn't mean a thing" The sound of flesh colliding with black leather is wet. Hot wax drips from the candle and falls on skin around the cunt. The effects of the ice are fading and there is some fresh, red pain coming through. The strap-on savages the anus, penetrates it deeply and mercilessly. The figure makes repeated, well measured thrusts. They go deep and part the sensitive flesh brutally. There is no hurry, no sense of urgency, no passion, just complete dominance. The task that is ahead and the determination. Hands in black latex gloves on the ankles, spreading the legs even wider. The change. Strap-on in the mouth. Mouthfucked, hair pulled, choking. "Suck it. Suck your own filth, whore. I'd never allow myself to be in touch with your filth, suck it, suck it all." The thrusts are hard and the strap-on goes deep, it is warm and wet. "Swallow, swallow it all the way." Then the candle comes out and the cunt is again fucked. This time strap-on slams into it and fingers are crammed in on both sides. The sense of flesh being stretched beyond all limits. Screams and begging. "No." And it slips outside and penetrates the ass again. And it is back in the cunt after several hard thrusts. And in the arse again. "I feel nothing, slut." There is a loud wet sound. The cunt and the anus are open wide and the dildo has made them both wet and slippery and hurting. "Nothing at all." Fingers remove clips. Then fingers squeeze nipples as the blood begins to circulate more freely. Both hands. Both breasts. Pulled and twisted and squeezed. The dildo buried in the arse, going deeper than ever. There are screams as the figure pulls the body by the tits every time it thrusts the strap-on in the ass. The rain is getting stronger. The sounds are ricocheting off each other. There is a painting on the opposite wall of the room. There is a mirror opposite to the body. A grotesque scene of predator and prey. "Yes." It makes sense. "Yes." Black against white and red and purple. "Yes." What? Inside. Again. And again. And again. "Yes!" Who? "Yes! Now!" The world shifts out of focus as the body thrashes. The spasms make it lose weight and fly. There is no ceiling after all. No ceiling and no clouds and no black velvet cover above them. There is a painting on the opposite wall. And there is a mirror opposite to the body. But there is nothing here any more.
Review This Story || Email Author: Dee Driscoll