HellNet Pt. 02

My shock collar goes off and when I can stand again, I shamble over to the headbox and, exactly like hundreds of times before, put my head in and secure my gag over the dowel. A few moments later, I feel the box slam shut over my head. I know the nightly session is soon. After months of the same routine, and even though there's no natural light or clocks in this dungeon we're caged in, the body begins to adjust. The only question is whether it's me or the girl on the receiving end.

It wasn't long after I'd been "introduced to my new home" that I'd been made to whip the girl in the other cage. The piercings in my ears were still fresh and the instructions coming through the earbuds affixed to one set of piercings, in Mistress's cold, commanding voice, detailed exactly what I was to do. My manacles had been removed while I was secure in the headbox and after the top of the box was removed, I was instructed to wait for Mistress's next command. This gave Mistress time to leave the dungeon, although, as I've said before, the restraints were all for show. Mistress could bring me to my knees with just a press of the control to my shock collar.

I was told to exit the cage, one of the few times I'd been allowed out without Mistress or anyone else present. The first time I'd been allowed out of my metal prison, she'd brought in someone who either didn't give a rat's ass or was nicely paid to pierce a real life slave in a real dungeon, and that had been an affair that had earned me multiple shocks and a follow up "pay-per-view" caning on live-feed. I was left alone in my cage, manacled and hurting from the piercings, which included the damnable Prince Albert cage my cock was now skewered on, a thoroughly beaten man. Man. I wouldn't even call myself that anymore.

I was told to go release the girl in the other cage and as I approached, the automatic locks on the cage door clicked open. She was inside, huddled in a corner, as afraid of me as of the Mistress. She was a pretty thing and under any other circumstance, I would have happily pursued her. Long auburn hair, petite body that she'd obviously taken care of, flat stomach, round but not overly large breasts and ass. A phallus gag, similar to mine, and shock collar completed the outfit. She was not manacled, at least not at that moment. I had no doubt, Mistress had removed those earlier. After all, who doesn't want to pay good money to sit at their PC and wank off to a lovely, chained female captive? Sick fucks.

I was instructed to lead her out of the cage and bind her. I'm not sure if she was getting the instructions through her earbuds or if she was just listening to the noise cancelling fog that was the only other thing, besides Mistress's voice, that we were ever allowed to hear. Sense deprivation does wonders when applied under duress. When the only voice besides the one in your own head was the woman said she who owned you, compliance and submission came easy.

She cowered as I held out my hand. In my short time as Mistress's prisoner, I'd watched this poor creature endure the same tortures as me, at the hands of Mistress, sometimes more severe, owning to the perverted minds who imagined torturing a captive woman. Still, she did not stand and take my hand, an act that she knew would ultimately bring her pain.

And that caused us both to take shocks. I was on my knees on the cold concrete that was the floor of our cages, looking up at the terrified eyes of the girl, silently begging her to comply.

When I stood and offered my hand again, she submitted. It was the first gentle touch of another human since I'd been taken and her warm hand felt good in mine. My cock stirred and the pain from the Prince Albert piercing reminded me that my days of normal fucking were over. At least until I could figure out a way to get free. In those early days, freedom was a real possibility. That faded.

I led her to the center of the room and as instructed, bound her wrists together in front of her. Her eyes never left mine as she resigned her body to the tortures that awaited her. I looped her bound hands over a hook dangling from the wooden rafter above us and, with harsh commands from Mistress, pulled the girl into the air with a hand winch on the wall. Her feet kicked at nothingness as the full weight of her slight body transferred to her bound wrists. I caught her legs and tied her ankles together and that stopped her kicking. She hung, a defeated human being and began to cry behind her gag. It was at that point I realize that Mistress had cut the noise cancelling element of the earbuds. I would have to endure hearing everything.

I was instructed to wrap a length of rope around her waist and then pull the free end through her thighs so it cut through her pussy, then tightly tie it off in the back, at the top of her ass crease. In spite of all that we'd been through, all that had been done to us, this simple act of tying a cord so it bit into her most intimate place seemed singularly cruel and perverse. But my night, our night, was just beginning.

Then I was told to stand before her, holding perfectly still, while the bright lights and cameras captured the scene for posterity. I could imagine all the sick fucks watching and pounding their meat from the sanctity of their dark bedrooms or dens, maybe with wifey in the kitchen making dinner. Maybe in a cold sterile hotel room similar to the one I'd been captured in. Maybe with a slave of their own, kneeling between their legs, sucking them off furiously. Who knew, and who cared?

"Go to the wall of whips." Mistress's cool voice in my ear was echoed by a muffled shriek from the girl strung up before me. The girl I'd strung up. So, she was in on everything too, she was hearing Mistress's commands as well as me.

I went to the wall of evil. I recognized the bull whip from movies like Indiana Jones and there were an assortment of canes, but there were other things that hung from the wall that I didn't recognize. Above where each implement of pain hung was a little metal plate with a number.

"Remove Number 17 from the rack."

I scanned the rack, hoping that Number 17 wouldn't be so bad, something that wouldn't hurt her but looked or sounded like it was really doing the job for the sick fucks to see. Number 17 turned out to be a cane, a long, slender piece of wood, thicker near the leather wrapped handle then tapering a bit to a thin rod at the end. A warning shock let me know that my hesitation was costing me. I pulled the cane from the rack and stared down at it. I knew what would be expected of me but could I do it?

"Stand behind Cunty." Cunty was what Mistress called her and I would bet that's how my nameless co-captive was billed in Mistress's running dialog to her loyal fans. I was referred to as Cockboi.

I stood behind the suspended girl, cane in hand. She was strung taught with only her wrists supporting her. In the bright lights, I could see how deep the ropes cut into her wrists. She was breathing rapidly from fear, causing her to sway a little as she hung, her toes a good foot above the cold concrete floor.

"You will now beat Cunty's ass with the cane, Cockboi. Five strokes, without pause, horizontally, across both ass cheeks."

The girl screamed behind her gag and writhed in the air. I stood there, frozen. Of all the things that had happened to me in this nightmare, I was now going to beat this poor innocent girl. What had she done to deserve this, any of this? What had I done? I looked down at the metal enclosing and penetrating my cock, then around the brightly lit dungeon with crosses and tables and hooks and chains and walls of torture equipment. I looked around at the numerous cameras mounted everywhere to capture every moment of our captivity. Every moment of pain. Would I now become a part of it? An actor in an evil play, put on for the vilest of creatures humanity had to offer?

I grunted around the penis shaped gag buckled into my mouth and dropped the cane. The shock was quick and devastating. I was on my knees and doubled up on the floor in seconds. The whine that came from my throat was echoed by the girl. She was getting it too. When it finally let up, I lay there on my side, shaking.

"Get up. Pick up the cane. Beat her ass. Five strokes, without pause, horizontally, across both ass cheeks."

I got to my knees and picked up the cane. And threw it across the room. The shock blinded me. When it was done there was the briefest of pauses and another one hit. Then again, a pause and again a shock. This continued for a good thirty seconds. When it was finally done, tears streamed down my face. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably.

"Get on your feet or I will end you. Now."

On legs that were jelly, I slowly stood.

"Pick Number 3 from the rack. Now."

I could hear irritation and something else in Mistress's voice. Was it excitement? I barely knew the monster who had captured and turned me into her slave, but the hint of excitement and desire was not hard to pick up. She was getting off on all of this. As were, I'm sure, the rest of her viewing audience.

Number 3 was a long whip with tiny little metal barbs woven into the flexible leather. At the end sprouted three short, thin strips of leather with a metal barb at the end of each. Christ no. She wanted me to whip the girl with this?

"Pick Number 3 from the rack. Now. Stand behind Cunty. Now. Strike her with the whip across her ass. Now."

I took fucking Number 3 from the rack. The girl's head hung between her taught arms, eyes closed, a steady wail coming from her gag. I received another warning shock, then spread my legs to get a better stance. This was it. This was what our life had become. I had no choice. It was either do what I was told, or be hurt and then be made to do something worse.

I pulled back my arm and said I was sorry to the girl, though nothing but muffled sounds came out of my gag. Then swung with all my strength. The middle of the whip slapped against the soft creamy skin of her butt cheeks, the tiny razor barbs instantly drawing blood. The end of the whip curled around her hips and hit her lower pelvis, just above her pussy. Everywhere the whip landed, blood was drawn.

There was a moment's pause as the girl registered the pain, then she screamed, a sound so horrifying and pitiful that I almost dropped the whip. There are noises that come from people, noises meant to be screams, noises that are more warning for whatever is happening to stop. Those noises are dramatic. Then there are noises that are real, noises that are full of real fear, real pain, noises that come unbidden, from the soul. Noises that can't be unheard.

"Again."

I pulled back my arm, focusing on the flesh running with tiny rivers of blood. And swung again.

"Again."

"Again."

"Again."

I lost track of time. The whip made criss-crossing marks across her ass, thighs and back. And when she was nothing but welts and blood. I was instructed to destroy her front, raining blow upon blow over her beautiful breasts, stomach and pussy.

Finally, I found myself on the floor, kneeling, the whip coiled in front of me, blood soaking its leather. The girl's voice had given out many lashes before. She hung, motionless, dripping.

"Take her down."

Shakily, I got to my feet and gently lowered her to the floor with the hand winch. She folded and lay in the pool of her own blood. Without being told I knelt down and tried to scoop her up. She moaned and looked at me and the look of absolute horror widened her eyes. She sat up and began beating me in the chest with her bound fists, shrieking and crying hysterically. And I let her. I deserved every bit of it and more for hurting her. We both knew deep down, that neither of us was in control of fucking anything. But we were all we had in the moment, and I'd hurt her badly.

When she finally slowed, sucking breath through her nose and sobbing around the gag, I reached for her again and she allowed me to fold her petite and bleeding body into my arms. I carried her back to her cell, to cage her like the beaten animal that she was, that I'd turned her into. She curled into a ball on the floor in the corner and I took a moment to stare down at her.

Again, my mind cried out to me. What did she do to deserve this? The captivity, the constant restraint, the torture. What Gods or fates did she piss off? And I was in the same boat. What had I done, save for a moment of lust that had been exploited so very badly by a monster?

I lay down on the floor behind her and drew her into my arms. My cock, under any other circumstances, would have responded. But it was tightly caged. And the girl I held in my arms was bloodied from the whipping I'd given her. I could see the title Mistress would give this one. "Beaten Cunty Takes Refuge in the Arms of the Cockboi Who Beat Her." It would make her a small fortune.

I heard the sound of the cage door closing and locking us in and looked back over my shoulder. Mistress stood on the other side of the bars, her countenance foreboding in tight leather catsuit, mask and stilettos. Her mouth was covered by the leather mask so only her eyes were visible, and they cut me like a knife.

"Have your moment, Cockboi. Tomorrow you begin to pay for it."