Welcome back to F.U.C.K., a decadent tale of surrender. FUCK has it’s own section now, so if you scroll to the top, you can find all the episodes in order. Enjoy!
I soared.
Fire burning, skin taught like twine. The low howls of far away things like the wind in my ears. A shape moved beneath me. I watched it tremble, waiver, then settle as it welcomed agony.
For a moment — one long moment — I didn’t understand the shape was mine.
It knelt. It strained. It bowed forward and shook under the pull of unrelenting rope and chain. Its breath came in ragged threads, coupled with howls that painted the four blank walls in white hot pain. Its spine shuddered like a branch in a gale, long and arching, the strain heavier with each unrelenting gust. I hovered somewhere above it, detached from the nerves that screamed, the joints that buckled, the skin gone numb from leather and cord.
Time had become a place in and of itself, like a gap between breaths, where it hid itself away from the world. The only way to get there was to quiet every heartbeat, extinguish every thought, unhitch every connection with the world until the only thing remaining was the single tick of the clock that lasted a lifetime.
The body below me quivered again. A twitch, a convulsion born of overstretched muscle, the kind that came after the fifth hour… the eighth… the tenth… A night. A day. The sun glowing high in the sky, its sullen mirror like a ghost in night’s shadow. I’d lost count, lost the pace of the room, of its own breaths. The chamber’s air no longer cooled me as I watched it shudder and quake. The heat rising off its skin was the only clock I had left. The soft sobs that dappled the moments of silence and sent motes of dust to dance in the streaming rays of the living world.
Was this me? I gazed down at the shape, wiped my eyes to see it clearly. Was that my back bowed like a supplicant? Knees raw from the hard tiles? Fingers clenching into fists like a beating heart? Were those my arms bound behind, trembling as if the bones were melting? One shuddered breath after another? Wet gurgling sounds from its open mouth, its head bobbing its own assent, then slumping between stretched shoulders?
The scene seemed distant, almost serene — an image in a book I’d once read, or a story I’d whispered to myself on some lonely night as I ran my fingers over my clit. A tease as I imagined the agony I might endure one day at the hands of someone capable of drawing out the masochist I’d always felt hiding beneath my skin. Long strings of need glistened in the air between my fingers and core as I taunted and tortured myself with denial and dreams of debauchery and dehumanization.
Then the pain knifed upward. A sudden spike of white. A bloom from the base of my spine that cracked the world in half.
And I slammed back into the body. My body. Me. I was the shape. I was the figure. I was the bald thing in agony in the center of the pale white room, darkness covering my world in a tight leather wrap, leaving me blind and deaf to what she wanted of me. The Matriarch. Miss.
Another spike driven into the depth of my core, and a silent wail echoed against the walls of my empty mind as the moment came back, and I remembered myself again — suspended above the floor. Stretched. Exposed. Helpless. The ropes bit deeper. I felt every fiber of them. The mask clung to my face like a second skin. I had worn it for how long? Days? Weeks? My legs screaming under the strain of the squat now trembled under the strain of the stretch, each muscle firing so hard to escape I thought I would break — and the Matriarch’s earlier command echoed through me:
“Endure.”
I did.
I held until the holding became something else. Not obedience. Not endurance. Acceptance.
“I see you,” she’d whispered that first night. “I know what you are, what you want — better than you know yourself.” She sat before me and touched the pad that sent jolts of sparking pain through my nipples and clit. I screamed for her, my eyes rolling back to white, and then refocusing, finding her again, locked in, locked on me, as unwavering in her own sort of devotion to me as mine felt unwavering towards her.
“What is it you seek? To be unmade? To be unafraid?” She leaned in, swept the tears from my cheek with a manicured nail. I traced the lines of her mouth to the cold, arching eyebrows, the power of her predatory gaze hypnotising me, her prey. “To be resolute in your knowledge that you can do anything, be anything, suffer and endure anything.” Her lips brushed mine, and I moaned, felt the ache between my legs overwhelm the agony of the clamp. “More than a human. More than a woman. A being capable of anything.”
Of being hers. Of being little more than a puddle of despair existing under her boot, her iron gaze, her cruel smile. Capable of anything. Of being nothing. Nothing but a vessel for her desires.
My nipples hardened as I saw her reach for the small black box, heard the soft purr of its voice. She smiled when she spoke next, a whisper in the dark. “For me. Can you be more for me?”
I blinked my assent, my surrender, my acceptance, and she tapped the switch.
The agony curved inward and then outward, spreading like heat, like light. My breath hitched; my thoughts stuttered. I was there and not there at once — inside the pain, outside the pain, floating somewhere between sensation and surrender.
Her voice unbidden in my mind as I writhed in unforgiving bondage: “Nothing but pain for you. You will be a creature of pain, until pain is the pleasure you seek with each breath.”
Hours passed. Or days. Or a single, unbroken minute stretched thin across eternity as I watched the shape below twist and turn, made and unmade again and again. A twist of the ropes, and it hung inverted, head low near the floor, legs stretched and open, inviting the whip, the clamps, and more subtle tortures. Sometimes the pain dulled and I drifted again, seeing myself as a sculpture in latex — tension carved into shape, a creature made of lines and shadows and shiny plastic. Sometimes it sharpened, pulling me back until tears fell and I tasted salt on the edge of the gag. A naked, bald thing again — nameless, voiceless, my only words low mewling between gasps and sobs.
But always, always, I returned. Returned to the body. Returned to the ache. Returned to the strange bloom of acceptance opening inside my chest that she’d pried open with her eyes, her voice, her promise. Because with each cycle — drifting, returning, drifting again — I understood something terrible and beautiful: This was what I had wanted. And I couldn’t deny it any longer. The farm was long behind me, a fantasy, a moment in the sun, letting my inner self out for the first time under the open expanse of the endless sky — a free-use set of fuckholes, as vulgar as it seemed.
But I’d felt it even then -- there was more to me yet. More to explore. More to discover. More to become. And I’d found it here, in this simple blank room, where the walls and ceiling and floors all blended together into a bright white canvas on which she painted my unleashed soul. Not with pain itself. Not with suffering. But with the meaning inside it. The purpose the Matriarch had carved into me with her silence and her certainty.
Or rather what she had unlocked, unraveled, unwrapped. The moment I accepted that — truly accepted it — the ropes no longer felt like a prison. They felt like a comfort. The pain no longer felt like torture. It felt like a welcome. The silence of my mouth, my sobs, my thoughts no longer felt like quiet. My silence felt like an announcement that I was here.
She returned hour after hour, day after day, heels clicking softly, her scent of linen and something clean and metallic drifting ahead of her. Naomi followed closely, always in tow to reset my bonds, to adjust the devices, to clean and care for me. To dry my tears. The terror that had accompanied the footsteps was gone. My knees no longer shook. My fears no longer hammered in my chest. My thoughts no longer drifted to the horrors that might come. My mind was barely a whisper now. And my heart…
…my heart opened for her like a mouth.
Naomi appeared before the sun had finished deciding what kind of day it wanted to be. The light through the long windows was thin and undecided, a pale ribbon across the floor. I remembered the squat, the ropes, the slow blooming ache and fiery pain that had taught me stillness. How many days ago? Today, the Matriarch had left me in the center of the room on my knees — no ropes, no chains, no bondage of any kind save a brown leather collar and her simple word of command:
“Kneel.”
Naomi’s presence was a suggestion more than a shape: the whisper of cotton behind me, the scent of soap and lavender, the hush of awe. She fastened soft cuffs around my wrists and ran her fingers up my spine and over the stubble growing again on my head. Each day, she’d visited. Was she an assistant to the Matriarch, or simply an employee or even another of Miss’ slaves at the Estate? I could never tell, and she had never offered a word or hint. She slipped around me, draped in white like an angel. She wore billowing white pants like gauze, the silhouette of her legs showing through in the sunlight. Her top was no different, open somewhat at the front, her long, elegant neck rising up from her slender shoulders. I couldn’t look away from her large nipples pressing against the gauze, the ache suddenly blooming between my legs.
Her touch had been gentle, yet firm. Attentive and accompanied by warm water and soap, a straight razor peeling away the stubble that marred my baldness. She led me away to the washroom a broken thing, filthy, dripping and covered in bristling hairs — she returned me to the Matriarch, a perfect creature ready to be broken again. I ate at her feet, my face in a dish. I slept in bondage of her doing — a tight bundle bound into a ball or spread and stretched, open and vulnerable to the night.
Today, she brought a shallow tray and cleaned my skin with cool, scented water, as one might prepare a canvas for gilding. The room shrank to the radius of her hands — warm, unhurried, patient. Even tender. When she reached for the narrow clamps lying like silver commas on the tray, I made the smallest involuntary sound. She looked up. Not warning. Not pity. Maybe envy.
I studied her eyes, wondering if she had slipped, if there was vulnerability there, a crack in her silent armor. I was sure I’d seen something before, but… She blinked and moved without hesitation, and I looked away, finding my center point beyond the blank slate of the wall.
The clamps closed with a delicate, decisive bite. Sharp, but not brutal. Purposeful and precise, it was a boundary drawn in metal — she, the caregiver, even if the care was pain, and I, the vessel welcoming her ministrations, cruel as someone else might view them from afar. Then came the gag, a bright silver ring that opened my waiting mouth like a kiss. I breathed it in, felt the familiar set of my jaw. Silence was my newest form of expression, and I had learned each syllable well.
“Look at me,” she said, when she’d finished fastening the complete head harness.
I looked, finding her face on either side of the thin leather straps that slid up either side of my nose and came together in a metal ring at the top of my bald head. In her eyes there was that same cool clarity, that same clarity I’d seen in the Matriarch’s eyes. But again, there was something more — a hint, a faint glimpse of…
She swallowed, and I suddenly felt the warmth of her hand on my cunt. “So beautiful,” she whispered, and I responded with the only sounds I could, a deep, low moan when she pushed her fingers inside me.
“Good,” she said, one hand gripping my collar, pulling me close, as she fucked me. I leaned in, feeling the hard diamonds of her nipples, tasting her breath, the warmth of her body burning my own ignited skin. “I’ve watched you, cunt.” She looked at my lips, the gag forcing them apart. “Watched you kneel. Watched you suffer. I’ve listened to you crying at night.” Her eyes flickered up to mine, and I saw the mask slip away. “And all I’ve wanted was a moment with you. A moment of my own.”
“To feel,” she said, and she pressed her lips to my open mouth.
Time rearranged itself into intervals that had nothing to do with minutes. The pulses arrived like measured rain. Each stroke of her fingers a flash of lightning. Each moan like thunder as her storm raged within me. Deeper, harder she fucked me, sucking on my offered tongue, until her fingers opened me, pushing through. My whole body shook when her slender fist slid inside, filling my cunt with a pain and pleasure the Matriarch’s clamps and electricity could only imagine. Naomi held me tight when my knees buckled. Held me and fucked me, pounding my cunt until the words came unbidden from her lips, like breath.
“Show me how a dumb cunt cums,” she growled, and the room went white.
Author’s Notes: We’re back after a longer break than I wanted. But, sometimes life gets in the way. Sometimes stories have their own rhythm, and just because you have an idea of what will happen next, it doesn’t mean the story is ready to live yet. It seemed this way for Olivia’s story — she needed a moment to find herself again, if you will, and I was willing to give her that room. And now we’re back at the Estate, and Olivia is about to go through some things as she shatters another glass floor and sinks lower toward oblivion.
Thanks I’ve been missing this 💦💦😈