tagBDSMExit - Stage Left

Exit - Stage Left

byGracenote©

Sure you've seen me before. Probably lots of times, particularly if you subscribe to Ubic Live. Or, before that, to Dolly In. Or, if you go back almost two years, to the real granddaddy of all live subscriber channels: Do It. The subscriber porn channels where someone like me is tortured for your video pleasure, all in real time.

Now, do you remember me?

That's right. The tall one with the short, curly red hair. The one that always struggles.

I got paid a minor fortune for the sessions with Dolly In or Do it. I thought I would get a major fortune for a contract with Ubic Live. Instead, I was shanghaied. That's right. Shanghaied as in captured and dragged away.

Now, I am a captive. Every couple of days, around noon, I am brought out to the dungeon set and tortured, live, in front of three cameras. It's a big budget production, as only the torturers make the big bucks. I do it for free! To be fair, the torturers are paid, but its not really big bucks, and they don't ask for big bucks. One of the management perks is that if you cause trouble on the set, you vanish.

It's weird in a way. They torture me, yes. It's real. But when I am not being flogged or impaled, I am treated like a queen, although queens are seldom housed in a cell. No, to be fair, they feed me, use sun lamps, massage me, and use lotions. They do this not because they love or even like me. No, they are aware that if they drag a marked up bitch to the set, the sound of subscribers logging off would be a racket.

This can't go on forever, I know. Sooner or later I will get hurt or sick and can't be used. But I am pretty certain that they are planning to snuff me on camera just before I start to look less than pristine, before the tit flogging or cunt mutilation can't be masked by lotions and massage. I don't want to die. But I don't want this to continue. I have no choice. There are times when a clean snuff would be welcome. But there is no such thing in this world. The uglier the death throes, the better the revenue.

I am tortured for an hour at a time, two days a week. I assume there are other victims across the country that are treated the same way in different time slots on different days. I know the tapes are run 24/7. You get what you pay for. But I go out live, in living color and in quality audio. You can hear my screams, begging and cursing. And the grunting of the torturers, the crack of the whip and that distinctive sound of a flogger on flesh. At the beginning I was gagged, until the subscriber's hot line led the way to its removal. 'Make the bitch beg' was a familiar suggestion from the gold card subscribers.

It will be no different. The same mix, but in different order. Different torturers, slightly different backdrops. Maybe a naked slave to assist, the same naked slave who feeds me than goes home to her kids.

I am handcuffed behind my back. I back away from them in the cell, but its really only a token gesture. I know I can't escape my fate but, equally, I can't submit. 'Feisty cunt' as one man called me.

My cell is one floor up in what I suspect was a small factory. They have put in a ramp so I don't struggle and hurt myself, and their revenue, on stairs. I have little control. The neck collar is tight and the pole attached to it directs me in no uncertain manner. One person of reasonable stature controls me.

There are no preliminaries, as they have all my measurements. They know how deep the pole goes up my ass or in my cunt. They know where to aim the flogger for maximum effect. They know to the millimeter where to find my clit. They know how I react.

Timing is all important: we start on the second and finish when we fade after 59 minutes. These are slow hours, as every hurt is stretched. There is always time to have one if not all three hand-held cameras to move in. My sounds and the torturer's grunts are heard, but not the directors instructions, which go to the cameramen and torturers via tiny ear receivers. I wonder why they simply don't just tape and run the two hours later. After all, the tape is run all round the clock. But I expect there is a certain pact between the owners and the subscribers -- they pay for live and if anyone thought the 'live' show was a tape, the Internet world would know in a nanosecond, and the business fold. And every now and then, I have the impression they have shows where a platinum card member, for a hefty extra fee, can call in live and see some poor cunt like me made to suffer precisely as he is telling the director on the 'phone. I don't know, it's just an impression.

Today, I am led to what I call the 'West Wing', the corner of the room with more wood in the decor. East and South wings are different. East is actually real stone. South is quite realistic as a 1800s living room. It even has a chandelier.

They expect me and there is no delay. I am strapped to the St. Andrew's cross, and legs pulled wide apart so my shaved cunt is more than just exposed. So we will start with frontal. The one advantage of the Cross is that only one part of your body can be really abused at a time. My tits, belly and cunt will suffer first, but there is a welcome release, if only for a minute, as I am turned so my ass and back can be impaled, flogged or whatever.

The director, a small, young man who never smiles, never chats. Not to me, of course, but with the crew. I wonder what his role is in the company. Is he the owner, or is he working in the knowledge that if the show fails, he vanishes. In those circumstances, I would not smile.

He checks me. Peering at my skin, making sure that I am not marked. The subscribers would prefer the victim to be damn near virginal. He does not touch me. Only when they cause me pain am I touched. I could be raped a thousand times in my cell, but the men never touch me and the massager -- well, she is all-professional. Her job and in fact maybe more depends on keeping me looking like a victim and not a crack whore.

I look around the set. The table with the torture tools is set, neatly. The torturers check each other to make sure their hoods do not reveal identity. No rings on fingers, not any visible physical quirk. Its at this point I realize I am in for a rough time -- one of the torturers is a woman! She has hurt me before. She is a practitioner in finesse -- the finesse of pain. I suspect she has played the role of victim before and thus knows how to gain maximum impact. Only a woman knows the intricacy of a woman's body and her sensitivities. I am surprised as it's rare a woman torturer will work covered and hooded. Usually there is cunt and tit to show, to add to the porn aspect but also to heighten the relative rarity of a woman in a vicious role, and wallowing in it.

The lights come up to full. I can feel the heat and it will get hotter, but they claim it has to be, as only the third rate porn sites have poor lighting. There is a delay, as there usually is. I assume the director is behind the door, working the machines and watching the second hand.

Then a light flashes and one camera moves in. We have started.

I have taken to watching the cameras rather then the torturers. I certainly know they, the men, are there and what they do is simply not avoided, of course. But its my way of minimizing what prevails, to distance myself in a way from the brutal reality.

he cameras moves over me starting from my face, moving quickly down to my tits. It lingers there, then moves in close-up to my belly button, then, inevitably down to my cunt. Then, down each of the insides of my legs. All this is the territory the man will explore. The camera moves back. Another camera shows a torturer selecting a flogger from the table, and the third camera shows him moving towards me. I can tell this because of the little red light on each camera.

This will not be pleasant. It never is, but the show usually starts fairly mild, then peaks at times during the hour.

The torturer, with his back to the camera so he cannot be identified, partially lifts his hood and kneeling, licks my cunt and all around it. It is not to make life easier for me. The contrary in fact. A flogged wet cunt hurts twice as much as a dry one. His hood back down, he switches the flogger to his right hand. "Please, no. Not that!' Yes, that is me. I know what will happen and I simply can't remain mute. It's not reasonable to expect so. They don't heed what I beg, but at times I think they may ease up just a little bit.

He does not strike me straight way. He stands before me, slightly to one side to get better direction for his blows. I suppose the pause is to affect some sort of build up. I stare resolutely at the camera when the first blow strikes. It is clean, as they say here. An underhand blow that strikes in the center of my wet cunt, right between the lips. I scream and struggle. I expect the viewers can see my attempts, but while I may twitch and writhe, I cannot do a thing to evade my hurt. The torturer moves to one side so the camera can see the welt blossoming on my cunt. The other camera probably shows me trying the move my hips in reflex reaction to ease the searing pain. He moves quickly and does it again, this time to the left and my screaming is loud and genuine. I am shaking my head and pleading: 'No, no, no!'

Everyone moves away or to one side. A single camera seems to show me writhing, strapped to the cross.

Then she comes forward. I did not see her pick up a baton from the table. A baton is the simplest of all torture tools. Its usually wood, and some places use rough sawn wood to gain the maximum hurt, but that means blood and, I know, the subscribers are particular how they want to see blood. The batons on the table are plastic or chromed steel and most are about 12" long, and about an inch in diameter.

She comes to me, stands to one side of me and with one hand stretches my cunt lips. She is skilled and has done this to me before. I know she will milk this for all it is worth. Gently, she inserts the baton, in about four inches. It slides in. Then out again. Then it is stroked up and down and side to side of my cunt. I see one camera in close up, the other on my face. I know why.

She taps my clit area and I move instinctively. Then again. And again, each time harder, faster. Faster and harder again and now she is actually beating my cunt with a steel baton and I am writhing and screaming and I sense I am losing consciousness. She backs away. The cameras do not.

One thing about this torture is that I mercifully lose track of time. It's always a surprise to me when I am used in a different way. These changes in position or equipment are done with precision, but they take time. And the cameras pander to the subscribers as they wander all over my body showing different angles that the new position offers. But while I long for these breaks, I dread what will follow: the stocks.

I once heard one of the torturers mention that the problem with the St. A was that it took too much time to manhandle me, completely reversing the position. And while they had no qualms about torturing me, they did not seem to relish struggling with me. But with the stocks, they simply wheeled that dreadful thing in front of me, and then pull my arms down and lock them into the wrist holes and at the same time lock in my neck. My feet were then released.

And the cameras roamed. I could not see what tools were chosen from the table, but I was seldom wrong if I thought of a whip. And, predictably, then flogged my ass with a riding crop, carefully, systematically. One ass cheek at a time. The same number of blows each. One of the problems these evil people had was with the stocks: unless the apertures were perfectly padded and fitted, my frantic struggles could lacerate my neck and wrists. This device was perfection in that regard. The padding was covered in smooth nylon.

'No. No. No more, please, I beg you. No more. No more.'

They stopped. I had no illusions that it was a merciful response. It was to give the camera a chance to take in the red mass they had made of my smooth ass.

Swiftly, with one hand on each ass cheek, they pulled the cheeks apart exposing what I have between my legs I got the pole!

In the vanilla world of consensual BDSM, it's a dildo of infinite variety. In this captive, terminal world, it's just a simple wooden pole. The camera can't see this, but it is skillfully rammed into me, at just the right angle, to a carefully marked depth. It is then maneuvered to cause me pain. The subscribers love this. The torturers seem to do it with abandon, but they know it can be fatal if done clumsily. They know they will be careful or may wind up on a sister porn site where the same machines are used -- on men. I think it's the same room, the same cameras.

Anal torture excites many people. For the victim, it is not so much the pain but the ugly sensation, and in some respects the shame. And one of the worst things they can do to me is leave the pole in, unsupported, so it rises up inside me and I know that must cause damage. I beg them to remove it. The cameras record my begging. Eventually, they do remove it, only to hit me with it several times. The camera records those new welts.

In the stocks, the tits are so vulnerable. Completely unencumbered, they fall straight down. They do not have to be lifted. No matter how firm they are, they hang, and are inviting. Ideal for the application of the rings. Each ring is of braided steel that is sort of telescopic. Placed over the tit, it is pushed up to the chest wall, so easy when you are in the stocks. Then, they are squeezed tight and locked in place.

The next move is obvious. When the loving cameras have finished, I am released from the stocks and pushed back onto the cross and bound in place. My tits are swollen, and near purple.

I tend to lose consciousness during the tit flogging, so the torturers are very methodical. One to each side of me, they flog the tits. The cross affords some movement, which I am sure the subscribers love. A naked woman writhing, helpless, screaming is what they pay for, handsomely. But for their added pleasure, the woman torturer is flogging my cunt. Not with intensity, but every few seconds, almost as punctuation to the tit torture blows.

Then, the gloved hand in my cunt. I know its her. The black vinyl gauntlet. She hurts, oh my god she hurts as only a woman can. A light flashes and as I sag, head down, barely aware of what is going on, the cameras move back. I can imagine what the subscribers see.

The harsh lights go down, and only the overhead fluorescents are on, the working lights used when the ugly little red lights on the cameras are off. Someone releases the tit clamps. But instead of being released and led back to my cell, the director comes out and stands looking at me. He is joined by the woman torturer, who pulls off her hood.

'What do you think?' asks the director.

'She would do well if she co-operates.'

'Good.' You'll know by this evening' The woman left.

'Listen carefully. You probably have deduced that your life expectancy in this scene is by no means guaranteed. Our subscribers have asked for -- and will get -- some snuff scenes. You could be tortured to death, or executed in any number of ways, mostly ways that are not quick. In fact, I think its only fair to tell you that you have been nominated to be one of the first to go that way. But, we have an offer. You have also been selected to do cat-fighting.'

I was speechless. Here I was naked and bound to a torture cross, being told of my likely execution, and being offered something else. A bizarre job interview.

'But its not the cat fighting you have probably seen on the channels. No, those are done by consenting pros, lesbians some but not all. Often whores. In the end, they strap-on fuck and enjoy it. For you, it's more serious. You would have to fight. If you win, which might happen, nothing. If you lose, which is likely, the winner will hurt you and get pleasure from you, and not just for five minutes. And its in front of a live audience, who have been known to join in.'

He then actually made me an offer: stay in 'his' program and fairly soon I would die. Do the cat-fighting scene and I would eventually die, but it would not be for quite a while. He gave me five minutes to consider. He left me strapped to the cross.

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