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Stockholm Syndrome - Part 2We lived as a couple. We shared a bed and our lovemaking became frequent and impassioned. She would wrap her legs around me and strive to pull me deeper inside her. She avowed her love for me constantly. The challenge for me was to remain unpredictable and slightly cruel. I wanted, I yearned all the time to spoil her, to make her happy, to hold her and make love to her every moment. But each time I let my role slip just a little bit, she would begin to misbehave, challenging my authority, finding the courage to demand answers of me that I would not give. I would return to the role of the stern master at once, withhold her shot for an extra hour or two and my control would be reclaimed. I found ways to mess with her head that had not been part of my original plan. One night I asked her how she'd like to be dressed. She said, "comfortable, Sir. Casual, please." I knew that she wanted a tee shirt and sweats and sandals. This was the outfit she pulled out of her closet whenever I gave her a free choice. Instead of getting those clothes to help her into I shook my head and scolded her as if she were a puppy. "BAD girl," I said. "That is NOT what you want to wear tonight. Try again." And I made her choose four times before I commended her on her excellent taste when she reluctantly, hesitantly said, "um... slutty, sir?" I dressed her in a short, short skirt and high-heeled pumps and a tube top that displayed her little club-arms. "Look how beautiful you are!" I said. "Thank you, Sir!" she said and she beamed at me but still she twitched and moved, clearly trying to hide her stumps, self-conscious at having them out for show. She'd gotten used to the unpredictability of her station. Sometimes I dressed her elegantly and took her to luxurious restaurants for dinner. Other times I dressed her elegantly and made her eat from a bowl on the floor, tangled in an evening gown. Sometimes I dressed her down and took her to a biker bar where tough guys leered openly, staring at the helpless slut. Other times, I put her in slut-girl wear and took her to expensive art galleries where she felt self-conscious and out of place and wealthy patrons could not look directly at her. One night I took her to a truck stop diner dressed in tight jeans and a bright blue tee shirt. I put her in one very high-heeled pump and a clog, so that she walked awkwardly, limping and shuffling to keep the clog on her foot. That night I also novocained her tongue and her lips so that she drooled intermittently and could not speak clearly. A burly man asked me what I was thinking "letting the 'tard pick out her own shoes?" She tried to tell him off but she was completely unintelligible and he laughed at her. When she glared at me, all it took was a sharp look and she dropped her eyes. It had been ten weeks since the surgery, four since I'd first dressed her and made her eat without help. We sat at the dinner table. She ate a hamburger from her plate, picking it up between her teeth, biting and shaking it a bit until the bulk of the burger fell away from the bite the wanted. She was like a terrier. A beautiful, beautiful terrier. She took a testing sip of her drink to wash it down with and tasting no alcohol took another big sip at once without needing to ask any permissions. After dinner I sipped cognac and watched her as she slowly became twitchy and agitated. I had calculated this moment carefully. I had held the meal a bit later than usual this evening to set this moment up. I had, at times, been very harsh with her when she asked for her shot before I offered. She'd begun to sweat enough that she pushed at her damp hair with an arm stump as best she could, but she wore a silk blouse with long sleeves and could get no traction. Through the glass tabletop I could see her slipping her feet in and out of her clogs, impatiently. I'd dressed her in white cotton socks and her toes flexed and stretched, flexed and stretched, as she reached unconsciously for something. "There's something we need to discuss," I said. This was not what she wanted to hear right now. She didn't want to discuss. She wanted her shot. She wanted me notice that she wanted her shot. "I�" she began, and then, "yes, sir. What is it?" "Here's the thing," I said. As I spoke I moved to the sideboard and pulled out a phial and a syringe. "When I filled this prescription I did all the paperwork on an amputation completed and I had the medical waste collected." I filled the syringe and set it on the table in front of her. The round arms reached forward at it, like soft compass needles drawn toward the magnetic pole. It was right in front of her and there was nothing she could do without my help. "And that was all it took. Plenty of pain medication for recovery time with some to spare." I held up the empty phial. "Now, I did excellent work. You probably didn't need more than a day or two's worth. But the traditional supply is for a few weeks and they let me double it for the double amputation. But now we're all out. That needle holds the very last." It was Pavlovian. There was no Novocain this evening, but she literally drooled, her eyes locked on the needle, the clear liquid that she couldn't get to her veins, that she had just been told was the last. The trickle of spit ran down her chin and she craned her neck to wipe it quickly on the shoulder of her silk blouse. I shook my head. "Pathetic," I muttered. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry. Don't hate me. I'm sorry. Just... just the one more, then. Just the one more and then I'll kick." "This is what I wanted to talk to you about. It's occurred to me that if we took off your legs we could get that much supply again. And I could do a high enough amputation with full nerve treatments that there'd probably be very little pain for you in it, honey. Just a good, solid extended prescription. It's up to you, Denise. We can make that one your last shot, or we can get you some more." She looked at me, horrified. "My... my legs? Took off my legs?" "Yes. Would you like that? Another three, maybe four months worth of the stuff, I could get you." "No!" she blurted out and then, swiftly regaining her composure without any prompting, she cast her eyes downward and said, "No, sir. Please. That's okay. Just this last shot. Just this last one." She reached out under the table with a foot and pressed it into my lap. "Don't you like that, Sir? Isn't that nice? I want to be able to do that for you, Sir. Just � please... just this last shot." I shrugged and circled the table to inject her with what I had told her was the last of the medication. Relaxation spread through her visibly. She chuckled softly as the relief released tense muscles. "Thank you, Sir. That's so much better." She glanced up at me, coy and touched my leg with her foot. She was drugged, uncoordinated. Even when she forgot herself and looked at me she was a bit unfocussed. I kissed her on the lips and she stood unsteadily to press herself against me. Her attempts to hold me resulted in her nubs pressing and rubbing against my shoulders and my neck through the silk. She kissed me, excited and desperate. "It feels so good, sir. Make love to me. Please. Please, make love to me." I led her to the living room couch and pushed her so that she imbalanced and sat down hard. "This evening isn't for you, Cindy. This evening is for me." I knelt in front of her and said, "I want you to jerk me off, honey. Do this for me. If you want to keep your legs and your feet, prove to me that you'll make good use of them." She giggled softly at the demand, which surprised me a bit and began the task assigned her. In the white, white socks, she had no grip, no coordination. She fumbled, toeing at the button at the top of my jeans. Her tongue poked out at the corner of her mouth as she focused on her efforts. "Dammit," I scolded, "I'm so excited, Honey. I need you to jerk me off. Get my pants open." "I'm trying, Sir. I'm sorry. I can't. Will you do it for me?" I took a foot in my hand and kissed it. "Pathetic," I said. "I know, Sir. I'm sorry. I love you." Still she pushed and prodded at the button. I unfastened my pants and let myself out. I was hard and ready. She used both feet to grasp me and I felt my belly tense, preparing to come. Gently, slowly, she brought me to orgasm between the soles of her white cotton socks. I sat back, relieved and warmly smug. Still seated in the soft cushions of the couch, she struggled with her balance, not wanting to put her feet down on the carpet with the cum all over the bottoms of her socks. She leaned back into the couch, keeping her feet off the ground and waving spasmodically with her stumps for balance. After a few moments of watching her, I pulled the wet socks off for her and refastened my pants. "May I cum, too?" she asked dutifully and I said, "Of course, Baby," and did nothing to help her. "Thank you, Sir," she said and then, realizing that she was on her own, she twitched with her arms and then used her right foot to pull upward on her left foot until her heel touched her clit. She wriggled a bit, rubbing with her heel and then slipped off the front edge of the sofa to the floor. Too involved and excited to laugh at her awkwardness, she moaned with frustration and in an attempt to reset her heel position, she tipped over onto her side. She groaned, regaining her balance and then suddenly, seeing the possibility of relief, she stood up and straddled the arm of the couch, humping and shifting to get her skirt out of the way. I saw the excitement build as she pressed herself against the rough corduroy fabric. She began to thrust and pull her bottom against the surface, building momentum and excitement. I considered commanding her to stop, tormenting her a bit more first. But I wanted her to have this moment fully. I wanted it to be her own. If I was right about the power of her addiction and the suggestions I'd planted so carefully, this would be the last time she'd be able to do this much for herself. After tomorrow, I wanted her to have the memory of what, exactly she had given up for a shot of pain killer. Her stumps waved and stretched as she moved, her empty silk sleeves waving and dancing until, gasping and sighing, she came in a few final frenetic thrusts. Still a bit twitchy and seeming on the verge of a second orgasm, she let herself off the arm of the sofa and sat back down, her skirt riding upward against her thighs. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, sir." She looked down at her bare feet and worked her toes in the carpet. I had the sense that she looked down out of habit and a sense of submissive etiquette rather than out of any sense of shame at what she'd just done. I wondered exactly what she was thinking, though, as she stared at her feet. I allowed her to follow me around for company as I took care of household chores, cleaning up from dinner, throwing a load of laundry into the machine. Then, late in the evening, I undressed her, washed her, shaved her, cleaned her teeth and put her to bed. As sunlight came in through the eastward window of her room, I sat at the glass and watched. Twice she awoke and made the decision to stay asleep. She remembered. Good. She was trying to avoid the day already. She sweated in her half-sleep, and her stumps kept twitching in response to dream impulses. Finally sleep would no longer come to her. She kicked away the covers and lay in the bed. She flexed and stretched her feet. She sat up on the edge of the bed and then just stayed there for a long moment, stalling, uncertain. She got up and walked to the window. She paced the length of the room twice. Her steps were jerky and unsteady. She licked her dry lips but only took a couple of small sips through the straw in her bedside water glass. Occasionally she muttered to herself. She went into the bathroom for a few minutes and then came out again, clearly having run a shower but not having taken enough time to properly wash, even if she had been able to do so as easily as most people can. Now, damp, she shivered. I knew how high I'd set the thermostat. Even if she'd run only cold water, there was really no reason for her to be shivering. The withdrawal had begun in earnest. I put on my best, cheery attitude and burst in on her. "Good morning, Honey!" I beamed. "I'm thinking today's a great day for shoe shopping. What do you say? Let some self-conscious sales-boys look up your skirt?" She stared at me as the meaning of my words slowly penetrated the self-involved haze of inner turmoil. "Ah-ah-ah," I reminded her gently. "Eyes downward, please, Lucy." She tried but she kept glancing up at me, glancing to the sides. She had dark rings under her eyes and the look of a frightened animal. "Sir, I..." She trailed off. "I've got coffee on downstairs. Do you want to dress first, or do want to come down naked?" I offered the options as casually as I could. "I need a shot, Sir. I'm sorry. I really �" she winced as though she was afraid I might strike her. I had never struck her. Still, it was the reaction of a beaten dog. "I'm sorry." "But, honey, don't you remember? You're quitting today. We're out of the pain killers." "Well, you have to get me some more. 'cause I don't..." She held her stumps out at me. "They hurt, Sir. They hurt really bad. And I don't think I can do without the shots." "There's really nothing I can do, sweetheart. Maybe a cup of coffee will help you feel better." "Fuck you!" she shouted at me. "Fuck you and fuck your coffee. I need a shot. You have to get me some. I have to � I need it." "I beg your pardon?" I said. "Fuck me? Okay. I'll be downstairs. I'm closing the door behind me. I'll come back later to see if you feel like apologizing or you can come find me if you can figure a way to work the knob without falling down." I turned to go but before I'd even touched the doorknob, she called out. "Wait, sir. I'm sorry. Wait. Just a minute. Please. PLEASE!" I stopped and turned to her as though I had no idea what she might be about to say. She looked down at the floor and muttered the words so softly that if I had not known generally what was coming I would not have had a clue what the words had been. "Take them," she said. "I beg your pardon? I couldn't hear you." "Take them," she said, growing more comfortable now that she'd said aloud what she'd been thinking all morning. "Take the legs." That she'd shifted from "my legs" to "the legs" was an indication of just how much she'd thought about it, just how distanced she'd already become from the limbs she was to give up. "You want me to cut off your legs, darling? Is that what you're saying? You want to be limbless?" "I just... I can't think straight. I need a shot. I'll try to quit. I promise. Soon. But, please. I need a shot, Sir. I love you. I do. I'm sorry. Take the legs." She crossed the room and pressed herself against me, buried her face against my chest and sobbed into my shirt muttering, "Please, sir. Please. Cut off my legs. Please. Give me a shot and cut off my legs. Please." I stroked her hair and breathed warmly into her ear. "I will, honey. Because you asked so nicely." "Thank you, Sir," she said. And then again, "Thank you. I love you, Sir." I put an arm around her and escorted her down the hall in into the private operating theater I'd built where the old owner had kept his darkroom. I knew the tile floor must be cold against her feet. But I also knew this would be the last time that would be a concern. |
 TeleMate | Goddess Taryn  |  |
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04-27-2024