Dark as Ivory Pt. 02

Content warning... again: There's still some things that might be considered harder fetishes, depending on a person's relative definition. Have fun!

Ivory

She was trying to drive me insane, I was convinced of it, and wondered if she hadn't already succeeded. The night she sent me the watersports videos I might as well have been her slave. I loved watersports, fucking loved them and adored using them as humiliation play because that was hotter than hell. And she had messaged me with such eagerness for that kind of debasement while I thought about how the dress I'd gotten her wasn't enough and never would be. She had me enthralled by my heart strings and I didn't even fucking do love.

I knew she was going to keep playing too, was eager for it. She was going to be a dirty, bad little girl in some way. What exhibitionist behavior would she taunt me with now? What would make me want her, crave her, even more than I already did?

It turned out I wasn't ready for what she wanted to do. Oh, I should have been. The game she played was something I would have been all over with every other playmate I had ever had because sharing my submissives turned me on. I got off on watching them cum all over another guy's cock so I could shame them for it and watch them break down sobbing when I made them feel like a filthy whore.

And then I could lick the tears away and praise them for being uninhibited and for their bravery in their hedonism with me. I loved it.

I loved it until I got involved with Tuesday, anyway.

She knew I was watching her through the weekend after our spree of fetish messages. Little Tuesday wasn't an idiot and she was learning me in similar ways that I was learning her. I couldn't play these games with her and not have her learn me. It might have been a strange long distance start and continuation but we had a relationship and there was no denying that. So she was being a playful little thing when she brought another guy home, someone who wasn't even into fetish. She used him to play a game and she still had Flatline Whore on her tits when she took her shirt off for him. Of course I knew it was really for me because she was facing the window and he stared while she shoved him back, laughter on her face. She dominated him easily like I knew she could likely dominate the hell out of anyone who couldn't handle her and her unbridled desires. He didn't know what to do with her, a college kid that she had found for a playful one night stand. He looked like he thought he was using her when she was using him for something far worse like the little devil I knew her to be under that sweet face.

The setup was insanely perfect. It was everything I should have loved to play through. My dick wanted me to message her while she was fucking so I could watch her lift the phone to read my instructions and filthy profanities while trying to hide it from someone who had no idea what fire he held in his hands.

But the rest of my body wouldn't let me. My mind seethed with the thought that he wasn't mean enough or hard enough to deserve her. She didn't even orgasm though she faked it. And my blood burned hot with the thoughts that she was mine. She was fucking mine and it was the stupidest thought I had ever fucking had.

I stared at my phone blankly instead of playing, my sexuality finally broken and I closed my eyes because I knew why. It wasn't a good thing. It was a bad thing.

I had loved before, though I didn't love easily. Which made it sound like my love was a kind of rare gift, but that wasn't the case.

Not even close.

My love was a terrible thing, a torturer's love. I had heard doms talk before of how they had been so hardcore and then fallen for a girl and they'd been tormented with thoughts like "if I love her why do I hurt her?" They'd go softer, walking a line between their need to care for their loved one and their desire to give the partner all the hard kink games they had come to enjoy.

That hadn't been the case for me. I turned worse, far worse, with my love. My attention on one girl? It was consuming, life altering, and it was terrible. If I only playfully tormented with a playmate, I started to torture them when my feelings rose. If I had tortured them already?

I made to break them. I commanded them to orgasm denial until they started to beg me for the cane so that the pain would help distract them from the terrible frustration build. It was one of my favorite games. In my mind I saw Two kneeling and her eyes tearful as I coldly commanded her to another week of denial. After the first week, her eyes would get that tortured, hopeless look. She wouldn't even beg me to let her cum anymore with that same hopelessness. She would start miserably begging for torture in my dark dungeon instead, her days turned to hell. I would so thoroughly break her that it would be more punishment to not give her pain than it would be to cane her so hard she screamed.

It scared me. I was already in the darkest, deepest waters with Two and I already enjoyed things like turning her name into a number and raping her in her back room when she didn't know it was me. And I knew what my act was. I knew that, while it had been a game, she didn't know that. It had been fucking dangerous and I couldn't be careful enough to play that way. It was so dubiously consensual that when it was happening, it could be called rape and that wasn't a wrong term for the sheer violence of what we'd done, what I'd done.

This was the girl I had fallen for. I knew that. I knew that now because I got so fucking violently angry when I saw her with someone else that it was painful. It actually hurt how hot my blood went and while I was a violent person, a deviant fuck, I was rarely an angry person. So I knew that I had fallen for Tuesday Holter and fallen hard. Somewhere in watching her for my games and flirting with her and fucking with her head while I talked to her of heavy metal CDs, I had fallen to some kind of feelings.

And what would I do to Tuesday, who was already so far down the edge line with me that it was hard to be careful enough? When my love was a torture that made me wilder, what would I do to this girl who was already dangerous? No one else had suffered through my affection, if it could even be called that. No one else had ever been able to handle my Valentine's Day when it involved finally introducing them to my dungeon. Because no playmate had ever elected to go back a second time to my dungeon. Even if I sent pictures beforehand, they didn't like the actual acts that happened there.

How the fuck could I ever expect Tuesday to suffer me when my Valentine card for her would be the worst I ever sent? I remembered her words when she thought I was gone after I made her kneel on the floor while waiting for my permission to take her blindfold off. "But I already belong to someone." She had whispered it so brokenly before she had had time to think through the trauma of my crime and realize it was me. It had made me stop and stare at her where she knelt so obediently because I knew she was talking about me owning her.

God, it wasn't fair. My phone vibrated with her messages in between her fucking with the college kid who was touching what I apparently considered mine even though I hadn't collared her and wasn't dating her. My cock couldn't even get hard enough to play and I ignored the messages, closing my eyes and suffering this torture because I deserved it for loving her when she was a diamond, a treasure, and deserved a dom who would eat her little pussy out so hard and often that she could orgasm on command.

But in the back of my mind I had another thought. That type of dom wouldn't satisfy her and she'd walk all over them just like she's walking all over her one night stand.

And then right on the heels of that thought was another. I'm sorry, Tuesday.

Sorry. Not because I was fallible to emo shit but because I knew she was going to suffer so much harder than even I had planned. She hadn't signed on for this shit. She hadn't said she wanted a relationship at all, had even talked about how her relationships had all been failures because she liked it a little too rough and it caused things like insecurity problems in her partners. I wouldn't have issues with that but she might be relationship wary if her heart had been wounded.

I closed my eyes, ignoring my phone, and covered my face with my hands instead. I fell asleep with the pump of violence choking me, the need to tame and punish my wayward submissive for daring to let another touch my body. Harsh lust beat me senseless and my dreams were wild things that were on the verge of murderous. But they weren't quite because I knew in my soul that I would never be able to maim or kill little Tuesday. Even in my dreams I couldn't think of her dead, though I had gone through my fair share of snuff fantasies and necrophiliac play with submissives who didn't mind ice and thought it was as hot as I did. But not Tuesday. No, I wanted her beautiful eyes open and filled with tears whenever I had the urge to see them. I wanted the glow of her face when she came so fucking hard from my torture that her cunt constricted my cock. I wanted to see her struggling in ropes in my dungeon, alive with fear and wondering where she'd been kidnapped to when I invariably had her blindfolded the first time I took her there. I wanted to wait in hiding for her and have to cover her terrified scream when I assaulted her in her own apartment, wanted to feel her writhing and shaking in more of that delicious terror that warmed me to my heart.

Pretty Tuesday. Hardcore Tuesday. My Torture Toy Tuesday.

I didn't answer her. I couldn't. Instead I lay still and collected myself and let the feelings bathe me, rethinking my games with her.

————

Tuesday

He wasn't answering and it was terrible. I remembered what he'd said when he played off my orgasm denial as punishment. That he wasn't so cruel as to cut me off. But he was cutting me off now and it was even worse than it would have been then. I was sad without my playmate, worried that I might have done something to hurt him and hating that I didn't know. Would he ever talk with me again? Had I severely fucked up with my slutty little game? I wasn't sure but knew that I missed him, a lot. I missed having someone to talk with about things like how awesome Pantera was. And I missed having someone who understood how much of a freak I was. Because where every other dom or relationship I'd been with had eventually slipped up with something judgmental or shocked, Flatline hadn't been shocked about anything. I could throw things like piss play fetishes at him on a spur of the moment horny spree and he wouldn't judge at all. He would play back. I had never had someone to talk with so freely and now that he wasn't talking I felt the absence. It was only four days but by the fourth I wore my cuffs sadly, for comfort. It was stupid if you considered I didn't know who he was and didn't even know his name, couldn't even visualize him in my head because he wouldn't let me see him. I worked with my automatic customer service but inside I thought of my cuffs and how I would give all of his gifts back if he would just give me one message or sign that he was still alive and didn't hate me. I was sorry, so sorry I had crossed whatever line had been crossed and I'd never do it again. He didn't have to fuck me and he didn't have to ever let me see him if I had wounded him. But I wanted his talking back so I could have a friend who understood again.

The day was boring but productive. During the middle of it I didn't have my phone calls or my texts to give me something to think about while I sorted Magic cards and comics and that depressed me a little bit. I wasn't trying to be totally dramatic. Even if Flatline had just gotten what he wanted and left I would have recovered. It would have felt weird because I didn't think he was that kind of guy at all. He was the opposite of that, confrontational and right in the face in the most abrasive way possible. He would have told me to my face if he just wanted to fuck.

The phone rang while I was closing and I jumped with both hope and fear. It's probably not even him and you're going to be disappointed so get hold of yourself. I tried and it was harder than I cared to ever admit. I answered with my greeting, my voice soft with the longing I was trying to control.

"Take your sweatshirt off. Go back to the same fucking bookshelf, get the mask, put it on, and wait. And no fucking bullshit, Tuesday, because I'll torture you if you do." My head snapped up from the first word because it was him, but there was something as intense as fury in his voice and somehow it made me even more scared than I'd been when I wasn't sure who it was.

Obediently I went to the shelf, sitting the phone on the table because he'd tersely said his command and hung up. The mask this time was serious leather and I staggered through figuring out the straps with shaking hands, trying to be quick because he didn't sound like he felt all too patient. I had pushed my luck, I realized now, and that thought was terrifying. I hadn't meant to make him angry. It seemed like the kind of games he would love so why did my stomach feel sick with what might be coming?

I jumped to the sound of the lock, too scared to say anything, but wanting to say I was sorry a thousand times over. I had always been a pleaser personality but college had at least made me a little tougher, a whole lot less of a coward. I could handle confrontation now, things like that.

But he made me a little coward again. I turned into a mouse with him, a squeaking, frightened mouse. So I didn't say anything because he hadn't told me to say anything. He was all over me when the door was locked and the shutters closed though, one hand locking my wrists behind me. Again, he manhandled me, shoving me forward with all his roughness and he had so much of that. I staggered in front of him blindly, knocking into a shelf when I panicked and tugged against him in confusion. "Helpless little fucktoy." He used his other arm to make a kind of cage around me after that.

"Please..." I whimpered it even though it terrified me to say anything at all. But it escaped, a single little plea for some mercy because his energy and the words when he said them indicated a black mood, so dark it made me tremble. He was pissed at me.

No that wasn't right. There was no real anger in his voice. It was heavily controlled, but there was hard violence and stern ferocity. "Shut your fucking mouth, Tuesday. I'll tell you what to say when I want you to talk and you better mimic the words I give you like a goddamned recorder." When he stopped walking with me, he released me only to start ripping through my clothes again. "I think you got the wrong idea about some things, Tuesday, so we're going to correct those things." I felt the knife and whimpered, shivering. My hands raised to my stomach in a self protective instinct, but I didn't dare lift them to try to stop him. He laughed and merely cut through my bra. The jeans and shoes he pulled off too until I stood bared for him, and blinded, shaking.

He shoved me forward, forcing me into position against my spare table again, but this time I felt rope quickly tying my ankles to each table leg. I might not have been in the same panic as before, but when I was tied and felt hot dread at his wrath I thought the panic might have been preferable over this slow building terror. This was a sense of foreboding, a sense that intensified with his every action and word. Something bad was coming.

I flinched when his hands reached up to cup my tits and then slap them harshly. He was like a dark cage behind me, a wall again, so big while I was small. At first I moaned when his fingers touched my nipples but then he cinched them and I yelped and bit my lip, quieting myself. When he stopped I heard the clink of metal and my foreboding intensified.

"Cup your tits." He said it softly and it was more frightening than his normally so commanding voice. "I want you to offer them up to me for punishment."

My pussy ran wet even while it was so mean, but my hands lifted to obey anyway. They were shaking, but I cupped them around the base of my breasts and tentatively lifted. He reached around me, cold metal brushing me and then there was a pause while he opened the clamps. When they fell, it was the worst I had ever had. I had experienced clover clamps before but I knew they came in larger sizes and I had no doubt that an evil motherfucker like him would use clover clamps, but these were something out of a nightmare. I choked at the shock of how much pain there was, actual bile rising in the back of my throat, which had never happened to me before, literally never. My pain tolerance was goddamned high. The second clamp closed and I sucked in air through my teeth, my body vibrating while I danced on my toes. "That's it, breathe through it." His voice was calm, but menacing, and I felt the chain between my breasts tugged hard while something heavy swung against my chest. I was already crying because even while he soothed me with his evil voice, he was adding weights to the worst clamps I'd ever experienced. A second weight followed and then a third and by that point there was so much pain I wasn't even sure another weight would matter, but he stopped there anyway, while the chain swung heavily, each arcing curve a trial for me. I didn't even pay attention when he twisted my arms behind me and locked my gorgeous cuffs together. He pressed me over the table and I was left cold for just a moment. And then I heard a skittering on the tile floor that almost made me wet myself. I knew what that skittering sound was. It was horror and fire hot pain. That sound had been bad with other playmates. What would he do to me? He, who had clamps larger than any other and then had still added weights?

I choked out a sentence in a sense of surreality, a sentence I was barely aware of that was a thought I didn't even remember having. "The table isn't sturdy."

He chuckled behind me. "Oh, I'm well aware. I've got you." And, indeed, his hand was at my wrists, holding me, and he was a dark force behind me and to the side and I knew he really did have me.

I didn't hear a thing before I felt the first cane track, didn't have a warning, but I had been right to be afraid of it in his hands. It was hellfire, like something out of a nightmare and he connected it with the most tender area on the backs of my thighs. I couldn't even scream from the shock of the first one and that was just fucking one. And he made it clear he had no intention of stopping. The second was right at the seat of my ass and his hand had to hold my wrists tighter to keep me from kicking the table off balance. The third was right in the middle of my cheeks. The fourth was somewhere in the middle of those two and by that one I felt like I should be bleeding. I had seen bloody cane tracks in videos and I wasn't sure what it felt like but the farther he went the more it seemed this must be it. This was the feeling that went with those torture porn videos. I was crying, actually sobbing with terror and agony. He couldn't see my eyes and we had never set safe words and I wondered now how I could have been so stupid as to not ask him about them. How would he know if he was breaking me? How would he know if it was too much and I didn't come back from it okay? Five left me breathless for a second so I couldn't draw my protest and he was still playing. Six. Seven. The number went up. I finally managed to talk after eight.

"Please!" It was choked, a jagged screech. "Please, you said you wouldn't hurt me!"

But it was a weak protest. I knew why he was hurting me. He hadn't liked my game over the weekend, hadn't liked it at all. I thought he would stop at ten, but he didn't. I had to focus like hell to keep my cries down and it was the hardest thing I'd ever done, but I was terrified of being too loud and raising his ire. He continued my caning without answering me and I sobbed, losing any hope that he'd ever stop and that this would be the last thing I ever felt.