Chasing Me Chasing You

An uncollared submissive struggling through depression, motherhood, and the constant craving of her next orgasm.

Worse than the worst

When she first started sobbing, way back at the beginning, she was able to think about how her staccato wails reverberated off the blank cement brick walls. She was able to think about the echo and the way it distorted her pain into something both sinister and absurd. She was even able to briefly think something about how echos work, a bit of science from a middle school science fair project.

She was no longer able to think any of those things. She was barely able to think of anything at all, except a wordless memory that was the taste of piss, the smell of her own vomit, and the feelings of failure, and ridicule. And a name, “Donald.”

Her calves were tied to a stool that had left the ground some time ago. She was suspended from the ceiling by her arms, which were tired, her left breast, which HURT, and a rope that ran around her waist, which was also attached to a steel hook in her asshole, giving the feeling that it was nothing more than the strength of her sphincter muscle that kept her from spilling face first onto the cement below.

She wasn’t sobbing now, at this moment in time. The sound is more like painful breathing with ravaged and broken lungs.  She just hangs, alone, in the dark. Her eyes shut so tightly she doesn’t even realize the room is dark. Without wanting to her mind pulls her back, again, to the woods just behind the camp party cabin.


Two years ago she and Master had gone to “Camp” for the first time. Not camping, though they did stay in a tent. The kind of “Camp,” the thought of which makes the heart skip a beat, heavy with the memory of strong experiences or with an unrealized fantasy lodged deep in the heart. That’s how it was for her, the excitement, when she was pulled, naked gagged and attached to a long line of naked and gagged submissives, into Camp for the first time.

The long weekend in that fly-over state was her idea, but it was his ideas that dominated their time there. Everything was powerful and wonderful until the last night, when it was powerful and awful.

She had experienced so many new and exciting play opportunities – things she had never thought of, never heard of. The opprotunity to be as kinky as she always wanted to be in her vanilla life. To only focus on being his happy, humiliated slave. She felt free and empowered, but also youthful, full of that open-minded, wide eyed excitement that drives toddlers to spontaneously make new friends every time they go out into public.

After the closing ceremonies they went to one of the private cabins where nothing less than a bender was unfolding. Anxious dungeon monitors were moving throughout the space but, despite the copious amount of rotted grass water men and women were drinking, everything was orderly and consensual. Honestly, between you and me, everything was just fine. But monitors are supposed to be observant and judgmental, and this place, they were nervous.

She was not allowed more than one cup while master drank uproariously with his fellow tops. She sat with a new friend, a young woman whose domme was also socializing. For both it was a first camp experience, and they were sharing a mutual discovery of how powerful total immersion could be. At one point, he and a troupe of other male doms walked up with evil glints in their eyes to the chair in the corner where she had been left to talk with a new friend. Master picked her up with little more than a grunt, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her toward the door. She sort-of-grinned at her friend, who sort-of-grinned back, as she and four men she didn’t know walked out of the cabin and into the woods behind.

She was set down in the underbrush, told to “kneel” and “open yer slut mouth.” A serenade of zippers settled some of the anxious butterflies in her stomach as she concluded that this was going to be another mass blowjob and bukkee session, her third of the weekend. That all ended when she felt a warm stream hit of something foul hit her arm.

Well, he was always talking about how he wanted a piss slave.

Rough fingers grabbed her face, pinched her cheeks, and forced her mouth open. She had never tasted piss before, she never wanted to. At first, she thought, it actually wasn’t that bad. She tilted her head obligingly, letting it flow out of her mouth. Then a second stream joined the first. She was trying to adjust to the additional volume when a third stream hit her nose. She inhaled sharply, involuntarily. Piss filled her nose, choked and burned her throat. She coughed – once – before throwing up violently all over the dirt. She feel forward into the wet dirt.

“Jesus!” screamed one of doms. Another started laughing. Someone grabbed her hair and tried to pull her back onto her knees. There was a lot of commotion, more screaming.

When her dom finally picked her up off the ground, she saw, through tear muddled eyes, a dungeon monitor leading the rest of the men back to the party. She didn’t even know he was there.

Her master picked her up off the ground, cradled her, carried her somewhere, she didn’t care where. She buried her face in his chest, just letting him carry her, just being carried.

They got back to their tent, he gave her water and cleaned her up. He laid her down. They talked. He admitted putting her into a dangerous situation, apologized. She apologized repeatedly, cried, said she couldn’t do it again. Never again. He said he understood. She saw the sadness in his eyes. In that moment, she didn’t care.

He took her down from her suspension in what felt like the last seconds before her shoulders would have given out. She was now tightly strapped to a chair covered in shallow steel spikes. Compared to the pain in her shoulders and tits, the generalized pain spread across her body was soothing. She was drifting toward subspace and sleep.

“GIVE ME THE NAME!” The scream brought her back into the moment.  He was holding it a piece of paper, torn from an old children’s book the found at a thrift store. The jaunty smile of that fucking cartoon duck made her almost sick and she refused to look at it. He grabbed her head and turned it.

“No,” she breathed. He turned to a table and grabbed a pair of viciously sharp nipple clamps and went to work.

Deep breath, she told herself. Remember what this is for. …

Endure for two hours and I’ll take you to a spa for the weekend.
Give up the name and your a piss slave for a week.

A week ago he wanted to revisit the piss drinking issue. She said she thought she couldn’t do it. He asked why. She said it was the worst thing she could think of. He grinned, issued a challenge.

One Response to “Worse than the worst”

  • Midas

    Better then a lot 🙂


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