Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/F/FICTA.4

Text File | 1994-03-26 | 7.3 KB | 134 lines

Sorry!  I sent it out, but it musta got munched...

WARNING!  This work of fiction contains descriptions of sexual
practices some people might find disturbing to read about.  If you
find that certain types of descriptive passages cause you extreme
distress, press ``n'' now!  You have been warned!

This work copyrighted, (name withheld).  Electronic transmission
is permitted and the printing of hardcopy for personal use only is
permitted, so long as the text is not altered, including disclaimers,
and it is attributed to the alias Ladyhawke.  Flames to
[e-mail]
*************************************************************************
@BEGIN_FILE_ID.DIZ
(Ficta, part 4 of 5)@END_FILE_ID.DIZ

And she knew then, that he *understood*.  He understood her need for
pain.  He understood that every blow and every cut would convey love
as a kiss does, and she understood that every blow and every cut was a
gift of infinite loving.  Every agony he inflicted would be his gift
and his testament of love to her.  She knew she would be made to
suffer beyond her ability to endure, because he cared.  She knew that
he would understand every scream and every whimper to be not a wish
for the pain to end, but a sound her body demanded she make; she knew
she need not be silent for fear of making his ministrations cease.  It
was a promise written on her soul, ``No matter what you do, I will not
stop, you cannot make me stop.  I will make you *hurt*.''

He watched on the screen as the machine wrote in her mind what she
shall be for the rest of her life.  There was a gauge that showed her
resistance to the imprinting: in truth, there was no resistance.  Her
mind welcomed these thoughts, beliefs and tenets with complete
acceptance.  He watched as the machine remade her mind, with a delight
and awe he rarely felt.  She wanted to be his as much as he desired to
own her.  It seemed to him to be a miracle, and he felt a desire to
thank some nameless deity that such a creature could exist, that a
creature existing could be so perfect for him, could be his true mate.

He did not have to reprogram her.  She had fallen in love as he took
her in the chains.  She would have obeyed as best any natural creature
could physically obey.  But then again, he did need to reprogram her.
They both needed it.  He needed to know her faith and love were
absolute; that is what his heart needed.  And it was also his gift to
her.  The programming went well beyond her consciousness,
circumventing her own thoughts.  Things she would have been physically
incapable of doing at his order, such as ``Go to sleep'', her new
programming would obey; he was programming the controls to her body,
not just her mind.  If he did not do this, she would fail, and it
would wrack at her, and grieve her; now she would not have to endure
failure at what she wished to be able to do.

He scratched her scalp idly as the machine whirred away.  Then it was
done.  He shut down the master program, and unplugged the headset.
She lifted her head from his leg, and looked up in his eyes.  He
released her head from the mechanism, and set it on the desk.  Her
eyes were choked with emotion, but were dry.  With a soft rustle of a
voice she said,

``Thank you, Master.  Thank you for making me this.''

He lifted her up and kissed her then, and she responded with all the
ardor in her overwhelmed heart.  He took the chain from the desk, and
lead her forth again.

This time, the came to a room that looked of japanese style; two walls
were of rice-paper panes in wood.  Racks lined the other austere,
white, walls, bearing all manner of instruments.  A pallet lay on the
hardwood floor by one wall.  A low table held a lantern, a sprig of
flowers, a white cloth, and a pitcher with a glass.  He unlocked her
hand from behind her back, and helped her strip off her clothing.
Folded these were put on the table, with his robe.

He locked her hands to a sturdy chain from the ceiling.  He took the
white cloth; with one hand gripped her hair and pulled back her head,
and with the other he forced the cloth into her mouth.  There was much
of it, and it would not all fit in her mouth.  He pulled it out, and
twisted one corner, and forced it back into her mouth.  ``Swallow,''
he commanded, and she let the cloth into her throat.  This time he was
able to press all of the fabric into her.  She gagged fiercely against
the mass filling her throat, but so tightly was the cloth packed she
could not even vomit, neither could she move her jaw at all.

He took a roll of tape and a squeeze tube from the wall; he smeared
the substance in the tube on her lips, then sealed over her mouth with
the tape.  The distress of gagging against the cloth surged adrenaline
through her, and her breath came ragged and panicked through her
nostrils.  She managed to control this quickly and her body stopped
spasming as violently.

He took a heavy stick from the wall; it was black and had a grip at
one end: a billyclub.  He met her gaze once.  His face was filled with
a zen-like calm.  She matched this within herself.  Then he broke gaze
with her, and raised the club.

With a snap of his wrist and flex of his shoulder, the club hit her
with a meaty ///thunk///.  He was older, but he was not weak.  That
blow summoned more force than she had ever seen used against a living
person; nothing was held back.  Wasting no time, he recoiled, and
clubbed her again.  Her breath was forced from her lungs.

He proceeded to beat her.  Each blow was a study in technique, a
perfect culmination of study and skill in force and aim.  Tears
tracked down her cheeks, and she grunted and moaned and shrilled and
gurgled in pain around the gag but all of these sounds were muffled
almost beyond his hearing.  He walked about her as he beat her, being
careful not to do any severe trauma to delicate areas, such as her
kidneys.  Blows fell across her belly, across her shoulders, her
thighs, her breasts, her ribs, her calves.  After a while, he ceased,
and poured a drink of water for himself from the pitcher; he sipped at
the water for a time.  Then he began again.

She passed beyond tears, grunting faintly only because some blows
pushed the air past her vocal cords.  All of her awareness compacted
to the immediate room.  Her mind filled with the perfection of the
connection between swinging hardwood rod and her flesh.  Each swing
was a need, and that need was fulfilled by her soft body accepting and
intercepting the motion, stilling it and absorbing it.  Each volume of
her body was a need, and the force of each impact dispersing deep
throughout her muscle was a fulfillment.

She did not realize when he stopped, for her body hurt so.  But it was
the jingling of the keys and he reached up and unlocked her that
alerted her to the end of the ordeal.  The manacles fell from the
chain and she collapsed into his arms.  He bore her down to the pallet,
and cradled her in his arms.  He smiled at her.

            End of part 4 of 5
--
To use this service, send EMAIL to:
Anonymous posting:    [e-mail]        (yes, a dash)
Anonymous reply:    <user's alias>@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Test path/get alias:    [e-mail]         (yes, a dash)
ACS administrator:    [e-mail]        (yes, a dash)