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It was the winter and I somehow got bronchitis and pneumonia at the same time and lost my job. For weeks I was unable to leave my apartment and even getting out of bed was difficult. I used the last of my money to pay the back rent, and then I became officially homeless.

It’s a funny thing about homeless people in my city that you very rarely see anybody who’s under 25 or even 30. The homeless I saw every day were either middle aged or downright elderly. I used to think it was because young people could go home to their parents, or at least didn’t mind going home to their parents. As for me, I was 21 at the time and couldn’t go to my parents’ house because they had moved overseas.

I had no rosy illusions about being homeless, and reality hit me even harder than I had prepared myself for. My few possessions were largely stolen by the second day, including my sketchbook. I could find out stealing a pillow, but what anybody would want with my sketchbook was beyond me.

It was so cold that it was impossible to sleep. And then to make things worse it began to rain. A woman carrying an umbrella came in under the bridge and at first I wondered she was a late night commuter who had been caught in the downpour. But she made straight for me and asked me if I needed a place to stay. She was wearing an expensive looking trench coat, man’s boots, and smelled of cologne as if she had just shaved. She wore glasses and the light from the street lamp reflected off of the lenses so I couldn’t see her eyes. Her hair was cut very short, business-like.

“I believe I got the very place for you,” she said.

“No thanks,” I said.

At that point I still retained a sense of self-preservation. I moved over to the other side of the bridge where a couple of drifters were sharing a smoke. We looked at the woman and basically stared her away. She got into a car parked half a block away, and then drove slowly back past the bridge as if to let me get a good long look. It was a big new Mercedes SUV. The interior light was on, casting a warm glow over everything.

She came back a week later and I agreed to go with her. The cold had gotten to me. It was about midnight, raining and temperature in the low 40s, which isn’t too bad if you’re inside. But when you’re outside under a bridge, and everything on you is damp and crawling with fleas, it is the nastiest thing in the world. You have no other wondered than to get away.

We turned into the driveway of a large mansion. It stood by itself behind an iron gate surrounded by tall pine trees. There were no lights in any of the windows. The house had the air of a place abandoned and forlorn even though the lawn, so far as I could tell in the darkness, was neatly manicured. It didn’t help that pine trees had a naturally gloomy and sinister look to them especially at night, unlike say willows and dogwoods which looked girlish and silly no matter what, or live oaks which were sad and grandmotherly.

The woman parked the car and we went inside. Contrary to my fears, the house was warm and not abandoned. The rafters were not falling down and mice did not come scurrying out of corners. In the moonlight, it resembled a museum.

My guide led me upstairs to the bathroom where the only light were that of candles positioned around the sink and the bathtub. A large window next to the tub looked out into the woods behind the house.

I undressed and showered and dried myself with a fluffy and rather small towel. And then I waited.

I could have spent hours in that bathroom under ordinary circumstances. But circumstances were anything but ordinary, and I was anxious and on edge. It was quiet, too quiet.

The woman suddenly burst back into the bathroom and motioned me to follow her. We went down a hallway so thickly carpeted it was like walking on clouds. We went into a large ballroom lined with what looked like hospital beds. The woman pointed to a bed and hurried out of the room as if she had other essential errands to be concerned with.

The bed was narrow but the sheets were clean and warm as if they had just come out of the drier. On the bed next to mine was a woman lying on her stomach while two people manipulated her buttocks and thighs as if searching for defects. What struck me was their utter clinical detachment as if they were examining a cut of meat for fat content.

And then the two men came over to me. I was surprised by how roughly they restrained me given that I showed no sign of resistance. And yet they treated me like a violent criminal or a wild animal. One hand pressed down hard on my back and another on the back of my neck. My kneejerk reaction to lift my head was met with an even harder pressure against my neck that ground my face into the pillow. Unable to breathe, I flailed about uselessly in pure survival mode. Just as I was on the verge of passing out, I was suddenly released.

I lay there panting when something heavy and cold pushed up against my butt. The object was slowly pushed inside and the pain of penetration was severe. They didn’t use any lube, not even spit. They worked the object in slowly and methodically, stretching me out with their fingers, spreading my butt cheeks wider and wider until I wondered I would be physically torn aside. The woman on the next bed stared at me with an air of amusement and curiosity.

Throughout all this, the most impressive part was the complete detachment of my examiners. They were interested in my body solely as a student of medicine might be interested in the cadaver assigned to him.

The strange thing was that because they treated me like a lowly beast whose feelings and thoughts were beneath consideration, I began to feel like one. No matter how disgusted and humiliated I was by what they were doing to me, I accepted it. I waited in terror for the next moment and the next, but I had stopped believing I had any will or agency over my destiny.

*

In the morning, the woman who had brought me to the house came over to my bed. Later I found out her name was Ms. X, or at least that’s what everyone called her.
I turned my face into the sheets so I wouldn’t have to look at her. She whipped the blanket off of me and spread my butt cheeks aside. I was getting used to being handled like a farmyard animal by now, but her groan of outrage and exasperation touched off something in me. At first I didn’t find out what that feeling was, and then I realized it was embarrassment.

It seemed to me then that I had been embarrassed for some time. First, because I was sick, and then because I couldn’t pay rent, and then because I was homeless.

“No wonder,” she said, “you poor thing.”

She pressed a finger against the flared end of the butt plug.

“How does it feel?” she said.

I flinched to get away from the fingers that were touching me with such unexpected gentleness. I resisted her as I never did the men who had used such wanton force against me the night before. For some reason I accepted their brutality as a matter of course. It was her tender concern tinged with awestruck curiosity that I could not stand.

“You must stay still,” Ms. X pleaded with me.

With some reluctance I forced myself to be still under her probing. The plug was lodged too securely and her gentle attempt to loosen it had no effect. She was almost squeamish about it, perhaps on purpose, and this made me even more embarrassed.

“Wait here,” she said, leaving me exposed to the eyes of the other occupants of the room, and in particular, the woman on the next bed.

For some reason I just lay there as she left me. I couldn’t bring myself to pull the blankets over myself.

The woman on the bed next to me laughed, a soft giggle that spread from bed to bed. My cheeks burned but still I didn’t cover myself. I lay there as if in a coma.

She got up and came over to me. She bent down over my butt, and wiggled the plug back and forth, pushing it in even further. And then she got up on the bed and casually put her foot between my legs, and began to rub it against my clitoris. To my horror, I felt something being inserted into my vagina. I looked around and saw that it was her toe. The entire room erupted in loud laughter.

Ms. X came back and the room quieted down gradually. She had a bottle of lube with her and she worked it in around my anus, easing the plug out bit by bit.

“Can you walk?” she asked me.

I nodded.

Another woman came in and said to Ms. X, “You can take her up now Mrs. B said.”

Ms. X gave me a robe to cover myself and we went out into the hall.

“Mrs. B’s very nice, don’t be afraid,” she said.

We went up a set of stairs that wound round and round and then down a hall one side of which were entirely windows overlooking the woods and a pond. We entered a set of French doors which opened onto a bedroom.

A woman was lying on the bed, her face and figure lit by an old fashioned lamp. She looked like the woman in the Goya painting Th Naked Maja, or at least her body did with its soft rounded curves, full breasts and delicate waist. Her face didn’t match her body. She looked like a college principal. And in fact later I found out she was a lawyer. When she smiled at me, I felt like I had been favored by some diety.

She asked me my name and how old I was and how did I like the house, if I wondered it out of the way like. Her voice was low and pleasant, and I wished she would never stop talking.

I answered her questions and she seemed pleased with what I said. She said she hoped I would be happy there, and that Ms. X would show me around where things were.

“Ms. X will wait on me today so you have time to get settled in,” she said. “Tomorrow we can really get to know each other.”

“Yes ma’am,” I found myself saying, and I surprised myself because I had never called anybody ma’am before in my life.

She smiled kindly at me and said, “Have you met my husband?”

I shook my head.

I wondered she looked a little odd at that. She said, “Ms. X will take you to meet him now. He came back last night and I didn’t know it, or else…”

She trailed off as the confusion on her face deepened into pain. And then she shook her head and forced a smile. She held out a hand and I took it and she gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Well, I do hope you’ll decide to stay with us Esther,” she said.

And then she drew me to her and kissed me on the forehead.

*

“I’m sorry but I’m afraid we’ll have to put this in again,” Ms. X said, indicating the plug.

She led me into a small room almost entirely taken up by an ornately furnished desk and nothing else, like a study cubicle in a university library. She rubbed the lubricant into my butt and worked the plug slowly inside. If I so much as flinched, she would stop and ask me if I was alright or if I needed a break. And then she would take the whole thing out, work more lube into my butt, and begin all over again in that mincing squeamish way of hers. By the end I had lube dripping down all over my thighs.

Finally she got it all the way in, but she had used so much lube it wouldn’t stay in. If I so much as stood halfway up, it slid out slick as goat shit. She started getting nervous because time was getting on and Mr. B was waiting. She told me to clench my butt which I did and it was still no good. Finally the lube dried somewhat on its own and the plug stayed in when I walked though I had to clench pretty hard.

“And now for the spanking,” Ms. said, as nonchalantly as she might have said, “And now for the orientation.”

A spanking didn’t sound so bad to me after the ordeal of the previous night. But what I didn’t expect was an outright beating.

We went down a long hallway, stopping a couple of times to push the plug back in. I felt stupid as hell with my hand against the wall and Ms. X behind me working the plug back inside. The pain was pretty bad because the lube had dried out and I couldn’t relax my butt while standing up. So she had me get on my knees doggy style and I was finally able to relax enough for her to get it in. Once she got it in deep enough for it to say, she ended walked behind me with one hand between my butt cheeks holding in the plug, all the while talking a mile a minute about what a nice lady Mrs. B was and how much I’ll like my job.

Finally, after walking what felt like the whole length of a football field, she opened a door that led into the smallest most cramped bathroom I had ever seen. There was a sink and next to that a toilet and next to that a tub. Everything was ornately decorated but so cramped together I felt immediately claustrophobic.

“Wait here,” Ms. X said, “he’ll be along in a bit.”

Mr. B came in shortly after and shut the door firmly behind him. He was a cruelly handsome man in his mid to late thirties. I’m not easily frightened, not because I’m brave but because up until recently nothing really bad had ever happened to me. But Mr. B frightened me. He scared me so much I forgot to clench my buttocks and the plug fell out, not completely out but halfway out and then got stuck, and I could feel it dangling there.

He pushed apart the robe I was wearing and saw the plug hanging out of my butt. A look of revulsion and utter disgust passed over his face.

“Put it back it in please,” he said curtly. “And then we’ll proceed.”

I tried to push it back in but it stuck because I was so nervous that I couldn’t relax. I could feel him getting impatient, but I didn’t dare to look into the mirror to see. He said nothing and his silence made me even more nervous, and in my nervousness the plug fell on the floor.

He cursed under his breath, calling me stupid and an idiot. I stared hard into the swirling patterns of the sink countertop which was made of some green marble trying to imagine myself somewhere else.

“Pick it up,” he said.

I picked up the plug.

“Give it to me.”

I gave it to him.

“I should put it in your ear,” he said, “see how you like it then.”

And then he struck my head with the plug, not playfully but really hit me with it. He looked insanely angry and his eyes were that of a madman. If the plug had been made of anything but silicone, I would have been seriously hurt. As it were I stood there dazed, shocked by the turn of events. And then he turned me around, bending me over the sink.

I felt the lashing of a leather whip against my backside. The pain was bad but not that bad. I wondered that I could bear it. I was completely wrong. But getting away was out of the question as he had me pinned between himself and the sink.
I was crying in pain after only a few minutes though I had sworn to myself I would not give him the satisfaction.

“Look into the mirror,” he said, panting with exertion.

He jerked my hair back so I had no choice but to obey. My swollen tear streaked face looked back at me. My eyes were puffed up, tiny and red looking, I was a mess.

He smiled at me in the mirror, his fingers probing between my legs. My vagina throbbed, my ass burned. When he pushed a finger and then two into my rectum, I winced from the pain. His face was smug as he took up the whip again. This time he used the handle, which was the size and shape of a phallus, and shoved it into my vagina.

“Smile,” he said into the mirror, watching my face.

There was no way I was gonna smile.

“Smile,” he said again.

His face was becoming stiffer and stiffer, as if in disbelief that I would disobey him. What he didn’t find out was that I was physically incapable of smiling at that point. I hated him.

To my own amazement and revulsion, I saw myself smiling in the mirror.

Through the tears and the pain, I smiled like an utter idiot.

*

I began to find out how people could go insane from sheer misery. One who could maintain their reason under such circumstances can not be sane. Pascal said that to not be mad is only a form of madness, that Man is necessarily mad. Beneath the mask of reason was the the face of truth.

Reason was only a language, but a language the aim of which was not expression but suppression. Reason is only an elaborate exercise in euphemism and concealment. A useless exercise as it turns out.

In modern times one takes it for granted that the mad ought to be confined. Mental illness by its very name is a matter for hospitals. Hospitals began as institutions which were little better than prisons, and in some methods, far worse. But when did madness, insanity, began to be considered as a matter of illness?

The tyranny of reason with its hypocrisy, its refusal to recognize the right of the mad and the RIGHTNESS of the mad, is the enemy of MAN. The ancients knew better for they recognized the truth and wisdom of madness. The mad co-existed with the sane because the line between the sane and the insane was known, then, to be merely a matter of circumstance. There but for the grace of God go I…

It was only with the rise of the Church that the mad began to be considered in the light of something NOT RIGHT. Madness was seen as the root cause of EVIL as opposed to the logical consequence OF evil. As religion fell into disuse, modern medicine the new religion took up the same cross. What was once attributed to demons are now attributed to brain chemicals. A rose by any other name…

For what both the churchman and the doctor both deny is that most people who are considered insane are actually the ordinary ones because insanity is the necessary and logical consequence of the world we live in.

*

Ms. X showed me my room. The closet was stocked with clothes from underwear to outerwear all perfectly tailored to my size.

My everyday uniform was a yellow and rather girlish dress that showed off my slim arms and delicate bust. Somebody once told me yellow is the color of madness, but I didn’t believe them.

“And how did you find Mr. B?” she said.

My expression said enough and she instantly changed the subject. We were gonna the part of the house occupied by Mrs. B’s nephew, James, who was on vacation from medical college. It would be part of my duties to tidy up his room.

The door of his room was open as we came down the hall. He was standing at the window, looking out over the woods, one hand holding a book. This was James.

How am I to convey that first impression of him that so sealed my fate? If there exists any combination of words that can communicate those mysterious qualities that draw one being to another, then I have yet to discover it. He was the living embodiment of what had been for me only vague conceptions of love and beauty. He was the first man who had caused my soul to cry out with an yearning for what until then I did not know existed.

I loved him at first sight.

He looked at me at me shyly and introduced himself.

I apologized for disturbing him and said I was only the new maid. Already I was learning to assume my place in the scheme of things. I was grateful to have a place no matter how lowly for I knew what it was to be cast out into the wilderness. One simply could not sink any lower in the eyes of the world than to be homeless. Even prisoners have a higher status than the homeless not only in the job market but socially. To have nothing in a world where money was everything is the greatest crime one can commit.

One wonders why the homeless aren’t politically organized, and I suspect it’s at least due partly to the absence of a basis for organization. Workers and peasants fight for the means of production, but what is the homeless to fight for and with what will they fight? I found that if they have any political tendencies at all, it was towards a form of anarchy tinged by apocalyptical Christianity. In the brief time in which I had been homeless, I had lost count of how many times somebody came up to me spouting entire passages from the Bible far too glibly for it to not be verbatim.

“Please,” said James, removing some books from a chair, “sit down.”

Ms. X had left and it was just he and I.

“If I won’t disturb you,” I said demurely.

“Not at all. Have you been here long?”

He suddenly frowned as his face clouded over with concern.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he said. “There’s a bruise on the back of your neck.”

“It’s nothing,” I stammered.

He looked down in a thoughtful way. His voice when he spoke was very gentle. “I have some medicine for that sort of thing. It does look rather painful.”

He gave me a gel which he said worked wonders. I put it on and I felt instantly better. Where I would really have liked to put it was on my backside where Mr. B had whipped me. It was agony to sit and yet I would have sat there happily for hours and hours if it meant being next to James.

I looked around his room, which was less ornately furnished than the rest of the house. It was almost monastic in its simplicity. Aside from books and a piano, there was nothing else.

“It’s a very nice room,” I said. “How do you like it straightened up? You should tell me so I can do it right.”

“Don’t worry about that. I can clean it myself. I rather just talk. Tell me about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” I said. “Your aunt was kind enough to give me a job, and I’m very grateful. What’s medical school like?” I said to change the subject.

“It’s horrible,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll last out the year and have no idea what I will do next. It would seem that there isn’t a raging job market for medical school dropouts.”

“Oh,” I said awkwardly, looking around desperately for a change of topic: “Do you play the piano?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“I would love to hear you play,” I said.

“I don’t play very well,” he said, “but if you like.”

He played wonderfully well. At first he was reluctant, but when he saw how much pleasure it gave me, he let loose his restraints. The delicate melody of Mozart alternated with the tumultuous romantic virtuosity of Liszt in between the catchy strains of a Broadway melody as all the pain inside of me faded in a soft explosion of happiness and joy.

The music crashed to a stop. When I looked up he was standing in front of me.

“Is something wrong?” he said.

“It’s so beautiful, the music, I’m sorry,” I said, wiping the tears on my face.

He took my hand and led me to the windows. “If you look to the left you can see the ocean. We’ll go down for a picnic someday, if you like.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said.

“I’m afraid it’s pretty dull for you in this house. I’ll try to liven it up for you as much as I can.”

I had nothing to say to that.

He went on: “It’s usually just my aunt and I. My uncle’s away most of the time.”

*

In the myriad of impressions produced upon me by his charm, his physical beauty, and above all his KINDNESS, there was something I couldn’t quite place a finger on, something troubling and disturbing but as shadowy and vague as a face glimpsed in a dream. I don’t mean to say that James was deliberately hiding something from me, but behind the frank honesty of his face, I seemed to perceive a hidden pain, a terrible vulnerability. In looking back I thought if it was that secret link that bound us so inexplicably together from the very beginning.

The days passed and in my loneliness, the wondered of James was my only solace. In the dangerous intimacy in which we were thrown together, he and he alone became the focal point of my useless fancies. It was hopeless and utter folly, but I was helpless against the natural inclination to respond to beauty and kindness.

Even so, I never forgot my position, not that I was allowed to. It was true what James said, that Mr. B was away most of the time. He was home perhaps a couple days a month, if that. Even so, I wished a bear would eat him every time I saw his face, and I couldn’t wait to see the back of him soon enough. Mr. B never hesitated to remind me I lived and would die at his whim. He had literally said to me, “Nobody will hear you scream,” which was nothing but the truth. And almost every time I saw him, he would threaten me in some way or another.

My mistress Mrs. B was the soul of kindness herself, but I soon discovered that she too existed in terror of her husband, and that she was as helpless against his cruelty as myself. Her hands shook if she so much as heard his steps coming down the hall. It got so that we were more like co-prisoners than mistress and servant. It was a queer state of things in that house, but that house was nothing if not queer.

One day, I was sitting in my room thinking of James when Ms. X came in and told me to go to Mrs. B’s bedroom and be quick about it. It was an odd order to be sure as Mrs. B had never told me to be quick about anything so I wondered it must be something terribly urgent. In any case, I got there as fast as I could, taking the steps two at a time and running down the hall as I had learned to do while keeping my legs together.

I knocked and there was no answer, and I knocked again. To my astonishment, Mr. B opened the door and said, civilly enough for him, “Come in Esther.”

And then it occurred to me Ms. X had never told me Mrs. B wanted me, only that I was to go to her room. So the order must have come from Mr. B.

I found Mrs. B lying on the bed looking very weak and pale. She smiled shakily at me and said, “Hello Esther.”

“Can I do anything for you ma’am?” I said.

She shook her head in a resigned way and turned her face away from me.

In the middle of the bedroom was a pillar which I had assumed to be merely decorative. But Mrs. B had never liked it, and she turned white every time she set her eyes upon it. I had gotten it into my head that she wondered it an eyesore. In which case, I had wondered to myself, why not move into a different room of the house? There were certainly rooms enough, many just as large and airy as this one.

Well, that day I learned what the pillar was for.

Mr. B instructed me to sit on a chair in a corner of the room, and then he ordered his wife to the pillar as if she were no better than a servant. She obeyed him with an air of terror and resignation.

As she approached the pillar, she stumbled and almost fell. She stood next to it with a cowed look like a dog waiting for a beating. It was strange to see her like that with her scholarly face and her gorgeous figure. But it must have pleased him because he put a hand beneath her chin and kissed her. He was as gentle as I had ever seen him, and her plain scholarly face trembled as he caressed her cheeks so that she looked almost pretty.

He began fussing with the pillar which had been affixed with numerous chains. The chains were attached to the protrusions that had been camouflaged as what I had wondered to be merely decorative leaves and vines and such. A kind of pedestal had been moved up against the pillar and he had her kneel upon the pedestal. The pedestal had a shelf in the middle so that she had to spread her knees around the shelf when she knelt upon it. On this shelf had been affixed a vibrator so that when she knelt with her knees spread around it, her vagina was just about in front of the vibrator. And then he looped a leather belt around her waist, and hooked up the belt to the chains attached to the pillar so that her waist and torso were restrained to the pillar. He tied her wrists together and then attached that by a chain to the pillar. There was a fair amount of slack in all the chains so she could wiggle around.

He got behind her and thrust a phallus into her anus, eliciting from her a gasp of pain. Her body writhed beneath the restraints around her waist and torso. He drove the phallus deeper into her from behind, forcing her forward so that her vulva was pinned against the vibrator. And even as she writhed and gasped in pain, she responded with reciprocal thrusts of her hips against the vibrator almost as if she could not help it. He unzipped his pants and took out his penis and thrust it into her ass alongside the phallus. She screamed in agony as he drove his own penis and the phallus in and out of her viciously, sometimes together in tandem, sometimes alternating one after the other. And then with a final wild thrust, he came inside her. The cum dripped out of her and down her thighs tinged with her blood. She ground her hips one last time upon the vibrator and with a violent shudder collapsed against the pillar.

As he withdrew from her, every line of her body seemed stricken in some terrible way. She looked shrunken and decrepit like a very old person. She sank to the floor like a deflated bladder. A line of drool dripped down the corner of her mouth. An huge bestial dullness settled over her.

In a moment I saw what had happened. His penis which he had withdrawn from her rectum was covered in shit. Enraged, he slapped her with a loud resounding whack that made me flinch, and forced the soiled penis into her mouth. She gagged and struggled wildly but he gripped her by the hair and forced her to suck him clean. As he released her, I could see the agony jolt her entire body as she vomited onto the floor and collapsed against the pillar. Another shudder passed over her body and she spewed again.

It seemed to me that she would never rise again. Her tortured gasps seemed to go on an on. Ms. X came in and cleaned up her butt with a scented towel. She also gave her something to rinse out her mouth. And then she wiped her face with another towel, brushing back the sweat soaked hair with her fingers.

“Can I loosen these restraints,” Ms. X said to him. “I can clean her better if they weren’t in the way.”

He refused and Ms. X disappeared with the same efficiency with which she had appeared. He kicked his wife on the buttocks as if testing her for responsiveness.

“Pull yourself up,” he said.

She pulled herself up with a desperate slowness, centering herself by gripping the pillar. Her face was white, and she resembled one of those saints in an El Greco painting. Her cheekbones were horribly prominent.

He turned to me and said, “Get the whip.”

I got the whip where it hung upon the other side of the pillar.

“Whip her,” he said, “I want to see her move. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes sir,” I said quietly.

“Do it then.”

He smiled, a mere curling of the corners of the mouth. I shivered though it was as warm in the room as a summer’s day.

I was only a puppet of my master’s will. But even a puppet’s face will grow to fit the mask. One’s life, even a puppet’s life, is one long struggle to do what’s expected of one, no matter how ridiculous the expectations. As I whipped her, as her buttocks swung wildly to and fro trying to evade my whip in her frenzy of pain and humiliation, I felt my gorge rise. I felt the tingle of sexual excitation and I whipped her harder and harder.

And the worst of it was that I knew she would not hold it against me.

NSFW: yes

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