Big Fan of Your Wor

Note: As before, the subject depicted is a fictional creation and claims no relationship to any living person or persons. No character's thoughts or actions should not be taken as any kind of commentary on or depiction of any actual person or persons.

As many note with these sorts of stories, this is all well and good for fantasy and stories but the real world demands consent and respect.

This picks up almost immediately after Part 1 and might be tough to get into if you haven't read that. That said, the big idea is an unlucky creature went looking for her favorite long-retired hardcore BDSM porn producer. She found him. Dark content warning, heavy non-con. If that's not your thing you might enjoy something else.

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She snapped awake as the flood light over the pit came back on with a clunk. Her movements were awkward, with her pants and underwear still around her ankles. She stared at the smooth walls of the pit as she regained her senses and scrambled to pull her pants back up.

Working hard to forget last night's masturbation, she reluctantly relieved herself in the bucket and opened a new bottle of water. Shrugging, she slammed one of the cans he had left her on the ground.

It began leaking syrup, which she slurped greedily, then further slammed the can until it opened to reveal peach slices. She ate them slowly, trying to treasure them.

He was working in the house so that she would not hear him. He wanted her to feel forgotten and alone, a clean and honest pit experience.

His work was spread out over the kitchen table. Three dog shock collars in various states of disassembly, the majority of one of them integrated into a rolled steel band that he was pretty sure would sit snug around her neck.

The other units had been pillaged for their battery packs, and the batteries could now be swapped out so they could be charged without removing the collar.

The collar had to be ready to go at any second and she had to know it was ready to go. He put the points of the collar against his arm and cranked the settings all the way up and gave it a test. He cursed as he spasmed and dropped the collar.

It wasn't enough to stop someone from running away for good, but it was good enough to drop them and let him get control of any situation. He would still need to be on his toes around her, maybe make sure he was carrying the taser.

The collar finished, he cleared off the table and turned to the kitchen counter, where he cut two chicken thighs into pieces and dumped them into a rice cooker with frozen broccoli.

When it clicked off he checked that the chicken was cooked and noted with some pleasure that the broccoli was mushy. He dumped it into a plastic bag, collected his workings, and headed for the barn.

He was surprised to see that the sun was setting behind the mountains, meaning she had been in the pit for closer to 40 hours than the 24+ he had estimated.

He shrugged and continued on. Entering, he strode to the pit, swung the arm out and set the hook to lowering. He moved like it was a chore, not particularly checking in on her and certainly not asking her how she was.

"Send the bucket up," he said. She did so and he set it to the side, figuring he might have a use for a bucket of her urine at some point. He clipped a clean bucket to the line and something into it, sent it down and walked away without a word.

She watched the bucket descend. She didn't know what he had put in the bucket and her heart swelled when she laid eyes on it: a plastic bag full of rice, chicken and broccoli.

She looked up to see if he was sending down a bowl or a fork or anything but cursed herself for being hopeful and stupid as she saw him walk away.

Never one to draw out accepting something she couldn't change, she opened the bag and started eating the meal by the handful. It wasn't good, it was very far from good, but it was food and she knew she needed food.

She finished the food quickly, chasing the last grains of rice from the corners of the bag.

He noted with pleasure that she had not refused to eat but he showed no emotion, resolving to simply move forward as if everything was happening exactly as he expected and intended, which also meant not praising her for following his intentions.

He brought up the empty bucket and set it aside, then sent down the seat with a single zip tie.

"Attach one of your hands after you sit down," he called. She didn't move for a second and he added "or spend more nights down here, I don't care."

She was freezing and wanted out so she quickly sat on the seat and awkwardly secured her own hand to one of the lines.

As he pulled her up she took in the sight of the pit and marveled at how there was absolutely nothing to grab on to, no way to climb or even attempt to climb. She realized how badly she did not want to go back down there.

After she cleared the rim of the pit he swung the arm back to the side and lowered her so her feet just touched the ground. The snare was looped around her head and it was awkwardly pulled back again as he came forward to release the hand.

He stood her up and marched her a few feet away from the pit, awkwardly stepping over/through the seat to get the snare clear.

Once again she thought about trying to maneuver or assault him through the snare but this time it didn't even get as far as showing up as a hitch in her step. She simply went where he was pushing her, wherever that was.

As it turned out he was pushing her to a post about waist high, maybe six inches square. He told her to get on her knees in front of it and when her chin was about an inch shy of clearing the post he cursed.

Standing her to the side, he told her not to move and dug a small wooden platform from the shadows at the side of the stage. It fit directly around the post and when he had her kneel again her chin was a solid four inches above the post.

"Hands on the sides of the post," he told her and when she placed them there he jerked them a bit forward and slapped an iron manacle over each wrist, quickly driving two screws in to hold them in place.

The snare was still around her neck, pulling heavily, so she hardly noticed that there was a brief moment where he wasn't holding the snare and her hands were free.

She felt a steel band slide itself around her neck. As it settled into place she felt two little prongs sticking into the back of her neck and she began to get an unsettled feeling in her stomach.

He came around to the front to see where the steel overlapped, then marked it with a marker. He took the whole thing off and disappeared around the back of the stage. He came back around dragging what she was pretty sure was a welding cart, and she began to freak out a little.

She twisted against the post, her eyes expressing all of the concern she was afraid to voice.

"Hold still," he said, and when she struggled to obey this order he cursed again and wandered off, coming back with a big roll of plastic wrap, the kind used by movers. He wrapped a torn and twisted end of it around one of her anchored wrists and circled her on the platform, quickly leaving her body pressed tightly against the post, unable to go anywhere.

She started crying, her fear and uncertainty mounting.

He placed the collar around her neck in the opposite direction and this time she could see what she had suspected was there, the shock unit from a dog collar. She was already crying, though, so she showed no more reaction.

Nor did she display much of the confusion she felt when she felt him stuffing multiple layers of thick leather between her neck and the back of the collar. This made the collar too tight in the front and she felt the two prongs dig into her throat.

A few moments later she felt a substantial amount of heat, even through the leather, and she realized he had protected her as he welded the collar on.

She wasn't sure what feelings she was supposed to get from him putting a not-permanent-but-close-to-it collar on, without her consent, but she knew they didn't include feeling cared for.

And yet. The leather threw her for a loop, the fact that he had protected her. Her confusion, though real, quickly took a back seat to the anger and frustration that had been drifting through her in regular intervals for almost two days, and she let out a substantial sigh.

He showed no response to this, instead taking a grinder to the weld and this time she was grateful for both the leather and the binding to the post. Her instinct was to jump and twist, which would probably have just gotten her hurt, but her body had nowhere to go.

Apparently satisfied, he wheeled the tools back behind the stage and returned, removing the leather and then standing in front of her.

With the leather gone the pressure on the collar relaxed and she could breathe easier, and then he turned the collar so that the prongs were on the side. He pulled a remote out of his pocket and looked at her.

"Please don't," she said.

"Don't what?" he asked.

"Shock me," she said, trying not to sound frustrated with a stupid question.

He decided against playing the who-said-anything-about game; they were far enough down this road that the terms were clear and they were taking the ride together.

"I need you to know what happens," he said. "What happens if you don't listen."

"I know what will happen," she said. "I'm not stupid. Please." She was no longer crying, trying to seem earnest and serious.

He considered this, looking at her tear-stained face. That she was asking, begging, was a sign that things had moved along. The last thing she had really said, he thought, was "you have no right, blah blah blah." Begging meant that she recognized that right or no right he had the power, the ability, to do this to her.

"What are you going to do for me?" he asked. He thought back to the 33 men who had put their cock in her mouth.

She blinked, trying to clear the remnants of the tears. She had not thought this far ahead when she spoke, she had simply spoken out of a mounting fear.

"I-" she said, and he could tell she had stopped herself from saying "I don't know." Another good sign. "Whatever you want," she said, the worlds faltering as she said them. She had seen almost this exact exchange in several videos, knew that he hated that answer.

"Whatever" was so open as to be useless, he had lectured one model whose number escaped her at the moment. It put an onus on him to come up with something, and it wasn't her place to put that obligation on him.

That was horseshit, it occurred to her, everything that was happening was his fault and his doing and it was ridiculous to think that in the middle of it she should be a willing and enthusiastic subject, offering the exact action or whatever that was equal to not being shocked.

Her fear receded, pushed out of the room by anger and contempt.

"Nevermind," she said, flippantly. "You should probably just shock me. So I know what happens."

This answer concerned him. Whatever had gone through her head in that last moment, it had been something complex and meaningful for her, and she had come out of it spitting a little fire at him.

"If you insist," he said. He looked down at the remote and back up at her. "This is Level 1," he said. He hit the button and she flinched as it snapped a brief and sharp jolt into her neck. "This is Level 5 of 10," he said, and there was a heavy pause before he hit the button.

She screamed, louder than she had when he had earlier brought out the electricity, and while she didn't know what being stabbed in the neck with a hot poker felt like she imagined it was something like that.

Her head snapped away from the shock unit, a violent, short movement that gave him a bit of pause. He knew he was in very dangerous territory here and he hoped she wasn't going to make him do it again. She gave no sign that was the case. She simply slumped in her bonds and tried to breathe.

The level had been 10 out of 10, but he had wanted her to think it could come in twice as bad, so he had lied. He looked at her slumped form and felt pleased.

Well

, he thought,

time to see if the collar had its desired effect

. He couldn't keep her on the snare or in the pit forever, so it was time to see if the collar and the ankle restraints were enough.

He used his knife to cut the wrapping off and he unscrewed the two anchored hands. The manacles fell away and she stood up, rubbing at her wrists. They stared at each other. He had the remote out, visible, in his hand.

"It's getting late," he said. "I'm done, so I'm going to put you away for the night.."

He clipped a leash to her collar and turned to lead her across the barn. One corner of the barn had been fitted with sheetrocked walls for use in various role-play scenarios, an office, medical scenes, etc.

Between that room and the wall of the barn was a small space, maybe 30 inches wide, cinder blocks on both sides. A wooden roof stretched over the top and into an awning over the entrance, keeping the area dark unless lit by stage lights. A faucet was present in the middle of one side, offering drinkable water to any captive.

He grabbed a broom off the wall as they walked and quickly cleared the space of most of the cobwebs and dust. He led her in, using a padlock and a length of chain that emerged from the wall to secure her collar.

She could move around slightly in the space, she could lie down, but she couldn't go anywhere. He walked off and returned a few minutes later with a bucket, presumably for her to relieve herself, but he also carried two thick wool blankets. He tossed them at her and walked away without saying anything.

Once again this notion of being cared for amidst such contempt for her as a human being left her feeling off balance. She was familiar with this space - it appeared in countless scenes.

It was usually framed on camera to seem isolated, off somewhere, a basement, and she was surprised to learn it was in the corner of the barn, on the other side of the wall where the perverted college professor had taken his payment for raising Holes 53's grades.

She stared at the concrete walls and replayed that scene, before again recapping each day that had passed. Today was Day 4. As she drifted off to sleep her thoughts ran through being cared for, being abused, and 10,000 other things.

The next morning he made oatmeal. His oatmeal featured diced apple, a dusting of cinnamon, and an indulgent drizzle of maple syrup. Her oatmeal sat on the counter, plain and growing cold.

He was taking his time with breakfast, savoring a cup of tea while he tried to consider the situation from both an overarching view and a minding of the details.

He had kidnapped a woman, or illegally confined her, or whatever the relevant legal term would be. She was contained in a crawlspace inside his barn. Contained effectively, if he was willing to allow himself a bit of arrogant certainty.

It would be a miracle worthy of Houdini to get out of the barn, and if that somehow happened he'd see her making her way up the driveway from the breakfast table and he could handle it.

If she ever got out, his life was over. Either directly or in an ugly, lengthy, figurative sort of way. This was his last ride, and he was starting to realize that he was fine with that.

The previous decade hadn't meant much for him. It had felt dull and lifeless after the several previous decades featuring life as a wildly successful pornographer. His current effort, in contrast, was an intense, ongoing high the likes of which he'd never felt before. If this was it, it was worth it.

Maybe he'd let her go some day. Walk her out to the road on the snare, let her go running screaming naked down the hill, let a parade of police cars come back up here to find his body slumped amongst his life's work.

Was that a dark thought? It didn't scare him. He was proud of his life's work, at peace with the god of hedonism.

There was a part of him, maybe something like his inner child, who was aghast at the recent developments and was screaming constantly about how wrong all of this was. The rest of him laughed at this small part, told it to grow up.

The world was about power. Those who had it did what they would with it, took what they wanted. He wanted this and she couldn't stop him. There was little that was older in this world than that.

He moved from the larger questions and philosophical concerns of what he was doing to the details of it. She entered his control when she walked into the barn on Tuesday afternoon. It was Saturday now. He tried to take stock of where she seemed to be, mentally, but there were mixed signals.

She had shown signs of falling apart - the begging, crying here or there. But there had been an undercurrent of strength, resistance, defiance. He had written scripts like that - models slowly unraveling, a slow descent into reluctant acceptance, but this was different. He couldn't script this. But what did that mean?

Maybe it meant he simply had to go full throttle from the beginning, just throw everything he could think of at her and scrape what was left off the floor.

He envisioned such an effort. Her backside covered with bright red welts from a single-tail, her tits tightly clamped in one of his custom vises, turning purple, her legs quivering as her feet remained strapped in his unforgiving metal ballet boots, him approaching with a smear of cold/hot pain reliever on his finger, ready to set her cunt on fire.

But, it occurred to him, he did not actually know that that would break a person, nor did he know what kind of person would remain after. Maybe it was better to take this one step at a time. Maybe there was no rush.

So his thoughts turned to what he felt she already understood, and what he felt she might need to learn. He headed out to the barn with a cup of tea and began pulling one piece of gear from here, another from there.

After enough of that he headed straight for her, approaching without speaking. He unlocked her collar from the chain and attached a leash, leading her to what she had come to think of as the barn's main stage. There was an impressive array laid out before her.

On the left side of the stage was a table, spread out with various whips, clamps, spiked wheels, anything and everything. She spied a small jar of what she was pretty sure was tiger balm or something similar, and her mind recalled several models screaming as that was applied.

Along the front edge of the table, as if conducting the other instruments in a terrible symphony, was the cattle prod.

A short distance from the table was a whipping post that had been featured in countless shoots. Next to that was a steel chair-like apparatus she knew could be cranked into various positions, holding her body in ways that ensured easy torture and others that ensured easy access.

Next to the steel structure she saw a piece of vintage exercise equipment she knew he had repurposed into an instrument of torture, something where there was a wheel he could spin and the faster it spun the more voltage was delivered to whoever was unlucky enough to be hooked up.

She recalled Holes 34, whose first language did not appear to be English, trying desperately to spell the word 'prostitute' as he spun the wheel fast then slow then fast again, the shocks disrupting any chance at a coherent thought.

Another table stood to the right of the stage, piled high with coils of rope, pairs of handcuffs and leg irons, a leather hood and a head-sized canvas bag.

He stood next to her, taking it all in. "Today ends," he said, "when you beg me to fuck you."

His plan had been obvious since she saw the setup. There was to be torture, and bondage, and pain and suffering until she finally broke and made the overture to him, rather than him forcing himself on her.