Pornography – I can’t get enough of it. If I could sum up my life, my passion, my will to live, it all starts there. You see, ultimately – when you do something enough, or even too much, it’s not exciting anymore. Hell, it just becomes life. If you have prime rib every night, well hell, it’s just another meal. That’s where I got. By the time I was legally able to by pornography, I was completely bored with it. I think they call it the hedonic treadmill. Either way, I had to find some desert.
I don’t know how sex lives typically go, but I could never find a person who be interested in the types of things I was. That’s until I found the world of BDSM. Whips, chains, shackles, hearing the moans when you first walk into a dungeon. I just can’t get enough. It’s not an easy world to jump into. You won’t find a lit up club on strip central. No, they keep them hidden. You almost have to establish a reputation. You have to establish a name (or lose your identity completely, depending on what you’re after).
I scare the typical Doms. It’s all about consent, trust, and a mutual understanding. When they ask me if I’m doing alright, I get very angry.
“You do not break character!”
That’s when I met them. I know them only as the Dommy Gods.
And so our story begins…
It all started with Mistress Synthy. She put a latex mask over my face, that night I had received the beating of my life. Mistress Synthy kneeled before me, she took off the mask, and put oil on my wounds. She kissed me and asked,
“Is this what you want? Your life, is this what you want?”
I nodded as I quivered.
She instructed me that I had to give everything up. My job, my home.
“Are there any loose ends you need to take care of?” she asked as she stroked my hair. I simply shook my head. From that moment on, I was a pet, a nameless, faceless Gimp. I don’t know if the world is looking for David Smith, but I don’t care. He’s not here.
I don’t know where they took me, that’s the true spirit of a dungeon. Frankly, I am covered from head to toe all the time. They take me out and clean me up once a week. Torture, you bet. And I can’t get enough of it.
Sometimes they let me watch. I wanted to see how far things could go. My Mistress understood that. She whispered something into my ear.
“We’re going to introduce you into the world of Snuff, but from here on out, you are ours to keep”.
I simply nodded
They gave me a new mask. This time I had to watch. For a while, it all seemed standard. The moans, the screams. It seemed like another standard session. As time progressed, it only seemed to escalate. Typically, there’s that moment, that time when they stop. That moment never came. She screamed louder and louder. Then it all stopped.
The mistress and fully cloaked participants parted the table. They urged me to come look.
She was dead.
Am I in over my head? How wrong was this, and was I a part of it? Will I ever make it out alive?
Mistress Synthy sat me down, glared into my eyes, and said to me,
“Next time, we’re getting you involved,”
I have no clue what part I’m taking in this. Am I getting out? To be perfectly honest, I can’t wait.