Slave Object, Property of Cruel Domme Owner
Slave felt the familiar stab. His Domme Owner’s heel cut into his skin. On his hands and knees, he waited. For how long? Slave did not know. Isolation, loneliness and neglect are ordinary conditions of his existence.
Time passes only when he screams, moans and weeps for Owner’s pleasure. He suffers daily. Owner’s contempt and random cruelties are quotidian events.
Sustained, aggressive torment makes him aware of passing seconds. Once, she made him watch a timer. He counted seconds down as she stabbed him with hot pins. Sixty seconds, a minute seemed an era.
Owner’s stiletto heel on his back might presage nothing. His body is as much a convenience as whipping post. It might be a small reminder that he is an object. A creature whose life is sustained by a superior being’s will.
She may drag him to the room called Hell. He often faints in Hell. She always revives him. Slow deaths succeed by unwanted resurrections. A simulacrum of eternal damnation.
She speaks softly. Mockingly tender. Her gentle manner is a harbinger of sorrow.
She is holding a party. Six other Domme Owners are invited. Their males will stay at home. He will be the sold recipient of attention. The helpless target of the sadistic energies of a half-dozen cruel women. Wine and cocktails will encourage recklessness.
Anticipation is unbearable. He weeps. His Owner thanks him. He is nothing. His tears are exhilarating.
He may be maimed. Owner would discard him. The women never deliberately kill a man. Human error could be fatal. Will he die tonight?
Should he hope for it? Yet he cannot. In Hell hope is an impossible emotion.