Chapter 6: Nightshift
Chapter 4
I haven’t been typing for a while, Mistress. At first, this was because I was being electrocuted so was incapable of doing so, but after around ten minutes of agony this stopped. Since then, I have been considering my situation. I am sure by now you are soundly asleep in our comfortable bed and I envy this. I am far from comfortable.
I know that you first left me bound at around 9 this morning. We normally go to bed around 11 PM and if that is the case today it means I’ve been bound to this chair for at least 14 hours so far. My word count is currently 6000, give or take, so if my mental arithmetic is correct this means I’ve only managed an average of a little over 400 words per hour!
When you went to bed, I was hoping to have my story emailed to you for when you woke up, but I now know this won’t be possible. It’s dawned on me that unless I manage to increase my typing speed, even if I stay awake all night, it will be another 10 hours before I finish the story. And, of course, that’s just finishing typing. I am then ordered to read it thoroughly and edit it to ensure there are no mistakes, which is going to take at least another three or four hours.
I then have to send it to you, and have no idea if you will choose to read it straight away, but when you do, I am sure you will find things in it that displease you. I know you will make it your business to find something, however trivial, and my time here will increase even more as I am forced to correct this. I’ve come to the conclusion that I will remain strapped to this chair for at least another 15 or 16 hours, in reality probably more, and the fact that I am not even halfway through my torment is filling me with dread.
I am so tired and am worried that I may not be able to type much longer, but I also doubt if I will be capable of sleep. My body is really feeling the strain from being held immobile in this chair for so long. Every muscle is aching. I constantly try to shift my position slightly, just to get my aching muscles working, but my restraints are unyielding. I can barely move an inch.
I know that you have been tied up before, Mistress. You’ve told me about this from your previous relationships and of course there was the time around a year ago when you ordered me to tie you up. I was surprised at the time, but was happy to do this, if nothing else to remind you of how it feels to be completely helpless.
What I don’t think you know is the effect when you are put into long-term bondage in a position that gives you no ability to move your muscles. It’s excruciating, Mistress, and it’s made me severely doubt what I said earlier about being placed in permanent bondage.
If this does happen, and no, I haven’t dismissed it yet, I would need to know that you understand that some movement, even small amounts, is essential when I am left restrained for long periods. It’s necessary to keep my body functioning properly and I would also need regular exercise.
The idea of my muscles wasting away, of my body losing its ability to function correctly is something I believe neither of us wants. In short, I’d need to fully trust that you would look after your permanently bound slave and keep me healthy.
The trust between us has always been so strong Mistress, and I hate it that I am now doubting this. We've built our relationship on trust and honesty, so I need to speak up about my fears. I trust you will listen, even if it means you may be disappointed in me for doubting you.
As if on queue, just as I finished typing the above, my electric torment started again. This lasted for around another 10 minutes, and after I somehow managed to drift off into a fitful sleep through my sheer exhaustion. I’ve no idea how long I managed to sleep, but was awoken by my e-stim torture starting yet again. It took me a minute or two to fully come around, the residual shocks making it difficult to focus.
The pattern of my torture this time was different. Instead of all going at the same time, each part of me connected to this infernal machine triggered independently, one after the other. This cycle repeated itself for what seemed like hours, the strength of my shocks varying from slight to totally unbearable. It was like it was deliberately punishing me for daring to fall asleep.
Finally, the shocks stopped, I was left gasping for breath, my body soaked in sweat and I have to admit I was crying profusely. As I type this now, the high protein sludge is being pumped down my throat, giving me my meal. Because it misses my taste buds I can’t taste it, but I can feel it trickling down my throat and it’s not a nice experience. I can smell though, and that’s not pleasant either. I’m assuming my piss bucket must be full and the stench of my stale urine, rising from the bucket immediately below me, is vile as I draw it in up my nose tubes.
I can’t remember ever feeling so totally ignored, helpless and humiliated. I am nothing more than a pathetic, bound, gagged and hooded piece of meat, being force-fed purely to keep me alive. All my bodily functions have been stripped from me except for my sight and use of fingers to enable me to continue my story and of course, my sense of smell, which at the moment I’d really rather not have. It’s a cruel reminder of just who I am, of my place in our relationship, and it’s both distressing and sickly comforting.
The machine stops feeding me, and my stomach churns with the unwelcome liquid meal that’s just been pumped into it. I long for your voice, for another visit from you, even though I know this will involve another cigarette being rammed up my nose tube. Right now, I’d welcome this, purely as a sign that you’re still aware of my existence. But there’s nothing. Just silence, broken only by the sound as my fingers tap slowly on the keyboard.
I try to focus on my writing, on the words I’ve been ordered to produce before you will even consider my release from bondage. But my mind is a jumble of pain, exhaustion, and longing. I have no idea what time it is, it could still be the middle of the night, it could be sometime in the morning. With no natural light entering the dungeon it’s impossible to gauge if it’s day or night and the passage of time has become virtually meaningless.
My mind feels like it’s on autopilot, my body running on pure adrenaline as I try to force myself to continue typing.
Suddenly, the screen in front of me comes to life. You’re sitting on the couch in the living room, and you’re dressed up again as the sexy Dominatrix. Your face is heavily made up and I can see your bright red glossy lips sucking on your long cigarette holder then exhaling smoke, something you know always turns me on. There’s a man hanging in front of you, suspended from the various hooks that you forced me to install in ceiling. Hooks which I have often dangled from helplessly.
He’s dressed from head to toe in black latex including high stiletto latex boots, which are obviously there purely for aesthetics as they’re not even touching the floor. His head is also hooded meaning not an inch of his flesh is visible. Well, maybe an inch or so, the only way I can tell this bound object is actually a man is by his cock, which protrudes from the latex, but is in itself fully encased in a metal cock cage. He’s groaning, but this is muffled so I assume he’s gagged under his hood.
You’re casually chatting away on your phone as you watch him struggle in his suspended bondage. You must be talking to one of your kinky friends, as the man’s muffled cries would be audible to the person you’re speaking with. This seems to be causing you both great amusement as you refer to him as yet another pathetic specimen of manhood and describe in detail how he is bound and how are you are going to make him suffer.
Up to this point you have completely ignored me, even though you know I am watching you and the bound man. When you eventually finish your call you glance up at the camera as if you’d forgotten that you turned it on. A wicked grin slowly spreads across your face.
“Good morning my helpless little bound weasel. I trust that you had a pleasant night.” you say straight into the camera exhaling smoke at it.
I don’t reply, I can’t of course with my mouth stuffed, but if I could speak I’d have a thousand things to say right now and they wouldn’t all be good. I’m sure you know this and are deliberately teasing me with my inability to communicate.
You’re staring at the screen in front of you, watching me typing. “How are you getting on with your task? Surely it must be finished by now, but I haven’t received an email. I may just choose to honour you with a visit to check your progress, when I’ve got rid of this pathetic piece of shit.” You point casually at the man, as if it’s perfectly normal to have a bound and latex clad person hanging from the ceiling of your living room.
“Would you like a visit? You have my permission to answer in grunt form, but make sure this is loud, I could hardly hear you yesterday. Three grunts for yes, five if you would prefer to be left alone longer as I’m sure you’re aware a visit will involve other consequences.”
I scream three times, as loud as I can, into my gag.
“Awwww, are you getting lonely? I will consider whether to grant your wish, but in the meantime, as you can see, I have work to do.” With that the screen goes black again, our one-sided conversation is over.
I return to typing, determined to get my task finished. If you do choose to visit, I want you to be pleased with my progress, but I know that even if you are, you will still ridicule me. I’m thinking about this new man you are now torturing, the one you casually referred to as a pathetic piece of shit, knowing full well he would hear this. You are so cruel Mistress, and you delight in dishing out humiliation.
I didn’t even know that you had more clients today. I suppose you have no obligation to inform, what is in effect, a bound object in your dungeon of your schedule, other than to increase its suffering. And that is what I am now, an ‘it’, not a ‘he’. You have the power to transform me into whatever you want, and from the session with Fifi last night, this may well include ‘she’ at some point in the not too distant future.
I shudder, this thought filling me with both excitement and trepidation, my fingers tremble hesitantly on the keyboard as I try to continue typing. My mind drifts back to the man and what you will be doing to him right now. Will he still be suspended or will you have let him down so you can use him for your sexual gratification as you shout humiliating insults at him? Or maybe you’ll just ignore him as you do me, degrading him by forcing him to listen to more of your casual conversations with your kinky friends?
My mind is racing, and I suddenly realize I'm so scared right now. I need to forget the man upstairs and focus on my own future. Am I seriously about to tell you in this story that I wish to be your permanently bound slave for the rest of my life? It seems totally insane, but I’ve considered this a lot in the slow hours that have passed and yes, I’m pretty certain I am about to do precisely that.
A big part of me just wants this to be over with. I want to be released from these restraints when this task is finished and held in your arms, loved and cherished. In that scenario, I will have deleted any mention of permanent bondage from my story. I've replaced it with a plea for more of what we already have, but more intense, more frequent, more brutal, but not permanently bound.
But, deep down I know I’m not going to make those changes and that scares the shit out of me. It’s a huge decision, one which will dramatically change the rest of my life and I need to be 100% happy this is what I want before I hit the email send button. Once I’ve done this, it will be too late, the decision will have been made and I know you will make it happen. They’ll be no turning back and you won’t give me the option of changing my mind. I know you well, Mistress, if I send you the email as my story is now, my fate will be sealed irrevocably.