tagBDSMI See a Red Door Ch. 07

I See a Red Door Ch. 07


Alena loved boiled eggs, and she had a huge collection of egg cups shaped like anything but egg cups. She cracked an egg open. She looked at the clock; it was 5:00 on Saturday morning. Lots of time. She was pensive.

Neil was a puzzle to her, intelligent, sensible, attractive, strong...but also indescribably weak. She had done a full investigation of Neil Webber in the past week. He was thirty-one, unmarried, no children, no siblings, deceased parents, worked for a small junior oil company as a senior geologist, enjoyed golf and skiing, chess and some running. There was a text on her phone from Paulie that said Neil's address was 230 - Eau Claire, Suite 1150, and the emails and phone numbers of all his work associates were all on his cell phone. In his wallet there were miscellaneous pieces of paper with odd combinations of numbers and letters that were almost certainly his various passwords and usernames. She had enough. And yet she was unsure, unsure that she should do this to him. It could be a moot point she thought, as she ate, but she was for the first time in years unsure of herself.

She liked him. If she broke him, he wouldn't be Neil; he would be someone or some thing else. Was it worth it? Yes, she needed a maid for C2, but she could afford to hire one; that was not the issue. If she broke him and fully feminized him, making him her maid, was that what she actually wanted for him? She knew she had the means and the power, but something seemed to be missing in the whole equation that was her life. She had abandoned love as an option in life long ago, but was that correct? Should she take this toy and break it like all the others? Paulie, for example; he was absurdly addicted to being an adult baby. God, she hated that, but the DVD of him in diapers had been extremely useful and lucrative. He was such a creep. She knew it, and he knew it. The blackmail was perfect.

But Neil. He didn't even know or begin to understand himself...so naïve and vulnerable...and, well, so nice. Yes, she wanted him dressed as a woman; that was her not so secret fantasy, but he was so green, a baby in the realm of fantasy. Did she really want to convert him to her reality?

The morning had awakened with sunshine and frost. She stared eastward over the city at the pink and orange haze of sunrise. One by one the lights blinked out and day time ruled. Alena finished her coffee and descended the stairs to the dungeon. It was time to feed him.

He was sitting on the toilet again rocking back and forth, holding his head like it was a basketball. The sounds he made had changed; they were like someone with a tick, erratic, loud, and sharp, sometimes several in a row followed by long silence. He pulled at his hood and moaned.

Although she was not sure she should, she felt she had to push as the original plan had dictated. She had made a mistake freeing his hands. All external stimuli should be received from her, not from any other source, including himself. He could not be allowed to masturbate again. She entered the cell and approached him cautiously. Her hand gently cupped the side of his hooded head. He became silent and immediately put his hand over hers and pushed it against his head, whining like a puppy. Taking his hand, she positioned his wrist near the D-ring on his collar and locked it in place. She did the same with his other hand. Then she stood him up and tightened his corset yet again. His waist was impossibly thin, his stomach vacant of food and water.

For the first time in perhaps 10 hours, she tried to communicate with him verbally by yelling into his padded ears, "I am going to give you something to eat and drink now. You have to control your throat or you will cough and gag. I will start slowly with water. Are you ready slave?"

Some other world had contacted him. He stiffened. Water. Yes, water. He nodded his head.

Alena attached a funnel to the breathing tube and held it up above his mouth while she poured small amounts of water into it. Initially, he coughed, but he slowly learned to alternate between breaths of air and squirts of water. He learned fast. He drank voraciously for about five minutes. She then told him she was going to give him a protein drink. He nodded okay and she started, again the same result, a five minute splurge of intake followed by intermittent regurgitation out of his breathing tube. It was like feeding a baby. Life or death hung in the balance.

He groaned in soothing gratification. He did not know who was feeding him; he only knew he was being fed. Then hands pushed him off the toilet onto the cold concrete floor to lie on his back. Suddenly his breath was removed from him by her mouth over his breathing tube. She was sucking his air out of him and he bucked helplessly on the floor as she mounted him. Yes, he was hard, and she made good use of it. It was the first time that he had actually penetrated her. She was so warm, tight, and moist. He thrust upward to meet her, screaming into his gag for air. She controlled everything; his breathing, his orgasm, his very existence as a living human. The slow rhythm of her mount caused him to moan a continuous moan despite the lack of oxygen. He came without breathing, his head light, an anoxic orgasm, with light from the tunnel a blaze of heat diminishing toward death.

As she came, she released his breathing tube, not to keep him alive, but to allow her to scream in ecstasy. The feeling of power and control was overwhelming; he was dying beneath her, all for her pleasure.

She pulled herself off and felt his semen gush from her. Instinctively she cupped her hand over her vagina and created a puddle of him and then placed it over his breathing tube so that he had to drink himself to achieve oxygen. It was only fair that he had to share the mess, she thought, as she cupped another handful and repeated the gesture.

This was power. This was absolute power, and she shivered in the potency of it.

The moments passed as she quivered and shook. Suddenly her face developed a panicked look and she pulled herself away saying, "Oh my God! Oh my God, are you okay?"

Her journey to the other side of orgasm had ended and she needed to believe that her vessel of fantasy had survived. He did not hear her, but the gurgle of the breathing tube confirmed that he was pulling air through his cum in the tube sufficiently to stay alive.

"Thank God," she said, "Thank God."

Alena stood up and looked down at him writhing on the concrete. She had to get out of here. The feelings she was having were not habitual to her. She sought equilibrium, her type of equilibrium, one of dominance and supremacy, but this felt slippery, a slope on which she was losing her balance. She was starting to care.

She had to get away.

Neil twisted like a dead man on a rope on the floor of the dungeon. His internal babbling had stopped. He was for all intents and purposes dead for ninety-nine percent of his existence now, if that makes any sense. The only physical feelings he received were from her; at least he assumed they were from her; that was his measurement of existence and time. He stopped twisting on the rope and lay there, waiting for the next stimulus. It didn't come. What he had initially feared had been true. He was now on the floor and he could not get up, as his hands were useless beside his head. His pulse returned to normal and he heard it in his silent world, silent but for his breathing and heartbeat.

Something different was happening to him this time however. There was a calmness, a type of silence.

Then the dam broke.

He was ten years old in the woods with friends beside the "twisted tree", a tree in the shape of a helix, a result of some trauma as a juvenile tree. They had tied him up in some sort of game.

"Leave me," he said, "just leave me here." He was enjoying the bondage and helplessness.

"Yeah sure," they said sarcastically, "it's time for supper. Here, I'll undo you."

"No!" he screamed, "Leave me; I'll be okay. Just go."

They did, and he squirmed on the ground, unable to free himself. The thrill of it was intoxicating. Minutes passed and then he was disappointed to find that they came back for him.

"Why did you come back?" he yelled.

"Are you crazy?" they asked, "You didn't think we'd leave you here to die did you?"

Disappointed, but now realizing just how insane this idea was, he kept quiet as he was freed.

He breathed silently through the breathing tube, an as yet unclear epiphany in his head.

Now he was eleven. His father had a bad sacroiliac joint, and as a farmer he had to wear a tight-cinching sacroiliac belt in order to keep putting food on the table. The joint had healed but the belt was stored in the attic. Neil found it and wondered what it would be like to wear it, to cinch it up. He didn't have the foggiest idea why, but it felt good...very snug, like a hug. He wore it for days until his father noticed it was missing and he asked him about it. He lied and said he knew nothing.

Neil was quiet and still on the floor, memories flooding over him, memories he didn't know he had.

Now he was thirteen. His mother had been a physical wreck, with a bad back and neck, varicose veins; you name it; she had it. He was exploring the Sears catalogue before his parents came home from work (his father was now a school teacher), and suddenly he realized he could explore his mother's lingerie drawers. Why hadn't he thought of that before? He was astounded at the contents and with a fever he donned her elastic support hose attaching them to the garters on her back corset. He pulled the laces tight and that same distant delicious feeling returned, only this time it was different. His penis throbbed and got hard. He found a severe corselet and put it on as well, squishing his penis against his belly. The time passed and he was looking at himself in the mirror, strange feelings welling up inside him, when he heard the back door open.

He panicked. There was no place to run so he foolishly squeezed himself under his parents' bed and hoped for the best.

""Neil, I'm home. I have your favorite snack. Supper should be in about an hour." It was his mother.

"Neil? Yoo-hoo, Neil?"

She placed some parcels down and took off her coat. Neil looked out from under the bed. His mother's bureau drawers were open, with hose and bras fluffed and hanging over the edge. She entered the bedroom and gasped, "What the...?"

She marched over to the bureau and saw the carnage, and with very little difficulty saw Neil under the bed, "Neil?" She looked at the drawers, then at Neil, then back at the drawers, "Neil, get out from there right NOW!"

He had cum in his pants, well not HIS pants, while squirming under the bed, his first orgasm ever, and now he stood in front of her wearing her corset and support hose, wetness seeping through. His head hung low.

Moments of silence hung like mist in a cave until finally his mother lost it. She screamed, "Get those things off RIGHT now! Oh God! Oh my God!" She had no idea how to handle this, so irrationality prevailed. Once he had removed the clothing, she spanked him, a thirteen year old boy, for wearing her underwear, saying, "A boy does NOT wear girl's underwear, ever. Do you understand? Do you? You are NOT a homosexual."

Now he understood. Where had all this been? Had he been insane to forget all this, or was he insane now in remembering it? The beating, the corset, the orgasm; now it all tied together. The agony of it hit him like a bus, and he started to grunt and moan on the floor again, rolling this way and that way, gaining no traction and no sanity, perhaps losing both.

Paulie was watching him with pity and compassion, but could do little about it. Alena had asked him to babysit while she went shopping, and he knew better than to intervene in one of his owner's training sessions. His slavery was secure; his personal video made sure of that. He had no recourse but to do as she said. All his possessions were now hers, and in return she played out his fantasies, sleeping in the crib, diapered. She must have a gigabyte of video on him by now, he thought.

Absently, he put a soother in his mouth and ascended the stairs to the kitchen area where he made himself a coffee to take out on the deck. He chuckled briefly when he thought about this...a baby with diapers on having a coffee, AND he was baby-sitting. Ha.

He wondered if the newcomer had cracked yet. It sure looked like it, but he couldn't be sure; sanity was strange, arguably stranger than insanity. Both had a strength and a reality incomprehensible to the other.

Neil lay on the floor, cold and reborn. The world was different now. He waited for her touch, any touch...whip or kiss; it mattered not.

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by Anonymous

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by sublocked02/07/18


As the author, I had decided this WAS the end. Neil has passed through to insanity already. Anything new to the story would be a waste, wouldn't it? The reader adds his own assumptions and the readermore...

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by leather_spitfire02/07/18

this is a gripping story, i can’t wait for more!

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