As the minutes go by it gets worse and worse. The way your ankles are bolted beside your wrists. Metal squeezes your tits. The collar. The gag. It all hurts. Not a lot. But enough to make everything difficult, even your breathing. You weigh it out in your mind. You can take one more minute. Maybe two. And just when you can’t stand another second, PD shows up. He lays a pile of canes and paddles at your feet. And you realize anything is better than being locked in this metal that rubs and squeezes and presses. Anything. You can plainly see that things are going to get a lot worse. But you don’t care. Even pain is better than this. You need PD. And that’s exactly the way he wants it.
He oils your feet, taking the time to rub it between each toe. His touch is incredible. Marvelous. He says, let me know when you want me to hit you. He makes you a part of your own misery. And he pokes a skewer beneath your toenails. He lights a torch and heats the bottoms of your feet. Your helplessness is profound. It’s just the beginning. Extended discomfort marked with bright points of pain and ecstasy quintessential torment.
As time passes, the things that he does begin to seem dreamlike. He’s bent your hands backwards, palm up splaying out your fingers. The room becomes fantastical as he torments your fingers, caning the meaty part of your palm. But you don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to be alone.
You’re standing, a 4X4 yoke bolted to your wrists and neck. A metal pipe gag pushes your tongue backwards and down, opening the mouth. Your breath dries your upper palette. You can’t swallow or wet your mouth. Metal chastity belt. Ankle spreader. Everything is very heavy. The weight messes with your head. It’s bad. Really bad. You’re nothing now. Nothing but this weight, this pain. You’re not you anymore. And maybe that’s exactly what you wanted all along.
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