Somehow it all made sense when he put it like that. He had that way of stating things so they sounded perfectly reasonable no matter how fucked they really were, rationalizing his bullshit so well he could persuade you into doing just about anything. The way he put it, made it sound like climbing into that box was the most noble thing I could do. Like it would be insensitive if I didn’t. I almost felt like if I wasn’t willing to subject myself to all of this then that would somehow make me a racist or at the very least a coward. Besides, we’d already taken our S&M play to extremes I never would have imagined before I met him. He had taught me to enjoy things that would have repulsed me just months ago. How much worse could this be? I felt like I could endure anything. And then there was the ring. I’d dreamed about marrying Kenyatta many, many times, even before we’d started dating, but it was always just a childish fantasy that I’d put out of my mind almost as fast as it entered. I’m not the kind of girl that men marry, especially not men like Kenyatta who can have any woman they want. Just mentioning the possibility that he and I could someday be together forever, just the fact that he would even consider it made it impossible for me to say no.
“I’ll do it.”
That was two weeks ago to the day.
Perspiration ran in a constant deluge from my brow down my face. I blinked tiny droplets of sweat out of my eyes. Salty rivulets made their way to the corners of my mouth and I licked them from my lips, trying to quench my thirst. It would be hours before I could drink again. Kenyatta worked eight hours every day and sometimes nine or ten. Then he would go to the gym for another two hours. That meant I was sometimes locked in my box for twelve hours at a time. Most days he came home on his lunch break to feed me or else he dropped by on his way to the gym. But some days he left me in there without food or water or a bathroom until he came home for the night.
The heat was the worst thing at first. I was constantly sweating. My skin stuck to the damp wood and between that and the chains, every movement abraded more skin. The heat and humidity made it so hard to breathe I inevitably began to panic and claw at my box, trying to free myself, which made it sway violently and began a new problem. Seasickness. I tried to lie still, but the way he had the box hung from the center rather than the ends, the slightest shift in position sent the box tilting and reeling. Between the heat and the claustrophobia, it was too much. I could feel the gorge rising in my stomach, the bile scalding the back of my throat. Many days, as I lay interred in my coffin breathing my own funk and swaying back and forth, I was overcome with nausea and regurgitated, leaving me no choice but to lie in my own vomit for hours until Kenyatta returned. The liquefied chunks of squash and horse beans would slowly curdle in the heat, filling the boiling air with its repugnant stench until I vomited again and again, the nausea magnified by the smell of my own waste. I didn’t want to go through that again. I tried to suck the scalding bile rising in my throat back down into my stomach and lie steady to quiet the swaying of the box. It worked for a while at least.
The thirst came almost immediately. From the moment the box is closed, the need for a cool drink becomes an insistent preoccupation. At first it is merely the need for some refreshment against the oppressive heat and the stench of my own sweat and funk and breath trapped in this confined space. Then, as more and more of my fluids escaped through my sweat glands, the need for liquids turned into a raging, maddening thirst. I began to count the seconds, minutes, hours until Kenyatta returned. He was all I could think about. My life revolved around him now. Without him food, water, air, sunlight, freedom did not exist. I distracted myself from my thirst, imagining the feel of his granite chest and arms as he pulled me tight against him. I imagined the feel of his cock inside me and his lips upon mine. I clenched and unclenched my Kegel muscles trying to bring myself to orgasm without using my hands and making the box sway as I fantasized about Kenyatta fucking me again. I came, a small quiet orgasm that still caused the box to tilt and sway as I imagined Kenyatta holding me in his arms face to face, lifting me off the floor while still inside of me, sliding me up and down on his cock with my full weight supported on his arms. Then I laid there quietly with the heat and the thirst rushing back in to remind me where I was.
Hours went by. I estimated that it had been about five hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-five seconds since my master left. I was hungry and thirsty and hot and I needed to pee. That was yet another constant torment. It seems I always had to pee. I don’t know where my body found the moisture with all the fluids I was constantly perspiring. But every day I went through the discomfort of holding my urine for hours waiting for my master to return so that I could use the toilet and most days I failed and relieved myself in the box. The smell of urine, added to all the other bodily odors boiling in the cramped wooden box, increased the feeling of claustrophobia and my own misery until I felt like I was going to lose my mind. The air soon became so repugnant with odors that it was impossible to breathe yet I had no choice. I sat there fighting nausea and counting down the remaining hours until my master’s return.
Two hours later, I threw up. The smells and the seasickness were finally too much and I vomited up my breakfast and nearly choked on it. I rolled over in the casket as I continued to regurgitate and the swaying of the box caused it all to drip down until I was covered from head to toe in my own vomit. That’s when my master finally returned. I was ashamed when he opened the box and I saw that look of disgust on his beautiful face. I hid my face in my hands and sobbed uncontrollably. I thought about saying the safe word for the first time, but I knew I wouldn’t. It had only been two weeks and I would have felt like a failure. Besides, there was no way I could have brought myself to say that word.
Kenyatta hauled me out of the box and washed me off. I didn’t look at him the entire time, not wanting to see the disgust on his face again. I kept my head hung low and my eyes on the floor as he hosed me off. I started crying again as I watched him hose out my box, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He filled a bucket with water and I knelt down on all fours and lapped it up like a dog. Then he brought down a bowl of overcooked horse beans with a few bits of pork in it and some rice. I was full when he finally put me back into the box, and I was petrified that I would throw up again and be left to wallow in my own filth for another two hours.
“Please. Please don’t put me back in the box! Please. Just stay with me. Please!”
“You can’t speak English yet remember? You’ll have to be punished for that when I return.”
He shut the lid to the box, padlocked it and left. I started to cry again. It seemed like another eternity went by before he returned. My mind turned inward and began to devour itself. I thought about Kenyatta at the gym, working out, making his beautiful body even more perfect while I became even more repulsive. I replayed that look of revulsion on his face when he opened the box to find me there covered in my own vomit. I moaned out loud, wishing I had the means to kill myself. I began to wonder if he was really at the gym, whether he might be seeing another woman. Rage seethed within me as I thought about him fucking some slut, sharing that wonderful cock with someone else while I was here suffering for him. I tried to push the thought out of my head, but it wouldn’t go.
Why wouldn’t he fuck someone else? Men are men, and after he’s seen me like this he probably thinks I’m too disgusting to fuck. He can’t have any respect for me. I’m just his slave, his property. Maybe he doesn’t even love me? I’m a fucking fool! How did I let myself get talked into this?
Another hour went by and I started to think about my own safety. I wondered if he had remembered to lock the front door. I wondered if he had locked the basement door. I imagined I heard a window sliding open, footsteps creeping coyly across the floor above. I wondered what a burglar would do if he found me chained up like this. I began to panic. As I hyperventilated inside my stifling, oppressively hot coffin, I wondered what would happen if I had a heart attack or some other medical emergency while I was locked in the box and Ken
yatta was off at the gym or fucking some whore or whatever he was doing. My panic turned to sheer terror. By the time I heard Kenyatta’s keys in the basement door, I was crying hysterically. I threw myself into his arms when he released me from my box.
Kenyatta didn’t push me away this time. He didn’t yell or strike me or scold me. He lifted me from the box, having no trouble managing my weight even with forty pounds of iron chain added to it. He carried me up the stairs and into his bedroom. He laid me on his bed and then reached into his pocket for the key to my chains. He kissed each wrist as he unshackled me and then did the same as he unchained my ankles and then finally the thick collar around my neck. I was surprised by how gentle he was. He kissed the scabbed and torn flesh around my neck and licked the blood that trickled there. Then he kissed my lips deeply and passionately stealing the breath from my lungs.
“I love you, Kenyatta.”
He smiled at me with his perfect white teeth and then stood up from the bed and walked into the bathroom. I heard him run a bath and my heart sang. I hadn’t had a bath in so long it was little more than a distant memory from a lifetime ago. He lit scented candles and filled the bath with lavender oil. Then he came back for me and lowered me slowly into the steaming water. The heat burned my welts and scars and I let out a tiny yelp. As my body began to adjust to the temperature, and the warmth seeped into my tired muscles, I laid my head back with a sigh. I watched Kenyatta undress in front of me and I felt like I was in a dream. This was all so far removed from the horrible day I’d spent in the box, nauseated and miserable. I looked around the room at the candles, the wonderful scented bubbles, and then back at Kenyatta as he shrugged himself out of his underwear and stood up. His pecs, shoulders, and biceps were swollen from exertion. Veins stood out everywhere, rushing blood to his overworked muscles. I always loved the way he looked after a hard workout, when his muscles were still all pumped up like that. I wanted him so badly. He looked magnificent.
I held out my arms and he took them and stepped into the bath with me. He sat behind me and soaped my back and shoulders, kissing and massaging as he cleaned the day’s filth from my pores. He washed my arms, caressing them lovingly, and then my breasts, gently rubbing and pinching my nipples until they were hard and I was ready to explode. Then he told me to stand and he washed my legs, my ass, and between my thighs, cleaning everything thoroughly but gently. When I was completely clean, he sat me down on the edge of the tub and spread my legs.
He began by kissing my knees. I shivered as his hot breath traveled along the tender flesh of my inner thighs. Then I moaned as he licked the bathwater from my skin working his way down my thighs to where they joined at the center of me. He rubbed his cheek against my pubic hair like a kitten and I purred. Then he slid his tongue inside of me and I gasped. He made love to me with his mouth, twirling and flicking his tongue across my clitoris then sucking and nipping at it until I felt like screaming, like dying, as if I had already died and been reborn in some paradise of sin. His tongue plunged inside me again and I arched my spine and thrust my hips forward, grabbing the back of his head to thrust him in deeper. I felt him inside of me, wet and slippery as he fucked me with his tongue. My legs began to shake. He withdrew and sucked my clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it and swirling it around as he had once commanded me to do to his cock. I did scream then as a cataclysmic eruption tore through me and my body trembled, jerked, bucked and shook with one orgasm after another. I held his head there, pushing his face into my sex with both hands as he continued licking and sucking until one orgasm melded into the next and soon climax after climax tumbled down over one another and my body was undulating and convulsing spasmodically as if I were having a seizure. It became too much, I tried to push him away, but he wrapped his arms around my thighs and began to lick more furiously. I came again and again, pain and discomfort mixing with a pleasure that was almost too much to bear. Kenyatta could turn anything into a kind of torture, even this. Every moment with him was extreme. I screamed again, and my body seized, every muscle tense and vibrating as one final orgasm shook me to my soul.
Kenyatta rose from between my thighs and kissed my lips. Then he stood me up again on legs still quivering from the most powerful orgasms I’d ever had in my life. He turned me around and I felt his wet kisses and steamy breath on my buttocks. His tongue traced the crack of my ass and my legs trembled again. Then his tongue was inside me. He fucked my ass with his long slippery tongue and it was the most incredible sensation I’d ever felt. I came immediately. Once again reaching around to grab his head and pull him in deeper. My legs gave out and I collapsed back into the tub, trembling everywhere.
Kenyatta lifted me from the bath and stood me on a towel in the bathroom. He dried me off with one of the big cashmere towels that hung on a bar above the tub, embroidered with his initials. Once again he kissed each spot as he wiped it dry, starting from my feet, kissing each toe and then to my ankles and calves, twirling his tongue over my calf muscles and flicking it in the hollow behind each knee. He kissed his way up my thighs and I surprised myself by wanting him again. He kissed my pubic hair and then dried it before kissing it again and sliding his tongue inside me quickly. He turned me around and dried my ass, kissing each cheek. Then he kissed his way up my spine wiping away both the bathwater and his own saliva as he made his way to the back of my neck and then down the front of me, rubbing his face between my breasts and sucking each nipple. He kissed his way back down my belly and then he stood and kissed my face. He licked the bathwater from my eyelids and then from my lips and cheeks. Then he dried off my face.
Kenyatta lifted me into his arms and carried me back to his bed and laid me down on my stomach. He filled his palms with a mixture of rosewater and almond oil and began massaging me. From the bath, the sex, and now the massage, my body was completely relaxed when he slipped inside me. We made love gently and passionately with him saying all the things with his body he wouldn’t have ever put into words. Then he began massaging me again. Once I was completely covered in scented oils from head to toe, he took out a powder puff and gently dusted me with some scented talc that made my skin look even whiter than it was. Then he spritzed me with perfume and stood back to admire his work.
“You are beautiful.”
I felt perfect at that moment. Perfectly safe, perfectly comfortable, perfectly appreciated, perfectly loved by my perfect man.
“Stay right there.”
Kenyatta stepped into his walk-in closet and came back with the full-length white chinchilla coat he’d bought me for my birthday along with the diamond studded cat collar, a leash and a pair of black leather hip boots. He bought me the outfit after our first visit to the Society of “O”—one of the oldest and largest BDSM groups in the country. He took me to one of their parties just a few weeks after we’d started dating to introduce me to the lifestyle he was already well acquainted with. That first trip all we did was watch as doms and their slaves played in the many different themed rooms of the dungeon where the event was held. We watched as men and women were whipped, branded, pierced, paddled, and cut, and we watched them fuck in every imaginable coupling from hetero to homosexual to bi-sexual threesomes and outright orgies. The only rule seemed to be that no bodily fluids could be exchanged and so latex and lubricant flowed freely.
I had never even heard of places like that then. It was all so wild and dangerous and fascinating and forbidden to me, so sexy. It surprised me to see how unimpressed Kenyatta seemed by it all. I could only imagine what his sexual history must have been like.
“How long have you known about this place?”
“I was about twenty years old the first time I came here. I was dating a woman who was much older than me, and she used to read a lot of S&M erotica, but she’d never tried it so we decided to try it together. I was down for anything back then and the kinkier the better. I wanted to do it all. We found this place together in the back of an S&M magazine. Back then, you couldn’t just pay a cover
charge and walk in like you can now. Everybody had to have a membership and all the members were pre-screened with an interview and not everyone got accepted. They tried hard to keep the most dangerous perverts out along with weirdos who wanted different things than they offered. I remember waiting by the phone to hear if we’d made it and then getting our membership cards in the mail. We rushed right out to the dungeon that night. We fell into our roles of top and bottom right away.”
“Top and bottom?”
“Dominant and submissive, master and slave. One of the regulars showed me how to use a cat, and I hung Toni up on that rack right there and whipped her ass red.”
His eyes were wistful as he reminisced and a twinge of jealousy struck me out of nowhere. I hated to think about him enjoying any pleasure with someone else that I hadn’t given him. I wanted to experience everything with him.
“Why don’t you strap me up there?”
“Not yet. Some other day. It’s your first time. Let’s just look around.”
I was disappointed, but I knew even then not to say anything about it. It would have only led to a fight, which would have led to Kenyatta not speaking to me for days until he felt I’d been punished enough, so I allowed myself to be talked out of it. Besides, he was right. There was so much to see.
400 Days of Oppression Page 6