Corinna's World
I had no idea how long it had been—days, weeks, forever? Corinna and Slave kept me blindfolded and gagged most of the time, and whenever the blindfold was removed, I was in a dark place, like Corinna's stuffy, confining workout room or in the sadistic lesbian's well-equipped sex dungeon buried in the cold ground beneath her old mansion.
My world was shadows, gloom, or pure blackness. Slave put me in the artificial sun of the coffin-like tanning bed, but taped my eyes shut so that I was inundated in light, but submerged in darkness. Corinna's heavy, darkly colored curtains were always tightly drawn. When her coal black slave girl took me down to the dungeon to use Corinna's full array of man bending implements, Slave might remove my blindfold, but in the darkness, I saw only the shimmering blackness of her skin, or the flash of the whip flying through dim candlelight.
The measure of passing time slipped away. I could not tell day from night. In my long black nightmare, sleep was one of my few pleasures, but Corinna permitted only intermittent scraps of naps. Slave would occasionally wake me, beat me thoroughly, and put me back to bed. Sometimes she lacerated my sleep with a single slash and then disappeared before I awoke. Soon the cut between dreams of cruelty and my waking nightmare, between delirium and real life, disappeared. I craved deep sleep but never got it. Mistress Corinna used sleep as a tool, granting or withholding snippets, insinuating her control into me, carving my soul like a sculptress chiseling an agreeable figurine of an obedient man.
I could not name the sort of vile creature Corinna intended me to become, but I felt it incubating in my gut. Slave fed me like a dog; face down in the bowl on the floor, no hands allowed. My simple need to eat was a tool, a technique for breaking and remaking me. My sense of being human slipped away. Slave forced me eat more than I could stomach on threat of the whip, but I learned not to vomit. Being sick just made it worse; Slave would just force me to start again at a fresh bowl. She required that I ingest a full dose of the tasteless mush at each doggie bowl session. However, as unappealing as this diet was, combined with the exercise routine imposed on me, my body grew hard and muscular, as my will grew soft and compliant. The sculptress was a clever artisan.
The most powerful tools in Corinna's repertoire were fear and pain, balanced against the reward of cunt sucking. My hardening body was never without the marks of her torture. I learned the nuances of the strap, the crop, and the whip. Slave made me identify the instrument of each bruise and cut. When I erred, Slave laughed, mocked my stupidity, and demonstrated the implement again. It was easy to distinguish the wide bruise of the leather strap from the flat square imprint of the riding crop. However, it was next to impossible to tell the thin cutting mark of the cane from that of the rod; Slave insisted there was a difference. I learned a completely new vocabulary—cat, tawse, quirt. If I guessed correctly, my reward was face time with Slave's cunt.
Sometimes Slave allowed only a brief kiss, and sometimes, depending upon her whim, a long leisurely feast at her hole. She teased and taunted me with promises that if I were good, I could luxuriate in it. She judiciously rationed the privilege of extended cunt lapping tongue service at the trough of her nether lips. She made me beg for it, and then denied it.
Slave might promise that if I were especially good she would indulge me with an extravagant reward of mouthfuls of her precious gush. "Honey, just lift a little more weight, just one more time, push yourself sweetie and you can have some of this; it's right down here; it's real juicy. Try a little harder and you can go down on me and slurp it up. I'll for squirt for you."
Or, if I took the ferule on my balls without screaming, Slave promised she would let me forget my pain in the deep wet fold, the warm soaking pit of her crotch. Ferule: a flat piece of wood for punishing children, a schoolmaster's rod.
I craved pussy. Sometimes Slave let me go down on her for what might have been hours; sometimes pussy was withheld for what felt like days—the true measure of time had become a mystery. Slave encouraged me to beg for pussy, and then punished me for asking, and moments later castigated me for not pleading for her cunt. As often as not Slave's promises were lies, but I did not complain or begrudge her deceit in any way. I accepted her inconsistency. I was learning not to think.
It was impermissible to touch Corinna much less lick her pussy. Corinna left most of the physical labor to Slave, but directed everything. Under Corinna's tutelage, I grasped the justice of injustice, and realized the joy in pain.
Corinna beat Slave often. Slave would then come to me lying asleep on my cot and wake me with a slash of the crop. Her commands would be harsher than usual, her voice thick from crying. Using me, controlling me, power over me consoled Slave. She let me lick the freshly swelling welts on her slick, black skin. Then Slave exacted her full revenge upon me.
It was my function to be the surrogate to receive punishment, retribution, and pain for any injustice, or simple frustration, not just to Slave and Corinna, but also to all women. I was beaten because Slave was beaten; I was beaten because men mistreat women; I was beaten because Corinna had premenstrual cramps. I was the proxy for all men, wicked impious men who would not worship women. I was balm for Corinna's discontents. Her headaches melted away as she reclined enjoying long leisurely viewings of Slave thrashing me.
