My Bridesmaid helps me with my veil, and looking in the mirror I realise
I’m ready. This is it – the big day when Simon becomes my husband, as well
as the centre of my life that he has been these past two years. I feel
like I’ve been hooked like a fish – his cock was the hook that penetrated
my flesh, and dragged me – mind, body and soul – to him.
A delicious shiver ran through me as I thought of what my body looked
like under the beautiful white wedding gown. Within a week of us making
contact Simon had ordered me to have my pubic hair permanently removed. He
paid of course, as at the time I couldn’t afford to, but the electrolysis
was at the time the most painful thing I’d ever endured. My hair follicles
were permanently burned shut one by one, until my pussy mound, all the way
down to my tender bum hole, was as bald as a new born baby’s. The
beautician who carried out the procedure knew very well that I was doing
this for my lover, and she can’t have mistaken the copious amounts of sex
juice that leaked from my pussy every time her instrument made contact with
my tender flesh. I took her number when she offered it, at the end of the
procedure, but I knew I’d never call – this was for Simon alone.
A week after that Simon had burned my name into my pubic mound, marking
me forever. Not the name my parents gave me as a baby, but our name – the
one Simon called me more than any other – Cunt. The mark is as raw today
as it was the day he did it, the day I spent howling in his soundproofed
torture room as he took his time, expertly using a heated knife point to
tease my flesh into burned scarred ridges. I have to admit, his penmanship
is immaculate.
Under my gown I wore none of the usual bridal garments, save for pure
white hold-up stockings, with the traditional blue garter round my left
thigh. I know it excites Simon to think of me presenting the traditional
virginal bride image, while underneath I’m the whore he knows and loves.
My pussy is stuffed full of a large black vibrator, held in place with a
complicated web of fine silver chains which Simon locked about my waist
this morning. I’ve not been able to pee since then, and to make it worse
the vibrator has a remote control which rests in Simon’s pocket – he has
been turning it on and off for several hours now, and it has driven me to
the heights of sex-crazed extacy. I honestly don’t know that I would
refuse if he asked me to get down on my knees and suck every man at the
wedding, my father and brother included.
I know that the vibrator has the dual functions of driving me out of my
mind with lust, and also stimulating my already full bladder. I have
promised Simon that I’ll drink nothing that hasn’t come out of my own body
today, so straight after the ceremony I’m going to be allowed to fill a
champagne bottle with my own piss, so that I can drink that in front of
family and friends throughout the reception. And of course, the more I
drink, the more I’ll have to pee…
My breasts are sore within the confines of my bodice. Simon knows that
I like my breasts to be tortured, and maybe I have been a bit demanding in
that respect over the past few weeks, but I’m beinging to regret the fact
that beneath my little milky-white cleavage, where the tight satin bodice
hides my breasts from view, my skin is purple and black with bruises.
Finger marks, fist marks, clamp marks, crocodile clip marks (for the
electricity, don’t you know), whip marks and cane marks can all be picked
out if you have the time and inclination. He has to beat my breasts,
though – we’ve not decided if the foetus we’ve just found out is growing in
my belly should be beaten out of me or not. My nipples themselves are
pierced, both horizontally and vertically. Simon waited a year before
giving in to my request to have him drive nails through them to make the
holes for the piercings. He made me promise to do something extra special
for him to convince him that I trully wanted it, so that’s when I first ate
his shit. I’d been smeared with it plenty of times before, but this time
he squatted over a plate, and I watched as he laid out a long brown shit,
then handed me a fork and told me to get to work. I puked three times
before I finished it, and to his credit Simon only made me pick a few
chunks of regurgitated shit out of the sick-bucket to eat again. I was ill
for three days after too, but it was worth it when he relented, and used a
hammer to drive the nails in. First was the vertical ones, at which time
he nails my tits to a board, and made me wear it hanging from them for the
rest of the day. Then the next day he finished the job with the horizontal
holes, carefully making them deeper so they were set back from the vertical
ones, and we plugged them up with nipple barbells. This has had the effect
of making my nipples permanently erect, and sticking out from my breasts by
almost 2 centimetres. My bodice it tight, and Simon has made me place very
rough sandpaper at the place where it binds my nipples, so that every
movement is like a thousand little pin-pricks.
The rest of my creamy white flesh also bears the marks of the last two
years. I have “Simon’s Slut: Anything, Anytime, Anywhere” tattooed in the
small of my back, which is displayed whenever I wear crop-tops or a
low-rise skirt. The S that he carved into me with his knife the first time
we met, as he raped me in the woods near my old home, is still visible on
my lower belly. And my bum cheeks bear permanent stripes across them,
where I’ve begged him to whip and cane me before the marks of the last
session have healed.
But these physical marks are nothing compared to the permanent mark he
has left in my mind. I’d never thought that I could find someone who I
could open up to about my sordid desires. Someone who would watch as knelt
on all fours to allow a dog to viciously penetrate my cunt. Someone who
would rape me more extremely than anything you read about in the papers.
Someone who would pull shit from my own arse then feed it into my mouth as
we fucked. And someone who would love me despite knowing how
self-destructively whorish I am.
And that is why I’m here today, about to marry Simon. I’ve worn his
engagement ring since before we even met in person, and I’ve never once
regretted the way my life has turned out. I realise that he may one day
kill me, perhaps by accident as he holds his razor sharp knife to my throat
as we fuck, or perhaps on purpose as he strives to give himself the
ultimate orgasm. But ultimately I have given him permission to do so.
When I said no limits, no boundaries and no safewords that’s what I meant –
I’m his to do with as he pleases. And if by ending my life he will gain
pleasure, then that’s what my role in life will have been. And I’ll be
happy.