This story was on Substack for a month for paid subscribers only. It is now free there and here.
An immaculately coiffured young woman, hair sculpted at the crown of her head, a few tendrils hanging down, enters the small room. She is naked, apart from high heels with heavy anklet chains, a pretty but heavy-looking choker with matching bangles, to which are connected a light filigree of slinky body chains, from her collar, to her belly button, down between her thighs, and also to the silvery rod which lifts her generous, taut breasts as an overtly mechanistic version of a half cup brassiere— the centre of the rod linked, via a sprung chains, tight to her collar. The jiggling of her breasts from the motion of her mincing walk— feet landing on an imaginary line, as with catwalk models— modified by their being harnessed together by the rod, is eye-catching; strongly signalling that every aspect of this girl’s existence has been ordained for the pleasure and utility of others.1
The room, all in creams and whites, is rather empty, apart from a low plinth, not large, in the centre of view from the position of the main camera (there are other views available from the interface; side, high level, a close-up from low level, aimed at the plinth; other cameras follow her movements).
Elegantly, moving seductively, leaning forward so that her breasts swing delightfully, she lifts one knee onto the plinth, opening her thighs widely, giving an excellent view of her pretty pussy to the close-up camera. Her pubic hair has been artfully trimmed into a blunt triangle; her labia appear to have been surgically altered— the pretty scalloped edges not natural; the effect, the implications of this both shocking and erotic. A surprisingly heavy looking gold ring encircles her prominent clitoris, just kissing the top of her sex lips, while a larger, heavier ring, dangling at the join of her thighs, just below her sex, supports a length of heavy but slinky chain.
She flexes her thighs, then; a lewd and suggestive movement, inexplicable at first, until it is apparent that she is lowering the end of that chain into a slot in the top of the plinth. When she relaxes, her hips rising, in a stylised, elegant movement, it is becomes clear that the chain from her sex is now taut; fixed, in some way, to the centre of the plinth, through some invisible latching mechanism. That she has locked herself in place.
Now, carefully, smoothly, she undertakes a demanding manoeuvre, first arranging herself so that most of her weight is on the raised knee, then using the other leg to spring herself lightly, up from the floor, to end up kneeling on the plinth, thighs widely spread, breasts jiggling. The slightest failure of that move could have resulted in disaster, as the unrelenting chain joining her sex to the plinth would have done terrible things to her.
She settles herself, taking her time; setting her body— hips, shoulders, breasts, neck, mouth, tongue tip, hands— performing an obviously carefully rehearsed routine with great subtlety and dedication. She is trembling, noticeably. She radiates sexual vulnerability and sensitivity; never quite still— her hips, her sex mound, her tongue tip, her nipples … each in turn attract the eye, invite attention, encourage thoughts of sex, of violation, of easy use.
Settled, she waits, and then, eventually, begins to speak; slowly, uncertainly, in a low, husky voice, as if unused to using it; hesitant, enunciating with care, her eyes on the floor.
Picture: Jessica, with her taint chain
I never meant to be a Wall St. lawyer— it just happened, but I guess it had always been a possibility. I was Jessica, then.
I never meant, either, to become a helpless, naked sex toy— the nameless plaything of a billionaire; His personal property, to all effects and purposes— to dispose of as He wills.
That … that was completely unimaginable— until it began happening, and then, somehow, step by small step, it became an inevitability. Even harder to understand, even though it was me, all along, helping Him do it to me, is how easy I made it for Him; how each step was one that I took; took for Him, at His invitation, of course— but still, it was me, all along; me, stepping in, stepping down; kneeling down, until at the last I found that it made perfect, if tragic, sense to me, to grovel before Him, naked, of course, in front of witnesses, kiss His shiny shoes, and beg Him to disempower me; completely to make it impossible, ever again, for me to be free.
Which He did; which He did to me, so that whatever passed for ‘my life’ is now over. For it is His life, now, that animates this body, this naked body, which displays itself for the cameras, chained to its plinth by the sturdy steel ring which is, somehow, firmly but flexibly anchored into its pelvic bone, and hangs between its legs, from that part between a woman’s sex and her anus commonly known as ‘the taint’. That body which speaks these words at His command, to an unknown audience, unknown listeners; words which, so He tells me, are being edited for publication, as a pornographic story, intended, He says, to romanticise my choices, my experiences, just enough so that young women with masochistic or submissive tendencies might imagine themselves as me, and, in so doing, perhaps render themselves more vulnerable to men like Him, who would seek to ensnare them, exploit them, abuse them, enslave them.
That is what He tells me, anyway; that I am to tell my story, for the unknown audience, and make it sexy, make it seductive, so that foolish girls will give themselves to other men, will lose their lives to depravity, as I have lost mine.
I am grateful.
He doesn’t use me much, these days— He has other girls, newer girls, so I have lots of time. It is hard, to be permitted nothing but what might be appropriate for a naked sex toy, but not to be played with, not to be used, not to be fucked; it gets easy to feel bleak, meaningless, desperate. It gets hard to maintain the standard He requires of me, which difficulty is terrifying, since a girl who fails to maintain His standards is rapidly disposed of— given to another man, or sold, or … something, I don’t know. Suffice it to say that this doesn’t bear thinking about; perfect deportment, perfect suavity, perfectly elegant invitation to sexual excess, that is the standard; any emotions that do not support that to be savagely, viciously repressed, silenced, buried.
You see, even talking about these hard things, I’m smiling sweetly for you, letting my hips rise and fall as I kneel, flexing my thighs, thrusting my groin softly forward for you, hoping that you’ll be imagining using me, unrestrained, selfish, violent, even, if it would please you. For it is me that is required to be elegant (also wanton, and sweetly, helplessly submissive, also emotionally self possessed, signalling vulnerability, and seductive too— a deliberate incitement to rape); there are no expectations whatsoever of those that use me, save that they do not hold back, save that they take their satisfaction from me without restraint.
I do like it; like the idea that some young innocent, scratching an itch that her psyche has thrown up, stumbling across this story, this video, perhaps— that she might find herself hot and bothered as she reads, as she watches, imagining herself in my place; helpless, degraded, controlled, naked, chained and pierced; that she might, perhaps, think of some man who has shown an unhealthy interest in her, looked at her in a way which made her uncomfortable, and perhaps relate that discomfort to the sensations in her belly as she reads these words; that, should she meet that man again, might she make it easy for him to get her on her own, might she make her vulnerability obvious to him, might let him use her, without love, without kindness, without respect? Might she internalise the despair, the degradation, the pain, the humiliation, to such an extent that she becomes convinced of her worthlessness except as a sexual plaything? Might she be so insecure about her value even as such, that she is prepared to work— work hard— at learning just how to inflame men, to make herself obvious, excite them to the point where they will take her, and use her, abuse her, all without the slightest consideration of her as a being?
This is sick; I know it is. I am sick; I accept that too. What I don’t know is whether the sickness was there, latent in me, before He met me— is it myself I am imagining, reading this story? Her weakness, her vulnerability, her neediness drawn into the light, into her awareness, when before it had been latent, unacknowledged, suppressed?.
Was I whole, normal, until I met Him, until I allowed myself to be seduced; did He poison me, infect me, gaslight me into this? All I do know, for certain, is that I will never be fully healed of this sickness, now. That, if offered a cure, I would reject it.
I don’t know how this sickness took root in me, but I have a strong feeling— feeling in my heart— as sure as I can be, at least, in my sickness, that I was made for this; that I was already, when He met me, a whore in my soul, a needy, helpless slut, just waiting to be broken in; to be shown my true nature, to be broken, exposed as nothing more than easy cunt. Simply, that that part of me had been buried, buried deep, since anything of that sort would have been so violently unacceptable to the picture of normality, of reality, or morality that I was born into, that I had simply squashed it, right down, out of sight, out of imagination, even, in fear of what acknowledgement might bring.
Strange, now, to see that my life now is a mirror image— with the depraved, wanton, needy aspect of me now the only one that is apparent, all those ‘decent’, ‘moral’, acceptable aspects now buried, suppressed, denied, perverted, erased.
Oh! I am to be whipped, now, it seems. One has come, whose duty it is to take me and reduce me to pitiful screams and abject pleas for mercy that will not be granted.
I hope that I have done well enough with this writing to be allowed to do more, at some point.
Picture: Jessica, in her chains
Read the next part of this story
- In case you are thinking that a rod under the breasts, on a sprung chain, could not work, would simply work free as the breasts move, you are correct, and an explanation is in order. Jessica’s breasts have in fact been pierced, through the flesh— about an inch below the nipple. These long piercings— around three inches— were achieved with a laser (with very little pain, it may surprise you; there are many fewer pain receptors on the flesh of the breast, than at the nipple, and many fewer in the depth of the flesh than at the skin. Nevertheless, for the girl, the smell of her own flesh, burning, provided sufficient distress to provide entertainment to those of a certain turn of mind). A double headed laser, placed between the breasts, burning its way through both at once was used to ensure a piercing which would line up straight, without the distortions imposed by the pressure needed for a needle. Once pierced, a sleeve of braided titanium wire is introduced through the piercing (this operation was, indeed, excruciatingly painful). Since human flesh readily tolerates titanium (it is used for hip replacements for this very reason), this sleeve supports a buildup of scar tissue and thus makes the piercing permanent (flesh piercings typically grow themselves out relatively quickly). With the ‘tit rod’ removed, the girl’s breasts are soft and malleable in the hand— the piercing does not detract from the pleasure of manipulating her. With the rod in place, not only are the breasts impaled on a rigid metal skewer, with a heavy psychological impact, the placing allows the ‘cantilever’ effect to be quite marked, without distorting the shape of the breasts, or preventing them from jiggling enticingly. The ‘harnessing’ effect, too— making the breasts move as one— can produce delightful results. [return]
