*Netzach (PART 2)
TRIGGER WARNING
This chapter contains descriptions of breath play, including choking.
I would like to interject that breath play is not safe under any circumstances. Starving the brain of oxygen can cause permanent brain damage. It can also kill people.
I also don't advise recreating the simulated sexual violence in this chapter. "Consensual nonconsent" is a controversy in the BDSM community for good reason. For the record, although "Magister" has said he's suspended "ancilla's" safeword for the duration of the ritual, if she had tapped out or otherwise used their previously-negotiated nonverbal safeword, he would have stopped the ritual immediately.
I wake up in the recovery position - prone, feet elevated, head turned to the side - and decide, based on the taste in my mouth, that I managed to escape vomiting. As soon as I regain consciousness, however, he pulls me up and, after taking a few experimental steps to see if I can walk, leads me across the room by my collar and stretches me over the couch. My nipples, already throbbing in pain from the clamps he hasn't yet taken off, become fire when they brush against the upholstery.
He's done something with cords to keep me in place. They're tight and uncomfortable.
Something lands hard on my back, a heavy spray of braided leather cords. And does not stop.
I whimper against the cushions.
He's flipped me over on the couch, rearranging me so that I'm facing up. The cords are back on, only now they're not just holding me in place, they're holding me taut. My arms feel like they want to wrench out of their sockets, but he has a pillow placed under my hips, supporting my weight. Somewhat. My body still wants to slide down, and my arms are on fire. I'm still fighting to breathe under the hood, too, which only makes it worse. Somehow, impossibly, he has managed to crucify me in a legs-splayed position on the couch. I gasp for breath that never quite seems to give me any actual air.
His hand reaches between my legs and seizes me, making me cry out. "This, too, belongs to me," he says flatly, as he releases me, and soon the blows rain down on me again.
When I start to sob, he puts a wadded scarf in my mouth.
Help me. Somebody, please help me.
He's untied the cords and removed the hood and collar and the clamps - I screamed at that, but my mouth was still gagged and not much noise escaped - and I'm on the floor, and I can breathe again, just, and he's driving into me with all his might. He's splitting me into pieces. My spine is on fire. Everything below my waist hurts, everywhere. From somewhere outside of myself, I can hear myself weeping.
He stops. I feel his sweat dripping onto my skin.
"This is mine," he says, and there is no velvet in his voice at all. There is no comfort for me to reach. I can't even find him. The only thing there is cold steel. "You are mine. And this is no place for the living. Ancilla, your life is mine."
And his hands are about my throat.
I don't have enough air to scream.
My heart fights. There is a pain in my ears, which are threatening to pop. My ears and my head are full of pain. Against it, I am helpless.
Blackness.
I'm lying on the couch. There is a cool, wet cloth on my head, which is free, and open to the air again. There is another wet cloth at my lips, moistening them. I bite at it and suck the water from it. His hand is on my shoulders. It is shaking.
"Meditate," he says softly.
He leans his head against mine.
I meditate.
Later in the night, I awaken from the exhausted slumber I slid into sometime during my meditations, and he grounds the energy of the circle for me, and we go to bed, where he has his first aid kit waiting. He insists on carrying me. I want to walk, but then, maybe his assessment of my ability to walk, or lack thereof, is a sound one. I don't know how he manages to do it so smoothly, given that we're roughly the same size; he must be stronger than he looks. I burrow my face into his shoulder, too tired to cry.
Morning. Our bodies scrape against the sheets. His hands and lips are soft, so soft. We cling to each other, proving to ourselves with every kiss, every brush of slow, tentative fingertips that we remember how to be gentle with each other. That there is still tenderness possible between us. Eventually, he takes me, and I moan into his mouth as he kisses me. I'm sore, but I don't care. We roll like clouds, and I ride him, tossed by a wind of need.
"Livomai pou se pligosa, sinkhorese me. Oh, eromene, se philo, se philo," he gasps. "Se philo. Se philo..." Over and over, until he cries out and arches his body against the rays of the morning sun. "Se philo!"
The light reveals the glistening track of a single tear escaping his eye and creeping down his temple.
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