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From: servantboy@poboxes.com (Servant)
Subject: New Year's Eve Party (F/m, torture, humiliation)
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I am looking for a Domme, professional or amateur makes no difference,
who can get as excited by this fantasy as I am. . .

NEW YEAR'S EVE

I am brought before you, nude and in chains.  Your guards push me to
my knees and padlock the handcuffs which restrain my wrists to the
shackles which bind my ankles so that I must continue kneeling.  A
metal bar is placed between my knees to keep my legs widely-spread so
I will be exposed and vulnerable.  As you watch, your guards lock a
soft leather collar around my neck and attach a chain to the back.
They padlock the chain to my shackles so that my head will be pulled
back as far as it can possibly go.  Your guards produce a roll of
wide, heavy tape and use it to seal my lips and eyes.  With that you
leave me to suffer alone.

An hour later, though the agony of straining muscles makes it seem far
longer, you return.  Your guards rip the tape from my lips.  As one
forces my mouth open, the other wedges a metal ring several inches in
diameter between my jaws to hold my mouth wide open.  Your guard then
draws the leather straps behind my head and buckles them securely so
the ring will remain in place.

Dismissing your servants, you circle me, examining your newest
acquisition, the newest addition to your living room decor:  a nude
man, chained on his knees, his head drawn back painfully, his mouth
held wide open by a ring of steel, his eyes sealed.  Pleased with your
new creation, you bend down to whisper to me.

"Is this what you expected?" you ask, you lips so close to my ear that
I feel your warm breath as I hear your words.  "Or did you think it
would be different?  How did you think it would be?  Would you spend
your days massaging me, your evenings bathing me and your nights as my
lover?"

You laugh at me.

"Stupid, worthless little slut," you call me, but with more pity than
scorn.  "How could you possibly imagine that by giving yourself to me
you would meet any fate other than this?  If I had to take you against
your will, perhaps you would be worthy of keeping, but the fact that
you actually longed to give yourself away can only mean that you place
no value on yourself.  If you do not, how could I possibly?"

You run your fingers through my hair for a moment as the full meaning
of your words sinks in.  If my muscles were not drawn so hopelessly
tight, I would be slumping with depression and hopelessness at the
knowledge that you count me worthless.  As it is, I remain as still as
your bonds require, more object than human.

"And so, since you are worthless to me, I am going to give you what
you deserve rather than what you desire.  Tonight, I will have a
party.  My guests will begin arriving any minute.  When I allow you to
see you will recognize them all. . .  Old friends, old lovers. . .  I
have invited all of them into my home to witness your final
humiliation.  Tonight I will degrade you before them so they can
realize just how pathetic you are."

I feel something being slipped into my mouth.  It is a cone-shaped
paper cup of the type one might find at a water cooler.  It is a
perfect fit for the ring which holds my mouth open.

"For the first half of the evening, you will be my ashtray," you tell
me, making the purpose of the cup clear.  "Then I will have you placed
on the gallows I've had constructed especially for the evening.
Anyone who wishes to will be able to come by and examine you more
closely.  Then, at the stroke of midnight. . .  As the new year
begins. . .  I will press a single button to open the trapdoor beneath
your feet.  All of us, your friends and I, will ring in the new year
by laughing at your swinging body. . .  Dying or already dead."

Without another word, you leave me, returning a few moments later.  I
can already hear the sounds of conversation as your guests begin to
arrive.  Though I cannot see it, you carry in your hand a long, dark
cigarette inserted into a carved ebony holder.  You blow a stream of
cigarette smoke in my face and then, tapping the holder a single time
with the tip of your index finger, you drop a small bit of ash into
the cup.  I hear a familiar but unplaceable feminine laugh as you do
so.  An old lover, as you have promised, enjoying my transformation
into a mere ashtray.

The evening unfolds as you have told me it would.  The cup slowly
fills with the remains of our cigarettes as well as a few smoked by
others who wished to share in my degradation.  I hear familiar voices,
both male and female, mocking me and praising your ingenuity and
imagination.  I am aroused despite myself, a sight which draws further
laughter.

"The little cunt is actually enjoying it," you announce to much
amusement.

After hours, I feel the strong hands of your guards removing the cup
from my mouth and the chains from my limbs.  Weakened by hours of
strained muscles and weeks of deprivation in the horrible recesses of
your dungeons, I have no hope of escape.  Still, your guards waste no
time in binding my wrists behind me with thick, coarse rope.  My
ankles receive the same treatment.  The heavy tape again seals my lips
and I am dragged up the unpainted wooden stairs of the gallows you
have designed for me.  A noose fashioned of the same coarse rope is
slipped over my head and drawn tight around my throat.  It is your own
hand that rips the tape from my eyes, revealing to me the assembly of
supposed friends and former loves who, dressed in their very best,
stand sipping champaign and waiting impatiently for my imminent death.

Do as you will with him, you tell them, and they happily oblige.  They
pass by me, individually or as couples.  Sometimes just to examine me
with a condescending smile or a whispered comment between them
followed by a laugh which can only be at my expense.  More often they
want a more personal encounter, mocking words, drinks thrown in my
face or poured over my head, a slap to my cheek or a kick to my
genitals. . .  All of it is without anger.  I am a figure to be
laughed at rather than hated.  Hatred is for equals and I am no longer
that.  I never was, they now realize with satisfaction.

I cannot see a clock, but the rising air of expectation, the surge of
tormentors unwilling to miss their chance of a final moment with me
assures me that midnight cannot be far away.  In the distance, through
the open doors to the terrace, I hear the strains of Auld Lang Sign
from another, more typical party where the clocks are just a bit
faster.

Now it has reached this home as well.  Every eye is turned toward me
as you climb the steps of the gallows, the slit in your evening gown
parting to reveal a long, athletic leg with each stride.  In your long
fingers is the cigarette holder and, when you stand before me, your
only goodbye is a final puff of smoke blown carelessly in my face.
You place the tip of your index finger, one long and perfectly
manicured nail, on the small button that will be my end.

I can hear the counting as if it were far away. . .  Ten. . .  Nine. .
.  I can see the faces.  The evening gowns and the tuxedos. . .  All
of it seems very far away now.  I close my eyes for the last time as a
few random calls punctuate the count.  Each mocks me and each is from
a voice which once spoke kindly, even lovingly, to me.  I am nothing
to them now.  My life can give them nothing, my death will culminate
an evening's amusement.  As a grandfather clock in some distant corner
of your home chimes the beginning of a new day and as your guest's
counting reaches its conclusion, a gentle pressure depresses the
button beneath your fingertip.

The door beneath me opens.

All is dark.  The celebration has begun.

###

Madam, please let me assure you that I DO NOT have a death wish.  This
is merely a fantasy which has a profound effect on me.  If you find it
as compelling as I do, please get in touch with me.

With respect,
Servant


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