A Paper Trail (Novella Part 1) July 26, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : A Paper Trail , add a commentYou missed me? 
What are you doing in front of your computer?! It’s summer FFS. Get your pasty ass up and enjoy the RL a bit!
…Still here? Oh well, I guess you can read this new thing I’ve been working on. It will submitted to Sir James Gordon (http://gordonsdrysin.blogspot.com/) for consideration in his publication “I Want You To Make Me Feel Like Shit”. Interested in submitting your own work? Check out his blog and drop him a message 
This novella will be a hybrid of sorts, containing real-life events interspersed throughout a fantasy story. I think it will be a good way to combine reality with theory in regards to the exploration of Humiliation. I will be posting parts of it here, but probably not the conclusion 
You’ll have to wait for the book for that! So anyways, here goes…
A Paper Trail
This one time…
I’m horrible at math, but I can still remember the combination of every locker I had in all of my grade school years.
“12-27-13”
I used the combination to open my band room locker in the 4rth grade. Inside I would place my shiny brass trumpet. Often I would marvel at its bold and beautiful sheen as I lifted it from the little black protective case it was stowed in. Shiny and flawless, kept warm and snug in a fuzzy, fitted coffin – it had certain virgin purity. I loathed the thing.
I had fractured my ankle in the summer of ’93 and been unable to enjoy my usual wild, adventurous romps in the twisted woods of rural North Carolina. My foster parents had decided the next best way to keep me out of their hair was by using the old stand-by known as “Band-Camp”.
This was actually not conventional camp at all, but a summer-time project the local middle school had instated to dump whatever was left of the budget after the beloved baseball team had their way with it. We were the crippled, the shy, and the socially inept. Through a loose partnership with the YMCA, our teachers (mostly substitute staff) would organize daily outings at swimming pools, rec centers and public parks. But these little field trips were just distractions to the central theme, which was learning to play traditional sheet music.
On this particular day, our rag-tag band of rejects consisted of two percussionists, six violins, two violas, a cello, a couple trombones, two french horns, three clarinets, a tuba (the would-be player basically being ‘forced’ to sit in the back and do crosswords because of the ghastly, giggle-inducing belches he managed to squelch from the ungainly instrument), two trumpets and about a dozen flute queens.
Our primary instructor (the ‘Maestro Premiere’) was a broad-shouldered lady by the name of Ms. Herring. She would wield her baton during classes like a rapier, swatting bare kneecaps and rapping the knuckles of children who missed their cues or went flat. She would constantly remind us of the “Will to Succeed” or “Beauty Through Technique”.
I sat quietly in the middle of my section watching her rise up and down on tiptoes, waving her stick vigorously over our heads, as if it could somehow cast a spell of competence. I became more interested in the form of her muscular legs than any musical notation, smiling to myself as she belted out orders, her uniform knee-length khaki dress offering the forbidden glimpses of smooth, tan skin…
“Marilyn!”
I shook my head and made a little gasp, snapping my eyes back to the lines of copied notes I had in front of me on a little silver stand. “S..sorry, Miss.”
“That’s the third attempt you’ve ruined today! Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re doing…”
I felt my cheeks heat up like little hand warmers. I knew she wasn’t referring to my traveling eyes, though I suspected the butchy woman had somewhat of a fetish for a few of the girls in our class. She was always much harsher in dealing with the ones that showed some talent. It was my first time at any sort of musical training, almost 4 years before I picked up my first guitar. I never considered myself a musical prodigy, but I was natural enough at it to perform better than almost anyone in the class when I applied effort; which I would, on occasion, if only to please the aesthetic Ms. Herring.
However, I strangely found it much more enjoyable to irritate my teacher into action. I often purposely flubbed a note or two, or randomly hit a few bars of an improvised solo, always pretending to seem innocently unaware of my mistakes. She would blow steam at me and send me to the chalkboard, forcing me to scrawl line after line of notation, much to the amusement of the ‘campers’.
Today was a bit different though. I looked at her scowling face, mesmerized by her commanding presence. Her toned, athletic body towering over my pale, scrawny form. I felt a pulling sensation in my guts, as if my body would involuntarily kneel before her was I to leave my seat. I was suddenly in awe of her superiority.
And I could not stop myself.
“Let’s go! Once more, from the third measure. And One, and Two…”
Her arms rose over her head, she twisted her wand thrice and followed through into a graceful sweeping motion. Back and forth, back and forth. The stick whistled through the air, snapping off beats and keeping a perfect tempo. Perfect rhythm. Perfect breasts swaying in unison. Symmetry, body and soul.
Back and forth… back and forth… A minor, G minor… A flat…
“WHAT in GOD’S name are you doing, girl?!”
The class erupted into giggles. I looked up in a daze, this time not really acting at all. My mouth remained shut, I simply stared into her righteous fury. Bathed in its glow.
Ms. Herring stomped over to my seat, and swatted the wand sharply across my bare thigh, just above my knees where my skirt was supposed to be according to school dress code.
“Not even properly dressed today.” Her tone was more laden with distaste than I could remember it ever being. “You can learn the importance of covering ones knees while you’re on the basketball court scrubbing the scuff marks off.”
There was another scattering of snickers from the camp-tards, but I didn’t care anymore. I stared down at my page of notes, expressionless. I felt her angry breath on my forehead, it was hot and intoxicating, goosebumps ran all over my flesh.
“You have one more chance to respect the efforts of your classmates. I will not warn you again. Is that clear, young lady?”
She waited at least a full minute for my response, but I was not forthcoming. The black notes on my sheet might have been an ancient form of kanji, dancing in front of my face, meaningless.
I heard her wand click robotically three times on the podium. The band started up in a practiced sync, the other trumpet stared daggers at me. I knew he actually cared about the performance, and I felt a distant twinge of guilt. But weird hormones had my body on auto-pilot now. There was nothing my conscience could do.
I raised the trumpet to my lips, my eyes lifted slowly to waiting audience. At the centre of it all was our Conductress, poised on her pedestal, her arm arcing gracefully towards the ceiling to cue the brass, her eyes fixed upon mine. They showed me the truth. She wanted me to…
BLARRRRTTT!!
My Sin committed, I set my eyes upon hers as she swept like a flame of vengeance across the room to my chair. She snatched the shiny trumpet from my fingers and held it aloft over my handwritten notes. Her thumb pressed the drain valve and saliva drooled out over the page and my clothes.
The whole class went into a hysterical fit while Ms. Herring let the instrument drain until it was empty. She gave it three quick shakes, like she was prompting a symphonic melody of laughter. I felt flecks spatter onto my rosy cheeks, which burned like the blistering summer sun. Dropping the horn into my lap she then simply looked down on me for a few moments wordlessly.
“Marilyn, go to the ladies room and clean up. You’re through for the day.”
She turned back to face the class and commanded them again, conducting the laughing troop into order.
I let my eyes lower to my lap and stared into the wet, reflective brass surface. The face there was a golden vision, something from a dream, something forbidden and wondrous, something unspoken that good children should never think about.
And it was smiling.
The Frog
She sat in silence, looking at the folded piece of green colored paper on her coffee table. Little angular legs propped up the model, which remarkably resembled a toad. She always thought origami was fascinating - simple in appearance, yet mischievous in the deceptively intricate designs. This one was no different, being a simple tool for a mischievous design, one that she would be unfolding carefully in the next 24 hours. It was time.
The little paper amphibian had fallen through her building’s mail slot sometime in the early morning hours. She had noticed it just before leaving to make a quick run to the store, found it lying innocently, over turned on the welcome mat. Whoever had dropped it off must’ve been privy to the sleep cycles of the other resident of 202 Windsor duplex (who worked evenings and would have just gone to bed), which was a bit unsettling; or they hadn’t cared, which was downright scary, and did not bode well for the coming events of the day.
Two weeks ago she had received an email from Him.
From: MasterK@xxx.com
girl,
you are close to completing what We have worked on. There are tasks that must be done before you can be Recognized. Soon your Trial will begin.
They will accept no less than perfection. you have been briefed on the scenario twice:
-
Once before at the beginning of Our last Evaluation (February Munch)
Secondly, at the end of our last session (16 days ago)
you are expected to perform precisely as instructed and follow all steps that are given to their completion. Any failure on your part may result in the enactment of a Termination Clause as outlined in the rules.
As you know, there will be many eyes, many important perceptions to sway.
As your Worth is on the line, so is My Honor.
-K
The words hit home like an ACME anvil. He trusted her, she could not fail Him.
She recalled their last session in the later days of March, not too long after the first signs of life fought their way through the frost of a merciless winter season. She had just stepped out of the shower, steam rising from her body, clouding the mirror she was brushing her hair in; he always let her clean up first after scene. He stepped through the bathroom door and came up behind her, draping a warm robe over her shoulders and holding it there until she was finished with the brush.
“They have accepted your application.” He spoke calmly while he guided the sleeves over her arms. “You have been approved for the Trial this quarter. I’m not sure if there was another girl who had to cancel or not, but it seems they have some interest in you. I know it’s earlier than expected…”
She swallowed hard. He had only just told her the previous month of His desire to have her join the ‘Circle’ with Him. It was an elite group of BDSM professionals and very wealthy or important enthusiasts. They were quite exclusive, and Master K Himself had only been aware of its existence for a few years. He had mentioned it would most likely take at least a year before her application would be accepted, yet he seemed to think it would be of great benefit if they were successful in joining. She shook her head and set her face.
“She is ready, Sir.”
He smiled down at her, pulling her to His chest, gently cradling the back of her head. “I know you are, little one. I would never have submitted the paperwork had I not been absolutely certain. At any rate, do you recall what must be done?”
She remembered his description of The Trial. It was a day-long test. There were no set rules or procedures. The only thing that was guaranteed was that the events would be observed by people within the highest ranks of the group, and that it would culminate in a massively produced and extensively organized scene. No two Trials were exactly the same, every girl was different and thus everyone would be tested in a manner unique to them.
Applications consisted of very detailed limit lists, practiced protocols, fetishes, and BDSM knowledge and experience. She had belonged to Master K for almost three years; they had quite a story together. The distance between them (about four hundred miles) quickly became irrelevant, as she flew to see Him almost regularly every few months. He had shown her things she had only dared to dream, fulfilled fantasies she once thought impossible. Her respect and love for Him outshined anything else in her life; He was a God to her, and she would do anything to please Him.
“Sir, she must follow every instruction given to her to the best of her ability, showing proper form, discipline and grace at all times. She will think carefully about her actions before performing them, considering all possible outcomes as He has taught her. She will disregard any law or social taboo as long as it does not endanger her. She will bring Him Honor through her actions in this endeavor.” She paused and looked down, trying to think of something more assuring to say. “She will not disappoint Him, no matter what. Her love will not allow it. She…”
His finger touched her lips and she stopped, looking up at Him with determination. He was smiling broadly, something she did not see often.
“She will be OK. Though you may not see me, I will be present to watch over you at all times and ensure your wellbeing above all else. You will be pushed; they will know the trappings of your psychology. I did not hide any truth from Them. I cannot say what may happen, but I know that you will do your best, and that is all I will ask of you.”
He lifted her chin and kissed her. The robe slipped away and she did not stop it. He picked her up and carried her to the bed in the adjacent room, casually kicking away the chain harness that remained there. They fucked for a long time, as if they hadn’t already been enjoying each other’s sex since that afternoon, and afterwards He laid inside her, her pussy nestling His cock like the stem of a flower, petals almost ready to bloom.
A week ago the final Sign came to her in the mail. A simple yet elegantly embossed note card with no return address, containing a single sentence:
Watch for Them, They will guide you.
She was breathing very hard and fast, looking down at the little frog in her hand. Jesus, were her palms sweating? The thing seemed so surreal, and yet here it was - the First Sequence. She had to open it, time was limited and not to be wasted.
She forced her fingers to move, slowly pulling at one of the legs, prying open the fold in the chest. It opened…
200 West 133rd St.
Third bench from the start.
She gasped. She knew this location. It was the park she often went running at.
“Third bench from the…” she muttered to herself. They must mean from where she normally began her laps of the public trail. There would be a decent amount of people there, being one of the first pleasant days of spring and a Saturday, this too must have been considered.
One thing that had not been mentioned was dress code; she had no idea what to wear. Proper protocol would dictate a nice dress, but she was going to the park. She hesitated only a second before going to her closet and picking out the Diane Von Furstenburg LBD. It was a $400 piece and one of her favorites, Master K had given it to her on their first anniversary. She selected a simple matching clasp to go with it, bringing only her keys, driver’s license and $30 in change.
She took a brief moment to quickly, yet carefully freshen her makeup, then stepped into a pair of lithe black boots and made her way out of the duplex to her car. It would take about 10 minutes to reach her destination, barring traffic. Her reflection in the rear-view seemed calm, yet her hands were trembling.
Game on.
Humiliation #8 “No One Can Hear You Scream” June 26, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a commentWelcome back folks, I hope you enjoy the new website look! It’s thanks to Sir James Gordon (http://gordonsdrysin (dot) blogspot (dot) com/). Check out his stuff! But only if you have a brain. If not, please continue reading while diddling yourself. This is certainly the most recent ‘Tale’ of the lot so far, having occurred only a little over a year ago.
***”No One Can Hear You Scream”***
About two months after moving from San Diego to help take care of my once foster father Ben, I landed a job at a nearby call center. It was mind numbing work, but considering the emotional roller coaster I had been on in recent weeks it was sometimes a means of escape. There I could slink into my cubicle, punch into Audix and grind out customer after customer. Credit Checks, Sales Orders, Billing Statements, Accounts Troubleshooting, simple, tedious, meaningless monotony. I was a tiny ant lost in the bustling hive of a monstrous and soulless empire - a soldier of service, trained to kill The Queue.
While I was gratefully losing myself in this bonifide American haven, I tried not to rub shoulders with the other insects, though accidentally I made acquaintances over cigarettes, brushing off the occasional flirt. I was here for the thorough mental purging that can only be brought on by 100 calls a day, 55 hours a week. An office romance would only bring to life the faces I worked so hard to keep blank, like so many claymation figures marching into a meat grinder. My coffee was spiked, my tea was spiked, lunch was basically a buffet of aspirin and caffeine pills, brought to a blissful hum by whatever amount of nicotine I could huff down in my daily 45 minute allowance. Split between day and evening shifts there was a total of about 360 of us in the ‘Core’ (Customer Service). At the end of my second quarter, I still only knew the names of my immediate supervisors, half of my “team” and about three or so other people whom I regularly ignored on the smoke deck.
Then one day while I was beginning my shift, my personal purgatory was invaded.
“Hey, cutie.”
I had just plunked down the bottle cap from a Diet Dr. Pepper over the digital clock display on my computer, it reminded me how many hours I had left to go before I had to yet again face the man I spent half my life trying to forget. Looking up, my half-glazed eyes met a brazen smiling face I recognized from the ‘Leaders’ board. Luke, a long-timer and Team Captain (lame office terminology for a Floor Supervisor). He was muscular, but not thick, with a shaved head and uniform tattoos, like a charactature of prior flirts.
The Ghost of Crushes Past.
Returning to the blurry monitor, I absently continued to arrange my windows. “Can I help you?”
He was not swayed by my disinterest routine. “You could help me put down a few drinks this evening. A lot of us are going to the Hairy ‘B’ tonight, I thought you might wanna meet some folks. You kinda keep to yourself over here, huh?” I had purposely chosen an out of the way corner spot, behind me were stacks of extra chairs and some random supplies.
“Yup.” Casually I pretended to scroll through the emails sent by Administration and my snobbish Team Captain, Julia. I never read anything unless it was flagged. It didn’t matter, I was in the top 6 % for Performance, so she left me alone.
“Right on. I was the same way when I got here, but there’s actually some cool people here once you get to know them. If you want, I can wait until you get off and you can follow me up there, or catch a ride. We’re all probably gonna hang out at my place afterwards, I got a nice theater system and there’s a fight on tonight.” Apparently he was Aloof Proof.
I smiled amiably up at him and said I would think about it, I couldn’t force myself to be rude. He was pretty cute, after all. I went through my day without giving much more thought to the awkward scene. Julia was a bit more picky than usual about my metrics, but I was oblivious to anything other than the timer for my next cigarette until my buzz wore off suddenly around the fifth hour. The calls became difficult, as a headache started creeping its tendrils through my brain, slowly choking my calm, pulling my thoughts from concentration. Normally I can take the rudest customer and turn them into self-conscious jelly, easily answering derogatory remarks and often lewd, curse-laden rhetoric with bright, crisp answers and courteous advise until they either give up or apologize. Usually I enjoy the verbal abuse on a certain level, but not today. Feeling sick, I went for my car during lunch instead of the smoking area.
Yanking open the glove compartment, I groaned in dismay at the lack of any pills there. How the hell did I not bring any? Usually I pilfered a few various goodies from Ben’s supply and stowed them away for such emergencies. He never missed them and I sub-consciously rationalized the theft as a long overdue comfort, my father had his bottle and so did I.
Gripping the steering wheel, I started breathing slowly, trying to force the pain away from my mind. The ache was now accompanied by memories resurfacing: shouting, screaming; jarring, sharp lashes whipping over flesh, the feeling of having strips of skin peeled quickly away like the jerk of a bloody band-aid; June’s distant stare, her hiding place before my crumpled, shaking body. I closed my eyes and tried to join her there as I used to, dancing over some bright field, hands together, beyond flesh and blood, Mother and daughter spirits of the earth.
A knock on the driver side window startled me, my hand instinctively shooting up to wipe my eyes, hitting my sunglasses.
“Takin’ an early day, hun?” Luke was leaning on my door, smiling at me.
“Huh?” I intelligently responded, adjusting my shades that had been knocked askew.
“I wanted to ask if you had decided on tonight? I’m looking to get a head count for the booze demands.”
“Yes.” The words were out before I knew I said them. My proclivity for escapisms had yet again superseded my reasoning. His expression lifted into a charmingly boyish grin and I found myself unable to retract the hasty response.
After work I left the building to find him idling next to my car. In a convertible.
“Care to enjoy the breeze with me?” He smiled easily, casting an unassuming glance at my depressingly drab Malibu. At this point, my weary brain was already committed to getting pickled. I would likely be in no capacity to get behind the wheel, and the last thing I needed was a ticket.
He rolled his eyes at me. I was sold. “Okay.”
I saw the rest of the evening through the bottom of a glass, which was perpetually being filled by Luke and Co. The “folks” were nice, some faces I recognized and others who seemed to know me very well. I began to notice the threading of an underground gossip network to rival any Hollywood high school. Fortunately, I had no idea who or what half of the conversations were about and so I mostly just sat there and smiled. At some point Luke had his arm around me and I was leaning into him comfortably, allowing myself to soak up a feeling of belonging I had not experienced since leaving all of my friends on the other side of the country. Glasses clashing, so-and-so trashing, friends laughing and horrible Karaoke cutting through the night like the soundtrack to a dream.
His bed was surprisingly soft despite the Lamb of God posters, shimmering fiercely with multi-color reflections from several lamps around the darkened room. A few walls away, roars from the Las Vegas crowd resounded as giant men pummeled each other senseless. Most of the dozen or so people who had joined us were in Luke’s theater room, watching the action, trying to out scream an audience of 15,000.
He pushed forward on the insides of my thighs as he buried his dick to the hilt, giving a soft groan as he leaned into me, then easing backward and rocking his hips as my ass slapped onto muscular quads.
“Oh baby…your pussy is like heaven…sooo hot.”
I felt him push off deep inside, thrusting against the front and I gave a little scream, my legs splaying wider. I dug my nails behind his shoulder blades and moaned hotly into his ear. “Punish me.”
He pushed me down into his pillow, got up to a kneel and looked at me darkly, smiling very un-boyishly now. Unceremoniously snapping his condom off, he threw its wet remains in my face and roughly flipped me over. His hands gripped my ankles tightly as he shoved my legs under me, forcing my body into a variation ot the doggy-style position. His fingers wound into my disheveled hair and pulled back, lifting my face away from the pillow. I smelled the crisp odor of lubricant.
“Go ahead and scream. I want to hear it.”
His hot, swollen and now naked penis was angled over my anus while I quivered in anticipation. My nipples brushed over blankets and I vaguely felt the condom slipping limply from my gasping face as his oiled member slowly filled my rectum with a dull pain. He stayed there for a moment and gave my butt a hard slap, “Say you want it.”
“I…” He threw me forward with the force of a fuck that would have embarrassed a jackhammer.
I screamed.
When he woke me up the next day all of his friends were already gone. We drove back to my car, the wind whipping across my face was more of an annoyance than I remembered. He offered to pay for breakfast but I declined. I climbed out and he playfully patted my ass, “See you later OK?”. I didn’t care if he was serious or not. I just wanted a hot shower.
As he pulled away I looked up towards the weekend crew on the smoke deck. I thought I recognized a few people, but I didn’t focus too much. I had yet another hangover to deal with, as well as other, more welcome soreness.
I had Monday off because I was scheduled to work the following Saturday, so I was blessed with plenty of time to recover and cursed with where I had to spend it, holding that hateful head over a pan full of vomit. Returning to work on Tuesday, I didn’t see Luke’s car in the lot. As an opening supervisor he was usually there well before me. I swiped my card through the lock and trudged upstairs. When I rounded the corner at the top I was struck by the amount of empty seats in my section of the floor. Looking at the clock on my phone, I noticed I still had five minutes to spare. Where could everyone be?
The intercom coughed to life overhead: “MARILYN. TEAM D. REPORT TO MEETING ROOM 2.” Puzzled, I quickly logged in and went into the Auxiliary code for meetings. I didn’t know of any meeting we had planned. Opening the door to the meeting room I saw that the long table in the center had all of the members of my team and twenty-something other people sitting around it, waiting. They looked up at me with very annoyed expressions.
“Thanks for joining us, Marilyn.” Julia’s voice was curt and positively oozing with cynicism. “I’m sure teams E and F are appreciative of waiting the extra 25 minutes before their normal shift times for you. Not to mention your own team, but we’re already used to you slacking off. Maybe if you checked your email once in a while you might not inconvenience others. Please be seated and we’ll begin.”
I felt the sharp pang of guilt twist in my stomach as I carefully made my way across the room, looking over the groups of angry faces for an empty chair. Finding none, I simply remained standing by the door. There was an awkward silence. ”Lights please?!” Julia snapped. “Could you be bothered?”
I hastily flicked the switch to the tune of a few snickers. The projector shot a familiar image on the wall. It was my desktop.
“As you all know”, started Julia, “We are here early today to address proper etiquette on the phone. Sometimes you may be faced with difficult situations that require a measure of control on your part. There is a right and wrong way to address these individuals. I thought it would be informative for us to review the WRONG way today.”
I felt the twisting in my tummy tighten into a heavy ball.
“First of all, you may want to keep your desktop clear of distractions, such as a shortcut to “Bondage.com”".
The room erupted into laughter and Julia smiled serenely, but didn’t look in my direction. She clicked a button on her remote and a familiar audio recording sounded. The projection showed my mouse flipping open the window of our database and my voice went into a uniform greeting.
“Welcome to _____________, how may I…”
“You can shut the fuck up, bitch.” An angry man with a thick New Yorker accent interrupted me sharply. It was a call I had received that previous Friday. The ball inside me was now a leaden, cancerous mass of nerves. “Now lissen’ what I gotta say… Youse be chargin me some bullshit and I ain’t gon be payin none of it.”
More laughter from the room, this time sympathetic, though. We all had calls like this one. In our call center the rule was ‘Never hang up’. My voice responded nervously, I hadn’t been expecting to be blindsided with such wild aggression.
“Sir, I can certainly discuss matters with you. If I might just..”
“You might just be a dumb ass cunt that thinks I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. Guess what, I use t’ have yo’ job and I can have it right here and now too if youse ain’t gonna lissen. I can axe fo’ yo’ supervisor any second. ANY SECOND you snotty lil’ bitch. What you think ’bout that, huh? I bet yo’ face lookin’ pretty stupid right ’bout now.”
I had replied, stuttering a bit. My head must’ve been throbbing at that point. “S-s-Sir… that’s fine. I-I can direct you to my super-”
“OH NO you lil thang, youse gon be a good lil girl and help me out. Youse gon gimme what I want here. What you OWE me! And I don’t care ’bout what you thank they done taught you. I know th’ system better than any dumb bitch tapping her silly lil nails over th’ keyboard. Maybe if youse a good girl though, I might not have to say nuthin to yo’ boss. ‘Less youse already on his ‘good side’. Heh heh.”
Julia clicked the remote and stopped the recording, letting the chuckles die down. “As you can see our representative here already made a mistake by offering a direct route to a supervisor. What do we always tell you? Take control of your call. We’re gonna see just how lousy control can ruin the image of our company. That image you work so hard towards trying to uphold everyday so that all of us can have jobs.”
She continued the call for 15 brutal minutes. I was constantly degraded by the man and called every name in the book. Everyone in the room shook their heads at me and chortled at certain moments, highlighting the more hilarious parts of my mockery; such as: “All that training and you’re still just a dumb broad who will give me what I want in the end.” Or, “I can’t believe they let bitches like you behind a computer screen. I wonder what they have you propped up on. How many batteries it take? They run out yet?”
My tone remained pleasant and courteous, but my voice was shaking. Eventually I had given in and allowed the man a credit he was not due. Julia finally stopped the recording and flashed my awful score on the screen, berating me a little more, this time looking me full in the face. Her eyes were filled with genuine scorn, I had done something to wrong her and I honestly had no idea what.
Later that day I was crying on the toilet when I heard a group of girls come in giggling.
“…That will teach her to fuck around with other people’s interests.”
“Aww, she didn’t know Julia. It was pretty funny though! Did you see her face?!”
More laughter. I caught my breath, holding the tissue over my mouth.
“Yeah. What a push over. I just don’t see what Luke saw in her. And really… that Bondage stuff? Yuck.”
“I can’t believe you outed her like that! And I bet she gets more sex anyways, thanks to you. Not that she needs it I’m sure. You know guys like Luke can be shortsighted…”
They carried on and I listened until they left. Blood was pounding behind my eyes, red spots flickered in front of my face. How many people had known?
The lead ball had dropped and melted in-between my legs. Goosebumps made prickly patterns over my skin, a wet, salty droplet rolled down my face and through my lips, my hand crept between my thighs and over my panties.
A daughter of the earth.
Humiliation #7 - “Oh Say Can You See?” June 2, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a commentThe following is a tale to start the summer with!
It takes place nine months before “Humiliation #6” (I swear I’m not ripping Tarantino!). It touches on one of the most “traumatic” events of my life (via implied flashback anyways) and is dedicated to Tseril Vayandar, AKA, the Voice In My Head.
Enjoy…
***“Oh Say Can You See?”***
The sky was a vast and dark pit of marvelous, glimmering wonders. The eyes were dazzled and stunned by bright colored flashes and showering sparks, gilding brilliant, impossible balls of fire billions of miles away.
I was in a field somewhere, with a trailer home and a large barn. I didn’t know who’s place it was, only that it was the place to be on the 4th of July. Excited, drunken groups of people danced to whatever hillybilly hit there was on the radio, boys tried to maim each other, running across the grass blasting roman candles while girls screamed themselves into fits of giggles. Any sort of drinkable alcohol was available, empty beer bottles rolled off of table tops, kegs lay overturned or buried in buckets of ice, hoses askew.
Almost all of my friends had come out to “The Farm” (somewhat of a misnomer, as nothing had been sown for decades in the sprawling acres of weeds and brush, save a few regrettable seeds of youth) for a mandatory evening of collegiate frivolity. It was nearly 23:00 hours, which would herald the official time for fireworks. Though many had already been launched, none had dared to touch the guarded boxes of the “good stuff”, the stuff that apparently had been worth my boyfriend’s rent; whom I was in the process of servicing behind an ancient bale of hay.
We were on the second floor loft of the massive barn, I kneeling on the dirty planks, my shirt lifted over my head, bra still wadded in his white knuckled fist. He groped my breasts, pinching my nipples hard, trying to get a squeal out of me, his face shifting occasionally from a pleasured smile to a glowering smirk as he watched me suck him.
“Not long now babe.” He wound his fingers into my soft, dark hair, twisting and pulling back so that I could see him without dropping his dick from my mouth. “Soon come the big guns.”
Suddenly his expression changed, it took on a thoughtful pause. He seemed to stare briefly into the distance, gazing across the meadow.
“Say…”, he mused, “…Why don’t you go and fetch me some food? I’m fuckin’ starvin’.”
I took a breather. “What do you want?”
“Hotdog, bitch.”
I told him I did not recall seeing any left on the grill, to which he proposed I Better Fucking Find Some Then.I pondered this for a moment, before he smiled at me, gracing my flushed cheek with a playful slap. I smiled sheepishly and rose to my feet, carefully pulling my top down. He lit a cigarette, and turned, resting his elbows over the misshapen cube of straw to watch me descend the rickety ladder to the floor.
Below us were several of his fraternity brothers, milling about, shooting pool on an antique billiards table that had some years ago been hijacked from the freshman dormitories (no one knew what class it had been, the Farm had been around for as long as anyone could remember). They whistled and chortled as I climbed down, well aware, no doubt, of our activities (as usual). I blushed ( as usual) and hurried towards the huge open doors, next to which rested the treasured crates of illegal explosives. About a dozen other guys sat in lawn chairs at the entrance, passing around bottles of booze, pipes (everyone considered joints to be a waste) and a rather conspicuous milk jug, filled with something that was definitely not a dairy product.
Making my way across the backyard of the trailer home (which was perpendicular to the big field), I ran into Dawn, my best friend at the time. She was holding her not-so-out-of-the-closet girlfriend by her shoulders so she wouldn’t fall from the chair she was propped precariously on. Everyone was a bit tipsy, including myself, but “Zoe” (not sure if this was her real name) had apparently decided it was better to be wasted than deal with her own self-consciousness.
“Having fun ?!?” Dawn beamed at me with a sarcastic smile that made her look effectively insane. Zoe moaned and burped noisily, causing Dawn’s pseudo-smile to wilt into a look of resigned disgust.
I air-kissed her cheek (my lips still being somewhat soiled from Marcus’s sweaty junk), “You’ll be OK, girl. Fireworks starting soon!” I patted Zoe on the shoulder and continued to the grill, which was positioned directly next to the backdoor on a (poorly) built porch.
Across from it was the cooler that contained what little food could possibly remain after the ravaging of several dozen college kids. I bent over and opened it up, pawing through the melted ice, pushing aside a couple untouched six packs of Coke and a well touched case of beer. A sharp whisper behind me gave me a jolt.
“PSST! Marilyn…”
Turned I saw Marcus’s scruffy friend, Tyler, peering through the screen mesh of the trailer’s back door. He was wearing a half buttoned flannel and a pair of ripped jeans, blonde hair dragged across his brow and behind his ears. His eyes had the far away look of someone who had been spending the evening well into the haze of a bong cloud buzz, yet there was also a sudden urgency there… he was holding the receiver of the house phone.
“It’s for you…”
I looked at his silly stoner’s face for a moment, puzzled, then took the phone from his hand, “Hello?”
“Change of plans, let’s have some fun.” For a moment I didn’t recognize Marcus’s voice, wasn’t expecting it.
“Marcus? Why are you calling me… you’re right over…”
“See Tyler there?” He interrupted. “You’re gonna suck HIS dick now.”
A sudden hard knot swelled in my tummy. “W-What?! Yeah right…”
“Don’t be a bitch. You’re gonna do it for him, he needs it. I want it. You want it.” He sounded supremely confident. It was the tone of voice he carried when he went into “Dom-mode”, an All Knowing Being with whom negotiation was not only impossible, it was inconceivable. He might have been a weatherman, telling me about the eighty-percent humidity expected for tomorrow. Suddenly I wished it were tomorrow.
“Marcus…I’m not…”
“Or we can go to the Boardwalk again. That would be fun too. You could spend the night this time.”
Breath froze in my lungs, my body suddenly stiff with the fear of a little girl hiding in her blankets from the witch in her wardrobe (thank you C.S Lewis).
The “Boardwalk” was the scene of one of our early experiments with BDSM, or rather his experiment in Sadism.
A local park had a very large lake, part of which was used for swimming, part for boating. It was a favorite of young couples. There were trails that ran all through the woods that surrounded it, a few of which branched off and met the lake. These places were notorious for daring sexual adventures in voyeurism, as boaters would often cruise by, hoping for a show.
One of these spots had a long pier that extended out over the water. Marcus had taken me underneath one day, pretending to want to make out. He told me to strip for him, which I did, dancing around the wooden poles like a club girl, ankle-deep in muddy lake water. Feinting a kiss, he took my hand and placed it behind my back; I was only slightly shocked when I felt the click of a handcuff attach my arm to the pole. I was more shocked as he slowly drew away, smiling like a boy opening his first porno magazine.
I laughed at first, waiting for him to begin the spankings or whatever. Instead he retreated further, his grin growing larger. When he reached the head of the trail, some 20 yards away, I got nervous. I asked him to stop teasing, feeling more and more vulnerable, naked and trapped out in the open.
When he waved and strolled away down the path, I shrieked out at him, pleading. Waiting for some sign that he would return, laughing at my cowardice. After several minutes, I began to panic. My blood racing and turning ice cold in my veins, causing my skin to writhe and itch, juxtaposed to the heat. My vision narrowed and I became the deer, a stoic trepidation in the face of a fearsome unknown force.
It wasn’t the fear of being seen, it was the fear of being alone.
I stayed there, hung on the pier, my body exposed to any passerby. Inevitably a boat did just that, a trio of hooting and hollering fishermen aboard, whistling fiercely as I crouched in the water, shouting obscenities I thankfully couldn’t make out while I tried in vain to use the posts and shadows as concealment. The sun beat down, relentless as the hours went by. The air hummed with the vibrant singing of various birds, the chirping of crickets and my terrified sobbing.
Looking back, I’m not sure why I was so unbelievably afraid of the Abandonment Play, but perhaps it had something to do with a transient childhood existence. Floating in the void of perpetual homelessness, ever my own sole companion.
Eventually he came back, with two cans of soda in his left hand, handcuff key in his right. He picked up my clothes from underneath the bushes he hid them in, and offered me a drink.
I knocked it out of his hand and cursed him. He slapped me. Hard. I looked at him for a long time and then started crying again. After some time he wrapped his arms around me and unlocked the cuff. I sank to my knees in the filthy water and sobbed like a madwoman into his thigh as he gently patted my head, saying he was sorry, which he never did.
Which he never was.
The receiver quaked in my trembling hand. I knew he would do it. He wasn’t the same as he was before, sometimes there was no stopping this dark persona. Several bruises were proof of that. Sometimes, I was too afraid to even try.
“Please…” I whispered into the soulless plastic device.
“Don’t make me come down there. Take a shot and suck his cock. Be a good girl.”
Tyler’s penis smelled awful, I tried not to think about the last time he may have bathed, what soup the bath water would resemble, what I must have looked like, back pressed into the foot-board of a broken bed frame in a random, ramshackle white-trash bungalow.
More of his friends came through. I was given more shots of bitter whiskey, but I relished them. Anything to remove the taste, to remove myself from this dark room. Naked bodies casting crazy shapes on the walls in the green light of a painted florescent fixture. Callused hands forcing drinks to my lips, pinching my nose to make me swallow hot mouthfuls of other stuff, rinsing with Wild Turkey. Repeat. I didn’t count them, didn’t think about it, just watched the hips swaying and rocking before me, the flicker of cigarettes like so many fireflies in the darkness. The witches in the wardrobes.
A loud knock came upon the window next to the bed and a deep voice shouted something inaudible from outside, shining a flashlight on my wet face. I looked without seeing, grateful for the blinding power of the beam as suddenly explosions boomed in the field.
Rockets ripped apart the violent and beautiful summer sky.
Humiliation #4 (A Reiteration) “Smells Like Teen Spirit” March 5, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a commentThis is a retelling of the story from my entry “A Kink”. It was actually the #2 story I told, however like George Lucas I don’t bother much with logical numerology.
For those curious, if you search a bit further still you will find the first “Humiliation Story” about an early experience in a band class.
Enjoy!
***Smells Like Teen Spirit***
I spent several years in and out of group homes as a teenager. One in particular, stands out, “Barium Springs Home for Children”. The facility had four houses for kids (three for boys, one for girls), holding about eight at a time, supervised by ‘Councilors’ (glorified social workers).
The girl’s house in particular held some viscous inhabitants, and being of a rather skinny build, I was forever being bullied/coerced or scapegoated for something. Looking back, I don’t hold any grudges. These were girls who, like me, came from some rough places and were mostly a product of their environments. I did have crushes on a couple of the rowdier ones, but that’s another story.
I remember once, during my time there, I was blamed for smuggling cigarettes into the house (strictly forbidden). Our councilor (a super butch from Louisiana) had called us all into the Day Room where she had placed a carton on display for all eight girls to witness, indicating that I had made a ‘nice attempt’ at stashing them, but that her DEA-like search skills had uncovered the paraphernalia. My roommate, Lashonda at the time, had decided to plant them in my closet for safe keeping; and catching her eye her icy stare (promising retribution were I to squeal), I admitted to the charge.
The councilor smiled broadly for a minute, staring me down. “We gots a toilet needs cleanin’. Why don’t you get started on that, girl?” handing me a sponge and some 409.
I walked down the hall, and into the bathroom at the end. Sure enough, Lashonda had not cleaned it on this particular morning like she was supposed to have (we rotated the chore daily). The toilet was stained, grimy and spotted with little telltale hairs. I knelt before it and set to work. Just as I had wiped the last part off I heard a snickering from the Day Room. Looking up, there was Mandy (one of my only actual friends) in the doorway. She looked remorseful, “Sorry… councilor said to…” She motioned to the toilet. I shrugged, went outside and waited for her to finish. “I want that thang spotless!” screeched our councilor.
I went back inside and they waited for me to finish, then had one of the other resident girls use the toilet. They made me clean it again. Just as I walked out of the bathroom the 3rd time there was yet another girl, smiling in my face as she brushed past to go do her business on my freshly cleaned potty. I cleaned it again.
Then another girl walked in to use it, this time not waiting for me to leave. Then another. Then another. I could hear everyone laughing in hysterics in the day room, my face was flushed and my ears were throbbing.
Later that evening my roommate apologized to me, but as I lay awake that night, all I could think of was how much it had turned me on.
Humiliation #6 - “It’s My Party and I’ll Gag if I Want To.” March 2, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a comment***It’s My Party and I’ll Gag if I Want To***
Towards the end of my time in college, my 21st birthday inevitably rolled around. I was already a thorough lush, of course, so it held nothing but the symbolic value of being a Legal Lush. I was definitely known as one of the wilder girls of our ZTA chapter. My grades and volunteerism mostly kept me from getting into trouble. Still, I had quite a few friends and I knew there was a certain night of debauchery in the works for me.
When I arrived back at the house on that evening after class, I was immediately arrested by a troupe of my friends wielding a fuzzy pink blindfold. They were very knowledgeable of my kinky side by now.
“Pink? Really? C’mon ‘lissa!” I protested the gaudy thing, but was grinning from ear to ear as they giggled madly, dragging me upstairs to the bathroom.
Ensuring that I could not see a thing, I was disrobed by three of my friends while our house leader Amber made the selection of my attire for the evening. Though I could only feel what they were putting on, I could tell it included a corset, a skirt, was somewhat lacy and a bit telling, I could feel the cool air conditioning rushing through my cleavage. Already I was getting excited, and of course, being my sisters, they knew this!
Floss for a thong. Bra not included.
Once the outfit was on, they threw a huge rain poncho over me and removed the blindfold temporarily, allowing my close friend Dawn to do my makeup (since I had no clue what I was wearing and could not match it). Dawn smiled evilly as she applied a dark shimmering liner followed by darkened gray and light blue, corned with a touch of glitzy silver. Dawn shared a couple of my dark secrets, and occasionally my bed.
“Girl, all I’m gonna say is if someone else don’t take your ass tonight, you’re gonna be cuffed to my bed in the morning!” She finished, adding a few final touches to my hair. Her massive and brilliant smile was a beacon of amusement.
“Promises, promises.” I stuck my tongue out and she slapped my cheek teasingly before putting the blindfold back on.
The poncho came off with a brisk tugging and I felt hands straighten my skirt and adjust my top before guiding me back down the stairs. I was put into a car (I think it was a rental Escalade, but to this day I’m not sure) and driven off to god knows where with club music blasting at my ear drums.
“I hope you ready to get FUCKED UP, girl!” I heard Tanya shouting over the din. She would be the wheelman and the source of the decibel abuse.
“She gonna get fucked alright!” Amber chortled and I believe grabbed my boob (again, not sure to this day), causing me to squeal and elicit a round of giggles.
After about ten or fifteen minutes we stopped and I was helped out of the vehicle. My heels clacking noisily over a stony walkway, I heard the sounds of a big party as we approached our destination. Whistling, cheering and more thumping music seemed to vibrate the very air around me. It’s weird how your other senses suddenly heighten at the loss of one.
I was lead up steps and into the hall of what I thought was a big house. A roaring cheer accompanied my entrance, paired with various cat calls of guys and girls.
“Party Girl!” “Oh YEAH baby!” “Fuckin’ Zeta Bitches!”
My sisters lifted my arms as I smiled nervously and elatedly. Amber made a small announcement:
“Let it be witness’ by all that sista’ Marilyn has come of age! Take plenty of pictures, ’cause she sure as hell wont remember!!”
“Who gets to take advantage of her first?” “That definitely wont be a first, Nate.”
Laughter erupted into more cheers, as blushing, I took hold of the shot being thrust into my hands. I took it in one gulp and raised it high to a thunderous applause.
The party started back up. I was lead, still blindfolded, to a chair I assumed was in the center of the festivities. Every few minutes of so a new drink would be cupped into my hands and tipped to my lips. Guys would whisper things into my ear as I drank and drank, “You’re so fuckin’ hot, babe.” “You can crash at my place, end the night with a bang.” “You have no clue what I would do to you.”
Sometimes the words were followed by traveling hands, which I played at shrugging off. Truth was, the ordeal was making me very horny, and my sisters knew it!
What must have been three or more hours went by and I was almost slipping off my chair. Not being able to see was somehow compounding the alcohol’s disorienting effects. Dawn must have sensed this because she soon patted my thigh and whispered, “Sit up girl, here comes the finale!”
I tried to regain composure as I heard Amber speaking: “Judgin’ by your awful posture, you’re gonna need some help gettin home tonight. Lucky for you we found the perfect escort!”
Her fingers snatched away the blindfold and I squinted my eyes…
There before me was a massive living room I recognized as a popular fraternity party flat. Large crowds people were mingling about and a good bit of them were watching me, where my chair had been positioned near the kegs and bar. Looking up, I saw my would-be date: Marcus.
Ex-BF Marcus. Ex-Dom Marcus. Marcus the ridiculously hung punk rocker with a taste for Sadism. Marcus who recently almost threw me through a table once after I begged him to stop wrenching my arm.
Marcus who didn’t know how to let go. He stood over me bearing a collar and chain.
My eyes darted to Amber, who was beaming like a madwoman. She had no clue of our split, I had only confided the incident to Dawn, who suddenly was unable to meet my eye contact.
“Looks like you got along pretty well without me.” He grinned.
I stared in utter disbelief at him. Some drink, the contents I could not possibly discern, was clutched limply in my grip. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m your designated Dominant.”
Dawn choked back a giggle next to me. I shot her a fiery look, but she was still looking down at her feet. I turned back to face Marcus, “Asshole” I slurred. “What makes you think I want to leave with you?”
He was amazingly smug, despite a few gasps from onlookers. It was getting to be quite a surreal scene. “Because you know that you’re supposed to.”
There was a deafening silence throughout the house. Though my gaze never left his, I could tell we were the center of probably a hundred people’s attention. I opened my mouth to say something, I didn’t even know what. I was angry and hurt, and in no way did I feel like making up with this man after weeks of enduring his abuse. I wanted to rave and scream until my eyeballs popped out or throw my drink into his calm, patronizing face. I wanted to shake Dawn and curse her for letting this happen. I wanted to run faster than any of my track splits could possibly hope to measure, so fast that my clothes would rip apart in a sonic boom and I could fly naked into the starry sky far away from this ominous predicament.
I couldn’t even make a sound. I don’t know if it was a factor of the booze, the overwhelming display after hours of mysterious, arousing darkness; or if I was simply too afraid of the guilt of standing up my sisters’ carefully planned surprise.
I sat there looking up at him, my defiant eyes burning with my quickly dwindling self-righteous anger. Slowly, not even fully aware of doing it, I closed my mouth with not even a breath escaping.
His hands slowly approached my neck, his dark eyes possessing mine, holding me in place to my growing dread. I felt the cool leather wrap around the tender, flushed skin of my neck. Felt the belt strap drawing the ends together, tightening into a snug fit. Fastened. The chain length lingered a moment before my eyes, then was dropped deliberately, the other end gripped firmly in his fist.
A roar of hooting and whistles and drunken laughter exploded about my swimming head.
I lowered my eyes to the floor, my skin crawled and tingled with weird, powerful sensation, as if I was being charged by a million magnets. I barely noticed Tanya and another sister consoling Dawn, who appeared to be crying.
I was led through the jeering, raving crowd like a dog. Beer spraying, hands grabbing, Silly String flying. I noticed the very gothy and revealing ensemble my sisters had prepared for me. My breasts practically hung out over the top of a tight corset in a fishnet mesh, the nipples hardly concealed at all. The skirt was so short it involuntarily flashed the lower curve of my bare cheeks every other step, which were smacked more than a couple times as Marcus slowly marched me to the door. I offered no resistance.
My body was electric, magnetized to the polarity of submission, hot and pulsing, bleeding sweat and pheromones. Marcus wore a victor’s smile, he was just having his last laugh.
When he got me in his car, he hooked the chain lazily to the cup holder and turned to give me a winning grin. “I fucked Dawn and got her to set this up.”
I swallowed, trying not to think about my tearful confession to her. How scared I had been… or was I? I found that I was no longer certain of any of my emotions. They had all betrayed me.
During the drive to his dorm, sickness overwhelmed me and I blacked out.
The next thing I remember was hanging over his toilet, staring down at my own vomit. His hands pulled my hair back roughly as his cock rammed into my ass. My top was torn off somewhere and my breasts slid over the slicked seat as I took turns moaning and puking.
Calling me his whore he asked me if I liked it, I managed a pleasured moan as another hot steamy mess poured from my throat into the rapidly filling bowl.
He took me to bed after an unknown amount of time and continued to fuck my brains out until I could no longer feel my brutalized cunt, my legs bent over my head, my lips and face a pitiful smear of spit and semen.
“Happy Birthday Bitch.”
It was in fact my first experience in Sub Space. Or maybe my all-time favorite breakup sex.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I will try to post at least once a week from now on. My schedule has gotten crazy!
Thanks for reading!
~Suki
Humiliation Story #5 “Something Fishy” February 23, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a comment***Something Fishy***
I was in my first foster home, around 13 years old. I had lived with them for about 7 or 8 months, Dad, Mom and 3 boys (two older, one a year younger than me). I remember feeling very estranged, especially from the boys, who seemed to want nothing to do with me, even though they kept up appearances. I think they thought I received special attention from Mom too much. Or perhaps just because I was a maturing girl and needed my own room, thus forcing the younger two of them to share living space. The matron of the house was soft spoken and very kind, she taught me many girly things: basic makeup, the fine arts of maintaining eternal laundry (for those hand-me-downs) and how to tame my awful frizzy hair. I have fond memories of those days still, and at times yet feel a twang of detached longing for her affections. Like yearning for a borrowed treasure you cherished for a time only to give away.
The Father was a bit different.
He was a stern man and lead the house with rules and expectations. Of course he spent most of his time with the boys and seldom bothered with me, save for a scolding word or two. I was to be proper and respectful, which required most of all manners and etiquette. I always had to make sure I said “Sir” whenever addressing him directly or he would give a good verbal lashing. I was also held responsible for cleaning the house, though all the children took turns with dishes. He would punish the boys for their transgressions with manual labor, chopping wood and raking leaves amongst other things, but never would he task them with the laundry or vacuuming. These were the toils of the women.
He was quite frugal as well, never spending more than he had to; always looking for a cheaper buy - the way of the lower-middle class. Generic clothes, generic food, no cable. It was very rare that the family splurged on anything. Which brings us to one lucky Sunday evening.
Foster Dad had a good week at work and was generally amiable all day. We stayed late at church and afterwards went to the park where the boys played baseball. I always would wander down near the stream that ran through one side and would try to catch the minnows darting about. When rain started falling slowly and the sun started to set, the family headed home, but Dad had a surprise!
We stopped at Long John Silvers, the first time we had food that did not come out of a can or box since I had lived there. Dad had a game he wanted to catch on the T.V., so he decided on a take out order. I watched with big eyes as the attendant handed us bags full of wondrous aromas, felt my mouth watering even before I had seen the tender fish or flaky golden chicken. The drive to their house was tantalizing, filled with the smell of good food and excitement. We weren’t to touch a single piece of it though, not until we said Grace around the table.
Rain was pouring down as we pulled into the driveway. Father looked back at his boys and myself with a grin, “OK you kids, bring in the grub!” The adults monopolized the umbrella with a giggle and took off for the front door. “NOT IT!!” went the battle cry from the eldest boy, and he ran out without so much as a nod towards the 3 huge, stuffed bags and two accompanying boxes. The 2nd oldest gave me a sly smirk and took off behind his conspirator. The youngest looked at the bags with headlamp eyes and before I could say “Wait!” he stumbled across the driveway and through the open door of the house. Alone in the car I sat with what must have been frozen disbelief smitten on my face, but not for long. I couldn’t keep my new family waiting… not on such a day when I might grasp at the threads of the warm blanket of belonging. Bravely I grasped two of the big bags with one little hand, the other I held under my shoulder as I tried to grip balance the boxes with my second hand. Somehow I slid like this out of the passenger seat and into the thundering rain. It was about 100 or so feet to the door from my side of the car. I reckoned I could spin around the rear of the vehicle and make a mad dash across the yard as I had seen the eldest boy do. Bumping the door shut with my hip I half-skipped into a button-hook around the car, boxes swaying precariously. Rounding the opposite side, I remember seeing the beautiful glow of the door. Light blazing inside, happy family almost cheering me on! I remember bounding forward, feet hitting the grass and feeling the squishyness, blinding sheets of water pounding my drenched body, trying to keep the bags dry as I could. I remember lurching suddenly as I reached the halfway point, the grass suddenly much closer. My face flattened itself in the ground as I went sprawling over my own feet, headlong into a mud-bath.
I laid there for what must have been a full minute, not believing what I had done. My stomach became an abyss of dreadful feelings. I wanted to sink into the earth and disappear from the world. I felt a force lift me up from the ground. A tornado, I hoped, like in the Wizard of Oz. come to whisk me away to the Emerald City forever. Foster Dad held me dangling before his face. He was in the terrifying state of rage where the face is expressionless but the extremities tremble with adrenaline. He was the mighty Goliath and I was a mud soaked little mouse. For a few moments I was sure I would be crushed by his iron grip. Then he looked down at the ruined mess of Fast Food in the mud below and threw me to my knees before it.
“CLEAN IT UP!”
I looked over to the front porch. The rest of the family looked horrified, mouths agape. “Aww GOD, MariLYNNNNN.” “You stupid GIRL! I told you she’d drop it!” The boys stomped and threw their hands up.
My head jerked to the right and little white dots flashed like fireflies of pain as their Daddy slapped me. I tripped backwards into the puddle, now soaking the back of my clothing in mud as well. “CLEAN IT UP NOW, GIRL!!” His breath was like dragon’s fire.
“Yeah, clean it up, GIRL!” My foster brothers joined into a feverish chant. “Clean it up GIRL! Clean it up GIRL!”
Tears were rolling down before I even realized I was crying, sitting there in a puddle of dark filth and soggy fish bits. The Father picked me up again and dropped me on my hands and knees at the mess I made.
“NOW! BEFORE I WHUP YOU OUT IN THE RAIN!”
Sobbing, I scooped up all of the remains of Dinner and carried them one armload at a time to the trash can outside as The Father watched with clenched fists and The Brothers carried on their angry antics. Foster Mom looked on with sadness and eventually turned indoors while I worked on removing every bit of breaded disaster and bright shredded paper. The thunder tore holes in the darkened sky.
When I had finished, the rain had washed most of the mud off of me (gives you an idea of how hard it was coming down), and Father grabbed my wrist and forced me inside.
Standing in the doorway, I couldn’t look up at the family who had took me in. I had ruined a glorious day, this girl that didn’t even belong. I felt the brothers stare daggers into me, and Foster Father’s presence was palpable, pressing throbbing fear against my temples. My body shook violently.
“Take your clothes off.”
Silence echoed throughout the living room as I looked up at Him. His eyes held no question, only the purest, demanding intent. Mother’s gaze was cast away towards the empty fireplace.
I let my waterlogged clothes *splat* to the floor. The trembling intensified.
“All of it. You ain’t gettin’ the furniture wet.”
Hearing the viscous giggles from the trio of boys, my face turned crimson. The underwear came down and I stood naked and scared. For the first time in my life I felt truly vulnerable. The Father pointed to the ottoman next to his massive chair in the middle of the room, “Bend over it.” Mother opened her mouth and said something, but was silenced with a mere glance. I couldn’t hear her anyways. My body was moving itself to the chair, I was no longer in control. I bent my wet, shivering body over the footstool and looked down at the carpet. Leather unwound behind me. Silence crept through the house as all eyes watched the trespasser’s punishment.
Pain I cannot recall shooting through my thighs and cheeks, the force of unimaginable blows pounding me into the fake leather.
Over and over. Into infinity.
Sometime that night as I was locked in my room, I smelled takeout pizza. I couldn’t feel my lower body, lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, suddenly very aware of being foreign. But at the same time there was a peaceful sense of acceptance.
I finally knew my place.
A Journey to a Door (1) February 16, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Journey to a Door , add a commentA Journey to a Door (a novella)
Once upon a dreary autumn night,
Suki awakens slowly, as if pulled back to consciousness by some unseen rope. Looking up, she watches as the plaster patterns on her ceiling came into focus. These sort of ceilings always reminded her of looking at clouds, so many little shapes and designs could be interpreted. Everyone who had slept under the roof of this old house had probably seen something different, if they looked hard enough.
She rubs the backs of her hands over her eyes, which are crusty from the dried salt of tears. Crying herself to sleep again for some unknown sorrow, waking and feeling that empty, drained fatigue that comes from the release of such emotion. Why was she doing this? Her life compared to others’ was pretty well off. She had a decent job, monetarily if not spiritually fulfilling. With her roommate’s share, together they were not impoverished by any stretch of imagination.
She had some friends, though she had left many behind over the years with all her traveling: North Carolina, Virginia, Texas, California and now Ohio, all places she had lived at some point; and she was still in her twenties. Her latest move had been the result of her father’s illness, leaving sunny San Diego for a dreary Ohio town; but she felt responsible for the man who had at least admitted to his share in her conception. She never knew her mother, and her father had never tried to find her. In fact, he had never tried much of anything involving parenthood, allowing state custody of her at the age of 11. She learned everything she knew about responsibility in group homes and foster care until she graduated high school. Responsibility was your obligation to society.
Thus, being an obligated member of humanity, Suki left her life and lover of two years, like so many shells to be washed away somewhere on the Silver Strand. She eventually settled into a house with another girl she found online and set about taking care of her bed-ridden father.
Visits weekly, the occasional help with bills, whatever she could do. He seemed to appreciate her, being the only surviving relative he had besides a brother whom no one had heard from in decades. Suki imagined the perspective of being on one’s death bed left one with much to appreciate. Still, she could not resent him. She got used to the idea of her father being merely human long ago, on a night strangely similar to this one, screaming and sobbing at some unfamiliar ceiling in some foreign house.
Her emptiness was a palpable sickness in her stomach. Some piece was missing from this Iron Wrought Girl. The girl who pulled herself out of a life of prostitution and got a degree with her own dime in an out-of-state college. The girl who fearlessly flew into the great unknown and started a life as an outgoing bisexual in a community known for it’s acceptance of such things. The girl who selflessly left her dream behind to hold the head of the man who disowned her.
She needed something to hold her together, something to calm the inner turmoil.
–
Routines completed:
[103 minutes total Mantra] [45 minutes total Kegel]
Humiliation Story #2 (catching up) February 14, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a commentPosting this because I forgot to add it here last week:
My Humiliation Story of the Night:
I was 17, working my first job at a state park as an assistant at a boat rental shack near a lake. I worked with two other guys around my age, one going to my high school in the junior year before me. Our boss was an older guy around 40 or so. He would always give me a hard time because I was a girl and was “easily confused”. He would often track me down during my lunch breaks (where I would wander off on trails around the lake) to hound me about cleaning this or that. For some reason I developed a crush on him, even though he was not super attractive.
One day I decided to mess around and purposefully left the public restrooms in a wreck. Sneaking off for lunch I found a familiar trail and started to disrobe, leaving telltale articles of clothing on branches for about 30 feet. Then, hanging my swimsuit on a low branch(which I often wore underneath my work clothes in case I had to get in the water) I laid down totally nude on a beach towel and waited. Soon enough I heard thrashing through the trail as what I was sure was my irritated boss came crashing through the brush…
…it was the guy from my school. He had come to find me and ask if I wanted in on a run to McDonalds. I looked up for a second at his wide googly eyes tracing my naked body before knee-jerk covering myself up with a what must have been a ridiculous squeel. I screamed at him to fuck off.
For the rest of the summer I would catch the guys snickering behind my back and grabbing at my ass. I would cuss them or roll my eyes or even laugh along to hide how much it actually turned me on that I was spotted so vulnerably. The boss started smirking with a patronizing look anytime he spoke to me, which made me even hornier around him.
I gave him a blow job on my last day in his office. He told me he “knew I was dirty”, which made me laugh, because I really wanted to blow them all at once.
Humiliation Story #3 (Routine #6) February 14, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Tales of Humiliation , add a comment***Obligatory Airport Humiliation Story***
I was visiting a girlfriend up north one year after I had moved out of state to go to college. It was our winter holiday break and the snow was falling thick around the area so I knew I had to bring warmer clothes. When I got to the airport, I was surprised at the check-in desk with the revelation that the bag I had intended to be my carry-on was too large and I would have to pay extra to have it put on the plane. Being the pitifully broke college student I was, I had no extra money to cover it, and damned if I was going to give up any clothes! My flight was going to take off in about 20 minutes and there was a long line through the security, I started to panic.
Racing back outside to my car I quickly ducked behind an open door and started putting on whatever clothing I could, stuffing non-wearables into a shoebox and then duct taping it. After I was finished, I wore 2 coats 4 shirts, 3 pairs of sexy lingerie and god knows how many socks and stockings (luckily I was also wearing large furry boots). With my taped up box in hand, I looked like a bloody terrorist. Back inside the terminal, I quickly checked-in and got in line for security. I felt certain some articles of clothing would cause the metal detectors to go off, so when I got to the head of the line I threw my carry-on shoebox down the conveyor belt and dumped off my coats, a hoodie with metallic clasps, my purse and phone and then stepped hurriedly through the arch of the detector.
BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!
Looking desperate, I stepped to the side while the throngs of annoyed people behind me watched the rather stocky, female security person rub her wand all over me. It seemed not to pick anything up… ’till it got down to my furry boots.
BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!
“Ma’am can you remove your boots?”
‘Whatever’ I thought, bending over to pull up my stretchy jeans and yank off my boots as fast as I could. I heard a few snickers and giggles from the front of the line, and I turned to see a cute looking guy laughing with another couple. He was pointing down to where the security lady was scanning… I was so busy trying not to moon the crowd or fall over that I had completely forgotten which articles of clothing I had put on outside in my rush.
On top of all the others, I had on a pair of black stockings with huge white lettering running up and down them, alternating the words “BITCH” and “SLUT”. They were part of a Gothy ensemble I had planned to surprise my girlfriend with later on in the privacy of her bedroom.
Blushing as red as the damned flashing detector’s bulb, I froze in utter embarrassment while the smirking security lady finished. “All done darlin’.” She could barely contain her mirth.
On the flight I thought I caught several people staring at me and even an older roguish looking guy winking. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat aroused by their knowledge of my kinkiness.
When I finally got to my destination, I climbed into my girlfriends car and told her the story. She laughed like crazy and finger fucked me hard as hell in the airport parking lot.
Merry Christmas!
–
“I have a new page to my story every day, it flows easily from my mind to the page as I type it. I am the slut in the story. It is about my life as a slut.”
Slut completes the 20 minute Mantra with ever-increasing concentration. She thinks she may yet achieve a meditative state. If anything, maybe it will help her ADD?
Slut also completes 5 minute Kegel Exercise with minimal cleanup required.
[83 mins total Mantra time.][40 mins total Kegel time.]
Daily Routine #5 February 13, 2010
Posted by sukisl in : Mistress Zilla's Training , add a commentSet #7
-Mantra-
“Sluts are desired by their Owners. Sluts are wet for their Owners. This slut is wet for her Owner. My Owner’s whispers are commands to this slut’s ears. That is a slut.”
Slut is able to repeat this with hardly thinking about it. Focusing on her image in the mirror, everything else fades into a foggy blur. For a couple seconds, its almost like
dreaming. Show drifts outside the window, blanketing the roads. She smiles at the fact that she can sleep in tomorrow, a much needed rest to help her get over the cold. She
shakes her head to clear these random thoughts.
“Sluts are desired by their Owners. Sluts are wet for their Owners. This slut is wet for her Owner. My Owner’s whispers are commands to this slut’s ears. That is a slut.”
She wonders if this mantra is having a subconscious effect on her yet. Probably not, it must take at least another month or so before she can start to truly focus. Although
she feels reinvigorated afterwards. She even goes for an extra minute on purpose.
[16 minutes completed. 63 minutes total Mantra time.]
-Kegel-
This is not easy, or very clean at this point. Slut cannot have her tampon in for this, so pad or paper towels, and, of course, no fingers. She does her best to last the 5
minutes, pacing slower then normal. There is some cramping, so at this point its hard to tell if there is any improvement.
She finishes dutifuly and cleans up.
[5 minutes completed. 35 minutes total Kegel time]