The Visitor

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

*

She knew he was coming. She didn't know how she knew with such certainty; his visits were always sporadic with no discernable pattern to them, yet, she knew it was today. Sometimes he would come a couple of times a month. Then there would be months when she wouldn't see him. There was even a period, several years back, when he did not show himself for nine months and she thought she had seen the last of him. She felt sure she could expect him this month, given the upcoming holiday, but that was next weekend. That said, it wasn't unusual for him to show up early for special days.

However, one thing remained fairly constant; he usually showed up on a Friday afternoon... and that was today.

Of course, there was more than the calendar feeding her suspicions. Today there had been a feeling in the air all day -- in her very bones; today he would come. She knew it was irrational -- after all, he'd often defied expectations before.

All morning, she had been apprehensive -- on edge, unable to concentrate. She was aware that her students and her colleagues noticed her distraction, yet her efforts to focus were only partially successful. By the time the last bell rang, it was all she could do to control her trembling.

All the children had gone home and the other teachers as well; she alone remained. There in her classroom, she attempted to grade the papers of students whose minds were focused on the impending Summer Holiday... yet she could focus on nothing. She would frequently pause, occasionally pace; torn between anticipation and dread.

It was nearing 5 o'clock before she had conquered her inertia, loaded her briefcase, stood, put on her coat, and slowly exited the middle school where she had taught English for the almost 20 years. As she walked down the street toward home, propelled by the brisk spring wind, she again wondered, as she did almost daily, what they would think of her -- the principal, her coworkers, the children, the school board, the parents -- if they ever learned what she really was, what she had done, what she had become in the last 10 years.

In many ways, her visitor was still a child -- he even still looked like the same 25-year-old stranger who charmed his way into her home a decade ago... the day her life changed. He still delighted in showing up "out of nowhere" to frighten her. It usually worked. Even though today she expected him, she didn't know exactly where or when, so he might still get a scare out of her yet. Still, there were only so many places along her walk home where he could surprise her, and by now, she knew them all. She looked for him in every alley, every doorway, behind every dumpster, trying not to cringe as she passed these haunted spots.

Of course, he was in the last possible location along her route; behind the large oak tree in her own front yard.

She tried to look as if she wasn't startled when he stepped out in front of her.

"You made me wait," he said, "you'll have to pay for that, you know."

"Yes, sir, I know," She said, eyes cast down submissively, "I'm sorry."

"Let's go inside," he said, leading the way up the steps to her front door.

He opened the door with his keys and marched right in, never looking back to check on her. Head down, she followed obediently.

He threw his coat on the sofa, and then plopped down in her old, overstuffed wing chair in the living room. He looked tired, she thought, his face bathed the last rays of the day. No, she thought again, not tired... older. She realized with a start that the lines on his face had grown deeper, and... was that a touch of gray mixed in with the dark blonde hair at his temples? He had always seemed like an ageless Adonis; the face and body of a Greek god, the mind of a demon.

"Prepare yourself for inspection," he said and lit a cigarette. Neither she nor her late husband, nor any of her friends smoked... and never in her house. This was yet another way his presence lingered long after he had gone. She had always suspected, and recently he confirmed, he didn't normally smoke; only when he drank -- which was rare -- or when he was with her. He always bought a fresh pack for their weekends, which he never finished and which he disposed of before he left again... to go back to his other life, where he was another person, a person who didn't smoke, drink or do the things he did with her.

About what business he did when not with her, she had gleaned only three things. First, it was dangerous. Second, it was very clandestine. And third, it was very, very lucrative. She did not need -- nor want -- to know anything more. She liked to think of it "active apathy", or "a healthy lack of curiosity".

She took off and hung up her coat on a rack by the door, then stood three paces from his chair facing him, and calmly began to unbutton her blouse. There was some strange comfort in knowing that the rituals had at last begun. Even horror could be soothing, she thought, if it was familiar enough. And at a certain level of familiarity, was it still horror?

How many times over the last decade had she walked through this exact same nightmare (dream?) -- so often that from old habit, her body could disrobe itself while her mind clinically examined and reflected on her situation, as if reviewing a case study in a journal.

She folded the long-sleeve, conservative white linen blouse on the sofa next to her.

It wasn't as if she felt nothing, though there had been times she wished that was the case. No; she was painfully aware of how her body was reacting to the situation; the dry mouth, the pounding in her ears, the fluttering in her stomach, the dampness between her legs. It was just that, as a survival mechanism, she had very early on learned to detach her emotions from whatever torture, degradation... or sometimes even intense pleasure... he subjected her body to. As long as she turned off her critical faculties and experienced it only as physical sensation, it was eminently endurable... and sometimes more.

As she unzipped her grey, wool blend, calf-length pleated skirt and slipped it down over her hips, she recalled how it had been, in the beginning, before she had learned how to separate -- protect -- herself from the intensity of the sensations -- then, mostly humiliation and pain.

She remembered the very first time he took her. He had held her prisoner in her own home during Spring Break; tormenting, defiling, humiliating and degrading her until she was thoroughly broken. In retrospect, it didn't take long; just two days. For the rest of her captivity, she was his -- obedient and compliant. She had to feel all of it; she had no escape, no protection.

She vividly recalled being strung up from the exposed rafter in her living room, her feet just barely touching the floor, as he slowly cut away all her clothing, teasing and terrorizing her as he did so.

Try as she might to block the memories, images and sensations from her first whipping washed over her as she folded her skirt and placed it with her blouse. She was momentarily overcome, reliving the first time he sodomized her. Then, like a rapid-fire mental slideshow, she replayed ... the first time he forced his cock into her mouth... the first time he shaved her genitals... the first time he used a "violet wand" on her nipples, clit and labia... the first time he put a collar and leash on her... the first time he made her cum... the first time he kissed her... the first time she kissed him.

At first, she had had to be there and feel all that without any emotional insulation between her and the extremes to which he subjected her. But now, even though the pain was still pain and the shame still shame, she had perfected a way of perceiving her experiences with her visitor -- when necessary -- as if they were happening to someone else.

Over the years, as she acclimated to life under his rule, as the distinction between pain, humiliation and arousal blurred, she seldom needed to disassociate herself during his "games". The problem was, she found that more and more, it was her mundane experiences -- at school, church, the grocery store, her yoga classes -- which she perceived as if they were happening to someone else. It was almost as if her "normal" life were a dream or a movie she had to sit through -- only her time with her visitor seemed "real". As a result, she walked through her world disconnected from the emotional reality of it, numbed, as if by some spiritual Novocain. But occasionally the Novocain wore off and then all the emotions she had managed to keep at a distance came rushing back to overwhelm her.

It's then her mind, flogged with the steel tongues of memory, memories of her obscene and unnatural offenses -- both before and after her breaking -- turned on her. "Be all my sins remember'd..." she mouthed silently while she was facing away from him.

She couldn't think of that now; her home-brewed psychic anesthesia would soon wear off, and she would be real again.

Thinking of anesthesia... as she unfastened the center clasp between her bra cups and looked down, she thought, "I could have used some plain old-fashioned Novocain before that was done...", her eyes resting on her matching pair of 14 gage, one-inch diameter surgical steel nipple rings.

As she reflected on her still firm 36B's and the small, gleaming jewelry passing through the base of each of her fat, tall nipples, she amended her thought; while the piercings were physically painful, it was the emotional trauma associated with the experience she still recalled.

A year after he broke her, on the Friday night of one his weekend visits, he cut short his customary rituals and had her dress and go with him to a seedy little tattoo and piercing studio about an hour's drive outside of town. He had said nothing about his purpose during the trip over but smiled expectantly and chatted amiably. She understood him well enough at that point to know that didn't bode well for her.

It wasn't until they were in the studio's parking lot, that he turned to her and told her that he wanted her to get her nipples pierced. He seemed so filled with an almost innocent, child-like delight that part of her wanted to comply just so she could bask in the reflected glow of his joyful anticipation. But at the time, competing impulses won out.

She remembered ruefully how horrified she was by the very concept; he actually expected her to go inside, walk up to a strange man, bare her breasts and ask him to mutilate them. How pitifully she begged him to please not ask her to do this. It was apparent that he was crestfallen, yet he surprised her and relented, speaking softly and stroking her hair and her cheek, saying she didn't have to have her nipples pierced if she didn't want to. Seeing the ill-concealed hurt and disappointment in his eyes, she briefly entertained the thought of changing her mind, just to see that infectious smile again.

They drove back to her home in relative silence. Now, years after the events, she still cursed herself for her naiveté; she should have known he wouldn't take direct defiance lightly.

That Saturday morning, shortly before dawn, she felt she would have gladly allowed him to amputate a limb if only he would stop the torment. Again and again, he would introduce her to intense pain -- electrical shocks, whipping her pussy, labia clamps, hot wax -- then suddenly shift gears, bringing her again and again to the brink of ecstatic orgasm, only to deny her release at the last moment. Finally, he brought her to that moment when there was nothing she wouldn't do if only he would just let her cum.

He never mentioned her refusal to be pierced. He never once indicated that his diversions, more extreme than normal, had anything to do with her rejection of his desires, but she soon understood it could be about nothing else. So, as if he had planned it, she was soon begging him to please let her get her nipples pierced. After listening to her heart-wrenching, shamelessly abject entreaties, he simply said, "Well, if that's really what you want..."

She still felt shame at how giddily relieved she was on the drive back to the piercing studio. She actually was looking forward to having steel shoved through her most tender flesh. She wasn't sure if it was the aftermath of the endless climaxes he had given her upon her capitulation, or simply because she knew how much it would please him. When she was honest with herself, she was forced to admit that there was terrifyingly little she would not do to see that magical grin of guileless glee on her master's face.

Oh, and he was indeed pleased to see those symbols of his ownership dangling from her teats and was not shy in expressing his joy; taking her out to dinner, buying her presents and showing the greatest tenderness and restraint when he had sex with her that evening. If she didn't know better, she would have said he "made love" to her that night. Of course, she did not believe he had the capacity to love, not like a normal human being does, but she would always sharply remind herself that she was mostly to blame for that ... wasn't she?

Even so, his soft voice, his soft touch, his soft look was as close to real love as she had ever known and perhaps, she sullenly thought, more than she deserved. So, she allowed herself to be caught up in the illusion, gratefully accepting every ounce of pleasure he so skillfully gave her.

She stopped using the locker room at the community fitness center after that weekend. She was ashamed of her new "modification" and terrified someone might see her rings and spread the word that the stuffy-looking, middle-aged widowed schoolteacher, was actually one of those disgusting, perverted, sex-crazed sluts.

Eventually she began working out more at home, in private, using the treadmill, stationary bike and universal gym he had bought her. He worshiped her fit, firm body and insisted she maintain it for his pleasure.

***

She laid her bra with her other clothes.

Continuing to follow her current stream of thought, she acknowledged that having her nipples pierced and ringed wasn't the first -- or worst -- modification to which he had subjected her. While the exact sequence of events during her "breaking" was still a little fuzzy, the tipping point that sent her sliding toward despair and mortally wounded her will to resist her tormentor, was also the outward sign of her defeat and total capitulation. The final symbolic outrage (for that visit at least), the final indignity that marked her soul's enslavement, was his shaving off her pubic hair.

No, that wasn't quite true; it was her having to ask... no, not ask -- beg... her new master to shave her sex.

Her strength and focus had been drained by that point. He had deprived her of sleep, food and water, had subjected her to one agonizing, demeaning torment after another. And every time she looked up at him, it seemed he was snapping photos or adjusting his video camera on its tripod. She was sure there was not a moment of her agony that had not been captured for all of posterity.

Finally, he promised it would stop for a while, he would feed her, give her water and even let her sleep a few hours... she just had to ask him to stop. At that point, in her delirium, she was beyond pride and shame, besides, she reasoned, what harm could it do?

She asked. He said he didn't think she was sincere, so the torture went on. Then she began to beg. He said he liked the improvement in her tone, her attitude, but he was sure she could do better, and he resumed her torment. Then she was groveling, offering him anything -- everything -- if only he would show mercy. She was mortified just remembering the obscenities she told him she was ready to commit in exchange for just an hour's respite.

At length he paused and asked her if she was ready to surrender, ready to accept him as her rightful owner, to obey him completely and unquestioningly. She would have said anything, done anything if he would allow her to escape into oblivion for a while. She salved her conscience with the brave notion that he couldn't hold her forever. When she didn't show up back at school after the Spring Break, people would come looking for her. If she could only rest, get back her strength, get him to let down his guard, she might be able to escape. Say anything, a voice inside cried; survival equals victory.

However, if she had thought for one moment that she was taking the "easy way" with surrender, he soon disabused her of that comforting illusion. Oh, how cruelly he made her debase herself, pleading for him to let her be his slut, his whore, his... she was losing her voice and running out of obscene and hyperbolic entreaties for him to enslave her, when he finally, with feigned reluctance, accepted her profession of submission.

He told her that now they had to "seal the deal"; if she were truly sincere, she should have no objection to wearing a sign of her new status as his property. She trembled in terror, dreading what loathsome mark of obeisance he would demand of her. She almost sighed in relief when he declared all her pubic hair would be shorn. Having her genitals shaved -- especially by a madman -- made her cringe, but hair grows, and she contented herself that her bush would be long and lush by the time she testified at his trial.

Even as she thought this, though, part of her knew she was lying to herself. Deep down, she no longer believed she would escape or be rescued, or that he would be caught or punished.

In later years, when she castigated herself for not filing charges against him, she would remind herself that he had threatened to release the photographic and video record of her breaking, to include her urgent pleadings for more sexual abuse and degradation. He assured her any portion of the record showing how these vile requests were coerced would never see the light of day.

Even if she believed he was bluffing about the photos and video, the scandal of a trial, the details of her ordeal -- and her past -- being revealed in open court... the public disgrace would be devastating; the very thought made her physically ill.

How would she ever have been able to look her coworkers, neighbors and friends in the eye again? It was a small, tight-knit, church-going community, and though she was sure few if any would say it aloud, they would all look at her as "tainted"; somehow unclean, untouchable.

She would be shunned, ostracized. In her guilt-ridden delirium, she imagined parents discretely requesting her principal to transfer their children to another classroom with another teacher. It would only take a few such requests, she surmised, before, they would seek her resignation, or so she feared.

At the time, she was too young to retire and yet she felt she was too old to start all over again.

Again, she persuaded herself that silence was survival, and that survival trumped truth, justice and virtue. She told herself, it was horrible, but now it's over... and she was not going to let one nightmare week re-write the rest of her life. So, in the end, she was silent, pretending to the world that nothing had changed... that she hadn't changed.

As she, in her darkest heart, knew she would... Even in the beginning, as she was weighing her decision to surrender.

Because even then, like a small but growing ball of ice in her guts, the concept was slowly developing, taking root; the concept that he was in no way finished with her... she would be his plaything forever. More shameful still, a small, twisted part of her not only had no will or desire to resist, but actually embraced the concept of relinquishing all responsibility for herself and her actions, surrendering herself to the delicious terrors and passions she could never allow herself to experience of her own volition. Besides, maybe he was right; maybe she really did deserve this, this penance. Maybe his retribution was justified by her rejection of him years before.