Slave AliceAlthea

I want the door to close behind me and feel my stomach drop. There are too many of them for me to keep track of at once—men and women Different faces, different hands, different voices. I want that first horrible little realization that they've all been waiting for me. I want my clothes ripped off my body before I can find my nerve. Cold restraints closing around my wrists and ankles. I pull once, then harder, and nothing gives. I want to feel the weight of the restraints and know that, for tonight, getting free isn't something my I can accomplish on its own. I want to feel exposed beneath all those eyes. Then someone hurts me. I flinch. Someone laughs. Another hand finds me. Another sting. I pull uselessly against the restraints and suddenly I'm frightened enough that my body believes. I want to beg. I want to look into someone's face hoping for sympathy and find hunger instead. I want to feel the first cut and see the first streak of red against my skin, scarlet staining a blade. Then another. And another. I want the blood to become part of the night—on my skin, on their hands, marking me with the evidence of what they're doing to me. Then I feel someone's mouth against one of the wounds. That's the moment I imagine over and over. The warmth of their mouth against ruby red wounds. The vulnerability of knowing exactly what they're tasting. Watching them rise again with my blood on their lips and seeing, unmistakably, that they liked it. Someone else wants a taste. Then another. And all the while, I want to be theirs sexually too—not cherished or worshipped, but shared. I want my restrained body treated like something placed there for everyone's pleasure, passed between different desires until sex and pain and fear and pleasure become impossible for me to neatly separate. At first I fight them. I want to mean it when I struggle. I want my heart pounding. I want that animal instinct screaming at me to get away while the restraints remind me that I can't. But slowly something changes. A cry becomes a moan. I stop pulling quite so hard. Someone hurts me again and this time I hate the realization that part of me loved it. Someone returns their mouth to my blood and instead of recoiling, I find myself pressing toward them as far as the restraints allow. Eventually I realize I'm not trying to escape anymore. I'm still restrained. Still bleeding. Still being used. They're still treating me like something that belongs to the room rather than someone the evening revolves around. But now I want it. I want the humiliation of hearing my own voice change from pleading for mercy to pleading for more. And I don't want that confession to make them suddenly gentle. I want them laughing and talking with each other. Enjoying themselves. Enjoying each other. Someone wandering away from me because something else has their attention, then returning later because they've decided they want me again. I'm physically at the center of everything without being the guest of honor. I'm simply there for them. The entertainment. The toy. The thing they hurt, taste, share and enjoy together. I'm not sitting at the table with everyone else. I'm the meal. And somewhere between the first frightened struggle and the last drop of blood, I want to realize there is nowhere I'd rather be.

The items shown below were agreed to by the slave when doing its Skills Assessment.

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