Page 39 of Bottoms Up
I screamed. I thrashed. I begged without words — grunts, howls, gasps.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow. Didn’t acknowledge my screams at all. She moved to the next testicle, piercing more skewers through the tender, brutalized flesh, methodical and precise.
Then came the ghost pepper oil.
I could smell it before I saw the plug — thick, flared, monstrous. She applied the oil with gloved hands, coating every inch.
I didn’t beg her not to do what I was certain came next. That wasn’t my role. I remained silent while she walked behind me — and when she shoved the giant plug up my ass with a force that split the world open, I bit my tongue and grunted into the pain. My body bucked. The chains held.
She settled a stepstool in front of me and stepped up to wipe her gloved fingers on my lips — tender, affectionate — but the fire ignited instantly, echoing the inferno she’d already set burning in my ass.
“Open your mouth for me, slaveboy.” Her voice was smooth, casual. Not icy, nor full of sympathy. She was relaxed. Nonchalant. Master of the room,Master of me, but she did it effortlessly, and my cock futilely tried to swell in its cruel prison yet again.
She ran her hands all inside my mouth — cheeks, tongue, palate, and down my fucking throat deep enough to make me gag twice before she peeled the gloves off, turning them inside out with methodical ease.
I whimpered when her hand headed toward my cock, but I would not beg, would not try to control my Master. She was in charge. She knew what I needed.
It’s my job to accept it with grace.
She slid one of the gloves over the cock cage and proceeded to tuck pieces of it inside, through the bars, under the edges, ensuring contact in all the worst places.
The fire lit my cock like electricity, white-hot agony. My cock surged inside the cage despite the spikes. The plug in my urethra twisted with the movement, and the pain bloomed sharper than before — punishment layered on punishment.
I couldn’t stop the blood from rushing in, despite the fire, despite the steel. My dick fought the cage and lost — again and again.
Tears came to my eyes, spilled over the edges and slid down my cheeks, the last insult too much to handle. The skewers through my balls, the stretch of being forced into the splits, the too-fat plug holding me wide open and lodged so deep I felt it all the way in my abdomen, the pepper burning my asshole, mouth, and dick.
More skewers, piercing the meat of my chest well behind my nipples. Then the clamps — industrial, serrated, cruel. My breath came ragged. My head hung low.
And still, I didn’t speak, I merely fought to accept what she gave me. She wanted me to hurt, so I would suffer.
My Master stood in front of me, taking me in from floor to ceiling, then looked into my eyes.
“Women can be so much more cruel than men, sometimes, don’t you think?”
Then she was gone.
And I was alone — hanging, skewered, caged, and burning. There was no clock. No promise. No voice. Just the echo of her heels and the long night stretching ahead.
My torso was free, with nothing binding it. Nothing supporting it.
I let it hang for a while, bending over at the hips, my head dangling toward my supporting knee. When the strain in my spine grew too sharp, I shifted upright, my head near the other knee for a while, pressing against the pain in my shoulders, my thighs, my calves.
I tried holding my torso out to the side, horizontal, but that was the worst, so I ended up going back and forth from upright to dangling.
With my arms bound behind me, skewers through my balls and chest, my legs in the splits, ghost pepper oil burning my asshole, cock, lips, tongue, into my gullet —everythinghurt, no matter what. There was no comfort to be found. Only choices about which pain hurt the least in that moment. Trading one unbearable ordeal for another.
I believe she put me into that position around seven in the evening, and I had no choice but to endure it until near four in the morning. The pain had long since blurred into itself by then, a constant churn of fire, muscle tremble, and a bone-deep ache. My throat was raw. My legs shook. My cock burned in its prison. My tears had long since dried up. My whimpers and moans had gone silent. I just breathed.
She returned wearing the same clothes, but barefoot. She smelled of whiskey, secondhand smoke, and hundreds of bodies. Not from sex, but from contact — probably on the dance floor. She was happy and exhausted, but she focused on me completely, looked me up and down, and then released my wrist shackles from each other. “Free yourself the rest of the way, remove all the skewers, get a fast shower, and report to your hidey-hole. The plug stays where it is. You can brush your teeth tomorrow.”
I obeyed. That’s what slaves do.
She was patiently waiting for me when I reported to my hidey-hole, and she locked me in without comment. There wasno explanation for my evening, but there didn’t have to be. She wanted my pain, and I gave it to her.
I lay in the dark for at least an hour — my tongue, throat, and asshole still on fire — before the sun took me. Flat on my back, every inch of my body aching from use and denial and restraint. And when I, from my perspective, came back to life a moment later, pain still echoing through every cell, I waited in the coffin-cool dark of my compartment for Silver to let me out. I couldn’t sit up in the space, couldn’t shift or stretch. I simply waited, supine, until the lock disengaged and light spilled in.
Silver was there, a man today, and I scented the deer shifter. I stood outside the compartment and heard a heartbeat in the outer room.
