I did a previous story, Burnout, on an industrial theme and got some good feedback from it. Here’s another one. Pics by Velvet Tripp; the factory is quite near us.
Here’s a Twitter-sized summary:
Burned-out factory. Naked, gagged, wrists tied to a blackened overhead beam, open to the sky. He’s gone to fetch his whip. I’m euphoric.
The old plastics factory burned down a couple of months ago. Arson. Kids set a fire they couldn’t control.
I drive past it every day, going to work. Some of it is a lunar landscape, melted plastic like solidified lava flowing over the ground. Some of it looks like a war zone. At first there were security guards, fire investigators, like ants toiling in a post-apocalyptic world. Then, no one.
In a month or a year, someone might clear the site and rebuild. In the meantime, I’m curious.
When I mention it, you’re interested too. So we drive out there, one Friday evening.
And I know exactly what’s in your mind, because it’s in mine too. That’s why I chose the clothes I’m wearing, and it’s why there’s a bulge in your jacket pocket.
The stream on one side of the site flows grungy and dark. The trees surrounding it are as blackened as your soul. The metal fence as twisted as your imagination. We slip through it easily. Crunch, crunch. The sound of our feet on rough cinders, until we come to the slightly spongy melted plastic.
‘It’s a great shame,’ I say. ‘The place contributed to the environment by recycling plastic, and now the trees are gone and the chemicals polluting the water.’
‘Yeah. But despite the destruction we carry on. We even create our own amusements.’
We walk towards the shadowed entrance to the factory building. It’s not supposed to be an entrance – just where a wall collapsed. Inside, blackened unfathomable machinery. There’s a long girder there; it was a roof support and still rests on the remaining wall but is angled now to touch the ground on the other.
I just know you’re going to whip out what’s in yourpocket.
And you do. Twenty meters of rope.
‘Hold your hands out.’
I offer them to you, gleaming in the shadow. I offer my submission like a jewel. Because it is a jewel. You know it. I know it.
You secure my hands. Practiced ease. Throw the other end of the rope over the girder. Haul on it until I’m on tiptoe. Ties it off on a stanchion. Anything I try to do with my feet spins me round, out of control. Not, of course, that I want to be in control at this point.
There’s a reason I wore the halter top and the button-through skirt. It makes it easy for you to remove them. You throw them casually on the sooty ground, making them unwearable. My thong becomes unwearable because you rip it off. I have, now, no clothing, no protection, until we get home. Knowing this claws at the inside of my belly, pulls and strokes my clit.
After that I open my mouth automatically for the gag.
You stand back and watch me for a while, as I watch you watching me. I’m getting excited. I watch you getting excited. Breeze from outside excites my nipples. The breeze carries scents of oil, burned wood, fire smoke. Why is that a turn-on? What repressed memory makes me juice up at smell of heavy engineering and disaster?
After a while you produce a blindfold.
‘I need to get the whip,’ you say casually. ‘I may be a while.’
Normally I can still my racing mind, but being bound and exposed in a place like this… There’s always a risk, and risk is something I get off on. I’m restrained by the ropes, my imagination flies free, I’m own euphoric.
When you, or someone anyway, crunch back towards the building I’m hanging helplessly, liquid desperate dripping anticipation.
The whipcracks are loud in my ears, echoing in the cavernous space. The noise is more scary even that the impacts and stings. You – or someone – don’t spare me. You never do. While I know you care about me, for me, you also know that in this situation I must feel you have no mercy, no compassion.
And it feels exactly that way as stripes and welts form on my body, some overlaying bruises I still have from four days ago.
Despite the gag I yelp, and the muffled yelps bounce, amplified, off the metal surfaces. They come back to me as the sounds of sex.
Which they are.
I dance for you, for the whip.
By the time you’re done laying burning welts on me I’m in my own dreamworld of torture. This is a good thing. I like my dreamworld. I like the way my dreams become visible on my skin. When you release the rope I stand unsteadily, holding onto you for balance. Even with the blindfold I know whose arms they are. Through the gag I’m pleading, demanding, making my need for orgasm clear. Orgasm now. Right now. Please. Any way you want me. Do I have to say that magic ‘Master’ word? I say it anyway.
‘Not yet, lover,’ you murmur. Use the rope as a leash. Take me outside, walking nude across the broken wasteland. Tie me somewhere. I don’t know where. I’m bent at the waist, legs apart, arms up above my head. Perversely now I’m in the cold evening air, the welts feel even hotter. I feel even hotter.
And you take me from behind, the buckle of your belt pressing into my reddened ass with every thrust, until I scream.
Afterwards: my clothes are trashed. We leave them. The rope is sticky with oil, tar, ash. You string it along the fence as a symbol: we were here. I know I’ll see it, every morning on the way to work.
I’m nude in the car on the way home. All I have on my body: my sneakers, the gag, and the whipmarks. I’m in the darkness, feeling cool car seat leather on hot skin. That’s the way I like it.