Sunday, October 31, 2004


My friend Bliatz wrote a very recent post about the necessity of the mindfuck, and it brought back to the fore this story that I'd kind of half-formed in my mind two or three years ago, and decided to get onto paper. It's a bit intense, but I think a very good tale of emotional domination.

He blindfolded her and hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her into the garage, where she could hear the glass crunching under his boots on the rough concreted floor. She whimpered in fear, but she may as well have been whining to stone for all the good it was doing. He set her on the cold floor, and told her get on her knees if she didn't want to stumble and find her feet cut to bloody ribbons. She did as told, her skin breaking out in a light sheen of sweat despite the chill in the garage in late fall.

"Just so you understand the risks of you moving one inch outside where you're kneeling," he told her in a low and almost hypnotic voice, and then she felt a burning on the back of her hand. "Taste your own blood. You don't want to be walking and crawling around now, do you?"

"No, Master," she breathed, just above a whisper. "Please don't do this to me, Master."

His reply was a light slap to her face, hard enough to sting, and to shock her, but not really all that painful. But then, it didn't need to be, obviously. He may as well have had her feet sunk into buckets of concrete like some 20's-era gangster on the Hudson River. She licked the back of her hand and tasted the coppery blood welling up from a very shallow cut, and then he cuffed her hands behind her back. He'd never uttered another word as his boots crunched more of the glass as he strode out of the garage, leaving her in wait. She suddenly had to take the biggest pee of her life, and did her best to ignore it, hands bound behind her and eyes blinded in black leather. She didn't dare move, and couldn't stand the humiliation of wetting herself, and so she grimly waited him out.

She screamed as she heard a loud crack on the air, and wondered how the hell he had snuck in so quietly, recognizing the sound of his bullwhip. Her master was anything but light on his feet, and usually could be heard clumping in his boots for a thousand yards.

Whatever else he was, sneaky didn't fit the bill. The crack had sounded close, very close, perhaps no more than three feet away. And then he cracked it again while she whimpered, grimly fighting off panic.

"Do I have your attention now," he asked her, still in a low, calm and hypnotic voice.

"Yes, Master," she said, trying not to cry or disappoint him.

"The time has come to test your trust in me," he told her. "Stand."

She obeyed him, with difficulty, disoriented and fighting vertigo, terrified of falling into the shattered glass littering the floor of the garage. She weaved some, but finally had her balance, standing before him, facing his voice.

"Come to me," he told her.

"Master, I ..." she started to protest.

"Trust me or not," he told her. "Come to me or we'll both know you don't trust your master."

"Yes, Master," she said, and screwed her courage as tightly as she could. And then she started gingerly shuffling forward, almost like an ancient person who really needed a walker.

"Trust me and walk," he told her. "Don't shuffle in fear."

She nodded and took a deep and ragged breath, and then expelled it shakily. She raised a foot and stepped forward toward his voice, bracing herself for the agonies of glass shredding her feet, but finding her heart unable to disobey him. She heard the glass crunching, felt it on her feet, felt a few pieces sticking to the soles of her feet, but felt no pain, no burning cuts like she'd expected. Was this some sort of Polynesian walking-on-burning-coals thing? She didn't know, and wouldn't ask, but took step after brave step toward the sound of his voice as he encouraged her to come to him. The glass kept crunching under her bare feet, but she gained a bit more faith in her master with each step. And then she was in his arms, her breasts pressed to the rough leather of his jacket. She felt his lips on hers, and they kissed long and lovingly.

"How did you do it, Master," she asked. "I'm not injured."

"I could tell you it was because of your faith, and I'd be right," he told her, and then removed her blindfold. "But take a look for yourself."

She gasped in surprise, feeling her arousal mounting as she knew he'd gotten her but good. The floor was covered in crushed potato chips!

"Let's go inside, woman," he told her. "I think it's time we fucked."

--Patrick H.--
--31st October 2004, A.D.--