Uncollared Part 2 - A Slave's Revenge

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Erotic Horror  |  House: Dark Erotica

After being brutalized by her Master who broke all the rules in their BDSM relationship, a tormented Slave gets her revenge. She's finally free.

I lay here, thinking that death would be a better option than this. Is it wrong that instead of him coming in daily to care for me, I wish he would just kill me? I can’t bear to look at his face. My body convulses with the urge to throw up every time I hear his footsteps in the hall. Every time he enters, I beg him to take me to the hospital, otherwise I do not speak.


“No, my slave. You are mine and I will take care of you. You will never need anyone else.” he coos as he softly brushes my hair or cleans my wounds.


I dream of death. I am no longer chained to the bed, but I know it is always a possibility. I’m not sure I could move if I wanted to. The chains and restraints still lay blatantly on the dresser as a constant reminder. Some days I fantasize about hanging myself with them while he is away.


There is nothing more he can take from me. He’s taken my normal life. He he has convinced the outside world that I am just busy. I am busy, surviving. He’s taken my body, my freedom, my will to live, my soul. I am all his. I am his slave. I am nothing and no one and I live only to serve my Master now.


Every few days he will drug me with sedatives, cuff me or tie me up and fuck me. I do not fight it. I must obey my Master. At least when he drugs me, I can go to my happy place. I’ve found most of the time I am unaware of what he has done to me until the pain sets in the next morning.


I’m not sure how much time has passed. I haven’t left the bedroom but to use the attached bathroom in what seems like weeks. The rules have changed. Wake up, shower, get in ready position. Perform whatever acts are required of me, sleep until the afternoon, get in ready position. Repeat until the wee hours of the morning. I have little sense of time. I am not allowed to open the curtains or go near the windows. He says he is always watching, that he installed cameras to make sure I will not hurt myself.


It’s been a couple months. I can tell because this nightmare dredges on and it feels like a lifetime. The weather has changed. He has brought in a heater but still does not allow me to have clothes. I must always be ready. I am thankful that I am still allowed towels and sheets.


I have gotten my body on a schedule. I can almost tell exactly when he will be up and when he will be home. I searched the room and the bathroom while he is at work. I have only found one camera in the shower. I make sure to keep to my daily shower schedule for this reason, but for a few hours each day I scour the room. Trying to think of an escape plan. I still have not ventured from the bedroom or near the windows, in fear of punishment. I couldn’t take that again. My soul would surely leave my body. I dare not even touch the door knob although the shiny metal calls to me daily. But what if he knows. What if a lowly slave like me is too stupid to find hidden cameras.


I think I am gaining his trust. I am a good slave. He brings me downstairs and allows me to make him dinner now. He has taped a square in the kitchen that I must stay in, away from the doors, windows, and phone in the living room. I am a good slave. I would never betray him. I obey. I happily stay in my square, thankful for the change of scenery. I am a good slave.


My heart is racing. It feels like it’s going to burst through my chest with every step. I should turn around. What if he IS watching? What if he’s on his way home right now? The metal door knob feels like it’s setting my soul on fire. There is no turning back.


I have no where to go. No one would understand. I am a good slave. Maybe someone in the community can help me. Would they tell him? Would they hurt him? Would they hold me until he came to get me? I can’t trust anyone. Everything I was told about being his collared slave is a lie.


It’s ringing. I should hang up. I should go back to my room. “Hello?”


“Hey, its me.” I whisper frantically.


“Hey! How are you? I haven’t heard from you guys in forever.”


“I’m fine.” I’m fine? Did I just say that? I’M FINE?! Tell her. Just tell her to come get you right now. Tell her you need her to dive you out of state. Tell her you’ll explain everything on the way and beg her to come and save you. Save me. But then that bastard would get away with everything. But the community is so close knit. If the law gets involved, I’ll have no one. Why would they believe me? He’ll tell them I’m a filthy liar and miserable slave. That I accused him of these things out of spite. I am a good slave.


“You still there? What are you guys doing for the holidays? We’ll be hosting a play party after Thanksgiving. We’d love for you guys to be there!”


“That’s actually why I’m calling”, I blurt out “Do you still make customizations? I need you to make me a surprise present for Master.”


“Oh yeah? What are you thinking?”


“I want to surprise him with a St. Andrew’s cross. You know how he adores restraints. I think he’ll just love it!” I laugh. “But you can’t say a word! Promise me you won’t give it away. Promise.” My voice begins to crack. I try my damnedest to stay jovial. “And, don’t tell him I called. Okay? Obviously, I didn’t ask” I joke. “I’m a terrible slave.”


I quickly hang up the phone. My whole body is trembling. It’s been less than five minutes. Did I touch anything on my way downstairs? Should I wipe down the phone? I clear the call history, carefully place it back on the charger, scour the room to see if I’ve left any traces and dash back upstairs and get in ready position. Better safe than sorry. I am a good slave.


He has given me a clock in the bedroom. I am allowed to go downstairs at five pm and make dinner. He gets home at six, drinks his beer, eats his dinner and prepares to fuck me. He trusts that I will go straight to the kitchen and stay in my square. He says there are cameras in the living room and dining room. I have kept up with our friends about his surprise. I wonder what he says when they ask about me. I wonder if he knows and is just waiting to punish me with my own devices. They will help hide it in the basement tomorrow while he is at work.


I hear his car leave the driveway. I wait ten minutes to be sure and peek through the corner of the window to verify. He has left for work. I crawl under the bed and check on the sock. It is still there. They are still there. I breathe brief sigh of relief. Part of me still doesn’t believe he doesn’t know I’ve been cheeking the sedatives. Spitting them out while he is focused on being inside me, by pretending I enjoy it. Throwing my head and moaning to get them out of my mouth. Praying they are never seen.


 These weeks have been hell. Without the drugs I can feel every last inch of his disgustingly huge cock penetrating me. I can taste his salty sweat when he bites my neck. It’s suffocating. My body continuously betraying me by letting me orgasm again and again. Although, maybe it is how I’ve gained his trust, because I am a good slave.


I vigorously search the house for my clothes. He has emptied all the drawers in our room and filled them with toys and equipment from the closet. Defeated I default to wearing one of his white t-shirts and a pair of his jeans with a belt from the guest room where he sleeps. I feel dirty.


 I hear a car in the driveway. My heart plunges into my stomach and forces me to my knees. Is he home? How much worse can his punishments get? I deserve to be punished.


The phone rings downstairs. I’m frozen. I don’t get it. What if he is testing me? It stops. There are no keys in the door. No boots up the path. I gather my courage and peer out the corner of my bedroom window. The phone rings again. It is my friends dropping off the “surprise”. I dash for the phone and tell them to make it quick, he could be home any minute, knowing full well he won’t be home until six.


This is happening. If I don’t finish this, I’ll be dead, I think to myself as I stare at the St. Andrew’s cross laying flat on the basement floor. I check the time. Three hours. I run to gather my supplies.


Chains. Check. Restraints. Check. I run through my list of necessities over and over trying to convince myself I am doing this. I’ve come too far to back out now. Next time he will kill me. I fold and put away the clothes that I wore, making sure nothing is out of place and head downstairs to make dinner.


While dinner cooks I franticly pound the sedatives into a fine powder and mix it with the laxative powder. I grab the first two beers in the front of the fridge and split the mixture between them. They begin to bubble but before I can panic it subsides and the mixture begins to dissolve and is unnoticeable.


After screwing the caps back onto the bottles, I check the time. Twenty minutes. I’m suddenly eerily calm. It’s almost time, I think as I take dinner out of the oven to let it rest. I pace for a few minutes within my square and get in ready position in front of the oven in anticipation of his arrival.


He enters through the front door and takes pause in the entryway, putting away his coat and boots. I hear the jingle of his belt buckle as he carelessly tosses his pants over the back of the loveseat, enters the kitchen and grabs his first beer.


“How was your day, Master?”


“Shit.” He replies flatly.


I crawl on my knees to him sitting at the kitchen table.


“May I help with that, Master?” I ask as I look up at him seductively, afraid he might notice a different taste in the beer. I slide my hands into his boxers revealing his growing member. I massage it for a bit before forcing myself to take it in my mouth. I take it all in getting it wet enough to jack. I lift up, grabbing it with both fists and begin to wring it while I trace his head with my tongue.


I notice the beer still in his hands. I can’t believe I’m doing this. He takes a large gulp, and I plunge him deep into my throat. I gag as he puts one hand on the top of my head, grasps my hair to bob me faster and takes another swig. I hear him moaning, but it is unusually drawn out. He goes to set the bottle on the table and almost misses. As I come up, I lean hard against his fist and ask sweetly “Would Master like another?”


“You spoil me,” he lazily smiles “make it quick, I’m almost there.”


I crawl to the fridge and grab the last tainted bottle I shake it slightly to remove any settled debris from the bottom, open it, rub it down the middle of my breasts and hand it to him. He takes a sloppy sip as I put his pulsating red, ready to blow cock back into my mouth and strain to look up at him while finishing him off. Another swig, loud moan and he throws himself back in his chair. I get a throat and face full of cum while I hold on to his thighs, so he doesn’t fall backwards. He’s acting unusual. This is it.


“That was so good I need to lay down.” he slurs and tries unsuccessfully to stand up. I walk up behind him and start rubbing his shoulders keeping him in the chair. With in minutes his head sinks. I must test how out he is. I push him forward toward the table. With a thunk he falls into it head first.


“Bastard,” I whisper, grabbing a beer for myself to calm my nerves. I head to the guest room to put on some clothes and grab the car keys on the way back to the kitchen. The first step is to get him to the basement. He’s quite a bit heavier than I am. I need to make sure he doesn’t wake up during transport.


I grasp the glass bottle solidly like a baseball bat. The cracking sound echoes through the kitchen when it makes contact with his skull. I slowly sip my foaming beer and ponder my next steps.


It takes some force to tip the kitchen chair backward with him in it. I use our nylon rope to firmly bind him and slip a couple of wraps around the chair to steady him while I drag it tilted across the kitchen floor.  We arrive at the basement stairs. I set the chair up-right and his body slouches forward, pulling against the rope. I slide the two wraps from the chair and tip it forward. He tumbles sideways down the stairs and lands with a thump near the bottom. Walking down the stairs I can’t help but kick his ass off the last few steps, strip him and check that he’s still breathing. I don’t want him to miss out on this.


I ready the restraints on the cross, lying flat on the cement basement floor. Damn, it takes a lot of effort to drag 200 pounds of dead weight. I gingerly arrange him. Strapping his wrists, ankles and waist to his “present”. I had a difficult time figuring out how to lift the X shaped cross into a standing position, but I was able to make a pully from our long chains. I yank the chain with all my might, it practically pulls me forward with it. Finding my footing I put my weight into it and hoist it into a standing position with him on it. I quickly wrap the chain around the nearest support post, padlock it, tripping over a metal bucket in the process. “Perfect,” I think to myself as I grab it and run upstairs to fill it with ice water.


He moves his head slightly after the ice water hits his face and lets out a low rumbling moan. I tap his check softly.


“Master? Master, are you ok?”


He moans again and this time raises his head. Shit! I forgot to gag him. I frantically search around for something to stifle him before he is more coherent. There’s an old oil rag on the nearby work bench. I shove it into his mouth and seal it with duct tape. The surprise of this act brings him around a bit more. He blinks slowly in his drugged stupor, his eyes slowly widening with the realization of his position.


I can hear his stomach churn. I place the bucket underneath him, just in case. He begins to jerk his arms and legs to struggle against the restraints. His eyes look like they will bulge out of his head any moment.


“Hi Master,” I coo into his ear. “You’re right. I don’t need anyone else. I am yours….”


“And Master, you are mine.”


He hopelessly continues his attempt to struggle free. I hear his stomach gurgle in fear… and maybe a bit from the laxatives. A smile creeps across my lips. You’ve always been full of shit.


I caress his naked body. Tracing swirls from his neck to his groin, dragging my nails down his pecks and thighs. I reach into my pocket and pull out a large, thick rubber band and snatch his balls in my fist. Pulling them down taught, I hang the band loosely around my fist and quickly use both hands to twist the top of his scrotum and secure it by wrapping the band around it what seems like a dozen times until it can’t get any tighter. I can hear moans, that I know are desperate cries. How do you like it, bastard? How does it feel to have no control? His balls are turning a deep purple, his face a deep red.


I raise the gardening sheers to his eyeline and trace them down his quaking body, lifting and dropping his dick with the blades. His stomach turns and he shits himself. Thrown off guard by this I step back and for some reason start to laugh uncontrollably. I set the sheers back on the work bench and reach for the blow torch.

Click. Click…. Click. Click. Hissssss. He starts to violently convulse, eyes wide. I can’t tell if he’s struggling again or if fear has overtaken him. I move it closer and farther away from his body. Mentally torturing him. I then swing it toward the metal branding rod he used on me. I gaze into the blue flame until the end of the rod is bright red.


He will never touch anyone ever again and if he survives this everyone will know what he has done. I turn off and lay down the torch. Rage overcomes me and I jam the searing metal brand into his forehead. He bellows so forcefully in pain that he loosens the tape over his mouth and passes out.


Afraid someone has heard him I withdraw the rod and drop it to the ground, barely missing my feet. If I’m going down for this, I’m sure as hell going to finish what I started. I snatch up the sheers and in one quick bloody snip his sack and balls drop into the bucket of shit below.


Damnit! He’s out again! He really has no tolerance. I rip the tape and rag out of his mouth. Still in a fit of rage I use a nearby pair of pliers to retrieve his blood and shit covered testicles and shove them into his mouth and try to retrieve the tape. His body convulses, he must be coming to again.


He throws his head back and forth, forcing them out of his mouth and vomits all over himself. Instinctively I grab them and force them back into his mouth and quickly pile layers of tape over it.


Wiping my hands on another dirty rag, I pat my pocket to make sure I haven’t lost the keys.

I turn to look him in eyes one last time.


“Hey. Master. Eat shit and die.”


Submitted: May 08, 2019

© Copyright 2022 Call_m3_kitten. All rights reserved.

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The Psychic Cherry

Now that was a good cruel revenge of what he has done to her. We should never think that a woman could do nothing or she doesn't have a power. She can be a maker and a destroyer as well.

Sun, June 9th, 2019 7:53am

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