Chapter 3: Anal Atrocities
The awareness of the cage had become a second skin, a whisper in his blood. Sleeping on his side was a minor torment; every instinct fought it, every half-formed nocturnal dream surged uselessly against the silicone tube. He woke each morning with a dull, aching pressure, his erection straining pointlessly against its unyielding prison. The first time he stood at the urinal, the new, humiliating ritual of fiddling with the device’s perforated end while his stream stuttered and sprayed, nearly broke him. It underscored the totality of his loss. Eleanor watched these adjustments dispassionately, the small silver key resting just above the neckline of whatever she wore.
His morning journal entries sat on the dresser, penned in a cramped, desperate hand. Day Two: The confinement is constant. I think of your key. I think of what I did to need it. He wrote about the ghost of arousal, the phantom-limb need that had nowhere to go, and how it circled back, always, to the black table and the look in her eyes.
When she summoned him on the third night, his body knew the routine. The dread was a cold sediment in his gut, but beneath it, a treacherous filament of something else hummed—a dark, shameful acceptance. The cage seemed to pulse against him as he entered the bedroom.
The soft lamp was lit, but it did nothing to soften the table. She stood beside it, already changed into her clinical black. She wasn’t alone. On the low cabinet, beside the familiar implements, lay new tools. A series of clear glass dildos, each with different textures—ribbed, knobbed, spiraled. A bottle of thick, clear lubricant. And, laid out with terrifying care, a pair of elbow-length black latex gloves.
“Spreadeagle tonight,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection. “Full exposure. Strip.”
He complied, the air cool on his skin. The cage felt more prominent naked, a blatant declaration of his state. She guided him onto the table, not to his stomach, but onto his back. The padded vinyl was cold against his shoulder blades. She secured his ankles first, the leather cuffs tight around his bones, pulling his arms legs wide. Then his wrists, stretching his arms out to the sides until he was cruciform, utterly open. His caged cock lay against his belly, a ridiculous, sad exhibit.
She picked up the gloves. The sound of them unrolling was thick, suggestive. She worked her hands into them, finger by finger, smoothing the latex up to her elbows where it ended with a faint snap against her skin. The transformation was complete; she was now purely an operator.
She selected the bottle of lube, popped the cap, and poured a generous, glistening pool into her gloved palm. The smell, clinical and faintly sweet, cut through the leather scent.
“Tonight,” she said, warming the liquid between her hands, “we measure your capacity. We see how much that treacherous ass of yours can take before you scream.” Her eyes met his, flat and analytical. “You wanted secret, solitary pleasure. Now you’ll receive intensely focused, very public pain. A lesson in contrasting economies.”
Her slicked fingers found the tight ring of his anus. He flinched, the touch invasive and cold from the latex. One finger pressed, slowly, inexorably, past the resistance. It was a violation utterly devoid of passion, a medical probe. He gasped, his hips twitching against the restraints.
“Already so tight,” she observed, working the finger in and out with a pitiless rhythm. “Clenched with guilt, is it? Let go.”
A second finger joined the first, stretching him, burning. He bit his lip, his knuckles white where they gripped air. The pain was sharp, clean, utterly different from the surface fire of the crop. It went deep, into a place he never thought of as being part of this. She scissored her fingers, opening him wider, her gaze fixed on where her hand worked.
“Now,” she whispered, withdrawing her fingers with a wet sound. She picked up the smallest of the glass dildos, a smooth, tapered piece. She coated it thoroughly in lube, until it shone in the lamplight. The cool tip pressed where her fingers had been. “This is a welcome. A kindness. Take it.”
She pushed. The glass was unyielding, impossibly solid as it breached him. The stretch was immense, a dull, aching fullness that stole his breath. He groaned, a long, low sound pulled from his chest.
“Good,” she murmured, not stopping until the entire sleek length was seated inside him. She held it there, letting him feel every inch of the cold intrusion. “Breathe.” He sucked in air, his body trembling. She began to move it, slow, piston-like strokes that grated against his raw sensitivity. It was not pleasure. It was an audit of his interior.
After a dozen strokes, she withdrew it completely. The sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as the fullness. He sagged against the table, sweating.
“Now the textured one.” She exchanged the smooth dildo for a thicker piece, its surface lined with pronounced, spiraling ridges. She lubricated it with even more deliberate care. “Count the ridges as they go in. Out loud.”
The broad, ribbed head pressed against him. The stretch was greater, terrifying. He gritted his teeth.
“Now, Thomas.”
“One,” he grunted as the first ridge popped past his clenched muscle, a bright flare of pain.
“Two.” Another. He was panting.
By “five,” his voice was tight, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The drag of the glass ribs was exquisite torment, scraping and filling him with every inch she buried. She worked it in to the hilt, then began a slow, grinding rotation. The ridges ground against his prostate, a brutal, shocking pressure that made his caged dick jump uselessly. A sound escaped him, part agony, part something else he refused to name.
“Sensitive spot?” she asked, a knowing edge in her voice. She angled the dildo and pushed it hard against that internal bundle of nerves. Lightning shot through him, a jolt so intense his vision swam. He cried out, a sharp, broken noise.
“Please,” he gasped, the word torn from him.
“Please what? Please stop?” She held the pressure, her latex-covered hand firm on the base of the glass shaft. “Or please more? Which plea is from the man who stole from me? Which is from the man who wants to be forgiven?”
She increased the pace, fucking him with the ribbed glass in short, punishing strokes aimed directly at his prostate. The dual sensations—the brutal stretching, the violent, unwanted stimulation—collided inside him. He was sobbing openly now, tears tracking into his hairline, his body convulsing against the restraints. His caged erection leaked a transparent droplet of pre-cum onto his stomach, a pathetic testament to a body betraying its mind.
“You’re going to take it all,” she growled, her composure slipping for the first time into something raw and furious. “Every inch of this punishment. You’re going to feel it in your guts tomorrow. You’re going to remember what happens when you turn our intimacy into a fucking secret!”
With a final, brutal thrust, she seated the dildo fully and left it there, a vibrating, awful fullness. She stepped back, her chest rising and falling, the latex on her arms gleaming with sweat and lubricant. She looked at him, a ruined, weeping thing spread out before her.
“That’s enough for tonight,” she said, her voice regaining its steely calm. She grasped the base of the glass dildo and pulled it from him in one smooth, devastating motion. The emptiness that followed was a hollow, throbbing ache.
She undid the restraints. He couldn’t stand at first. His legs were jelly, his body wracked with tremors. She helped him, her grip impersonal, to the edge of the table, where he sat head bowed, shuddering.
She peeled off the latex gloves, finger by finger, dropping them into a small waste bin by the cabinet. The sound was final. Then she walked to her dresser, opened a drawer, and removed something. A small, soft cloth.
She came back and knelt before him. With a gentleness that was more disorienting than any cruelty, she began to wipe the tears from his face, then the mess of lube and sweat from his inner thighs. The cloth was warm and damp. She cleaned him with the detached efficiency of a nurse, but her eyes held something complex—a fierce, exhausted possession.
“Go shower,” she said softly, tucking the cloth into his hand. “Use the showerhead. Clean yourself inside. It will help with the ache.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
She stood, looking down at the top of his head. “Your journal entry tomorrow will be interesting. I want to know what the ridges felt like. I want to know what you thought about when you cried. Not an apology. An observation.”
She turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the sliver of light from the hall. “And Thomas,” she said from the doorway, her silhouette framed in the light. “You didn’t scream. I’m disappointed. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
We’ll try again tomorrow.”
The morning arrived not as a relief but as a continuation. Thomas woke to a familiar, dull ache radiating from his core, a deep internal soreness that echoed every ridge of the glass. He lay on his side, as mandated, and watched the grey dawn light seep around the bedroom curtains. Moving was a cautious enterprise. He swung his legs out of bed, the cage a familiar, weighty presence, and padded to the bathroom.
He performed his ablutions in silence, cleaning himself externally and internally with the handheld showerhead as she’d instructed. The warm water was a minor balm. He dressed in simple grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, the loose fabric a small mercy. The house was quiet. He put the kettle on and sat at the kitchen island to write in the black, leather-bound journal she’d provided.
Day Three, he wrote, the pen shaking slightly. The ache is central. It’s not on the skin, it’s in the channel. I can feel the ghost-shape of the glass, the memory of each spiral grinding. When I cried, I thought about emptiness. I thought about how full you made me, and how that fullness was only pain. I thought about the key. He stopped, re-reading the words. They felt inadequate, a child’s drawing of a catastrophe. He closed the book and left it on the dresser.
He heard her stirring. A few minutes later, Eleanor entered the kitchen. She was already dressed for her day in tailored trousers and a cream silk blouse, her hair pulled back in a severe, elegant knot. The small silver key hung at her throat, visible against her skin. She poured herself coffee, her movements efficient.
“The journal is on the dresser,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.
“I saw it,” she replied, not looking at him. She took a sip, then set the mug down. “Come here. Morning inspection.”
He froze for a second, the phrase new and chilling. Then he obeyed, walking to stand before her in the center of the kitchen. The filtered morning light was starkly revealing.
“Remove your pants and underwear,” she instructed, her tone that of a clinician. “Leave them at your ankles.”
A flush of shame heated his neck and chest. This was different from the bedroom’s dedicated space. This was the kitchen, where they ate breakfast. The incongruity was part of the point. He pushed his sweatpants and boxer briefs down, letting them pool around his feet. The cool air hit his legs and his cased genitals.
“Hands behind your back. Stand straight.”
He complied, locking his fingers together at the small of his back, forcing his shoulders back. He stared at a point on the wall just over her left shoulder, his jaw tight.
She circled him slowly. Her eyes were not on his face but on his body, scanning the territory of her punishments. The faded bruises from the paddle were a yellowish-green galaxy across his ass and upper thighs. The finer, redder lines from the crop were still visible, a stark latticework. She stopped behind him.
“The bruising is fading well,” she noted clinically. “The crop marks are superficial. They’ll be gone in another day.” Her fingers, warm and dry, touched a particular constellation of bruises on his right buttock. “This cluster is from the initial punishment. It retains a deeper coloration.”
Her touch was neither tender nor cruel. It was analytical. It made his skin prickle. She completed her circuit and stood before him again, her gaze dropping to the cage. He felt himself instinctively try to shrink, a futile biological impulse thwarted by the silicone.
“The device appears secure. No swelling. No chafing.” She reached out, not for him, but for the small steel lock that secured the tube to the base ring. She gave it a firm tug, testing its integrity. The movement jostled him, sending a dull throb through his confined flesh. “Good. Any discomfort beyond the expected?”
“No,” he managed to say, the word sticking in his throat.
“Pain during urination?”
“No.”
“Internal soreness from last night’s session? Describe it.”
He swallowed. “A deep ache. Like a muscle strain. But…inside.”
She nodded, filing the information away. “That’s to be expected. It will fade by tonight.” She paused, her eyes finally meeting his. They were clear, focused, utterly in control. “The inspection is about accountability, Thomas. It’s a tangible check on the consequences. You are visibly, physically carrying the result of your choices. Every day. Now, you may dress.”
He bent, awkwardly pulling his clothing back up, the fabric whispering over his sensitive skin. The act of restoring his modesty felt like a pathetic pantomime. The inspection had rendered him a specimen, and the feeling lingered.
She finished her coffee, watching him. “I have meetings until six. Your lunch is in the fridge. I expect the house to be clean. We resume at eight.”
She collected her briefcase and left, the click of the front door a period at the end of her sentence.
The day stretched before him, hollow and vast. He cleaned, the mechanical motions of vacuuming and dusting a welcome numbness. But his mind kept returning to the kitchen, to her circling him, to the cold, professional assessment. He was a project. A broken system under repair.
The journal entry sat in his mind, unfinished. He had written about the physical memory, but not about the inspection. He hadn't known it was coming. That was the point, he supposed. The rules could expand at any moment.
At ten minutes to eight that evening, he stood outside the bedroom door. He wore only his robe, belted loosely. The internal ache had softened to a whisper, a reminder. He heard movement inside.
He entered.
The scene was similar, yet fundamentally altered. The table was there. The cabinet was open. But Eleanor stood facing the far wall, where a new piece of equipment had been installed: a heavy, black metal frame from which hung a complex arrangement of leather straps and cuffs—a standing restraint. She turned as he entered. She wore a black leather harness over her bare torso, the straps accentuating her breasts and converging between her legs where a thick, veiny silicone dildo protruded, a deep, angry purple.
“Tonight,” she said, her voice a low hum of intent. “You learn to take what you’re given. You don’t earn an orgasm. You earn the privilege of servicing mine. Get in the frame.”
The standing restraint welcomed him with cold metal and the smell of new leather. She guided him into it, his back against the vertical post. She secured wide cuffs around his thighs, just above the knees, forcing his legs apart in a wide, immovable stance. Another set of cuffs locked his wrists above his head, pulling his torso taut. He was exposed, vulnerable, and crucially, upright.
She stepped back, running her hands over the harness strapped to her own body. She palmed the silicone cock, giving it a slow, possessive stroke. “You wanted to fuck other women,” she said, the word ‘fuck’ a venomous dart. “So now, you’ll be fucked. By me. And you’ll thank me for it.”
She approached him, the dildo bobbing with her steps. She took a bottle of lube from the cabinet and slicked the purple length until it gleamed under the lamp. The smell was the same, that clinical sweetness. She positioned herself between his spread legs, the tip of the fake cock pressing against his entrance, still tender from the night before.
“Open up for me,” she commanded, her hands gripping his hips.
He tried to relax, to will his muscles to yield. The pressure was immense, blunt and unyielding. It wasn’t glass; it was silicone, with a slight give, but it was thicker than anything she’d used before. It stretched him brutally, a slow, burning invasion that stole the air from his lungs. He let out a choked groan.
“That’s it,” she whispered, her face close to his, her breath hot on his neck. She pushed harder, her hips driving forward until the entire artificial shaft was buried inside him to the hilt. The harness pressed against his ass cheeks. The fullness was overwhelming, a crude, stuffed sensation. “You’re so fucking tight around my cock. You feel that? That’s mine now.”
She began to move. Short, powerful thrusts that hammered his prostate with ruthless accuracy. There was no tenderness, no exploration. This was a claiming. Each drive of her hips slammed the dildo into that sensitive bundle of nerves, sending shockwaves of painful, unwelcome sensation through him. His own caged dick strained, a point of frantic, trapped energy.
“You like that, you cheating bastard?” she grunted, her rhythm increasing. The harness creaked with her effort. “You like getting your ass reamed by your wife’s strap-on? Tell me you like it.”
He couldn’t form words. Sobs and grunts were punched out of him with each inward thrust. Tears streamed down his face. It was a violation so complete it bordered on annihilation.
“Say it!” she shouted, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head back. “Say ‘Thank you for fucking me, Eleanor.’”
The pain in his scalp, the deep, grinding violation, the sheer, unendurable humiliation coalesced. “Thank you!” he screamed, the words ripping from a raw throat. “Thank you for fucking me, Eleanor!”
“Louder!”
“THANK YOU FOR FUCKING ME!” he wailed, his body convulsing in the restraints.
She rode him harder, faster, her own breathing becoming ragged with effort and fury. This was her release. This was her orgasm—not a clenching of muscles, but the act of dominant violence. She fucked him until her thighs burned, until his cries dissolved into whimpering hyperventilation.
With a final, deep grind that pressed the base of the harness hard against him, she stilled. She stayed there, buried inside him, her forehead damp against his shoulder. His body sagged in the cuffs, held up only by the restraints and her presence.
Slowly, she pulled out. The withdrawal was a long, slick, awful slide. A profound emptiness yawned inside him. She unhooked herself from the harness and let it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
She walked to the cabinet, her movements loose now, spent. She uncuffed him. His legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor, a heap of trembling flesh and bone. She knelt beside him, not touching him.
“Look at me,” she said.
He lifted his head, his vision blurred.
Her face was slick with sweat, her eyes blazing with a fire that had finally found its fuel. “We’re halfway,” she said, her voice quiet but resonant in the silent room. “Do you understand the difference yet? Between taking and being given?”
He nodded, a slight, broken movement.
“Get up. Clean yourself. Sleep.” She stood, looking down at him. “Tomorrow’s inspection will include an internal check. Be prepared.”