PDF We’re somewhere. I think it’s in Louisiana. A motel without a name. It reminds me of me. I don’t have a name any longer.
Not a real name, anyway.
The real light is somewhere outside, behind greased curtains. And then there’s the greater shadow, in the middle of the room.
Him.
Standing there in a way so he seems both more sharply defined, and at the same time more like a part of the shadows that seem to crawl all over the room, like animals circling a prey.
I am the prey.
I am sitting in a chair, hands tied to the sides. Some kind of handcuffs, both leather and metal. Don’t quite know where he got them. Legs shackled too, but in a way I can’t see. I can just feel the cold metal and the caress of the leather and part of the intensity of the feeling is knowing that there is no way I’m going to be able to tear myself loose.
Not that I want to.
I should want to but I don’t. And that is the definition of madness.
But this kind of madness is an infection that’s particularly dangerous. It hijacks your brain and quickly finds whatever is left of your soul and then it eats it. So if you ever thought you had a soul (and maybe you had) then you will not think so again. It is gone. All there is is the madness.
And it is burning.
“Are you ready for me, slave… ?”
His voice… kind of hoarse. Like he has trouble controlling himself. Maybe he has.
From here I can see his huge hard-on, no problem. All his features, not just his cock, seem more pronounced when he speaks – like the word suddenly spoken gives him form, a kind of reality that wasn’t manifest before.
And I never thought porn could be Biblical…
Some other light – much sharper – stings my eyes as I look away from him; but it is just one of the spots behind the stationaries. The cameras should be able to get all the good angles but I don’t know if I have any anymore. All the stripes on my back… I’ve tried to hide them. On the thighs too.
How can you both have them and hide them at the same time? When do you need them?
All sorts of strange questions that I never thought I would think about, but as we’ve journeyed across this place of swamps and fat mist and trailer trash kids staring at us with sunken eyes from sideroads, then it suddenly became kind of normal to wake up each morning and go into the bathroom and only feel the pain. The pain is the only thing that is real and although the light in the room is so sharp as if another projector had just been turned on to seek out a prisoner on the run – you – then your white visage in the mirror is still only a shadow.
It is a white shadow and it is you. It is -
“I asked you a fucking question, slave!!”
He hits me so hard that the chair lifts up a few inches from the ground and I become afraid it will topple.
Funny - all the idiotic things you can be afraid of at times like this. I’ve pretty much sold myself to a madness that right now takes the shape of a huge shadow that right now thrusts a huge cock into my mouth.
“If you can’t answer, then you might as well use your slut mouth for this!!”
- and through all the taste of some sterile soap and a drop of urine and his precum with is very sticky now then it is still funny because…
“Open your mouth, slave!!”
- as I said, I’ve sold myself. I’ve sold myself to something I cannot begin to comprehend and then I am thinking about a chair. I’m not even thinking of his piece of meat that right now thrusts and the saliva and the choking sensations and his hands that almost tear out my hair and the small stings of pain in my scalp coupled with the feeling that there is no feeling left in my naked body.
Like the body has become transparent. .Another’s body, no longer mine. And I can just sort of watch it from a point of detached interest, somewhere far away.
Perhaps that is what I was looking for to begin with?
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Feedback: I hope you enjoyed the story. All stories are (copy-)edited regularly. I'd like to hear what you thought of it - or - if you have corrections of US English grammar or suggestions for better use of language, particularly as regards my attempts at writing slang or local dialects. (English is not my native language.) You can reach me here: beyourstory AT gmail DOT com - or leave a comment on the Facebook fan-page Thanks! - Chris.
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