Another Day 1

Another day

He woke early, when it was still dark. 5.00, proclaimed the glowing red glyphs on the alarm clock. He stretched and smiled, his eyes catching sight of his lover's discarded clothes on the floor, reminding him of their last night's adventures. He turned, and looked at the girl, lying sleeping softly next to him, scarlet locks falling in a curve around her ear and down over her shoulder. An acquisitive grin stole around his mouth and with his left hand, he felt around on the floor. Ahh. That was it. Got it. He turned the clock onto its face.

Beep, said the toy before it hurt her, loud enough to make his smirk stretch even further across his face, quiet enough not to disturb her slumber. Then, as the current entered her, she shook, and moaned loudly with pain. 'Whawadat?' she mumbled, still asleep, but seemed to take it as part of her dream, and curled around again, drifting back into her rest-state.

Beep, said the little toy again, and this time, she woke properly. 'What the fuck was that?' she snapped as she rose into consciousness. He slapped her.

'Time to get up, bitch.' He grabbed her by the collar she wore, and pulled her into an upright position.

'What the fuck? What fucking time is it, anyway?'

'3am. And I have plans for you. Get the fuck out of bed.' He looked her straight in the eyes, his blue-gray gaze meeting hers. When he felt sure that he had won, he let a slow smile creep up the sides of his face, a slight movement on his cheeks and lips, but a shining light from his eyes. She looked at him, and nodded.

He pulled the covers from her as she rose.

'Get on the floor' he said, not turning, busy looking for something. He found it, and leaning down, attached her lead to the collar she still wore from the night before.

She crawled behind him, dragging on her lead. When she struggled enough to rile him, he would stop and turn and kick her gently. He took her to the bathroom.

With a handful of cable ties he attached her to the shower pole, then emptied himself on her. She didn't drink it, but he didn't care. She would likely get sick if she drank his piss first thing in the morning. He didn't want her to get sick.

When he was done, he turned the shower on, just a dribble really, lukewarm water trickling onto her head.

'Right, cunt. I'm going back to bed.'

She watched him leave, heard him lock the door, hoped he had gone before she started to cry.

3am? And he was going back to bed? But he might be in bed for hours, and she was going to get so cold. She shivered, the thought of hours under the drizzling showerhead making her chill in anticipation, and the goosebumps rose on her legs and arms.

He made sure that the central heating was on to keep her warm before heading back to his bedroom. He flicked on the monitor and opened the DVD software. Watched naked girls suck cock for an hour and a half, smoking cigarettes and drinking last night's left over beer. She never finished her beer, he thought with a smile. Always some left in the morning for me. He took another greedy slurp from the bottle; it tasted sweeter now it was hers.

On her own, in the shower cubicle, she stopped sobbing after a bit, she was too tired for all this. They had still been fucking at 1 am, for Christ's sake. So in the end she lay quiet against the tiles, the endless water falling on her thighs as she leaned away into the corner. That was how she was when he found her. He smiled at her, and she smiled wanly back at him. He turned up the heat, and the water was soon running warm.

'Get yourself warmed up' he told her as he cut her ties, then stepped back. She closed the shower door and stood under the refreshing hot water, soaped herself, washed her hair. He pulled hard on his cock as he watched her. Sometimes it seemed as though she couldn't see him, she was so used to his presence. He had taken her privacy, made it his. And yet, so he supposed, she had done the same to him. He no longer felt her presence as a person; it seemed to him that he was perfectly alone, even when she was near. He knew when it had happened, when he'd gotten drunk on beer and listened to all the crappy cd's from his teenage years, then, as he finally fell asleep, listened to her masturbating in the tiny space where she slept under his bed. The thought of it nearly made him come, and he was jerked sharply back into the present.

She was nearly done, and he reached for the warm towel from the radiator, wrapped it around her as she stepped out of the shower cubicle.

'Thank you,' she whispered, and kissed him.

She followed him back to the bedroom. He let her smoke a cigarette and relax a little before he hit her again. He told her to get under the bed, and she did.

She started masturbating as soon as she was in her lair beneath him. He listened to her, his cock hard, then fell asleep.

She must have dozed for a bit, she supposed, because when he got up, he woke her, but she did not feel like she had slept. It was 11.30am now, the clock on the table told her, so he had slept for 4 hours. She felt like shit.

'I'd like you to wear your nipple bells,' he said in a faraway voice as he lay back on the heap of pillows, and she knelt on the floor, head turned meekly down. 'And stockings.'

They kissed a little while they smoked in the morning daze; he grabbed pinches of skin, twisted until he could see it in her eyes. She stroked him and licked him, giggled and sighed, moaned when he hurt her. He had meant to be impossibly cruel all day, that had been the plan, but she just seemed to slip through his fingers somehow. One minute he was beating her and she was crying; flinching when he moved his hands – and the next, she was in bed next to him giving him the gentlest hand-job. He looked at the stubby end of the cigarette that he held between his fingers, and then looked at the soft flesh of her arm, coiled around his belly.

A certain calm overtook him, above the sea of muffled thoughts (oh yeah, I'll burn you, you little cunt, mmm having a fun slut is nice, I hope she likes it, I hope I don't fuck it up, human ashtray, fuck yeah, burn bitch).

He felt the limb draped across him jerk as the red tip of the joint connected with her skin; he had burned her. The cherry was still glowing. He grabbed her arm, pulled it tight and flat against his stomach. Pushed the stub into her, hard. Did he imagine the slight sizzle of burning woman?

She was looking up at him, an expression somewhere between joy and resignation. As though to say 'You cannot hurt me, you have never hurt me. I think I'd quite like you to, but I feel too strong. When you burn me, it doesn't hurt.'

He hit her. Slapped her as he loved to do, right full across her cheek. It left no mark, of course. It never did. He listened to the short moan – he knew that he sometimes did hurt her.

'Come on, cunt. You can't lie about in bed all day.'

She dressed as he wanted, of course.

He walked in front of her, pleased by the tinkle of her nipple bells. Even if he could not see her, he could hear her. Every movement belied by the jingle-jangle of tiny bells. Yes, he thought to himself and smiled, he had taken her privacy.

The space under the desk was quite small, but, he reflected, so was she. Once she had squeezed in, he sat, leaned back in his chair.

'Best place for you,' he laughed, and gave her a light kick.

He managed to work for about half an hour before he wanted her too much.

'Suck my cock,' he said, not stopping his work. The mouth under the desk licked and sucked, a disembodied hand stroked his balls. He felt her move as she became aroused, felt the charge start to run from her. She moved quicker, trying to stimulate her tiny clit with the motion of sucking him.

'Fuck's sake bitch. Be careful.' He couldn't reach her to slap her, so he kicked her, harder this time. Not too hard, he could never kick her in real anger, he didn't trust himself. Kicking her felt really good, but he was scared of it, scared of his own strength. He smiled at himself and at the apparent corniness of his thought. Still, how corny could it be? And if he was going to kick his girl, he'd better be careful about it. He shook himself. Back to work. Having the bitch under his desk was supposed to encourage him to work, not distract him.

It seemed to do the trick in the end, though, because give or take a cup of coffee or two and a cold bowl of soup from last night for lunch, the next thing he knew was his alarm ringing. 4.30pm. They would be here in a few minutes. He stood, moved the chair to let her out. She had been by herself in the small dark for a long time, and she moved slowly, like a roont.

'Come along. I don't have all day'

She looked up at him questioningly as she rose to her feet.

'My parents are coming for tea. I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you away.'

She nodded in acquiescence, eyes turned down.

He escorted her to the bathroom and watched her while she pissed. He had meant not to touch her – he wasn't going to touch her. His cock got hard as soon as he denied himself. How long, exactly, til the A.P.s turned up? He checked his watch, 4.40pm. At least another ten minutes, by anybody's reckoning.

When she had finished and was readying herself to leave, bells jangling from her nipples as she washed her hands, hazel-green eyes assessing herself in the bathroom mirror, he came up behind her and pulled aside her thong.

'I'm just going to cock you a little, before you go back in your box,' he murmured, as he fiddled around with her cunt. 'Mmmm....mmmm...mmmoaaaooh.' He was in.

He watched her in the mirror. she was watching him.

'Don't fucking look at me, cunt. Look at yourself if you must look at something, but keep your eyes off me.'

She turned her eyes away immediately, watched her-self being fucked by him. His effect on her world, his control of her, turned her on as much as the sight of him, and now she was watching his filthy cunt getting fucked, the weighted ornaments from her nipples swinging over the basin. She sighed with satisfaction, and so did the whore in the mirror.

He fucked her for a while (5 minutes? Ten?), then stopped, took out his cock. She was bent over the basin still as he zipped his fly – he struck her on the arse.

'Cunt.' this first in an affectionate tone, all of his tenderness compacted into the four letters. 'Come on cunt.'

With a shudder, she pushed herself upwards, stood, followed him. They were going, not to the bedroom as she had expected, but to the living room. He stopped by the coffee table.

'Now, you fucking stupid whore, my parents are coming for tea. If you make so much as the slightest sound, and they find out you're here, I will beat the living fuck out of you. Do you understand?'

'Y...yes, of course.'

Reaching down, he took hold of a clasp attached to the side of the square, deep coffee table, and half the top of the table opened, revealing a padded box, about 30 inches square and 18 inches deep.

'In you get.'

'Wow', she said as she climbed into the box. 'This is new,' she said more than asked. 'Yeah. You like it?' 'Yeah, it's wicked. Well done.'

Soon she was in, and he bound her hands and feet tightly with rope. She purred as the pressure gained around her limbs, wriggled appreciatively as he tied her.

'Be very quiet,' he whispered, and they kissed, her lips reaching up hungrily for his.

He was smiling at her as he closed the box, red hair and red lips against the red fur lining of her box. What a good place to keep her. He would like a birdcage, then he could see her too, maybe even talk to her, stick his cock between the bars, and let his jail-bird whack him off. Without noticing, he had taken a hold of his cock, and so when his parents rang the doorbell, he had a hard-on.

Fortunately (in a number of ways), the thought of his mother usually got rid of his erection quite quick. So proved to be the case, for by the time they reached the door of his flat, all was back to 'normal', and there was nothing untoward happening in his trousers.

This was not so easy however to maintain, when they sat together in the front room, sharing fruit loaf and drinking tea around the hardwood coffee table. His mind kept flitting to the girl hidden just inches from him, from his father, from his mother. He wished again and again for x-ray eyes, but didn't get them. The big guy (god? Santa?) was clearly not on his side today. His mother talked on and on. Planning permission, parking regulations. The thirteenth annual association of womenfolk's dance, dinner and flower show. His brother's new girlfriend, his father's new job. His father sat, listened, drank tea, and added the occasional adjunct to his wife's dialogue, but mainly sat, quiet, and watched his son.

They stayed for a while, chatted about this and that. When they were leaving, he realized he had not really seen them, did not see enough of them really anyway. He arranged to meet them the following week for dinner.

The door closed, he let his mind fall back upon the slut. His cock grew instantly hard at the thought of her. And she had been a very good girl; he hadn't heard a peep from her. He strode back to the living room.

The doorbell rang.

'SHIT!!!' he exclaimed.

His father came slowly up the stairs. 'I'm not as young as I was, that's for sure,' he said as he rubbed his back.

'What's up dad?'

'Well, you seemed kind of off today, son. Distant, you know. And then, coming for dinner next week? We barely see you one Christmas to the next. Twice in a fortnight? I mean, it's very nice, lad, but I can't help but worry about you. Is something wrong?'

He could barely restrain his laughter or his impatience as he shuffled the old man back towards the stair. No, everything was fine. Yes, he would see them next week. No need to worry at all.

The old man gone, he turned back to his pleasure.

Pull her by her hair; with your clenched fist entangled in her mane, pull her upright, then with stiff open palm, slap her, let go of her hair as she breaks under your blow, let her fall to the floor. Is she bleeding now from her lip? No matter. But yes, look, there it is. Pretty red blood on her pretty red lips, in her mouth, on her teeth and tongue.

One, two, three, four, flurry of impact and the crop leaves large raised rectangles on her back and thighs. She moans, tries to wriggle away, but her hands and feet are bound tight, and she cannot move.

He beat her for a while, until she stopped calling out with the pain. Then left her, reddened and angry-looking marks all over her body, lying on the floor.

From the bed, he could see her, and while the credits of the movie played, he watched her shudder as the pain-calm took her. Every now and then as she slipped away, she would twitch, one of her hands behind her back would flutter, or her leg would spasm. Soon enough, she had gone, and he stopped masturbating and watched the movie.

The film ended and he put on some porn; cheap, poorly made, exploitative rubbish. You could see it sometimes, in the girls' faces – their inner disgust with themselves. that was what he liked about it, the split seconds where they knew how much of a cunt they really were, being double-penetrated by a big black guy and a white guy with a big black moustache. A brief look of utter hopelessness on the tart's face before the black guy finally spanks in her eye.

It wasn't really cutting it today though, and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the cattle-prod, then looked, once again, at the sleeping girl.

'Beep,' said the little toy, and an electric shock woke his lover. She stirred and mumbled, tried to move, but found she was bound tight and immobilized.

'Beep', it said again, and she moaned.

He stared at her, lost him-self in the flesh that was his. Automatically, he put the prod to her thigh and pressed the button.

'Beep,' it said, but he didn't really hear it. And as it beeped, so s/he moved, her with pain and he followed, seamlessly, part of her flesh. From another world, her moan came through. He supposed it was louder than the last.

His hand reached out by itself and took hold of her breast. Kneaded and squeezed it, then tugged it, pulled it, as though he would rip it from her chest.

'Beep,' said the little toy. Burning pinching pain on her buttocks. Again she called out. Did she cry louder this time? How much was he hurting her?

His hand made itself into a fist, and he punched her as hard as he could in the thigh. Somehow, his punch always lost all of its power just before impact; some conditioning is hard to break, and he couldn't hurt her too much, punch her too hard. One day, he hoped to punch her in the face, to give her the black-eye she so clearly needed. But that day was not yet, he reflected as he looked at his impotent fist.

He punched her twice again in quick succession, and the second punch felt better, truer. She curled away, and let out a wrenching sob.

'Beep,' said the little toy, and the cry of pain came again. He did not remember having pressed the button. He pressed it again, and the little toy said beep. She moved, flinched away from the source, but there came no call, he had not touched her. She began to cry.

'Beep' and it hurt her, kernel of burning in her buttock. 'Beep' and it hurt her, kernel of pain in her thigh. 'Beep' and nothing, just the noise of her breathy sobs as she struggled to get away from the noise.

They played like this for a while, until her crying reached him, and he knew that she was suffering. He spat on her face, and went back to his porn.

The faces of the goddess arrayed themselves before him; big-breasted butch blondes in pink lurex, beautiful Mexican girls with champagne bottles up their arses, college girls called Michelle sucking 'plumber Dave' off, old women bent over Zimmer frames with cum all over their wrinkling backs, cheerleaders drinking steroid-laden jock piss for twenty bucks, tight-fleshed Hollywood whores with inflated mammaries and stiff plastic lips, pouting as they open their beautifully coiffed minges to the world. He felt suddenly angry, violently so. Cunt-sluts. How could they do that to themselves? How little like 'real women' they were.

'Real women.' He thought back to his walk home the previous week, when the sight of the women (old, fractious, frigid, unrealized, young, stupid bitches) had made him want to smack them as he passed them on the street. He fantasized about the connection of their jaws and his elbow, felt the crack of the bone, watched the blood pour from their mouths as they spat out teeth onto the pavement where they had fallen. 'Real women'!

His fun-slut, on the other hand, was different. She was a good girl, not really like a girl at all, except for the sweet juicy holes and all that. Not dead inside like the women on the street, nor dead inside like the over-exposed whores, she was a real girl, he supposed. And by some random chance, this, of all the women in the world, of all the worthless cunt-bitches on the planet, this one was the one that wanted him to hurt her. And though she didn't deserve his violence, he would still give it to her.

He crossed the room in two easy steps, then pulled her by her feet to the bed. She lay on the floor, half-awake, expectant, scared?

'You stupid cunt,' he said as he landed the first kick on her belly. 'Cunt, cunt, cunt, fucking cunt.' The last kick winded her, and he stopped while she heaved, put his left foot on her face.

'What the fuck happened to you, cunt? How did you get so fucking low?'

A jab in the belly with his stiffened prehensile toe.

'I mean, here you are, a young, intelligent, independent woman. And you're lying on the floor, getting a man to kick you for sexual pleasure.'

The words hit her, hit both of them with the truth of the situation, and that which had seemed perfectly natural just a moment before became imbued with the magic of the forbidden. She let out a strong strangulated moan, loud and crisp.