My shock collar goes off and when I can stand again, I shamble over to the headbox and, exactly like hundreds of times before, put my head in and secure my gag over the dowel. A few moments later, I feel the box slam shut over my head. I know the nightly session is soon. After months of the same routine, and even though there's no natural light or clocks in this dungeon we're caged in, the body begins to adjust. The only question is whether it's me or the girl on the receiving end.
It wasn't long after I'd been "introduced to my new home" that I'd been made to whip the girl in the other cage. The piercings in my ears were still fresh and the instructions coming through the earbuds affixed to one set of piercings, in Mistress's cold, commanding voice, detailed exactly what I was to do. My manacles had been removed while I was secure in the headbox and after the top of the box was removed, I was instructed to wait for Mistress's next command. This gave Mistress time to leave the dungeon, although, as I've said before, the restraints were all for show. Mistress could bring me to my knees with just a press of the control to my shock collar.
I was told to exit the cage, one of the few times I'd been allowed out without Mistress or anyone else present. The first time I'd been allowed out of my metal prison, she'd brought in someone who either didn't give a rat's ass or was nicely paid to pierce a real life slave in a real dungeon, and that had been an affair that had earned me multiple shocks and a follow up "pay-per-view" caning on live-feed. I was left alone in my cage, manacled and hurting from the piercings, which included the damnable Prince Albert cage my cock was now skewered on, a thoroughly beaten man. Man. I wouldn't even call myself that anymore.
I was told to go release the girl in the other cage and as I approached, the automatic locks on the cage door clicked open. She was inside, huddled in a corner, as afraid of me as of the Mistress. She was a pretty thing and under any other circumstance, I would have happily pursued her. Long auburn hair, petite body that she'd obviously taken care of, flat stomach, round but not overly large breasts and ass. A phallus gag, similar to mine, and shock collar completed the outfit. She was not manacled, at least not at that moment. I had no doubt, Mistress had removed those earlier. After all, who doesn't want to pay good money to sit at their PC and wank off to a lovely, chained female captive? Sick fucks.
I was instructed to lead her out of the cage and bind her. I'm not sure if she was getting the instructions through her earbuds or if she was just listening to the noise cancelling fog that was the only other thing, besides Mistress's voice, that we were ever allowed to hear. Sense deprivation does wonders when applied under duress. When the only voice besides the one in your own head was the woman said she who owned you, compliance and submission came easy.
She cowered as I held out my hand. In my short time as Mistress's prisoner, I'd watched this poor creature endure the same tortures as me, at the hands of Mistress, sometimes more severe, owning to the perverted minds who imagined torturing a captive woman. Still, she did not stand and take my hand, an act that she knew would ultimately bring her pain.
And that caused us both to take shocks. I was on my knees on the cold concrete that was the floor of our cages, looking up at the terrified eyes of the girl, silently begging her to comply.
When I stood and offered my hand again, she submitted. It was the first gentle touch of another human since I'd been taken and her warm hand felt good in mine. My cock stirred and the pain from the Prince Albert piercing reminded me that my days of normal fucking were over. At least until I could figure out a way to get free. In those early days, freedom was a real possibility. That faded.
I led her to the center of the room and as instructed, bound her wrists together in front of her. Her eyes never left mine as she resigned her body to the tortures that awaited her. I looped her bound hands over a hook dangling from the wooden rafter above us and, with harsh commands from Mistress, pulled the girl into the air with a hand winch on the wall. Her feet kicked at nothingness as the full weight of her slight body transferred to her bound wrists. I caught her legs and tied her ankles together and that stopped her kicking. She hung, a defeated human being and began to cry behind her gag. It was at that point I realize that Mistress had cut the noise cancelling element of the earbuds. I would have to endure hearing everything.
I was instructed to wrap a length of rope around her waist and then pull the free end through her thighs so it cut through her pussy, then tightly tie it off in the back, at the top of her ass crease. In spite of all that we'd been through, all that had been done to us, this simple act of tying a cord so it bit into her most intimate place seemed singularly cruel and perverse. But my night, our night, was just beginning.
Then I was told to stand before her, holding perfectly still, while the bright lights and cameras captured the scene for posterity. I could imagine all the sick fucks watching and pounding their meat from the sanctity of their dark bedrooms or dens, maybe with wifey in the kitchen making dinner. Maybe in a cold sterile hotel room similar to the one I'd been captured in. Maybe with a slave of their own, kneeling between their legs, sucking them off furiously. Who knew, and who cared?
"Go to the wall of whips." Mistress's cool voice in my ear was echoed by a muffled shriek from the girl strung up before me. The girl I'd strung up. So, she was in on everything too, she was hearing Mistress's commands as well as me.
I went to the wall of evil. I recognized the bull whip from movies like Indiana Jones and there were an assortment of canes, but there were other things that hung from the wall that I didn't recognize. Above where each implement of pain hung was a little metal plate with a number.
"Remove Number 17 from the rack."
I scanned the rack, hoping that Number 17 wouldn't be so bad, something that wouldn't hurt her but looked or sounded like it was really doing the job for the sick fucks to see. Number 17 turned out to be a cane, a long, slender piece of wood, thicker near the leather wrapped handle then tapering a bit to a thin rod at the end. A warning shock let me know that my hesitation was costing me. I pulled the cane from the rack and stared down at it. I knew what would be expected of me but could I do it?
