____________________________
| |
/)| KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF |(\
/ )| DIRECTORIES |( \
__( (|____________________________|) )__
((( \ \ > /_) ( \ < / / )))
(\\\ \ \_/ / \ \_/ / ///)
\ / \ /
\ _/ \_ /
/ / \ \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen Becker o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Black Art (MF, nc, v)
by Your Throbbing Fucktool (c) 1991
Scene 1
She wants dark.
In time, I'll give it to her.
For now, she hangs in sunlit splendor, naked, covered with welts
and bruises. The welts are from a variety of really excellent
implements I've time-tested over my ten years in this business.
The bruises are more in the nature of an unstudied impromptu with
half-inch reinforced auto hose and a nineteen-thirties vintage
rattan cane I found on the premises.
One has to be something of a technician to do what I do well.
I don't really understand people who like pain--receiving it,
that is. Fortunately, I find that the people who like to provide
it are _rarely_ as competent as I am. This keeps me in demand.
I figure her, even as strong as she is, for a five- or six-day
breakdown. It's Day Two.
She is conscious, and dry from the seawater hosing-off which
followed her acquisition of the bruises. Her legs are spread 39
inches wide at the ankles. The previous occupant of this soli-
tary island villa was evidently a stickler for Metric accuracy
when it came to cutting 2-inch iron pipe.
I always try to work with what I'm given.
I integrate how long it will likely be before she has to crap or
piss, and decide to put the rubber panties on her. She stares at
me with one black eye. Her cracked lips move, a whisper. I
ignore it; it really doesn't matter what she wants just now. She
hasn't been trained yet to welcome the one thing I offer. Her
voice mostly went on Day One. When it comes back, it will be a
different voice.
As I'm tightening the side-strap closures on the panties, she
lets go with a flood of urine. I laugh. I wipe my hands on her
face.
"You must think I minded that," I say, my voice carrying a tiny
lilt. On the level, I tell her: "That's what the panties were
for. A day from now, after you've shit yourself, pissed some
more and stewed in it as well, perhaps you'll understand your new
place in the world."
Her place in the world. Her husband made his fortune in the
computer industry, back when it was still possible for an indi-
vidual in the US to do that. She said she wanted something new
for her birthday. Select secure communication led to my retain-
er. Her husband has no idea what he bought her.
I speak her name. She looks away. I slap her, hard, just under
the unbruised eye. I say her name again. She looks at me,
straight on. I tell her:
"That's not your name today. Today, and for the foreseeable
future, your name is 'Cow'. Have you got that?" Her dry mouth
opens in a pantomime of spitting. Not an appropriate response.
It's going to be a long day. Fortunately, *I* can relax when
boredom sets in.
"I should point out that the way you're arranged presently can
lead to permanent shortening of tendons.
"It," I pause for effect.
"Cripples."
She's of a state of mind where this concept still has some mean-
ing to her. It might be motivational. Not that that matters in
the long run. I give her the first Day Two lecture.
"So. Today there are four rules. When necessary, I will repeat
the rules.
When I ask a question, answer truthfully.
If you answer untruthfully, you will be punished.
If you don't know the answer, guess.
If you guess incorrectly, you will be punished.
These are the rules I will follow with you.
Today, and for the foreseeable future, your name is 'Cow'.
Have you got that?"
She nods, a bare two millimeters. It will suffice. I check her
pulse, then I begin to rig the IV stand. She stares in rising
horror. Her dossier does mention a phobia about such things.
Swab of Betadyne, let it dry. Slides in easy just there near the
back of the wrist. A little surgical tape, and done. I start
the lactated-Ringer's drip.
The drugs aren't really necessary; at most they shave a day or so
off the required time. But they do help with state control: say
that I judge that a panic attack would be the best next thing. A
spot of epinephrine and I can crank the subject's heart rate even
if she (or he, though that's much rarer) is nearing adrenal
exhaustion.
I turn to face her again.
"Cows eat shit," I say, conversationally. Idly, I wonder if they
do. I think their four-chambered stomachs make that unnecessary.
It was rabbits, wasn't it? No matter.
"Have you ever eaten any shit?"
Eyes still wide, distracted by the tube feed, she shakes her
head.
I punch her in the gut once, shake my hand to loosen it up again.
I'm a little out of shape for this. She is sucking wind; her
diaphragm flutters a few times before settling back down.
"Wrong answer. Have you ever eaten any shit?" I show her my
fist.
She sends me a mixed nod-shake, still stunned by the blow.
"That's right," I say. "You have eaten shit before. You have
eaten shit every time you let someone else think for you, tell
you what to do, scare you, order you around. Every time you let
peer pressure dictate what pleasures you'd enjoy, and in what
manner, and from whom. Every time you wondered if anyone really
loved who you really were. Every time you let yourself be se-
duced. Every time you wanted love on terms you held rigidly, but
wouldn't communicate. Every time you wondered if they could take
your children away from you."
Her head snaps around at this. If she had that quaintest of
quaint things, a "safeword", I know she'd use it now.
Such things do not exist in my world.
I'm bored. I step back toward the drug cart and
flickerFLASH of someoneplacetime else and
the frankincense smell of hot solder
breakfast milk moustache laughter
"bite it *hard*," she sang
sea spray cold sun
"You always..."
*pop*
I pull the trodes from my forehead as I complete the motion.
It's 2 AM in the low-gee wing. I wipe my brow and study the
white-draped form before me.
She is lying on the gurney, pale, drawn, curled in semi-fetal
crouch.
The glitch from my leaving has induced some tiny transient in her
reticular activating system. Her body trembles. I make a mental
note to request rScene 1
Copyright (C) 1991 by Your Throbbing Fucktool -- all rights reserved.
ecalculation of those tricky nd-splines.
My norton has decided I need a break.
I'm thankful for that. I never notice what hard work it is 'til
I'm not doing it.
Her "cortex clock" has been ramped down; no subjective time will
have passed for her in my absence. Her next week will be a month
for me.
I wish she didn't need this. I wish I didn't love her so.
I wonder why I do.
=========================== End of Scene One =================