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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Monday, 1 February 2010

Dolly Part 2

When he picked me up of the floor, Captain kept me hooded and blind and lowered me onto what felt like a padded bench with a rigid dildo in the centre. I'm wet from earlier, so I slide on easily enough but the angle is uncomfortable and there's no adjustment I can make to avoid it. I'm stuck. Impaled. He picks my heels off the floor and straps my calves to my thighs so all my weight is pressed down. A leather sleeve pins my arms together behind my back, arching me slightly forward, increasing the thrust of the dildo inside me. Clamps attach to my nipples and are pulled taught - the sharp pain takes my breath away but also centres me somehow, unlike the dull pressures of the hood, the sleeve and the penetration this is a "high" pain, cutting through the soporific, submissive daze of sensory deprivation and bondage. It's a cruel pain also, if I move, it pulls more, each time clearing me out of the refuge of sub space and refreshing my ability to feel everything keenly.

The dildo starts to move, in what is probably a rough circular motion, but it's hard to tell. Then the entire bench starts to vibrate in a heavy, powerful washing-machine or motorbike fashion. At first, the sensation is mostly pleasant - the throbbing waves between my thighs make me tense, and the dildo is actually less uncomfortable now it is moving a little. I feel myself start to get into the feeling. If I had free reign I'd probably be squirming against the machine fairly happily by this point. The sensation is against the whole of my cunt, not just my clit, so there's an overall feeling of hard pressure with elements of pleasure. It's a long way away from the gentle, precise masturbation that I use to come so I don't feel as if I am going to orgasm, but I feel as if I perhaps could with practice and smile beneath the hood.

Then he turns the power up and everything changes. I'm not being pleasured, I'm being abused. The pressure is enormous, the vibrations like being punched. The dildo is a stiff, invasive rod hammering at the inside of my cunt, shattering my insides.
I'm not riding the sybian. It's riding me. And I'm screaming. Not the gaspy, panting screams of the pre-orgasmic woman, but the loud, bellowing bottom-of-the-lung screams of pressured pain. For the first time that I can remember I shout "stop, stop". Angry at myself for such a failing. It doesn't stop. I keep screaming - by this point I am crying with the effort of screaming.

The machine is forcing itself upon me and there is nothing but deep, dull, internal pain. I can hardly describe it because the experience was so intense my mind is finding it hard to re-conceive and my memory of those moments is deeply shaky. I think he pulled on the clamps on my nipples every now and then. I think he hit me in the face. I can't remember. Describing the effect of the machine itself reduces me to bad metaphor: it's a pile-driver; a torture device. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I can't twist away, can't alter my position, can't do anything but scream. The pain is bad, but worse than the pain is the knowledge that I might have perhaps enjoyed this. That perhaps I should be enjoying this and experiencing 4,000 orgasms a minute but, for some reason to do with my own biology, yet again I cannot orgasm. I am broken, somehow. And I am failing to deliver. Not only does it hurt but my pain is futile - there is no final release to this, only a collapse into nothingness and more pain, the sorrow at not being a good girl who can come to order, at not being able to take what I am given.

After some time, I really do not no how long, it could have perhaps only been a few minutes, he turns off the machine, removes the clamps and the hood, he half pulls, half carries me over to a nearby sofa, laying my head down on the seat whilst he fucks me briefly doggy-style. That this hard, cold fucking is a welcome respite says much about the machine. He pulls out, and I wait for more pain, more punishment, something in response to my failure to come. But that doesn't happen. He sits down with my, letting my head fall against his legs, he touches my hair briefly, telling me I'm a "good dolly" and I almost collapse with relief. I broke. But he wanted me broken.

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