Anonymous

[Daisy’s note: Changing things up a bit with this post…It’s my first attempt at writing erotic fiction, it’s also much, much longer than my usual stories. I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.]

You wouldn’t think it possible to fall in love with a freckle. But there it is, the tiniest of brown marks, an uncharted island on the map of her mouth. It’s nearly invisible, but not to one who’s spent months searching for it.

The arrangement is peculiar, even by my standards, but it affords me my lifestyle. I haven’t another care in the world besides what shoes I should purchase next. Only extremes will satisfy me anymore, and this arrangement takes care of that financially and sexually. I’ve moved beyond  the desire for a constant physical companion, this arrangement meets all those needs.

Four or five times a week, by a pre-agreed schedule, I arrive after dark. It’s a non-descript, gray building, identical to the others in the small industrial park. The name of the business is so generic, it’s nearly impossible to Google, other than to pull up a map. I simply call it The Company.  The casual person would have no cause to bother, however. In directories it’s listed as a supplier to other companies.

The few casual acquaintances I permit myself merely think I simply work third shift in some mundane job, that perhaps my money is the result of smart investments or an inheritance. I plant the seed, and let it grow in their imaginations. I don’t bother to correct them, I live in their assumptions. My world is relatively uncomplicated and I like it that way.

As I pull into the parking lot, I pull a loose cotton hood over my head to conceal my face. Much of what we do here is on the honor system, but I prefer not to take chances with the security guards. I guard my anonymity fiercely.  When I reach the checkpoint, I gather my things and leave my car idling. A guard will be along momentarily to park it, although I don’t know where. The only other vehicle I ever see is a dark blue SUV that the guards use to patrol The Company grounds.

The guard checks me in without a word. He’s an older gentleman, all business. Sometimes the younger guards are more chatty, but I try to keep conversation short, vague.  I hand him my ID card, no photo, no name, just a magnetic strip he runs through a machine on his desk. A tiny light flickers green, I’m cleared for take-off.  In front of me are windowless wide metal double doors. A second guard pulls a blindfold around my head, takes my hand, and leads me through the entrance.

My dressing room is always the same. I have no reason to believe anyone else ever uses it. It’s non-descript. White walls, a simple wooden chair, a little dressing table, a tiny bathroom. I never keep any personal articles here, I could if I wanted. I always bring a bag with me containing a change of clothing, deodorant and the like. I’ve been offered a few little comforts, such as a selection of magazines or pornography, even a sofa, but I prefer everything completely sterile, as close to a nun’s cell as I can manage. Once I drive through the gate, I don’t want any distractions, any clutter of the mind whatsoever. I don’t know how many other dressing rooms there are, I couldn’t even find my own without the guard to escort me here. The only other place I’ve seen past those double doors is The Room.

Although I arrive at a scheduled time, I never know how long I’ll be kept waiting. Sometimes it’s only moments, sometimes it’s a couple hours. I never see anyone else arrive, or hear so much as a murmur in the hall. This building is immense, and it takes one elevator ride and a few minutes to reach my room. It’s entirely conceivable that I’m the only one on this floor.

Tonight, a simple red leather mask is laid out for me on a table; the colors and styles vary from night to night.  I strip naked and remove all my jewelry, anything that could identify me. I’m not even allowed to wear perfume, it might distinguish me in the outside world. If this all seems silly and clandestine, it sort of is. My one and only interview was vague. I don’t know my true purpose here, only that it pays well as long as I can keep secrets and have the stamina to endure.

A pleasant chime sounds. This is my signal to pull the red mask over my face and turn to the wall. The door opens. I hear muffled footsteps cross the carpet, a pair of hands buckles my mask firmly in place. The Keeper, as I call him in my mind, always brings a different assortment of restraining devices with him. When he enters the room, he walks around me in a full circle, a cursory inspection to ensure that I haven’t gotten any tattoos, piercings, that my body is as flawless in appearance as possible. Bruises, cuts and abrasions don’t count; they fade in time, myself and the Others usually bear several fresh examples of each.

Tonight The Keeper carries a posture collar and a long pair of soft leather gloves that lace together behind my back. He attaches fierce nipple clamps, then places the chain linking them between my teeth to hold until the session begins. This is the ritual that tells me that I’m just a possession now, that my free will has been handed over completely. Then, like the first guard, he blindfolds me, and leads me gently to The Room. We conduct all this in absolute silence.

Sometimes The Other is already waiting, tonight I’m the first one in. I’ve given up trying to work out what each night has in store. It might be only a test of endurance, seeing how long I can muddle through pain inflicted on one specific body part. It could just as easily could be a night of ecstasy, a sound fucking with all kinds of delightful implements. There’s no way to predict what’s in store.

There might be many Rooms, or there might be only this one. It’s a blank slate, never changing, not even so much as a missing chip of paint. There are one-way windows lining two walls, high ceilings, a gray floor. All the implements are kept out of sight, and The Room is always prepared when I get there. I hear the door open. I’m still blindfolded, I won’t see The Other until we’re both secured in place. Also in the room are The Masters, men dressed in black leather, hoods concealing their identities. These are the ones who are charged with the task of carrying out our prescribed punishments, or rewards. They must receive instruction beforehand, as they never utter a word. They touch us as little as possible, we certainly never have sex with them. An announcement is sometimes made over the speakers before we begin.

I honestly have no idea what the purpose of all this is. It could be a team of scientists scribbling on clipboards behind those windows, artists frantically sketching away, of just a group of hungry men wanking off. I try not to let my mind wander, to think too deeply about this scenario, I only think of what’s in the moment. There, in that moment, is where I feel pure and free.

The blindfold and the nipple clamps come off.  About four feet away opposite me is a naked woman wearing only a deep violet mask that matches mine in style. The masks always have one thing in common, a type of film over the eyes that allows us to see out, but prevents anyone else from seeing our eyes. All the pain, excitement, fear, lust, even the color of our pupils is hidden away, kept secret.

I don’t know how many Others there are.

When I had my interview, I was asked to strip naked. I was alone in a room, a smaller version of this one, although in a different building. Orders and questions were given through a speaker mounted on the wall. I was asked to step close to the one way window, to turn slowly so They could search me for any identifying marks. No tattoos, birthmarks or anything else that might distinguish me were allowed.

My Other for the night was no doubt  subject to the same scrutiny. Other than the violet mask, I can’t tell her apart from any Other I’ve been paired with. Our pubic hair is kept waxed and bare, we’re only permitted to paint our finger or toenails in one of a few approved colors. Even our breast sizes are strikingly similar. I feel as if I could wander into any dressing room and swap clothing comfortably. When we’re in The Room, we’re forbidden to speak to anyone, to The Masters, The Others. We’re completely anonymous and I like it that way.

Except for the freckle. That night is burned so deeply into my mind, it torments me, derails me completely. Every person I encounter, here or in the outside world,  receives an imperceptible inspection, in the hopes, and in the fears that it might be Her.

Permit me to recount:

We’d been paired off months before. It was a particularly excruciating night.

The whys of what we’re put through aren’t discussed with us. It may be the whim of one person, it may be a prescribed testing regimen, I don’t know. We’re only there to do.

That night, my Other and I were bound, facing each other, maybe 6 inches apart. Our backsides were exposed to The Room. We each had a Master standing behind us. The masks chosen for us to wear that night completely covered our noses. Little plugs inside the mask were placed inside our nostrils so we were completely unable to draw in any air. A device quite like a gag was placed in deep in our mouths, fashioned in some way that created a seal. The restraints were buckled tight around our heads so we couldn’t dislodge the gags in any way.

A small device was placed in our hands. The voice on the speaker explained that by pressing the button, we would cut off the Other’s air supply. Only one button at a time could be activated. The one not breathing was the one who had a momentary respite from the pain that was to be inflicted on us. We could press the button to ease the other’s suffering, but deny them breath.

A hand lightly touched my shoulder, it was one of The Masters signaling that I should be the one allowed to breathe while The Other received the first punishment.

I’d spent many hours in The Room being suffocated in various fashions, I learned to not panic, to find the center of cold calm in me, and settle there. I turned my mind off and surrendered my body to the whims of the Unknown.

I heard the terrible crack of something striking skin, it sounded like a whip. A blow unusually harsh, even for this setting. She whimpered through the gag. Another crack, this one echoed in the room. We were bound close enough together that I could feel the interrupted current of the air as the whip met her back. I gave her a count of about thirty seconds before I pushed the button relieving her pain.

Instantly the device in my mouth made a tiny vibration, the seal in my mouth and nose was absolute. No air in or out. I instantly retreated to that center of calm, refusing to panic. Everything went white behind my eyes, the pain was outrageous.  I couldn’t see what The Master was striking me with, it felt like a glove covered in tiny sharp spikes. The Masters didn’t always use  the same implement for each of The Others. I assume they chose, or were given whatever worked best for them. Another stinging blow from the spiked hand landed firmly on my ass cheek. I blinked back tears.

It was a point of pride to me that I never cried, even though no one could see my eyes. It was my line in the sand, the limit I set for myself. Another whack across my ass, this one nearly knocking me off balance. I moaned loudly through the gag, using up what little precious air I was storing in my lungs. Just as the room seemed to darken, she clicked her device. I inhaled deliciously as The Master behind me stood down.

I heard the lashes against her back, but my mind was still reeling from my own punishment. I tried to remain in my calm place. I lost count of how long I had deprived her of oxygen. I gave the device in my hand a squeeze. Before I could even draw a last breath to store in my lungs, the spiked hands encircled my breasts, crushing and piercing me a thousand times over. My brain seared, shooting jagged sparks across my vision. The Master started to drag the spiked gloves down my sides, tearing through my flesh. Then The Master released his hands instantly. Fresh air rushed into my lungs. This devilish exchange went on through the night. The Other and I endured for what seemed an eternity.

Then something changed.

When I was admitted to The Company, it was understood that all Others were equal, no power exchange no matter what position or act we were forced into.  I did not deviate from that mindset, not once, not ever.

Until… she started to toy with me. She’d release me from torment, only to plunge me right back into the depths of this hell. She started to click the button with no rhyme or reason. She would deny me air until I danced on the verge of unconsciousness, over and again. I could see the Masters giving some subtle sort of signal to each other. I didn’t understand this game. I was only there to endure these punishments, I had no interest in games. The military-like precision of this entire set up was like a religion to me, sacred, pure, yet here she was…taunting me.

Even though I couldn’t see her eyes, I could feel her heavy gaze upon me. I no longer even felt the tortures inflicted on me by The Master. Everything narrowed down to this small battle of wills. I fixated on her, trying to predict when she would cut off my air next. Her lips wrapped tantalizingly around the gag. When she found me worthy of another breath, she would push the button, but she would also, unconsciously, flex her mouth slightly. That’s when I saw the freckle. A nearly hidden flaw near the corner of those perfect, luscious lips protruding from the opening in the mask.

Something in my iron resolve broke. I wanted to belong to Her. Wholly and absolutely. I took my torture for her, dedicated every drop of blood trickling from my tits, every struggled gasp in Her honor. I would live in this moment forever if it meant my eternal suffering would please Her, and only Her.

The Masters, by some unseen signal, moved on to other tactics. The pain stopped, it was time for pleasure. The gags were removed from our mouths, we took deep clean breaths as soon as we were permitted. Vibrators were fixed tight to our clits, there was no way to escape those either. We were brought to orgasm swiftly, almost as an afterthought. I was still fixated on her mouth, the freckle, aware of every movement she made. When we were finally unbound, she gave me the slightest smile, nearly imperceptible, a mere flex of her mouth, risking a breach in our agreements with The Company.

That night burned in me, a candle brighter than all the others. It was the moment I returned to when alone in my own bed, the memory I conjured up to accompany my own hand stirring between my legs. An obsession that played in a loop, leaving me weak and frantic.

Now, it’s as if time has fast forwarded, skipping over winter and spring. Here we are again, facing each other. I had nearly stopped searching The Others, thinking maybe she had quit, or even been let go for that tiny smile she had bestowed on me months before.

I try not to react, not let my heart jump, not give the slightest sign of recognition. I’m a highly self-disciplined creature. I refuse to twitch so much as a finger. Chances are she probably doesn’t even recall that night,  I’m sure I was just a random Other to her as so many others were to me. I can’t imagine how she would be able to distinguish me anyway, I take every precaution to remain anonymous.

The Masters take a long time binding us into position. I’m fastened spread-eagled to the floor, metal restraints are bolted down, including one across my neck. The Master tightens the bolts securely. My nipples are clamped to clips, attached to rope hanging from the ceiling, then pulled taut until my back arches away from the floor. From the sound, I think that she is being restrained in a similar fashion. But when I feel her breath between my legs, I  realize that The Masters have positioned her on her belly, face right up to my cunt.

She takes a cautious lap at my clit. I’m instantly engorged. Her tongue traces the pink curves and folds of my labia, searching that region neither above nor below, exploring the dark reaches of my anus. She flicks her tongue at my clit, then withdraws the moment I come near climax. We engage in this dance until I’m  in a moaning frenzy. I try to thrust my cunt onto her tongue, wordlessly begging for release.

A Master draws her head away. I can see from the reflection in the one way window that a rope is being fastened around her neck, up to a pulley suspended from the beams in the ceiling, then around her feet. The position forces her to hold her legs up to prevent her from choking. Another Master slides a spiked board under the arch in my already aching back, then loosens the ropes suspending my chest in the air. Now I have to hold my own body aloft in this position. Devils.

She has to continue to fuck me with her mouth, but to do so, she risks choking. When I finally come to climax, I will have to hold my body in this awkward position, there will be no relaxing into a contented heap for me. The Masters could chose to keep us in these positions for hours afterwards.

I raise my ass in the air as much as I can, hoping this small action could ease her troubles, if only for a moment. Instead of lapping at my pussy, she takes the hard road, stretching down to thrust her tongue into my anus. I can hear her struggle for breath in between every plunge. She fucks my ass with her tongue as deftly as any finger could. She prods deeper, I feel my ass open up like a jagged flower. Every so often she pulls away, taking an enormous gasp, then dives below the surface again.

My back aches. I rest myself against the spikes as much as I can stand, until the surface tension threatens to break me open, then I arch higher. I want to come instantly in her mouth, to let her know how much she excites me, pleases me. I can feel droplets of sweat fall from her forehead, trailing down to mingle with the wetness of my cunt. Every stroke of her tongue feels magnified.  She attacks my cunt with the same vigor and attention that she gave my ass.

Then I feel it. Something small and hard being pushed into my pussy by her tongue. She doesn’t break stride, but I’m so thrown by this act that I have to remember not to show any sign…of anything.

What has she just done? The possibilities swirl before me, I break concentration. My body gives way to the strain, and I hit the spikes beneath my back with a grimace. I heave myself back up and away. The Masters are flogging us both now, I scream until my throat is raw, I hear her grunt and choke. She bites every bit of meat within reach of her teeth. I grind my cunt in her face. The Masters flog us mercilessly, every stroke leaving stinging welts.

I am a caged animal, all instinct, no words. My body screams for a final release, but I realize that if I want to keep the object intact, I’ll have to fake it. I never fake it. It’s been one of my cardinal rules, a lie not only to my partner, but to myself. I have to decide, and I have to decide now. I can’t even begin to fathom what punishment lies in store for such a transgression.

I direct all my energy away from my pussy. I channel it all to my brain, picturing what this orgasm would feel like brought to life. I imagine the crest of the wave, crashing against her beautiful mouth. I envision each ripple of release, opening me wider, that high tight sliver of clarity overwhelmed by the blackness. I clench my pussy tightly, I feel her tongue hesitate, she understands. She holds her mouth tight against my cunt, covertly kissing me in gratitude. I free my mind as I constrain my body. Then I scream. I come harder in my mind’s eye then I ever have in reality. My entire body shakes from the strain, all my muscles exhausted.

Suddenly, we’re released. Restraints are undone, strong arms pull us to our feet. We’re wrapped in thick soft robes, blindfolded again, and escorted away by our respective Keepers. I keep my pussy clenched tight to keep the mysterious item from clattering to the floor. My steps are small and awkward. Once we leave The Room, my Keeper asks if I’m okay. “Leg cramp,” I answer.

I’ve long suspected that my dressing room was monitored, I don’t want to take any chances of this illicit act being discovered. I skip the shower, not entirely unusual, but unusual enough for a punishing session such as this. I hope it remains unnoticed. I leave the object in place as I dress, not daring to pull it out of me on the premises. My panties hold it in, I’m glad I decided to wear jeans tonight instead of a skirt. My car is waiting for me, already warmed up and running. I give the guard a nod of thanks and pull away. I wait until I’ve driven past the industrial park, then the  river, but I can’t wait until I’m home. I pull off onto a secluded road and unzip my jeans.

I extract a little silver capsule from my pussy. My name is engraved in tiny letters on the outside.

My name.

How? The capsule is meant to pull apart, concealing something inside. I twist one end off and a little slip of rolled up paper falls out. I leave it in my lap, untouched while I think this over.

How did she know it was me? I’ve taken every precaution throughout my term with The Company.  How long had she concealed this? Did she carry this in her mouth night after night, months on end? Did she somehow know we’d be partnered tonight? I couldn’t even fathom the lengths she had to go to get this to me. I’m flattered and terrified.

The Company is everything to me. It’s given the discipline I crave, taken me to the farthest extremes I can imagine. They are very good to me, and I abide by the rules to the letter. This, this tiny curl of paper could undo all of that.

I hold it in my hand. Blue ink bleeds through the paper, but I can’t make out what it says.

When the Company first found me, I was near penniless. My sexual appetites were driving me deeper into a dangerous underworld, nothing was ever enough. Secret clubs, cruel, vicious people one step away from criminally insane. The Company rescued me, gave me faith, a purpose: To be their instrument.

I unfurl the edge of the paper. I see a handwritten capital “C,” then I open it enough to reveal an “A”. Underneath I see the beginnings of what I assume is a phone number. The rest of the slip is still in a tight curl, resting lightly in my palm.

Is a freckle worth such a thing?

2 thoughts on “Anonymous

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