Chapter 6: The New Routine
The morning sun cut through the cabin’s front window in a sharp, dusty wedge, illuminating the floating motes of sawdust and failure. Voo sat in his worn armchair, the one with the springs that groaned in protest under his weight. The local paper was open in his hands, a prop more than a read. His real focus was the woman on the floor beside him.
Michal knelt on the rough hardwood, her bare knees already aching. The position was becoming familiar, a daily altar. She was naked, the furious red of her morning spanking having faded to a warm, pink blush across her ass and thighs. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps on her skin, but a deeper, more insistent heat was building from the inside. It started low in her belly, a slow coil tightening with every breath he took, with every rustle of his newspaper. His presence was a physical weight, a magnetic field pulling at her blood. She refused to look at him, staring instead at a knothole in the floorboard, trying to anchor her sanity to it.
Her mouth was full. He had used her face that morning after the spanking, fucking her throat until he came with a low groan, his hands fisted in her hair. He’d held her there, spurting jet after jet onto her tongue, before releasing her with a soft command. “You should hold it.”
So she did. The cum was warm, a viscous, salty pool that coated her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She hadn’t swallowed. The order hadn’t come. So she knelt, her jaw slightly open, a thin strand of saliva and semen threatening to drip from her lower lip. The taste was overwhelming, intimately his, and it made the coil in her gut tighten another notch. Her cunt was damp, an automatic, humiliating response to being near him, to being used this way.
On the broad arm of his chair, within easy reach of his right hand, lay the small, black plastic remote. It was nondescript, the kind of thing that might control a ceiling fan. But it controlled the sleek, vibrating plug buried deep in her ass. It had been there since before breakfast, a constant, fullness that her body was hypersensitized to. Every tiny shift of her weight sent little shockwaves of sensation through her, not in her pussy, but deep in her rectum, a direct line to her nervous system that was now wired for pleasure. It was a low, teasing hum on its lowest setting, a persistent reminder of her violation.
Voo turned a page of the paper. He didn’t look at her. “You should keep your back straight,” he said, his voice casual.
A “should.” Her body obeyed before her mind could form a protest. Her shoulders pulled back, her spine aligning. The movement made the plug shift inside her, a delicious, shocking scrape against her sensitive inner walls. A tiny gasp escaped her nose. Her eyes, against her will, rolled back for a second before she forced them down again. The lust was a fog, thick and sweet, clouding her thoughts. It was chemical, undeniable. Being near him was like being drugged.
He watched her from the corner of his eye. He saw the tremble in her thighs, the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat, the desperate focus on the floor. He saw the drool and cum gathering on her lip. He reached over, his movements slow and deliberate, and picked up the remote. His thumb hovered over the single button.
“You’re holding it well,” he remarked, as if discussing the weather.
Then he pressed the button. Once. Twice. A third time.
The plug inside her exploded to life. The vibration wasn't a hum anymore; it was a brutal, jackhammering roar deep in her bowels. It was the highest setting, a frantic, punishing buzz that lit up every nerve ending in her asshole and radiated outwards, consuming her. Her whole body jerked as if electrocuted. A guttural, choked sound was trapped behind the cum in her mouth. Her hands flew to the floor to steady herself. Her back arched, her head thrown back, eyes wide and unseeing. The pleasure was catastrophic, a seismic event centered in a place that should not feel this good. It ripped through her, bypassing her cunt entirely to attack the core of her. Her nipples tightened into aching peaks. Her pussy flooded, a hot gush of slickness that dripped onto the floor between her splayed knees. The coil in her belly snapped.
“Cumming!” she screamed, the word mangled, bubbling through the fluid in her mouth. The orgasm was instant and violent, a dry, convulsive shock that seized her muscles and shook her like a ragdoll. Her ass clenched wildly around the tormenting plug, which only intensified the vibrations, feeding the frenzy. She saw white spots behind her eyelids. It was the most intense physical sensation of her life, pure, undiluted, degrading pleasure rooted in her ass.
As the waves began to subside, leaving her trembling and gasping, Voo spoke. His voice was calm, flat. “Swallow.”
It was a command, not a ‘should’. But it didn’t need to be. Her body was a puppet of spent nerves and programmed obedience. Her throat worked. She swallowed the thick, warm load in one convulsive gulp. The taste of him flooded down her esophagus, a final, intimate conquest. She panted, empty-mouthed now, strings of spit and residual cum still connecting her lips.
Voo turned the vibrator off. The sudden silence in her body was almost as shocking as the noise had been. The plug was just a heavy, inert presence again. He folded his newspaper and set it aside. He looked at her, a sheen of sweat covering her body, her chest heaving.
“Come here,” he said, patting his thigh. “You should get your maintenance. Can’t have you forgetting.”
She moved on autopilot, the “should” echoing in the hollowed-out chamber of her mind. She crawled the short distance to his chair, her limbs weak. He guided her, his hands on her hips, positioning her face-down across his solid legs. Her scorched ass was raised, presented to the empty room. Her cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his work pants. She could smell his scent here, musky and raw, and it made her clit twitch feebly against the hard muscle of his leg.
His hand, broad and calloused, came to rest on her right cheek. It was warm. He rubbed gently, almost affectionately, over the heated skin. Then he pulled it back.
The first spank was sharp, a crisp, loud crack that echoed in the quiet room. The pain was bright and immediate, a starburst across her nerve endings. But a heartbeat later, as if traveling along a dedicated wire, the echo of that pain transformed. It morphed into a deep, resonant thrum of pleasure that shot straight into her sensitized asshole and fanned out, making her cunt pulse. It wasn't as intense as the vibrator, but it was cleaner, more precise. A direct conversion of sting into bliss.
“Cumming!” she whimpered, the announcement a reflexive sob.
He didn’t pause. Crack. The other cheek. The same process: the blinding sting, the delayed, warm honey flooding her core. Her hips bucked involuntarily against his leg, seeking friction her programming now deemed inferior. Crack. Again. Each blow was measured, methodical. He wasn’t punishing rage now; he was performing upkeep. Conditioning. Each smack of his palm was a reinforcement, a live wire connecting the act of submission to a reward pathway of humiliating, anal-centric ecstasy.
“Cumming!”
Crack.
“Cumming!”
Crack.
The orgasms came faster now, triggered by the spanks themselves, tiny, sharp peaks that punctuated the rhythm of his hand. She was babbling, chanting the word into his trousers. “Cumming cumming cumming…” Her body was alight, a canvas of pain being repainted as pleasure with every strike. Her mind had shut down. There was no CEO, no resentment, no past. There was only the heat of his leg beneath her, the sound of his hand meeting her flesh, and the devastating, wonderful release that followed each one. She was a thing made for this: to kneel, to hold, to be spanked, and to cum from the shame of it.
He finished with a final, solid blow that landed on the undercurve of both cheeks. She screamed her climax, her body seizing, her toes curling in the air. Then, stillness. Just her ragged sobs and the sound of his steady breathing. His hand smoothed over the scalding, well-spanked skin. It felt like a brand.
After a long minute, he shifted. “You should get up. Make lunch.”
She slid off his lap, her legs buckling as her feet hit the floor. She caught herself on the arm of the chair, right next to where the remote still lay. She looked at it, but it was just a black shape. It held no meaning, no memory. The device that had put these commands in her was invisible, forgotten. All she knew was the aftermath. The need. The obedience.
She stumbled toward the kitchen, her well-spanked ass a throbbing, painful beacon. Each step sent a fresh, sweet ache through her. She felt raw, hollowed out, and more aroused than she had ever been in her life. The thought of making him a sandwich, of performing this simple, wifely duty while her body hummed with the aftermath of his control, made her cunt give another feeble, slick clench. She didn't understand it. She just knew it was true.
Her resistance was a ghost, faint and fading, drowned out by the deafening physical truth he had carved into her. She made lunch on trembling legs, the plug still a heavy secret inside her, a reminder that buzzed in her memory if not in fact. Voo ate in silence, watching her pick at her food, her well-spanked ass unable to settle comfortably on the wooden chair.
When he finished, he pushed his plate away and stood. “Go to the bedroom. You should bring the small steel toolbox from the workshop shelf.” The ‘should’ sent her moving, a direct current to her muscles. She fetched the box, its cold weight foreign in her hands, and placed it on the rumpled bedsheet where he pointed.
He opened it. Inside, nestled in fitted foam, lay an array of small lead fishing weights, each with a sinister little open hook. He selected four. They were dark gray, dense. “Stand here,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. She obeyed, naked before him in the afternoon light slanting through the faded floral curtains.
He started with her nipples. Each stiff peak was pierced with 2 simple silver rings. He pinched one ring, pulling the tender nub out taut. The hook of the weight clicked shut around the metal with a final, tiny snap. The sudden drag was immediate, a deep, insistent pull on the most sensitive part of her breast. He attached the second. The twin weights hung, swinging slightly with her panicked breaths, stretching her flesh with a dull, aching pressure.
“Now these,” Voo said, his calloused fingers already parting her slick lips. Her clit hood was pierced vertically, a silver barbell. The outer lips each held a ring. His touch was clinical, exploring her wetness only to locate the metal. He hooked a weight to her clit piercing first. The sensation was electric and terrible, a concentrated anchor weighing down the very core of her arousal. The rings on her lips came next. With all four weights attached, her cunt felt monstrously heavy, pulled earthward, a slung sack of sensitive flesh and metal.
She looked down at herself, at the grotesque pendulum swing of the leads from her nipples and sex. Humiliation burned hotter than any spanking. “Voo, please,” she whispered, the old habit of command a thin veneer over raw need.
“You should go for a run,” he said, tilting his head toward the cabin’s front door. “An hour. On the old logging road. Don’t dally.”
The ‘should’ ignited her legs. The first steps were a nightmare of engineering. Each stride made the weights sway and bounce, sending sharp jolts of sensation—pain and a shocking, unwelcome spark of pleasure—through her pierced nerves. The cool air outside was a slap. She began to jog, the weights pulling and slapping against her body with a rhythm of their own. Her tits ached. Her cunt throbbed with every impact of her foot on the dirt path, the heavy little leads tapping her inner thighs, tugging at her pierced lips.
She ran. The forest blurred green and brown. Her mind narrowed to the brutal physics of her body: the drag, the swing, the sting. The plug was gone but this was worse, an external, visible torment. Her arousal, however, was a constant, low-grade fever, stoked by his command and her proximity to him now only in memory. It built with the exertion, a treacherous slickness mixing with sweat between her legs. The weight on her clit barbell rubbed with each pounding step, a relentless, grinding stimulation she couldn’t escape.
She returned as the sun had climbed higher. She staggered up the porch steps, dripping sweat, her chest heaving. Voo was waiting in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She stopped before him, legs shaking. A hot trickle, unmistakable, ran down her inner thigh. Then another. A clear, sticky strand of her own arousal dripped from the weights on her cunt lips and pooled, a small, shiny drop on the worn porch boards at her feet.
He looked from the puddle to her face. A slow grin spread across his, one she had never seen before. It didn’t reach his weary eyes. “Not enough,” he said, the words casual. He stepped forward, his big hands already back at the toolbox on the floor behind him. He returned with four heavier weights, oblong and dark. “Let’s add to the set.”
The new weights clicked into place alongside the first. The increased burden was instant and profound. Her nipples screamed, stretched impossibly. The new drag on her cunt lips was a deep, tearing ache. “Go on,” he said, nodding back toward the road. “Another hour. You should pick up the pace.”
She ran again. This time, tears blurred her vision. The heavier weights were cruel, their swing more violent, their pull a constant threat of ripping metal through flesh. Her jog became a stumbling lurch. Every downward step sent a shockwave up her spine from the brutal tug between her legs. She was so wet it was a nuisance, a slippery mess that made the weights slide and pinch worse. She came once, a sudden, sharp climax wrenched from her by a particularly hard jolt on her clit weight as she tripped on a root. “Cumming!” she screamed to the empty woods, the announcement a sob of pure degradation.
The cycle continued. Each hour, she returned, body glazed in sweat and her own juices, her pussy leaking a humiliating testament to her engineered lust onto his floor. Each hour, he met her with that empty grin and added more weight. By the fourth return, her nipples were swollen and angry red, her cunt lips puffy and strained. The logging road was a scar of torment in her mind.
As the sun began to bleed orange into the sky, she returned from what she thought was her final run. She could barely stand. The combined weights were a brutal collective pull, a torture of gravity. She stood shuddering before him, silent tears cutting through the grime on her face.
Voo looked out the window at the dying light. “One more,” he said. “To sunset.”
A broken sound escaped her. She tried to turn, to will her legs back down the steps. Her knees buckled. She fell forward, catching herself on her hands. The weights swung violently, the one on her clit slamming into the wooden floor with a nauseating tap. The pain was excruciating, a bright white tear of agony. If she stood, if she tried to run again, the strain would rip the rings clean through her flesh.
So she stayed on her hands and knees. She began to crawl. It was the only way. Dragging the weights, preventing the fatal, bouncing swing. The lead cylinders scratched and thumped along the porch boards, then down the steps to the dirt path. She moved like an animal, a slow, agonizing progress, her pierced nipples and cunt lips screaming with every inch gained. Dust coated her knees and palms. Twilight deepened around her.
Voo walked beside her at a leisurely pace, his shadow long and mocking. “You’re doing good,” he said, his tone conversational.
“Please,” she gasped, the word grinding out with the dirt. “Mercy. Voo, mercy.” It was not a command. It was a plea from a broken thing, voiced between ragged breaths as she dragged the anchors of his will through the gathering dark. The sun’s last sliver vanished below the tree line. She stopped crawling, her forehead pressed into the cool earth, her body a map of ruin. He stood over her, a silhouette against the twilight purple, his work complete.
He stood over her, a silhouette against the twilight purple, his work complete. For a long moment, there was only the sound of her weeping into the dirt and the distant cry of a whippoorwill. Then he crouched, his knees cracking. He hooked a finger under the chain connecting the weights on her cunt lips and lifted. The sudden, brutal tug yanked a shriek from her raw throat.
“Up,” he said, the word a flat stone dropped into the well of her misery.
He didn’t help her stand. He simply pulled, a steady, merciless pressure on the most agonized part of her, until her body scrambled to follow, to alleviate the tearing threat. She got her feet under her, swaying, the collective weight of the lead cylinders making her feel monstrous and unbalanced. He led her back to the cabin by that chain, like pulling a stubborn animal to slaughter. Each step was a lesson in exquisite pain, the weights swinging between her thighs with a ponderous, awful rhythm.
Inside, the oil lamp was already lit, painting the living room in shifting amber and deep black. He didn’t take her to the bedroom. He walked her to the far wall of the main room, where the logs were stacked tight and unyielding. Mounted to the beams were two heavy iron rings, weathered and strong, meant for hanging tools or drying pelts. He’d put them there years ago. She’d never asked why.
“Arms up,” he said, releasing the chain.
She raised her trembling arms above her head, a gesture of exhausted surrender. The movement made the weights on her nipples pull, stretching the inflamed flesh. He took a set of thick leather cuffs from a hook beside the rings, the buckles cold and stiff. He fastened one around each of her wrists, the process methodical, his fingers brushing skin slick with cold sweat. Then he clipped the cuffs to the iron rings with heavy carabiners. The shackles weren’t tight enough to cut circulation, but they were immovable. She was standing fixed, facing the room, her body stretched taut.
He stepped back, his eyes traveling her form. The weights hung from her pierced flesh, their collective pull now a constant, screaming strain. Gravity became the true torturer. Her arms began to ache immediately, a deep shoulder burn. But that was nothing. The real agony was in the points of attachment: her nipples, her clit, her outer lips. Each second stretched the holes a microscopic fraction further, a slow-motion tearing. A thin line of blood seeped from one nipple ring, tracing a path down the curve of her breast.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice devoid of anything resembling concern.
She tried to speak, to muster some defiance, but all that came out was a dry whimper. The pain was a clean, white fire. It scorched away thought, erasing the last brittle schematics of her old self. He walked to the armchair—her old throne—and sat. He poured two fingers of the bitter liquor from the bottle on the side table into a glass. He took a slow sip, watching her. The oil lamp’s flame guttered, throwing monstrous, dancing shadows of her strung-up body across the logs behind her.
An hour passed. The pain did not plateau; it deepened, evolving. It moved from sharp stinging to a profound, muscular tearing, a feeling of her very flesh slowly separating under the relentless demand of the lead. Her shoulders were screaming knots. Her pierced bits were raw, open wounds being steadily widened. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a tiny, futile motion that only made the weights sway, renewing the sting. Another hour. The need for sleep was a separate, clawing beast inside her skull. Her head lolled forward, chin to chest, but the position increased the pull on her nipples, and she jerked it back with a gasp.
Somewhere in the third hour, as the deep night settled its absolute silence around the cabin, her conscious mind finally broke.
It didn’t shatter. It dissolved. It melted under the unrelenting heat of the pain and the crushing need for rest. There was no more Michal. There was only the animal on the wall, experiencing sensation as a total state of being. Words formed in the ruin of her thoughts, but they were primal, stripped of strategy or pride. They bubbled up from a place of pure, desperate need.
“Please,” she mumbled, the word slurred and thick.
Voo looked up from his glass. He didn’t move.
“Please no more,” she whispered to the darkness in front of her face. “Hurts. It hurts so much. Please.”
The begging became a stream, a continuous, quiet utterance woven into the sound of her ragged breathing. It was not addressed to him, not really. It was the sound of her pain talking to the universe. “Please make it stop. Please let me down. Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. Please, the weight, it’s pulling me apart. Please, sir. Please, Voo. Please.”
He finished his drink. He stood and approached her. She flinched, a full-body shudder that sent the weights into a chaotic jangle. He didn’t hit her. He reached out and cupped her sex, his palm encompassing the weighted, bruised flesh. He squeezed, not gently. The pressure was an explosion, amalgamating the deep tissue ache with a bright, shocking bolt of sensation that shot straight into her gut.
“Cumming!” she screamed, the announcement ripped from her, a reflex as pure as a knee jerk.
And she did. It was a pathetic, dry orgasm, her swollen cunt convulsing around nothing, a paroxysm of nerves with no pleasure behind it, only another layer of exhausting sensation. Tears and slick ran down her thighs. He removed his hand.
“Thank you,” she sobbed, the words immediate, drenched in abject gratitude for the cessation of that particular touch.
He returned to his chair. The begging resumed, lower now, more incoherent. “Please… need to sleep… just a minute… arms are breaking… cunt’s tearing… please… oh god please… make it stop… I’ll do anything… anything…”
Dawn was a gray rumor at the window when the next wave of shattering sensation hit. Not from him. From inside her. The pain had been so absolute, so consuming, that it had somehow bypassed her broken filters and wired itself directly to her reward system. A deep, tendon-tearing throb in her shoulder blossomed, against all reason, into a low, hot curl of arousal in her gut. The unending stretch on her clit piercing became a filthy, relentless caress. Her body, perfectly conditioned, was translating torment into need.
“Need…” she mumbled, her voice hoarse and ruined. “Need to cum. Please. Need it. Let me cum. Please, need to fuck. Need it. Hurt me and let me cum. Please.”
Voo stood. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sighing through the loops. He pushed his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his cock. It was hard, thick. He stepped up to her immobilized body. He didn’t touch her otherwise. He used the head of his cock to nudge aside the weights hanging from her lips, exposing her swollen, leaking entrance. He positioned himself and drove into her with one brutal, shearing thrust.
Her cunt was a tight, torn, oversensitive mess. The stretch was agony. She screamed, a raw, shredded sound. The penetration sent violent shockwaves through the attached weights, making them dance and pull viciously at their moorings. He fucked her with slow, deep, relentless strokes, each one grinding his pubic bone against the weighted barbell in her clit. The pain was astronomical. It blurred her vision. And beneath it, through it, because of it, the pleasure built, a rising flood of filthy, shameful feedback.
“Cumming!” she chanted, her head knocking back against the logs. “Cumming cumming cumming!”
Her orgasm was a seizure, a violent, uncontrollable racking of her body against the shackles. Her channel clamped around him, milking his cock in brutal pulses. He kept pounding into her through it, extending the cataclysm. His own breath grew ragged. He gripped her weighted, bleeding tit in one hand, squeezing in time with his thrusts.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he grunted, his voice tight with strain. “A leaking, begging mess.”
“Yes!” she wailed, agreeing, affirming. “I am! Please!”
He came with a low, harsh groan, his hips slamming her into the wall as he emptied himself deep inside her torn cunt. The hot pulse of his release was just another sensation in the maelstrom. He stayed lodged within her for a long minute, both of them panting. Then he pulled out, a slick, sore separation. He tucked himself away.
He walked to the wall and, one by one, with infuriating slowness, he unbuckled the leather cuffs from her wrists. Her arms fell to her sides like dead things, screaming with pins and needles. She collapsed into a heap on the floor, a tangle of limbs and dangling lead weights. She couldn’t move. She could only lie there in the cooling puddle of their mixed fluids, and beg.
The words were a soft, endless mumble into the hardwood. “Please… thank you… please more… please stop… need to sleep… please hurt me… please let me cum…” It was one unbroken stream of contradiction and need.
Voo smiled, "You should stay in this headspace forever but you're aware I'm the reason you're trapped in it. Knowing this will cause you to despair that much more, further fueling your begging."