#captivity.

By a week or two in, he spread me out over every possible surface in his house, bent me over to eat me out from behind, tied me up in difficult positions so he can hear me scream as I come. And that’s all he asks of me: to let myself react. He’s taken such good care of me, and he doesn’t hurt me like others might, doesn’t fuck me for his own pleasure, or lend me out to his friends. He just wants to taste my pleasure, to hear it and feel it and see it.

He’s angry when I don’t come, and even though I cry and apologize, he leaves me alone in my crate for days. Then he’s all soft and sorry and he eats me out a dozen times in five hours.

Sometimes he uses his fingers or toys, but always tongue. Always his mouth on me. And he films it every time. Takes pictures before and after, too. My pussy lips red and swollen dripping with his saliva and my arousal.  

it takes a moment to realize that i’m restrained, wrists and ankles cuffed, that i’m lying on a cold, metal table, that the hands are gloved with nitrile or latex, and the grabbing is actually prodding and poking and probing, measurements called out, pens scratching to write down numbers and observations. the fingers in my mouth are counting my teeth and checking them for major defects. the hand at my throat is measuring the circumference, and then the length, mapping out my arteries and trachea. the hands in most places are accompanied by instruments, whether tapes or rulers or calipers or blood pressure cuffs or whatever it is they’ve forced dry into my cunt to see what it can take without any preparation.

there’s an iv in my arm that i don’t notice until somebody begins measuring my palm and fingers, twisting me this way and that to make it easier on themself. pens scratch against paper as notes are taken, measurements recorded, observations dictated.