#mind break.

[watersmoothstones]

i want to be the goddess you keep chained up in your basement. in the beginning, when i thought i was human, i used to struggle and scream and fight back. now i take your offerings with grace, accepting your worship and that of the new flock of devotees you’ve brought to me. i take their sins into my body and allow their lips and tongues and fingers to wash me clean at the end of their penitence. you collect the alms they leave for me so i do not need to concern myself with the tedium of humanity’s greed. when you take of my body in holy communion, my high priest, you leave me in exquisite agony or ecstatic pleasure. the ambrosia you feed me keeps me soothed, even as this earthly realm would have me give over to base fear. you all see to my mortal body, keeping it clean and fed, while your worship touches my divine self and drives us all closer and closer to ascendancy. i am the goddess of this temple and i cannot leave it, but i do not need to. the bars around my altar are there to frame my beauty and contain my divinity. if i were to leave, i would cease to exist. what is a goddess without her temple, without her devoted worshipers? what would become of me if i were to fall mortal once more?

[watersmoothstones]

my kidnapper forces me to come at least once every day. 

when i first woke up, naked and chained to the floor, it was to their tongue on my clit and their fingers in my soaked pussy. it was the first time i saw their face and it was drenched with me. my orgasm was hard, racking through my body before my mind caught up to my situation, to the cold shackle around my ankle, the stained rug that was the only soft thing in the room, the darkness that clung to the ceiling anywhere the single hanging bulb didn’t quite reach. as i lay there panting, my kidnapper explained that this was my new life. that nobody was even looking for me, and if someone tried, they wouldn’t even get close. my tears gathered in the soft pile of the rug even as my cunt throbbed, their fingers still flexing and curling inside me. 

the next day, i woke to their tongue again. this time i fought and my kidnapper backed off quickly. they brought me food later and i didn’t think, i just ate, starving from the day before, and when i woke up some hours later, my hands were bound and there was a vibrator buzzing hard right at my g spot. i’d never had a g spot orgasm before and the strength of it left me trembling and vulnerable. my kidnapper licked my lips and told me that there was no freedom to be found in this room. 

i tried to stop eating and drinking and sleeping but my exhaustion and delirium left me weak enough to handle anyway. i maybe managed to win a few days in that first week, but after… 

it isn’t that i get to come every time they touch me. no, when they take me out for their use, my orgasms don’t matter to them at all. they’re neither forbidden nor encouraged. they’re immaterial. 

but at least once a day, my kidnapper makes time to force me to come at their touch. they’ve used toys and tongue and fingers and cock and anything that might tip me over the edge, as long as it takes to make every day one with pleasure.

even as i’m denied clothes. even as i lay on the cold floor on a stained rug. even as i must ask for basic needs like bathroom privileges and food and water. even as i’m beaten and fucked and filmed and ignored and rented out and used in all manner of humiliating ways.

my kidnapper makes sure i come at least once every day. 

[watersmoothstones]

the crate is my safe space, you tell me, you can’t touch me when i’m in there. and it’s true. even though the cage is a wire lattice that you can reach your fingers through, there’s a corner against the wall where i can curl into a small enough ball that you can’t reach me.

you let me have that space for three days. three days of pretending to grab for me, just to watch me flinch, to watch me wrap my arms around my knees and tuck my head down, naked but untouchable.

then, on the fourth day, you climb on top of the cage. you still can’t reach me from there, but it doesn’t matter. you’re not trying to. instead, you strip all the way down and start touching yourself. right on top of me. you moan loud and call my name and tell me that it’s my fear that’s getting you off. the wet sounds of you are almost as loud as your voice. and you spread your legs as you start to drip. as you get yourself so wet with slick or precum that i can smell it, can hear it, can— feel it.

you drip on me in my safe corner. you come on me in my safe corner. my skin is painted with you, my hair is matted with you. you come again and again. each time calling out my name. if i move out from under you, you reach through the grate to touch my skin.

you come day after day until it finally sinks in: i have no safe space. there is no place you cannot reach me.

on the day i finally accept it, you let me out of the crate, and my training begins.

[watersmoothstones]

captor who has a polaroid camera and takes pictures of me constantly.

when he wakes me in the morning and lets me out of my cage; when he hand feeds me breakfast, my body bound to the kitchen chair to keep me from fighting him; when he fucks me over the coffee table, the drugs in my food making me pliant and limp; when he sprays me down in the bathroom, warm water if i’ve been good, cold water if not; when he trains me for his pleasure, tears streaming down my face; when he leaves welts and bruises on my skin; when he lays me out across his lap, petting me and feeding me until i fall asleep there; when he lays me back down inside my cage…

he papers the basement walls with photos of me, my body, my face. there are photos of my cunt stretched around his cock, his fingers, and anything else he’s stuffed me with. there are photos of my tear tracks, my dripping blood, cuts and bruises in various states of healing. photos of my body limp with drugs or sleep, tense with sensation, arranged with ropes and chains and tape.

i want to rip them down but i can’t reach them from my cage and he never lets me close enough otherwise. so i see them all night and all morning until he lets me out, myself in pain and pleasure, afraid and at peace.

there aren’t enough to cover all the concrete yet. only half, maybe. he tells me that by the time the walls are completely covered in picture of me, i’ll have learned to like them. that i’ll have accepted my place here with him.

i curse at him when he says that because it’s not true. it can’t be true.

and if i arch my back a little when he raises the camera these days, if i tilt my head and purse my lips and spread my legs wider… it’s only so that i have nicer pictures to look at. no other reason.

[watersmoothstones]

it’s winter and i struggle to come when my feet are cold. break me of this by locking me outside, naked, nipples clamped and chained around a pole in the yard, and telling me you won’t let me back in until i make myself come three times