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Journey of a Pain Slut ...

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JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 4 Chapter 26

We went down to the restaurant for breakfast.
Normally I like something like fruit and yog and a green tea. Maybe a ginger tea.
But he was buying so I had the Full.
Two sausages. Fried bread. Black Pudding. And lots of brown sauce.
Wiped my plate with the thin, barely toasted hotel toast. Slimed up with the hotel butter.
Lovely!
I like a nice breakfast once in a while.

Then he took me upstairs and fucked me. And he hit me too which was nice..
But it pisses me that he sort of stops before I cum. Like he's being a deliberate bastard.
He thinks he's in love with me.
And for an old guy he does good. With his dick.
He's ok. And I like being fucked by a guy. Even if my forever love is Abi and will always be... forever.

Then he took me to the station and I think we sort of agreed he'd message me and that was that.
The weekend over.
Back on the fucking crappy train.
The trains in the northern powerhouse are as shitty as Southern.
Very shitty.
And the moors are eternally dull.

And she's there.
Kisses me.
Smiles.
Makes me a mug of tea.
And I give her my bunch of station roses. Red.
And she smiles.

And we chat.
About him. About the weekend.
'He's married. I heard him on the phone' she says.
'Yeah. And he's in, what, his fifties? So he's probably been married about thirty years.... shit. And now we're here. I wonder if he's done it before?'
'Probably. He's some sort of professional guy. Nice car. Nice voice. Lots of meetings away and conferences and shit. Sure he's fucked around. Maybe he's just dreamt about fucking over two sexy babes like us though...'
'Our luck then. What do you think he does? I mean, he sort of knows about drugs and defibs and things...'
'Anyone can Google it...'
'Yeah. Probably a banker or some shit. Anyway. He's as fucked up as we are I reckon...'

We go out for a beer.
And let the guys stare as we kiss and mess with each other's thighs.
And then we go home and I trim the roses and we strip each other naked and as I lie down on top of her I slide the thorny stems between our tits.
And we suck in the air and cry out and we move over each other.

I whisper in her sweet ear.
She smiles.
She mouths a 'yes'.
I fucking love her. It's always her. I fucking love her. Hurting with her. Kissing her.
I fucking love her.
 
THIS IS THE END OF ACT 4 - AND THERE WILL BE AN ACT 5

My sweet Little Girl, along with her friend Red, and I, will be back in a new adventure next week.

In the meantime please keep the dialogue going here. @Peony and I would love to know what you think of our 'chronicles' so far and, if you have any thoughts/fantasies about what you might want to see included in Act 5 then please tell us here.

Thanks for sticking with us, we love having you all around.
We will be back very, very soon!
 
JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 5 Chapter 1


The girl begged so well. Her eyes stared back at me, and as she said “Please,” it was unclear whether she was pleading for the horror to stop or whether she was desperate for more.

I shifted uncomfortably as a burgeoning erection began to push at my jeans. The girl, young and nubile, was not my slut and she would never be able to replace her, even in my mind’s eye, but she suffered so well.

I watched as the sackcloth bags filled with bricks and tied around her ankles pulled her stretched body towards the ground. This evil pull of gravity, filled will malintent, opened her labia, exposed the hidden soft folds to the sharp edge of the splintering wood and she cried out. The delightful yell added yet more length and girth to my hardening cock, as my gaze focused now on her overextended arms, the chains around her wrists and the constant flexing of her fingers in an attempt to distract her tortured mind from the extremities of the pain.

She wasn’t wet, her thighs were not glistening, she wasn’t turned on by the pain like my Little Girl would have been. But she was suffering and as the nail was hit hard, the small spike driven home, piercing through her manually, unwittingly engorged clitoris, securing it to the wood between her thighs, she passed out.

I was left breathless.

“I’m heading out dear.” My wife’s loving, caring voice broke through the sexual tension that had infused my solo erotic reverie.

“O … o … oh, okay see y … you later.” I closed down the screen on the Apple Macbook, and my voice was croaky and not certain of itself as I shouted my response down the stairs.

I heard the door lock as my wife left for her yoga class, and once more I was blissfully alone, left to reflect upon the times I had spent with my Little Girl, the real love of my life. I missed her so damn much. She clouded my thoughts. She woke up with me first thing in the morning and she went to bed with me at night.

I ate with her at the dining table and, somewhat worryingly, she accompanied me into my clinics and the surgical theatres.

Closing the curtains across the large bedroom window, I stripped off my clothes. As I took out my phone and swiped the screen until the picture of Red, tied to my Little Girl’s bed, firm, peachy ass high in the air, her body covered in red welted scratches, her thighs glistening, the thorny, long-stemmed roses strewn across her glorious body, my balls tightened and my hard-on was complete!


******


It had been a few weeks since those two glorious back-to-back weekends with the slut and Red. Subsequent weeks of frustration and desperate wanking and becoming more and more obsessed with what I did to them … and what I would do to them in the future.

Where was there to go next? They had ‘died’ for fuck’s sake, both of them, the last time out … what more was there to achieve except to make their death permanent. In one sense that was the ultimate goal. It wouldn’t be murder because they would want it, it would actually be a glorified way of assisting their own suicide, or so I was convincing myself.

I recalled the dungeon porn scene I had watched earlier and my Little Girl’s face took the place of the model in the scene. Agony in her eyes, bulbous red ball gag stretching her mouth wide, gloopy saliva dripping from her chin to the flat surface on which she was hog-tied.

As those thoughts floated around my head, my mind’s eye bringing the scene, and my slut, to life … infiltrating my erogenous zones and fuelling my lust, I closed my eyes, lay back in my chair and groaned.

“Are you okay love?” My wife looked up from her book, well her kindle reader actually, and peered over her glasses at me.

Her voice interrupting my thoughts was a surprise, though why it should have been I didn’t know given that we were sitting together in our front room.

“Fine honey, thanks, just a little stiff. Long surgery today.”

That was no lie. It had been a long surgery. Reconstructive work, supporting an ENT surgeon as he rebuilt a shattered cheek bone using vascular tissue and muscle from the girl’s slender, smooth thigh, the extraction of which was my job.

She had fallen from a wall, though what the fuck she was doing on the high brick structure in the first place I had no idea … but ours was not to question why! Her face had hit the ground first and now she needed urgent surgery.

She was eighteen, the girl. Pretty, with a firm body, in fact she was a real treat to the eye, all except her shattered face of course. She was just a little younger than my slut, and as she lay naked on the operating table, anaesthetised into her own welcome oblivion, I slipped my scalpel into the soft flesh of her thigh. Holding my breath as I gently pressed with skilled, knowing fingers, I watched the skin split and open up for me. I observed the blood oozing out in fast flowing rivulets down her thigh as I stepped back to allow the nearby arteries to be clamped.

I imagined the soft flesh belonging to the breasts of my Little Girl. Using a scalpel to slice into the firm mound, but of course she wouldn’t be safe within the unconscious confines of an anaesthetic … she would be wide awake so that she could ‘enjoy’ every moment.

And now, aching from the long-standing nature of the operation, I sat at home, in my country-side, privileged domesticity and groaned at thoughts of my Little Girl and her stunning friend, Red.

What next? The slut had been busy recently with her essays and whatever else it was, other than drinking and fucking … oh and getting stoned, that students did.

Had she seen Red? I knew that her flame haired friend was at another Uni in another town and so they couldn’t live together. Had my slut and her BF become friends with benefits? I felt more than a little jealous. She had kept in touch with me. The odd text, and a picture or two … but when I had asked about meeting again, she had been a little evasive. Essays, exams, library sessions, a home visit back to her Ma and Pa, as she called them … she was ‘not sure when’.

All her reasons were potentially genuine, but all also possibly playing for time. Had they had enough? Had they both suddenly come to their senses and realised that if we continued our trysts then they would both most likely end up permanently dead? Maybe through finding each other my slut and her friend had found a reason to live?

“Another drop dear?” I opened my eyes to see my wife standing over me with the bottle of 2006 Nuit St George, bought from a trip to the Burgundy Wine Region a few years ago.

I nodded, “Yes hon, please that would be lovely.”

It was as she poured that I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.
 
JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 5 Chapter 2

Abi went home to N-town after that night together.
But we knew half-term, or as they call it 'reading week' was coming up (along with more lecturer strikes...) and we had sort of made an agreement.

And so there I was at the station. Slummy Victoria. And I saw her coming up from the underground and ran to her and let her fling me in the air as we kissed and let her spin me round and, to be honest, so many girls are with girls now in London no one even blinks an eye. Well, maybe some old duffers off to a matinee or up to see an escort...

Trundle train down to the coast. To my little town. Big town really. Pretty lovely B-town by the sea. So excited to see her, to be with her. A week is sooo long! Fuck I love this girl and she loves me. The BF is history. Saw him in town and had a coffee and we decided that it was really over and I kissed him and gave his hand a sad farewell stroke. And went out into the drizzle.

Seagulls. Love them and hate them. Nah, love them.
Down to the front. Wind in our faces. She strokes my hair. Freshly dyed my favourite brilliant electric blue. Leans back on the rail, her legs apart. I lean in between. Bodies together. Kiss her sooo much. Fucking love her.

I'd told Ma that Abi was coming.
'Sharing?' she'd asked, a knowing look in her eyes.
'Mm.'
'I always knew' she said.
I smiled.
Pa hugged me.
'We love you, you know..' he said. Not a question. Obviously. I love them too. Which I know will be difficult in the future. But now I am so happy.

Dinner. All of us. Me, Abi, Sis, Ma and Pa. (big bro out). In the dining room. Burnt red walls. Polished table. Wine. Chatter. Cardinal Newman looking down from his frame. Me biting my lip. Tell us everything they say. And then they tell everything. All about me. Kiddy stories. Abi laughs.
My hands are hurting. My palms are burning. Sis sees me writhing my fingers. Gently pulls my hand towards her. She looks at the mark, burnt red. She can guess. From all those times in her room or mine with a hair brush or a wooden spoon or whatever. Girly games with bits of rope. She can guess.

In my room with Abi. Naked. Our marked bodies on each other. Marked by the thorns.
Sis taps at the door. Comes in. We sit up.
'Tell me about it' she says.
Quietly, slowly, not exactly fully, we do.
She's silent.
'I'm going to Oxford' she says.
I kiss her.

At the Marlborough. Crazy make up. Bright eyes. Wild. Fuck I love her. So fucking beautiful.

In bed with her. Text him. Just 'hi'. Think of sending a photo, but don't.
Then do.
Us two in the Marl.
Us two in bed.
'Shall we do something again?'

Wonder where he is when his phone pings. With his wife?
Wonder what he'll say....
 
JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 5 Chapter 3


Naked I stood before the whore. The girth and lengthening burden between my legs felt heavy, the swollen head pushing forward, rolling up the soft folds of the foreskin in its wake. Wide eyes watched it grow as the naked student-slut looked first into my face but then further down my body.

“On your knees,” I growled. Dropping slowly into a crouch and then to her knees, her eyes never leaving mine, she obeyed. I knew that she would. Unhurriedly her nubile, young, dark-skinned body slipped to the ground, her eyes becoming deliberately averted, gazing at the floor, knowing now not to meet mine.

I needed this release. I wanted my Little Girl. I wanted to feel the tight pussy enveloping my erection, her soft, young lips on mine, our tongues dancing in mutual ecstasy. But she was not here, and so I had to make do with a whore.

“Good girl,” I smirked, my words filled with platitudinal overtones. She didn’t speak but I saw her swallow, the constriction of her throat betraying the nerves that right now had no doubt infused her body.

“Open,” my command was a simple, single word. But as I approached, the undergraduate let her full lips part and then gasped as I gripped her lustrous, long, unfettered black hair in my fist and held her tightly.

It was not a blow job I wanted, it was a face-fuck. I slid my erection into her mouth, pushing firmly forward, navigating her oral passage until I reached her throat, whereupon I continued to thrust, impaling her, making her gag.

I smiled. Then I fucked her … hard … and fast … and deep.

By the time I released my grip, throwing her to the ground before me she was gasping for air and dripping with a thick, potent mix of my pre cum and her saliva. I was as hard as a rock. My urethral slit was dripping …

I needed more.

From each of the bedposts at the bedhead of this little student bedsit hung a pair of industrial strength handcuffs. None of the pink fluffy comfort that sometime adorns such tools, these were steel and hardcore, tools of her trade!

The whore flinched as I secured each one in turn around her wrists, leaving her arms stretched out wide, her gaze staring towards the bedroom wall before us, her peachy, dusky ass enthralling me, now fully exposed for my viewing pleasure.

I gripped her hips and pulled her towards me. She whimpered as the weight of her body now rested in part, on her knees, but in more painful part on her wrists, supported only by the harsh, steel cuffs that were now biting into her skin.

I picked up the crop. Her crop, the one she already had, and I whipped it quickly just inches from her ass, making her squirm from the sound as the rod sliced through the thin-air. Seconds later it was slicing through her flesh as I landed several blows in quick succession onto her firm ass cheeks.

She cried out as the red welts rose and glowed back at me.

“Does that hurt whore?” I asked.

“Y … Yes, Sir,” she replied in the manner prescribed.

If I used no names with my Little Girl, this student-whore who advertised her services from her pokey university bedsit in the student-land district to the North-West of Leeds, wouldn’t get my name either, not even a false one.

I had paid cash for her and so she did not require a name. Two hundred pounds for two hours of ‘bondage style fun’, was how she had advertised on the ‘Leeds Escorts’ web page.

I wasn’t sure how much ‘fun’ she was finding this right now. That thought rifled excitingly through my body and morphed into a lust-fuelled drip from my cock-head.

“Do you want more?” I asked, though the question was rhetorical because she was getting it anyway.

“Y … yes please, Sir,” she responded in a less than convincing manner.

I laughed and struck her again, even harder this time. Her whole body motioned forward as she crashed into the edge of the bed, jerking her arms and dragging at her cuffed wrists.

“Fuck!” she whispered. I waited for her to resume her position and then I hit her again … and again … and again.

Then I fucked her.

By the time I was ready to leave she was still laying, face down, on the bed. Nude and exhausted. Battered and beaten.

“There’s an extra fifty pounds for you here.” It was all I said as I left. She did not speak.


******


“You’ve lost weight,” my wife smiled at me as her delicate fingers circled around my upper arm to squeeze at my biceps. I had, she was right. Since I last saw my Little Girl a few weeks ago I had taken to the gym again, resurrecting my membership and so now, at least three times a week, I was working out, climbing infinity stairs, overworking my creaking knees with knee-lifts and treading-the-mill for kilometre upon kilometre. The whole routine was followed up with a swim and then some R&R in the hot tub and the sauna. I was feeling good … I was in love with a young student girl, I needed to feel, and look, way more than ‘good’!

“It’s a long time since I’ve seen you in this shape dear,” my wife was cozying up to me, she thought I was doing all this for her. I wasn’t.

But that wasn’t a fact I needed to share with my wife. Let her believe it was all for her. The slimmed down paunch, the reclaimed definition across my chest and my abs, even the trimming of my pubic hair, something I had never, ever done before.

I smiled and kissed her. When I say that she was a ‘fifty-something’ that was unfair really, because my wife had turned fifty only just before Christmas, and she was in good shape. Careful eating, twice-weekly yoga and an active lifestyle kept her very trim. She was fuckable still for sure, and I must not forget that. If I wanted to keep my trysts with the slut and her friend Red a secret then I must never forget to give my wife the attention she deserves.

With a moment to myself I swiped the phone to open the message from my Little Girl …

“Hi, shall we do something again?”

The pictures she sent were exquisite. Two were attached, both of her and Red. One showing the two of them in bed together, clearly naked, Red exposing a nice, hardened nipple, and another of them in the pub. Beautiful. That told me they were together now as an ‘item’. I presumed therefore that when my Little Girl said “… shall WE do something …”, Red was included in the ‘we’.

That was fine. That was good. I liked having them both. Red was stunning, statuesque almost, but the slut was the one I loved.

I read my reply. I had replied immediately with a very definitely, positive … “Yes. Can you make this weekend? Saturday?”

It was Tuesday the 18th February and it seemed they could make this coming weekend. Could I? You bet I could, whatever it took. I had proposed that date, this coming weekend because I couldn’t wait any longer for my piece of their ass, but I hadn’t thought it through, and so now I needed a plan. After developing a fixation on dungeon related porn over the past couple of weeks, a dungeon it had to be. Inquisition style. No mercy.

But where?

I knew just the place, if I could make it happen.

I opened the contact for George Meadows. George was on the security team at Leeds Town Hall. We did not live in Leeds but it was only a stone’s throw away from our countryside residence on the Pennine Way looking down over the Calder Valley.

“Hi George, I’m after a favour …”

I had operated on George’s daughter a few years ago, nothing life or death, but a substantial enough procedure and he had been eternally grateful. Like all surgeons I was consciously aware of de-coupling from my patients and their family post-procedure, as soon as the time was right. It was easy for them to become attached to their surgeon, given the service we provide, and over the medium to long term that wasn’t a healthy situation to be in.

But George had been useful, sorting out preferential parking at Town Hall events for me, and even getting me an upgraded ticket for a major concert, when they were like gold dust.

I had asked him for access to the subterranean cells under the Town Hall. They were the old jail cells, built in 1858 with the new Town Hall when Bridewell Police Station was based there … unused since 1902, but still in-tact. Cold, barren, stark … you could tour around them during certain days, and sometimes ambient events would be held in them, at Halloween for example.

I flipped through the pictures open in front of me on my MacBook screen and imagined my Little Girl naked and bound inside them.

But I wanted the cells to myself for the night. Could George arrange it, could he make it happen? When I called him I needed to skirt the truth, but not lie entirely. I had a ‘friend’, if he knew what I meant. A special, young girl-friend, and she was a bit of a thrill seeker. I needed to keep up with her, prove myself … but she was so worth it George, you should see her. Yes, it was deceitful, but with my high pressure life, surely George you don’t begrudge me this, do you?

He didn’t. He understood, so he said, and his tone assumed the officious, confidential levels that were regularly assumed when someone was ‘helping you out’.

He would meet me and get me a key. I needed to be very discreet – I assured him that would be absolutely no problem.

Could he let me have the ‘interrogation cell’, the one with …

“… with the ‘devices’ still inside?” he had finished my sentence for me.

“Yes, that’s the one George.”

It wasn’t a problem. George called me a lucky bastard.

He had no idea.
 
JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 5 Chapter 4

It's a cold, blowy day. Slumming in bed with Abi. Music from Sis's room. Billie Eilish. Nice.
Tangled in the twised duvet. Touching her. Playing with her hair.
Kiss her ear. So sweet she is.
Kiss her neck.
Kiss her nose.
Kiss her eyes.
Kiss her belly and her cunt. Linger. Round. Sweet. Softly.

Bacon and eggs and toast and let's go out!
Shopping in the Laines. Old clothes and LPs. Coffee and a cake. Joking and laughing and everyone is just like us here.
But they aren't.
At all
Because we are two mad crazy girls.

Bookshops and rain and wild seas.
Fucking love her. Being with her. Watching her hair blow over her face. Salt.
Wet skirts and faces and fingers touching.

What shall we do? I ask.
We'll go, won't we? she says
We'll go. I say.

Hoping for something. I don't know what.
Whatever he wants. She says. When we go, it's up to him. She says.
Yeah. I say. Up to him.
I don't really mind what he does. I say.
As long as... you know... it's us two. I want him to hurt us. I love you but I love seeing you hurt and you seeing me hurt.
I mean. When I cry. I hate it. But I want it so much.
Yeah. Me too. She says.
I never thought about it. Not before. Couldn't have imagined it. Not before.

But now?
Yeah. Now. It's all I want. I mean. Whatever. Fucked up world. Careers. Whatever. Nah. I want this. You and this. You and hurting.

We're mad aren't we?
We're fucking crazy. She says.

Bath. Soap. Her and me. Her back wet against my tits. Hate the fucking taps.

Back at the Marl. Love it here. Queer heaven. I knew I loved it even before...
Hide in a corner with her.
What do you fancy?
Well... She says. I sort of fancy bad things. Like... well... like a torture chamber. You know. Like in the inquisition. Not like in Iraq or some shit hole. Somewhere where they treat you properly as they torture you. Like a witch or someone. You know. Strappado. Rack. Hot things. Spikes. Ropes. Whips. Dark places and flaming torches and flickering shadows.
'Poetic' I say.
Yeah. She says. Poetic. Pain poetry. We should write a book.
And you? She says.

Hmmm. I guess the same. I say. Or an old bedstead and electricity on my tits and cunt.

And him? She says.
Don't care. I say. He can fuck me if he wants. I think he thinks I love him. Fucker. I mean, he's ok. He's enjoying it. And I don't mind him fucking me. Anyway he wants. I like being fucked. I love being with you and... you know... but I like being fucked. Hard. He's good at fucking. Not a kind fucker. A bastard fucker. But that's good. I think. But I don't really think anything of him apart from that. Just lucky to have found someone. I guess he's crazy too. I wonder what he spends his days doing?

Porn. She says. All day. Whenever he can. Or paying sluts for sex. Or ogling students. Dreaming. I guess we are perfect for him. Toys he can play with. No strings attached.
Unless he's tying us up. I say.
Ha.

I think he's married. She says. You can tell somehow. I think he loves his wife but he needs us. More. He needs to do these things. Like we need him to do them. I think it will get heavier and heavier coz he just can't stop and in the end...

He'll kill us. I say.
She's quiet... 'Yeah' she says. 'In the end... he'll kill us. And that's what has to happen I guess. Like Checkov with his gun. He'll kill us. He can't stop. We can't stop. So what else can happen. He'll kill us.

So do you mind? I ask her.
Not really. She says. Not really.
Let's get another drink. She says.
 
M
Peony said:
JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 5 Chapter 4

It's a cold, blowy day. Slumming in bed with Abi. Music from Sis's room. Billie Eilish. Nice.
Tangled in the twised duvet. Touching her. Playing with her hair.
Kiss her ear. So sweet she is.
Kiss her neck.
Kiss her nose.
Kiss her eyes.
Kiss her belly and her cunt. Linger. Round. Sweet. Softly.

Bacon and eggs and toast and let's go out!
Shopping in the Laines. Old clothes and LPs. Coffee and a cake. Joking and laughing and everyone is just like us here.
But they aren't.
At all
Because we are two mad crazy girls.

Bookshops and rain and wild seas.
Fucking love her. Being with her. Watching her hair blow over her face. Salt.
Wet skirts and faces and fingers touching.

What shall we do? I ask.
We'll go, won't we? she says
We'll go. I say.

Hoping for something. I don't know what.
Whatever he wants. She says. When we go, it's up to him. She says.
Yeah. I say. Up to him.
I don't really mind what he does. I say.
As long as... you know... it's us two. I want him to hurt us. I love you but I love seeing you hurt and you seeing me hurt.
I mean. When I cry. I hate it. But I want it so much.
Yeah. Me too. She says.
I never thought about it. Not before. Couldn't have imagined it. Not before.

But now?
Yeah. Now. It's all I want. I mean. Whatever. Fucked up world. Careers. Whatever. Nah. I want this. You and this. You and hurting.

We're mad aren't we?
We're fucking crazy. She says.

Bath. Soap. Her and me. Her back wet against my tits. Hate the fucking taps.

Back at the Marl. Love it here. Queer heaven. I knew I loved it even before...
Hide in a corner with her.
What do you fancy?
Well... She says. I sort of fancy bad things. Like... well... like a torture chamber. You know. Like in the inquisition. Not like in Iraq or some shit hole. Somewhere where they treat you properly as they torture you. Like a witch or someone. You know. Strappado. Rack. Hot things. Spikes. Ropes. Whips. Dark places and flaming torches and flickering shadows.
'Poetic' I say.
Yeah. She says. Poetic. Pain poetry. We should write a book.
And you? She says.

Hmmm. I guess the same. I say. Or an old bedstead and electricity on my tits and cunt.

And him? She says.
Don't care. I say. He can fuck me if he wants. I think he thinks I love him. Fucker. I mean, he's ok. He's enjoying it. And I don't mind him fucking me. Anyway he wants. I like being fucked. I love being with you and... you know... but I like being fucked. Hard. He's good at fucking. Not a kind fucker. A bastard fucker. But that's good. I think. But I don't really think anything of him apart from that. Just lucky to have found someone. I guess he's crazy too. I wonder what he spends his days doing?

Porn. She says. All day. Whenever he can. Or paying sluts for sex. Or ogling students. Dreaming. I guess we are perfect for him. Toys he can play with. No strings attached.
Unless he's tying us up. I say.
Ha.

I think he's married. She says. You can tell somehow. I think he loves his wife but he needs us. More. He needs to do these things. Like we need him to do them. I think it will get heavier and heavier coz he just can't stop and in the end...

He'll kill us. I say.
She's quiet... 'Yeah' she says. 'In the end... he'll kill us. And that's what has to happen I guess. Like Checkov with his gun. He'll kill us. He can't stop. We can't stop. So what else can happen. He'll kill us.

So do you mind? I ask her.
Not really. She says. Not really.
Let's get another drink. She says.
Click to expand...

My Little Girl has written some brilliant chapters, but this one is way up there. So real, so atmospheric - it transports you to wherever she is with Abi ...

But they are coming to me, the love of my life and her Flame Haired friend

Coming to me, and then ...
 
JOURNEY OF A PAIN SLUT - ACT 5 Chapter 5


“… The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way …” I felt compelled to look up the actual definition of serendipity after what had just happened.

My Little Girl had accepted the coming weekend as the time we would next get together. I needed a plan that kept my wife’s suspicions at bay.

Through another unbelievable turn of serendipity, I now had one!


******


“Darling,” my wife had sounded tentative when she spoke, the tone of her voice was the one she used when she wanted something.

“Yes hon,” I replied, only half listening.

“You know my sister’s new Flower Shop, the one that I …”

“Yes dear,” I was still not really listening.

“Well this weekend she has the final class and exam for her Extended Diploma in Floristry, and she needs someone to open the shop on Saturday for her …”

Now I was listening …

“And so …”

“And so, you need to leave me again on Saturday, and because she lives so far away you won’t be back until Sunday?”

“Leave on Friday actually darling, the shop opens at 8am … and most probably return on Monday if that’s alright? Oh my darling, is that okay?” She looked genuinely sorry as she moved to me and wound her arms around my neck.

I was beside myself with delight, and trying desperately not to show it.

“I guess I can manage without you … again,” I grinned as our lips met with a light touch.

She pulled away smiling, “Thank you darling, let me go call her. I really don’t know what I have done to deserve you!”

It was all I could do to stop myself from laughing out loud!


******


I had visions of a labyrinth of dark, wet, 'hostel' like cells and a heavy atmosphere held in chain adorned walls, I was not disappointed.

George had handed me the keys on Wednesday night, so that I could take a look round. Get my bearings. His spare set they were, and so I could hang onto them until ‘afterwards’.

The name Bridewell is the generic term for a Town Lock Up, historically a small prison used to house prisoners arrested in the town, and awaiting their appearance in court. The name comes originally from a prison for vagrants and petty offenders in London, which was near the church of St. Brides, and also near a well, hence the Bridewell. Most large cities in Victorian times had a centrally based Bridewell Prison and Leeds was no exception.

The old stone corridors were long and windy, catacomb-like, and surprisingly warm, a little like the basement storage at the hospital. Must be an underground thing. And this subterranean area that opened up once a flight of stone stairs had been descended from underneath the front entrance, was no different. Warm, scarily eerie and wonderfully soundproofed!

I could hear no sound from anywhere else. Not outside nor above … just silence, except for the natural sounds that emanated from this old circuitous series of corridors and rooms. Yet I would be able to enjoy every cry and groan, all of the yelling out loud from the slut and her friend, as well as their less voluminous pleas for mercy. Just walking around this place excited me.

Each cell contained an old wooden bench, and shackle rings for wrists and ankles fastened to the wood and to the wall. The rooms, were small and dark, with stone flagged floors, whitewashed walls, and no windows. The original thick wooden doors were in-tact with small food hatches cut into the wood that served the purpose of both serving the meagre food rations and ‘voyeuristically’ watching the prisoners.

Then there was the ‘interrogation room’.

Wow!

An old rack was the main device on display. This room had a small, modern rope-fence to keep the viewing public away from the pieces on display, but it was not secured and George had said to simply move it out of the way. I knew there would be no more tours between now and the weekend, there weren’t many this time of year anyway, and so I moved it off to one side now.

I fingered the old, rough wood of the rack. It felt so damn … evil. The long-slatted frame, its flat surface had rope ties at the top and steel manacles at the bottom to hold the victim’s ankles in place while the body was stretched to breaking point. A large cranking handle was placed at the head of the device, by the wrists, to pull the naked body taut, and then tauter still … I gripped the long handled and twisted. The wooden machine groaned superbly into life as the wheel turned and the ropes shifted. It worked! Fuck, yes …

When I saw the wooden rollers in the middle of the slatted frame my breath was taken away … they were adorned with wooden spikes. More blunt now than they once would have been, and no-where near as damage inflicting as the iron spikes that sat in the same place during medieval times. But bloody vicious and painful none-the-less, and they would mark an otherwise smooth, naked and exposed back for sure!

I couldn’t wait to get the slut tied up on this beauty!

I let my eyes scan around the rest of this larger cell. The whole warren of stone rooms and corridors had dull lighting installed, presumably to allow the visitors to see what they came to see, whilst not detracting from the atmosphere. And so, having switched it on I was delighted to see that the installed lighting meant that the electrics in here provided a small number of sockets into which things, like large vibrators, could be plugged. I smiled to myself with a very smug sense of satisfaction.

What else.

Oh damn! A wooden horse, and that edge was still sharp … and splintered. Fuck … and a chair. Large, old, wooden, studded all over with iron studs!

I had to lean against the wall and take stock of the thrills that were infusing my body right now. All of these devices, all straight out of my fantasies, and I would get to use them on my Little Girl, and her gorgeous friend Red.

Fuck, fuck, fuuuuccckkkkkk!

******

I sent George a text message of thanks.

“Enjoy Doc … ;)” was all he said, with a winking emoji. Even though as a Surgeon, I was a ‘Mr’, he always called me Doc.

My blood was pumping quickly and I was already struggling to control my excitement as I typed the text message.

“Saturday it is then Little One. All is in place. I have secured somewhere very special for us this time. I need you both to be in Leeds Centre by early afternoon. I will meet you at the station. Let me know the nearest train arrival time to 1pm for you. Book First Class travel on your credit card (you have got one, right?) You will need the comfort and rest. I will give you cash when I see you to pay for it. xx”

It was going to happen all over again. I looked up to the sky and once again thanked those damn lucky stars!

Then I re-read my message, let my finger hover over the screen momentarily, and then pressed SEND.
 
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