01 - PROLOGUE
“Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at the close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
He sits and waits. Waiting, always waiting, raging against his own ambition, his own arrogance and self-belief. Waiting in darkness, a darkness which is all-embracing, his eyes unable to see beyond the confines of his immediate surroundings. Waiting in pain, a pain which is both physical and emotional, his body aching from the unnatural position in which his tormentor has placed him and his mind aching as he tries to understand how he has been out-thought, out-fought and, finally, conquered. Waiting in rage, the rage of one who has come to realise that he isn’t, after all, able to control his own destiny, that his ability to dictate his own fate has been lost, carelessly and with a scarcely believable arrogance. Waiting in doubt, the doubt of one whose subjugation is so complete, so absolute, that he can no longer trust his own thoughts, his future now programmed for him by the whims of another.
He can hear her in the next room, hear her soft voice as she talks, inconsequentially, with a friend, her words not able to be understood failing, as they do, to penetrate the softness of his imprisonment. Just the sound of her quiet voice; soft, gentle and utterly authoritative, the authority of one who has no darkness, who has no pain, who has no rage and who has no doubt. The authority, if you like, of one who is supremely confident in her own abilities.
His breathing is difficult and through only his nose, her soiled panties having been stuffed into his mouth with the gusset wrapped around his tongue, so that oral inhalation is impossible. The panties held in position by a stocking tightly knotted around his head. Another stocking, tied higher on his head, blinds him and would allow only a diffused light to enter his eyes were his head not also encased in the upper portion of a pair of her tights, the legs of which were tied around his neck just above his dog collar. That collar is attached to a chain leash which now rests in his lap as he sits in the hessian sack, the opening of which has been sewn closed to allow him no egress. He can smell the hessian, rank and as old as time, a time which has now, for him, ceased to have meaning.
He shifts to redistribute the pain, a pain borne out of having his wrists bound together between his shoulder blades. He struggles to remain in an upright position, his struggles made more difficult by the binding together of his ankles, a final humiliation as his bonds are all of her discarded nylons, items she no longer needs to hold in place an item she has completely subdued.
The door opens and he listens as two sets of foot-steps enter the room. One set approaches him and he can hear as a pair of scissors is used to cut open the sack. It falls away and he lifts his head to where he can faintly see her through his nyloned blindfold. His leash is taken and he can hear her winding the chain around her wrist, tautening it so she has control. She bends down so that her mouth is next to his left ear.
“Do you recall the online conversation we had a couple of months ago,” she whispers, “the one in which I said you will be destroyed?”
“You always imagined that you would be able to avoid that eventuality, didn’t you?” she continues, mockingly.
He nods again. He feels the tears welling up and they escape his eyes; tears of rage, tears of doubt, tears of hopelessness. She doesn’t see them because the fabric of the stocking soaks them up. She doesn’t care because this is life as it’s meant to be, his tears are nothing to her other than a source of detached amusement.
“That time has come,” she whispers again, “that time is now.”
She prises his legs apart and reaches down to feel his balls, to place them in the position she requires and then steps between his legs. She turns and, parting her cheeks, leans back to envelop his face with her backside, his nose wedged deep into the gap. He panics as his breathing is blocked off.
“Are you ready?” she asks. He tries to shake his head. “Not you,” she says, “my friend who is going to video what is about to happen.”
She laughs and her laughter is joined by that of another from across the room. “Let us begin,” she says and he feels her alter her position to bring one of her heels to rest on his balls.
“Now,” she continues. He feels her muscles contract.
“Dear God,” he thinks, “she's won!”