I am tender in a dozen different places.
- The top of my shoulder (the opposite one from the rug-burnt one. Apparently he likes to keep me balanced.)
- My ankles
- My ribcage
- My pussy, inside and out
- The underside of my tongue
- The inside of my cheek
- My jaw muscles
- My arms
- My wrists
- My asshole
- My tits
- My hip
- The outside of my knee
And he didn’t raise a hand to me.
Ah, the joys–and terrors–of the basement.
I was asked in a comment if, considering what goes on in the basement, I look forward to, or dread, the summer. A little of both, I think. Our scenes there tend to be of the darker variety, it seems. Although he uses me as hard, and in similar ways, anywhere else, there is something foreboding about that space, something that makes my stomach clench in anxiety as I make my careful way down the steep wooden stairs, that makes me catch my breath in anticipation as he places the first loops of rope around my wrists.
Maybe it is the dirty cement floor, the boxes and tools, pieces of wood and rope and old pipe and machinery, chemicals, garden and building supplies all about. Or perhaps it is being underground, where, if he really was kidnapping and terrorizing me, he could probably keep me, chained, alone and afraid, and no one would be the wiser. Maybe it’s just that while he intersperses the hard scenes with easier ones upstairs, the basement scenes are almost always (not always, but almost) of either the harsher–or dirtier, both figuratively and literally–variety. It is a space where he can let the demon inside of him out, the one that wants to use and abuse me in even filthier ways than he does upstairs, where there is still a veneer of civilization, of safety, of being part of the wider world.
It is a space where I can almost believe the dirty stories he tells; I can almost believe he would do those things to me; I can almost believe he is doing them to me, at that moment.
It is a space where I like as not end up looking like this:
He didn’t get pictures of the very end this time, but I have many, many “thank you notes” all over my body to remind me, every time I move or breathe or touch myself, either accidentally or purposefully. Tender places where the handcuffs bit into my wrists and ankles, where my shoulder scraped against the wooden lathing on the floor as he pushed me onto my side and spread my legs as much as he could with the handcuffs restricting them. Where one part of the wooden gag stretched my mouth wide and the other part captured and pinched my tongue cruelly, stretching it obscenely out of my mouth. My hip, leg, and ribs hurt from being ground into the cement floor as he fucked me. My cunt is tender from the trailer hitch he’d shoved into me, my nipples sore from the clamps he put on them and the weight he hung from them (eventually ripping one of the clamps off.) My jaw aches from him shoving his cock into my mouth and telling me to suck him for hours on end, “testing” my stamina to see how I’d hold up sucking cock at a gangbang. (Very well, he later reported.) My asshole is swollen and inflamed from him taking my ass brutally, there in the grime and leftover coal dust of the tiny room where he abused me, until, somehow, the pain and humiliation morphed into something else and I came, shuddering and sobbing on the floor in a dirty, broken, snotty heap.
I touch the inside of my cheek with my tongue, remembering the smell and taste of the dirt and coal dust in my nose, in my mouth, and the feel of my teeth grinding against my cheek as he pressed my face into the floor. I press the thin, delicate skin along my ankle and wrist bones where the handcuffs grated, savoring the tenderness I find there, even if there are no marks. I cup my hands around my breasts, squeezing, and then pinch the nipples, gasping when their tenderness makes me wince–and my pussy wet. I close my eyes as I find all these places on my body, and I can see the image of myself laying there, helpless in the grime, while he thrusts into me from behind, as clearly as if I had been standing outside my body photographing it.
No, I don’t need pictures to remember it by. I have all these lovely little thank you notes for that.