Cinéma Vérité: A Mind Fuck in Four Parts (part one)

A cold bare room.

Silence.

I am alone, sitting before a dark video screen, waiting for my Master to return.

I am tied to a simple wooden chair in the very middle of the room. My knees are held open by the same strand of rope that binds my ankles to the legs of the chair.

My wrists are bound behind me, and the long rope of my hair as well. Hands and hair, both lashed to the straight unforgiving spindles cutting into my back.

My mouth is filled with a rubber penis gag, my tongue compulsively trying to accommodate the constant invasion.

Headphones cover my ears, but they are silent. I hear no commands, no familiar Master’s voice, so I study the long thin cord that runs from the headphones to the place where it plugs into the blank video screen in front of me.

I meditate on the meaning of silence, the cultivation of an empty mind. I try to connect with the quiet beyond consciousness. I try, as always, to anticipate nothing but as the minutes tick by I only descend into a slow dread of peace.

He enters and closes the door softly. His sharp clicking footfalls stop directly behind me. Every downy hair on my body rises up. I wait for the heavy blow of His voice, the sharp sting of His hand, His whip, His demand.

I wait. I breathe. I wait. Until…

A magnified whoosh of white noise bursts into my ears followed quickly by the blue-gray static of the video screen flashing on.

From beyond the cottony muffle of the headphones, I hear His voice very close behind me:

"Watch carefully. This is what I am going to do to you; what I am going to have done to you."

The screen flashes again and I see three people moving around each other in a shadowy room. They seem to be working on something in the center of the room. They are surrounding a piece of furniture… a table?

The light in the room is suddenly adjusted and the scene becomes more defined. The men are completely naked, their cocks erect, bouncing as they reach and turn, pointing like dowsing rods at the table as they move around it.

Masks. They are all wearing full face-covering masks. One man turns quickly to look directly at the camera, at me. A black dragon of a face, a devouring red smile appears and just as quickly turns back to its work.

The men are murmuring to each other, tending very intently to something on the table. In between their moving bodies, I can see the top of what looks like a wooden frame; a partial view of a thick square post bolted to the tabletop.

Two of the men move to the side and I am given a clear view of the object of their attention.

She is naked, on her knees, lashed to the underside of the frame - a small wooden version of a playground jungle-gym; four vertical posts with a ladder-like piece attached horizontally across the top. The kind I used to swing across, hand over hand, as a child.

The camera moves in closer toward one end of the table and I see her spread legs bound just above the knees to the bottom of the posts on that side of the frame. Her ankles are pulled up to the top of her thighs and bound there as well. Her toes and feet are flexing almost convulsively, moving in helpless circles in the air.

The camera lingers here to show that not only is she splayed open between the posts so that she can be easily used by these men, but a cross-beam at the top of the frame also presses down on the arch in her lower back so that her ass is flared humiliatingly up and out; so that she will not be able to forget for one moment that she is being forced to endure a very purposeful and calculated debasement.

The camera pans out and begins to move slowly around the back of the table and along the other side. Her arms are drawn up behind her; up and over a rung at the top of the frame so that her elbows point toward the ceiling. Her wrists are individually bound, each attached to the same rung that presses against her lower back.

Her shoulders are attached to the frame by a leather harness strapped under her armpits and buckled to the top of the frame.

Finally, her head, jutting out just beyond the front edge of the frame, is held up and back by her hair, which is bound into a braid and secured with a rope to another cross brace at the top of the frame.

The men continue to move around her, making last adjustments, talking to each other in low mumbles as they make sure she is secured properly for what is to come.

Finally satisfied, they move aside so the camera can record their handiwork; so I can see what will eventually become my own fate.

I watch her hanging there, from her own limbs, her own hair. I watch her waiting there like a bound goddess on a ship’s prow; a sacrifice to the turbulent sea about to rise up in that room.

I want to bow my head, close my eyes to what I know I am about to witness, but like her, my own bound hair keeps my head upright. And the presence of my Master behind me keeps my eyes from closing.

Knowingly, He grips the roots of the hair at the back of my head and pulls - just enough. I shiver, as I always do. And as always, I accept the will of His hand.

The camera pans closer to show the woman’s unbound breasts hanging beneath her. Each nipple is pulled helplessly toward the table by a string of lead weights hung from a merciless clover clamp.

In the background, one man mumbles something, another laughs meanly, and I hear the hard smack of bare hand against skin. The woman gasps and grunts as her body lurches forward and the weights swing back then quickly and sharply snap forward.

The camera moves finally to her face. Her mouth is held open by an unforgiving steel ring secured deep behind her teeth, leather straps pulled cutting tight into the corners of her mouth. She is whimpering quietly between each heavy nervous breath, her tongue undulating wildly inside her gaped-open mouth.

Her eyes dart away from the camera… to the corners of the room… back to the camera… up to the cock of the man passing in front of her. She tries to turn her head away, to bow, to hide, but the rope pulling her head back prevents all but the smallest of movements from side to side.

Suddenly another mask appears in the camera’s view. This one is a lewd yellow-green with red-rimmed eye holes, a monstrous visage who growls into the camera, "stay on her face."

He moves back so the camera can see how he gently strokes the side of her face before he slaps it hard and fast, again and again:

"Look at the camera, bitch!"

She tries, but her eyes keep flickering away.

The Green Monster sticks his meaty fingers inside the ring holding her mouth open. He stuffs them in, holds them there, until her eyes tear up and she begins to gag. She is blinking desperately, her whole body trying to arch up against the frame, away from his hand.

Finally, he pulls his wet fingers from her mouth and wipes them along the reddening streaks on her cheeks. While she is still gasping and coughing, he straightens up before her and thrusts his hard cock at her face.

He takes it in his fist and rubs it around the ring of her stretched lips, her wet cheeks. He smacks her face with it and pokes the taut shiny head of it against her nostrils, her eyes…

In the background, the Red Dragon steps forward… another hard smack. She cries out, and the camera jerks away from her face to find the source of the pain.

Two hands are slapping at her breasts. She screams as the strings of weights fly through the air, yanking her tits viciously away from her body, again and again.

Suddenly there is a flurry of other slapping sounds coming from outside the camera’s shaky frame… the men’s low-pitched laughter… the woman’s grunts and cries… a sound of something metal clattering to the floor.

Then, as quickly as it began, the slapping and the laughter stop.

The men stand back as the the camera finds her face again and zooms in tight. She is whimpering now, her chest heaving. Her face is arranged in an obscene grimace around her open mouth. Her eyes are dark, fluttering, wet. Drool is beginning to run in frothy strings from her gaping mouth as her tongue darts in and out of the steel ring.

In the background, the men are falling into their next positions around her. They have finished their teasing. The camera, panning back from her face, has finished its first round.

The Dragon stands to her right, his hands pressed tightly against his thighs, his cock jutting straight and still and huge before him.

The Green Monster at her left restlessly shifts his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, his hips slightly thrusting his big bent cock toward the table with every sway back and forth.

And the other man, who’s mask the camera has not yet shown me, is standing directly behind her, grasping his cock, pulling slowly on the long fat length of it, again and again.

They are ready. She is without choice.

And, stripped of the power to resist witnessing the violation that is about to unfold before my eyes, so am I.

From deep inside the tense silence in that room, the sound of the camera man’s breath suddenly surges harsh and ragged into my ears. My Master reaches down from his place behind me to viciously squeeze and slap my breasts.

He moves one hand down my belly and roughly scoops up the juice he knows will be waiting for him there between my open legs. He brings the dripping handful to my nose. With the other hand, he slides one side of the headphones off my ear. "Smell your shame," he whispers.

He smears it on my face, around my gagged mouth, down my neck, over my breasts. "Steep in it, you voyeuristic whore." He licks his fingers clean and repositions the headphones.

The woman on the screen is mewling now, softly, beggarly. Her entire being has been remade into a collection of hot rippling little quivers nervously dancing beneath those relentless masked gazes.

My Master’s hand tugs again on my hair as the camera pans wide to encompass the entire scene:

An object, rendered usable in every way; three men with false faces, stepping forward.

To be continued…