Angel, Demons Pt. 03

"Admit it, and don't look away when you do."

The woman's gloved hand traveled down the girl's face and onto her left breast, fondling its piercing. She gasped.

"You have this constant need to be used and abused so you can come and come again, don't you? You convince yourself that you detest it, but you need it so badly; only thinking of it makes you come, doesn't it?

"I know, I've seen it.

"It often overrides your common sense. And it ruins your life. You'd so much prefer to lead a normal, respected life, wouldn't you? To be a disciplined business woman, a loyal lover, admired for her reliability - an accepted daughter in law. But you can't, because you aren't.

"That is why you're here now, isn't it? I mean, really."

She tweaked the nipple viciously, making the girl flinch.

"Tell me, whore!" she said out loud. It shook the girl. She just mumbled a tiny yes.

The woman slapped her face, making her reel. "Say it!"

"Yes," she cried out. "That is why I'm here."

Another slap hit her.

"What is why you're here? Say the words!"

"Because I'm a slut!"

Tears ran down the girl's burning cheek. The woman smiled, now taking the other nipple between her fingertips, pulling, twisting.

"You need it, don't you? Coming like a real slut... you need it harder all the time. Especially after trying to be a good girl for a while. You start craving it, don't you? You feel ashamed, but you ache to lose control so badly; you dream of being humiliated.

"Admit it!"

The girl's eyelashes trembled, as did her lips.

"Yes-yes. Yes, I do," she breathed.

The woman suddenly reached down, grabbing the girl's exposed, oozing cunt. She smeared its juices over her bare mound and inner thighs.

Her face was very close to the girl's, who started to tremble all over.

"It's all right, honey," the woman said, changing her voice to a whisper of syrupy sweetness. Her tongue licked the feverish face. "It is who you are, slut; you can't help it, so, please do me and yourself a favor - stop fighting it."

She kissed the open mouth, pressing her tongue against the chattering teeth. Then she straightened her back again, one hand lingering on the girl's cheek.

"You belong with me, cunt," she said, her voice void of feelings. "Not with sweet little boring girlfriends or their hypocritical families and friends. Why try anyway? They don't want you - not really.

"They're ashamed of you."

Tears streamed down the girl's face; the woman seemed unaffected.

"My god, honey," she went on. "It's not your fault. They aren't worth it, don't you see? They don't have what you need. Admit it, at least to yourself, slut. Your need scares them.

"You want to be owned by your lover, but she doesn't understand, does she?"

She paused before going on.

"You need to submit. Submission frees you from your silly guilt, so you can enjoy what you really crave.

"She doesn't understand how humiliation makes your cunt run. She never will. Admit it, slut! Stop lying to yourself."

She slapped the girl's tits hard to make her point. Then she rose and stepped back, watching the girl fight to catch her breath. It made the jewel dance like crazy.

"Am I right, bitch?"

The girl looked up, eyes dark with fear. Then she nodded. The woman kicked her.

"Say it."

"Y-yes." The voice was soft and it stuttered with emotion. "You're right. It is who I am."

Another kick.

"What is who you are?"

Tears ran freely now as the girl's ass cheeks sagged on her heels. She spread her arms and thighs.

"I am a slut, a whore, a b-bitch, a... a... sex-craving cunt..."

The woman now showed the hand she'd hidden behind her back all the time. It held a short leather riding crop, a copy of the one she lost.

The girl's eyes widened when she saw it.

"Kiss it," the woman said. She pushed the crop's handle against the girl's lips. They opened, crawling over the slick leather.

"Lick it," the woman went on. A wet tongue slid over the length of the grip.

"Now suck on it." She turned the crop and pushed the tip onto the curl of the girl's tongue. The mouth closed over the soft leather flap.

Familiar feelings rushed in - soothing fears, melting bones.

"I know why you ran off, slut," the woman said, after retrieving the soaked riding crop. "I don't know why you came back to me. I can only assume."

She started walking around the girl, forcing her to follow with her eyes, cranking her neck.

"But knowing you, you'll run off again to try and resume your pathetic normal life - to belong, and maybe succeed at last in hiding the dirt you really love."

The girl flinched, but again she didn't object. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breathing.

"You're a slut, girl," the woman repeated yet again, showing her curled tongue as she spelled the word. "But as you refuse to be my slut, you'll have to find your dirt elsewhere."

To emphasize the last word, she made the crop crash down forcefully on the leather-clad palm of her left hand. It made the girl wince.

"You're not mine," she went on, walking around the other way. "And honestly, girl, I wouldn't want you now. Sluts and whores are legion, and they often enough betray me as soon as they see a chance - being the selfish, lust-driven creatures they are.

"Their cheating hurts me, but I never had a problem with kicking them to the curb. They're damaged property and good riddance."

The woman took a deep breath that made the thin leather tighten over her breasts. Then she hissed:

"But you..."

By then, she had completed two rounds circling the kneeling girl. When she came to the "but you," she bent at her waist, her face leaning in closely, holding the girl's scared eyes.

"But you, slut, you... I love."

Her gloved hand grabbed the girl's chin and her open mouth engulfed hers once again, inhaling her gasps.

So, she'd said it again. She'd used the awful, corny word, and it had felt disturbingly natural, whatever it might mean.

It also explained what she would do next.

***

Looking down on the smeared face, the woman took a deep, trembling breath.

Her heart was in chaos, but her face was a mask. She reached down for the girl's hair and drug her struggling, naked body over the tiles to where a black chest stood.

Moments later, her wrists were cuffed and she was strung up on a chain, panting and protesting until the woman closed her hand over her mouth.

"Be quiet, slut," she hissed.

Soon, her kicking and squealing stopped. She dangled mutely from a hook that was set in one of the ceiling's beams, her feet just inches from the floor. Her weight stretched her muscles painfully,

She was quiet now, her lips working around silent 'oh gods' - her eyes wide, sweat beading on her skin.

The woman grabbed her lower jaw between thumb and fingers, forcing her mouth to open. She spat into it and said:

"Now you wait, whore. Learn to wait for as long as it takes. It might finally teach you who you are." Then she pulled a black velvet cap over the girl's face, plunging her into total darkness.

Turning away, she went to her bedroom, leaving the girl to dangle.

And wait.

***

A girl, suspended.

Silence ruled, gradually filled with creaks and murmurs - sounds that otherwise would have stayed well beyond her level of hearing.

As her eyes stared into the hood's darkness, she wondered about the rustling and the scratching she heard - were they scurrying rodents? Insects? Birds even? Or just the sighing of a huge and ancient building?

There is this romantic notion about bondage.

It includes exciting outfits, chains, cuffs and whips, sexy nipple clamps and shining piercings. Of course, all that is part of the scene and very arousing for whoever watches. But it isn't the essence; not for the slave.

The essence is helpless waiting.

The essence is not knowing what might happen next, or when - or if anything might happen at all. But most of all: it helps you discover that nothing you might want or wish is of any consequence.

Perhaps, in the end, you discover that the reward is in the waiting - if there is reward at all.

It is by waiting that the true goals of discipline are reached. Short-lived corrections may be achieved with quick, physical punishment, but true mental changes are made by pointless waiting. It is after hours of lonely dangling inside the pitch darkness of a blindfold that a girl realizes how irrelevant her needs are. She is nothing, she discovers; she is nobody until her owner decides what's left for her, if anything at all.

It is also after hours of cruel loneliness that a girl finds out if she is a true slave at all - or just a fashionable wannabe.

The girl waited - and learned.

She went through the stages of the process, feeling how time became syrup. There was panic, of course, as she suddenly found herself dwelling in a claustrophobic darkness she could not escape from. It felt like a nightmare she wanted to run away from, but couldn't.

Her dangling feet started treading air.

The useless movements sent sharp flashes of pain up her shoulders and her stretched arms. She moaned, even cried, but the only answer she got was an echo of her own desperate voice, muffled by the hood.

The next stage was anger, a rage, first against the woman. What gave her the right to punish her like this? She'd returned of her own will, hadn't she, kneeling and naked - admitting who she was; a slut, a cunt; saying it out loud?

Then she raged against herself for coming back and allowing the woman to tie her up and leave her like this.

Why had she been stupid enough to come back, leading herself to the slaughter?

The girl cursed and cried out, screaming at the top of her lungs - to no avail. She begged and prayed to be freed, but it only took minutes of indifferent silence to make her realize the uselessness of it.

Just as useless and disoriented as she'd been these lonely last days. Returning to the club, she'd drunk herself into a stupor, letting her body be fucked by anyone who had the slightest interest, claiming desperately to love them all.

Why blame herself for that? Did she make this world into the cruel place it was?

A cloak of stifling heat descended on her, causing hyper ventilation. The fear made her whine like a panicked dog. She shook and tore at her chains, only to exhaust herself and intensify her pain.

The exhaustion was a blessing in disguise as it made her faint, allowing her body to relax and surrender to the circumstances.

When she came to, she seemed to have reached another level. Her thoughts had slowed down. They seemed to adapt to the quiet pace of a new reality.

A first kernel of acceptance was formed.

But even as slow as her thoughts had become, they still popped up like stinking bubbles in a sloshing oil field. They were slow-motioned images of her, licking boots, or kissing the slick insides of pale thighs. And under it was this soundtrack of a slowed-down voice taunting her, mocking her, laughing at her. It seemed to worm into her, gnawing away at her flesh until she was just a bloated skin around infinite emptiness.

Maybe she passed out again.

The next surfacing emotion she became aware of felt like guilt, but not the guilt she'd been familiar with her whole life.

It was a new guilt, heaped on top of the everyday, irrational guilt of her numerous failings: failing the expectations of her parents; failing her dead sister; failing as a lover and wife of her ex-husband.

This newest guilt was different, though, and its cause surprised her.

It was not guilt for betraying the woman, for cheating on her and being the willing prey of her own weakness. As she dangled in her private night, she felt a surprising guilt for betraying herself.

It took her far away, beyond any of those well-trodden paths of guilt, to long-gone places she hardly remembered. Places where she'd still been someone, not just her sister's devoted, but failing fan or her mother's disappointing victim; not just a throat longing to please her brother and his friends; not just a nobody fawning over her selfish husband.

She'd allowed all those people to betray her, but they could only have done that because, earlier, she'd betrayed her true self first.

Maybe the feeling wasn't guilt, but remorse.

Surprisingly, though, this feeling lacked the bitter edges one might expect. It was there. But it was as numb as her body, floating in this private, lonely place - waiting and realizing with the passing minutes how totally irrelevant her emotions became; her needs and wishes - her guilt and remorse.

Everything.

Hours seemed to have passed when even those feelings ebbed away. In real time, it had only been thirty minutes.

Wallowing in her guilt and shame had caused her mind to go in circles, taking her consciousness with it in a down-spiraling free fall. Gradually the floating sensation turned into a machine-like churning.

She felt as if she'd left her body, watching it from a distance. She wondered how this girl, slowly gyrating from a chain, could be so... distracted. Why wasn't she mad, outraged? What happened to her fear? Why wasn't she upset, scared about what might happen?

The darkness that surrounded her dissolved into a light she knew could not be real, and yet she believed it was.

Was she hallucinating?

If not, who was that girl she could see dangling at the center of this golden halo of light, slowly turning? She looked lovely, her naked body shining - carrying an emerald spark on her tit. She craved to touch that girl, caress her, make her squirm with delight. And the weirdest thing was, she could touch her, and as she did, she could feel the touching.

She could slip a finger up the girl's exposed cunt and feel it enter. But it couldn't be true, could it? Her hands were bound, her arms stretched over her head.

And still, she felt it.

She came, slowly, sensing a fluttering butterfly orgasm, although her hands were tied. A tiny rivulet of come trickled down her inner thigh and yet she hadn't moved at all.

A sigh left her mouth - a tear moistened the silk of her blindfold.

More snail-speed time crept by; the room got colder. Ice-cold air seeped into her flesh. But she didn't care. She never even shivered. Was she dying?

Was she alive at all?

Everything came to a standstill; even her heart thumped slower - ever slower. The very fabric of time changed, each second becoming an eternity. Minutes grew into universes, too immense to grasp.

At the center of it all dangled this naked, golden girl, becoming a cold lump of flesh, a dying spark in a frozen world of indifference.

She dimly wondered how a statue might feel.

***

A shoe's heel hit the concrete floor. It was like a gunshot.

A second one followed; then another and another, getting closer until they stopped. The girl's nostrils flared from a whiff of perfume. A puff of breath startled the chilled nerve endings of her icy skin. Hot, wet lips closed over a petrified nipple.

Then she heard chains rattle.

Her numb feet touched the floor. She crumpled into a heap when her lifeless legs refused to support her. Waves of sheer pain rushed down her arms.

The blood returned; her fingers felt like living flames.

When she could at last tear the blindfold from her eyes, the room was empty. She climbed to her feet, her legs still wobbly. Her voice cracked when she called out for the woman, but no one answered.

Her teeth chattered.

Collecting her clothes, she found the riding crop. She picked it up and pressed it against her shivering body.

Standing in the elevator, she broke down crying, as did the numerous reflections around her.