The Penitence of the Worm (1)

The Cell’s Silence

I am nervous, a turmoil of emotions consumes me. The day has come, the one I longed for, desired, and feared these last months. Guilt guides me, a weight on my soul I can only ease by paying my debt to my Master, whom I failed so badly a few months ago. He cares for His slave, I know; I know He will take care of me even in pain. But I need to suffer, to feel every sting as the just sacrifice that brings me back to Him, to His grace.

I kneel on the cold floor of the room, hands open before me, head bowed in submission. My ass, still covered by tracksuit and sneakers, lifts slightly, a silent offering. Below my eyes, a metal grate serves as a vent, through which I glimpse an underground space tinted with a faint red light, an unsettling omen. It seems my Master has prepared the confinement space. I have no idea what awaits me, but it is His space, His dungeon. I imagine that, after giving Him the keys three months ago, He has had time to transform it for this week.

The dry thud of the door closing behind me pulls me from my thoughts. I hear two turns of the key, the definitive sound marking the start of my confinement. A wave of dread and expectation runs through me.

Seconds stretch into a dense silence. I barely breathe, every fiber of my being alert to any movement, not daring to lift my head, not moving. Maybe I lift my ass a little more, an even more explicit display of my submission, a silent invitation to the lashes I know I deserve.

Then, the unmistakable rustle of His leather pants breaks the stillness, followed by the firm step of His boots. I see them, imposing, stopping right in front of me. The dull sound of a sports bag falling next to my head startles me, accompanied by the slight metallic clinking of objects hitting each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I try to guess its contents, its size, my imagination galloping.

No time to wander, a hood is placed over my head. He pulls it back with a firmness that makes me feel the soft leather of His pants on my neck. It is the leather hood without eyes and with an open mouth, which fits my head like a glove as He ties the laces skillfully. His movements are precise, leaving no room for escape. My torso lifts like a puppet, held by His hand, as the hood tightens, removing any space, any crack of light. Total darkness envelops me.

“Don’t even think about saying anything, whore. In silence. Five days of penitence begin, and I don’t want to hear you unless I order you to speak. Worm session.” His voice is deep, authoritarian, a promise of pain and purification.

“Yes, Master,” I reply in my head as I nod, a silent and proud plea. Yes, it is fair, and I expected it. I need it with every fiber of my being. This will be the third time I have to do real penitence like a worm, crawling under His boots, blind, gagged, deprived of my hands and feet. But this time it will last more than one day, and it will happen underground, in the suffocating intimacy of His dungeon cave. A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine. I am proud of this penitence, honored that He considers me worthy of such a test.

I hear the sound of the bag opening and the contents spilling onto the floor with a metallic clang. I feel the cold of a wide leather collar closing around my neck, covering the hood, and the click of the padlock. Immediately after, cold metal closes around my wrists, then around my ankles. Real shackles, heavy, irrefutable.

My dick reacts, gets excited, hitting the metal cage that imprisons it. I have wanted such confinement for years, but I never imagined it would come this way, marked by guilt and lasting five days. The last time I was confined was only an afternoon, and I was comfortable among leather and padded surfaces. Has my Master had time to make the cave more comfortable? My slave pride tells me no, that suffering is part of redemption.

The rubber dick of a gag brutally bursts between my teeth, and He fixes it tightly behind my head. “Just in case you forget not to speak, whore, as so much popper has fried your last neuron.” The bitter taste of rubber fills my mouth, a constant reminder of my forced silence.

A chain attaches to the collar and pulls me up. I rise blindly, feeling the tug on my neck. “Hold on to me, whore, and follow me. The trapdoor is open, hold carefully to the railing with your right hand.”

I obey without hesitation. I stick to His back, almost feeling the warmth of His body, as He pulls the chain. As I descend the stairs, His smell envelops me, an intoxicating mix of leather and His sweat. His body scent excites me to the core, I recognize it after so many years of surrender. I crave to smell His armpit, to intoxicate myself with Him. When I feel we reach the basement landing, I cling to His armpit from behind, almost desperately, and inhale deeply, feeling His essence enter me and possess me. It is an act of silent defiance, a display of my need, a risk I am willing to take for an instant of ecstasy.

It’s barely two stolen seconds before He pushes me away roughly, pinning me against the wall. My hands are held behind me. The shackles dig into my skin, but the physical pain fades before the impact of a wooden mass on my ass. I did not expect it. The blow is forceful, dry, and I almost fall if He had not trapped me against the cold stone. I half-choke a cry, a useless plea, as pain travels through my body to my brain. It’s the solid wooden paddle, the “hundred-strikes” one. He never uses it unless I have done something big, something that requires hard punishment.

“What do you think you are doing, whore? You are under punishment, so don’t even think about doing anything I don’t order you to, or there will be consequences you won’t like. And in silence. You asked for this.” His voice is a whip, each word loaded with reproach, but also with a dark pleasure I recognize.

I nod my head, absolute submission taking over me. I kneel, although He has not asked me to, waiting. I wonder if I have been too bold, if I have crossed a line. Seconds pass, the silence becomes oppressive as I await a tug on the chain, a push, a new order.

Finally, I hear the buckle of His belt unfasten. Will He hit me with the belt? No time for speculation. He grabs my head from behind, removes the gag, and I feel the soft touch and unmistakable smell of His underwear in my mouth. The thick silence returns, only broken by the beating of my heart. His hands grip my head from behind with a firmness that is both terrifying and exciting. I risk it, lifting my hands, chained, to grab His strong legs. I feel the touch of the leather, the rustle of His pants as they tighten. I move closer to the excited bulge between His legs, smell the salty wetness of His desire and open my mouth, waiting with eager anticipation.

His member enters deep into my throat savagely, all at once. I hold back the gag reflex, fighting against it. It is not time to complain, not time to show weakness. I begin to click my throat, sucking, following His rhythm. I know He likes it, I can feel it in the intensity with which He fucks my mouth, in the slight moan that escapes His lips. This pain, this effort, is my offering, my proof of loyalty.

Just when I think my mouth will dislocate, He pulls out His dick and shoves half a fist into my mouth, gripping my head with His other hand. “You stole my pleasure of filling your ass with my fist, you whore. But I don’t care, if it’s not one hole, it’ll be another. Hold in there deep in silence.” I hold the gag, on the verge of tears. Tears of happiness, not pain, from feeling His touch, His fingers entering my throat, pressing my tongue down, making space to fit His whole hand. The invasion is brutal, delicious, a humiliation that exalts me.

When my body convulses, on the verge of vomiting, He withdraws His hand and lets me rest for a few seconds. I cough, and the rubber floor gets soaked with my drool.

“Swallow it, lick the floor clean.” And so I do, blindly searching with my tongue until I feel the wetness of my own spit mixed with the rubber taste, holding the increasing pressure of His boot’s weight on my back, pushing me down. My humiliation is total, and in it I find a strange peace, an affirmation of my place.

I have barely settled when I feel Him move, pulling the chain that pushes me forward, strangling me. On all fours, I crawl towards the underground room, leaving the stair landing behind. He guides my blind steps until my hands touch some kind of furniture that wasn’t there before, and I climb onto it following the pressure of the chain that almost rips my neck. It seems like a bed, it’s soft and seems covered in plastic from the rustling under my weight. He extends my arms, and I feel the shackles pulling away and stretching me out in a cross shape, and the same for my legs. Face down, open, crucified, exhausted.

“You will pay for what you have done for four days and four nights like a worm locked in this prison, without leaving, without communication. I will torture and rape you as much as I please, you will eat leftovers like an animal, and I will control all your functions. And if you endure it, on the fifth day I will forgive you.”

Then, I feel the cold metal against my skin. They are scissors. My Master wastes no time. With precise and deliberate movements, He begins to cut my clothes, first the tracksuit, then the t-shirt and underwear, and finally rips off my sneakers. Each cut is a liberation, a dispossession. The fabric tears, falls around me, revealing my skin, my vulnerability. I am completely exposed, naked, immobilized by the shackles that hold me in that cross. I feel the cold air caress my skin, every hair standing on end. The humiliation is absolute, and in it, a deep excitement runs through me. Now, yes, I am His worm, in silence, ready for anything.

Like a puppet writhing at His will, He pulls up and places something soft and curved under my hip, raising my ass. It feels comfortable, though I feel the shackles digging into my flesh from the tension. Another paddle strike on my ass and I cry out from the pain that runs through my body. A cry muffled by the gag that again fills my mouth, followed by the pressure of the straps that close behind my head with more pressure than before, digging into the corners of my lips.

I am just a blind and gagged doll with no time to think or get lost in each sensation. I feel His wet and slippery hand making its way into my ass and lubricating it for a few seconds. I offer no resistance to the pleasure of feeling His skin entering me again, ready to be His once more.

I shiver as His weight falls on my body, the leather covering me and His boots digging into my legs. His member slides into my ass without friction, opening it for the first time in months after that afternoon when my body broke from unconscious hunger and desire.

I feel no pain other than that of my wounded slave ego, and I release myself to His rhythm of thrusts, wild in His own pain and desire to punish and possess me. I adapt to His frantic pace, opening and closing my ass so He feels more pleasure. Immobilized and under His beautiful body, my mind joins the rhythmic pleasure entering and leaving my flesh, broken by pauses that lead me to float until the next thrust numbs my senses drowned by pleasure. I live that moment being present, for that is when I feel my Master’s pleasure running through me, with the sweet pain of the shackles digging into my slave flesh. Eternal minutes that lead to a more frantic rhythm until I feel His body shiver and His moan of possession.

He does not remain on me longer, and it is at that moment, when I no longer feel my Master’s touch, that I again feel guilt and pain. I begin to sob, a muffled sound within the darkness of the mask. I feel my Master grab my head with both hands and gently untie the laces that held it tightly to my skin. When He removes it, our eyes meet, reflecting each other. The tears running down my cheeks are of love, of happiness, and yes, of worry. Worry about the terrifying possibility of failing again and not achieving His forgiveness, of not being worthy of Him.

I can say “Thank you, Master” before He silences me with a heartfelt and deep kiss. A kiss that connects me to my Master, that makes me lose myself in His scent and His taste, in His sweet tongue that seeks me and needs me as much as I need Him. And when He pulls away, bathed in the red light of a simple bulb that turns this space into a cell, I feel that everything is perfect, that my place is here, under His dominion.

I smile, a smile of happiness, as I watch Him close the cell and leave me in darkness, bathed by a single ray of light that filters through the ceiling grate. I hear the trapdoor closing and the steps of His boots above the grate that briefly darken my cell. And He leaves, closing the street door.

In the solitude and silence of those underground walls, I fall asleep, happy for the opportunity to find my redemption, proving to my Master, through His punishments, that I am worthy of serving Him, that my slave pride lies in my complete and absolute surrender to His will.