Tell me how you want to die, and I'll tell you who you are—EM Cioran
A lot of keeping a slave is cleaning up their shit. They don't really have time to go into this in movies but like in Pulp Fiction, where they say, "Bring out the Gimp," and the Gimp is locked in this wooden box..well in reality the gimp's suit would be filled with piss and shit because people eat and when they eat they turn food into piss and shit and eventually that shit comes out of various holes and somebody has to clean it up.
So if you're squeamish, I don't recommend keeping a slave.
I'm not the hugest fan of cleaning up shit, which is why I have the overhead setup with the spray nozzle, stainless steel chair, floor sloping outward into the drainage well. For me, I just spray them down, watch them wince when all that water pressure hits their puss, and move the chunks and runs of feces along the floor to the edges of the crate. Between girls I bleach the floor—it's too risky to have a bottle of bleach in the crate with a girl even if she is locked down. You have to think two, three steps ahead to survive in businesses where you're trying to control things that are basically uncontrollable.
But I would be lying if I didn't say that, after a while, I came to love the smell of each girl's particular shit. It was part of her—and I loved each one in a special way. The smell of their farts and the odor of their piss and the way their shits reeked sank into my mind and I associate each particular shit smell with each particular girl. They brought up rich associations for me—of food, of places from childhood. We have so few words for smell, it's hard for me to describe this further but suffice it to say that every girl I ever kept in that crate, I learned to love the smell of her shit.
I remember thinking one time that I should work in a zoo—because there you keep animals as slaves and clean up their shit. But you don't get to kill the animals so I'm not sure that would have been the best fit for me.
Anna's shit I loved the most. I know that sounds gross to some of you but it's like when you have a baby. You really don't mind cleaning up the shit of your own baby because it's your baby and you love it. That's what I hear anyway and that's the way I felt about Anna. In fact, I was glad to come into the crate and see she had left me a blop of shit—cleaning it up was something I could do for her. It made me feel useful.
As with every girl I ever kept, with Anna I alternated punishment and pleasure. I fucked her with wooden broom handles. I stuck broom handles so far up her vag she screamed like someone being burned with a hot poker—something we did in my previous profession. But after the broom handle rape was over, I'd bring out a pair of scissors and cut her hair.
I'd say, "Anna, you look like you could use a trim."
She'd still be crying and moaning from the broom rape.
But I'd brush her hair over her ears and bring the scissors to her face.
She'd try to escape, but the neck clamp kept her in place.
"Don't you want to look fashionable when you die?"
She'd shake her head.
But I'd cut her hair anyway, bringing it back to the way it was when I met her, and she'd feel it with her fingers and know that it was pretty now and she'd feel good—and I liked that she felt good.
At the end of her hallucinogenic meth trip, during which she'd been excreting sweat the size of rain drops, I gave her a bath in the chair, wiping her vagina like you would a baby's, with no special attention.
"Lift your arms," I said, and I got her armpits, washing her with watered-down rubbing alcohol to kill any germ patches that might be developing. The alcohol stung her pussy, but she was so incoherent from the meth trip that I don't think she remembered.
She wanted a mirror to see herself.
I denied this but used it as a way to control her: if she's good, she'll get the mirror. If she lets herself cum when I touch her with the vibrator then she'll get the mirror. If she shuts the fuck up and acts like a proper girl when she's getting fucked then she might get the mirror. The mirror gig turned out to be a perfect fit for Anna because she really wanted it. And eventually I gave it to her—wearing head and eye protection myself in case she got violent. I bought her makeup to her specifications and a small hand mirror in a circular shape. It seemed too small to even break if she tried to strike me with it so the whole event calculated as a reasonable risk in my mind. And she didn't try a thing—she was overjoyed just to put on some eyeliner and lipstick and see herself in the mirror. She asked if she could put on her blue-star nipple t-shirt but of course I had to say no. And when I took away the mirror, she cried.
There was no end to the fucked-up shit I did and said to that girl. I come into the shipping container all happy and just as I was gonna say some fucked-up shit about how this was her last night in the crate, she goes:
"It's been 30 days, hasn't it? I kept count."
This made me extremely angry. That was my information that I was gonna tell her and here this smart-ass bitch has been keeping count. She knows what day she's gonna die. She knows what night is her last night in the crate. I thought of all kinds of things I could do to punish her but nothing was sufficient and I was afraid I'd go to far and kill her early so I thought of my mentor and did some meditative breathing, standing there behind the chair.
I got to a decent resting heart rate.
The veins in my head receded.
Then I turned off the quartz-halogen floods and let her sleep in the dark.
The next morning I asked her how she slept.
"Like a baby."
"That's what most girls say: last night of their life, they slept like a baby!"
"Do you turn the lights off for everyone?"
"Everything around here's procedure. Everything."
I fed Anna her standard breakfast of eggs and bacon—eggs cooked to her specifications.
"You look tired."
"I haven't been to sleep."
"Why not?"
"Since the chances of you figuring out a way to escape increase with each day I keep you in this crate, I've been staying up all night to watch you for a while."
"Is that hard?—Staying up all night? Are you using drugs?"
"Yes."
"I thought you were straight."
"I'm drinking coffee and Red Bull. That's kind of where I draw the line, these days. And I prefer not to do those."
"I'm sorry I got you off your routine."
"No, no. It's part of the job."
"The job. That's me. The job."
"It's more than a job."
"Thanks, but, seriously: can we renegotiate? I've been thinking about it and I really don't want to die—like, go through the process of dying. You see where I'm coming from? I realize this isn't a business arrangement, but can I make some kind of a trade or something?"
Her eyes were nothing like when she first arrived. Now they were filled with need and desperation.
I hold a fork with over-medium egg halfway between the plate and Anna's mouth.
"Look at it this way: if there isn't an afterlife, you'll never know you died..only that you're about to die. And if there is an afterlife, then presumably once you get there, your pain will end. Either way, you win."
"That's actually not how I look at it at all."
I feed Anna the egg and she swallows, never taking her eyes off me.
While she eats the rest of her breakfast I try to distract her from thoughts of her own death with a story about a girl named Celexa that I once held.
"Isn't that an antidepressant?"
"Yeah, people name their kids after weird things these days. Have you noticed that?"
"Not really."
"Well, Celexa was a pretty girl. I made her stand up for three days. When she squirms her legs together 'cause she has to pee, I shock her pussy with a wire. If she tries to sit down, I shock her pussy with a wire. I love to see a pretty girl under strain. And I love to shock a girl's pussy with a wire."
"Geez..I feel jealous you never did that with me."
"Celexa's hair was blonde curls like Shirley Fucking Temple or Drew Barrymore or Kate Hudson—that sort of lineage. Celexa was a natural blonde—not from a bottle. I think the thing I liked most about Celexa was lying her face down on the gyno chair and spanking her. Then I would shock her pussy with a wire and make her pee. If I touched her in just the right place and alternated spanking her red ass with shocking her pussy with my wire, I could get that girl into a kind of rhythm and she didn't know whether to scream or cum or pee so she did all three. Then I would hold that wire in just the right place in her pussy and it would make her pee come out yellow all over the chair, the floor, my feet—everywhere. I would hold that wire on her until all her pee came out. I love making a girl pee with my wire, because it embarrasses her—I control the pee, she doesn't—and that's what I like about it the most."
"How come you let her out of the chair?"
"Well she had an electrified collar attached to a chain that was bolted to the floor. Kind of like those invisible fence dog collars except—you know—high voltage."
"That's great. You're a real fucking humanitarian."
"I know."
"Oh and while we're on it, why don't you have padding on the walls?"
"You're full of questions."
"Sorry."
"You mean sound-retardant foam like in a recording studio?"
"Right."
"So no one will hear you scream."
"Right."
"Because. There's no need. Did you notice on the ride in how far we are from anyone else? Audio-dampening panels would be a waste of time. The closest people out here are those bike-rodeo meth heads, and they're six or seven miles from here. If somehow they did hear you scream, they'd just go back to smoking meth and playing with flame throwers."
"Can I have the rest of my breakfast?"
"Of course."
We ate the rest of her meal in silence.
After breakfast I took the styrofoam plate and plastic spoon out of the crate, locking her in. Threw the trash away. Unlocked the crate, opened a particular drawer in my tool chest, and pulled out Anna's favorite vibrator. It was a $30 Wahl all-body therapeutic massager, but the only part of her body we ever used it on was her puss.
It had many attachments, but she liked the flat one the best.
The massager had two speeds: make Anna cum in a minute, and make Anna cum right now.
I put it on make Anna cum in a minute.
I put it on her clit.
I set my Glock on my thigh.
I played gay porn for her—Anna's favorite.
I knew she was about to cum.
I said: "If you cum I will kill you."
I showed her the Glock.
She tried not to cum.
She closed her eyes so she couldn't see the porn.
She squirmed and tried to shield her clit from the massager but it was impossible. I could see her body flushing.
"Cum!" I yelled.
"You said you were going to kill me if I came!"
"I know! I am! Cum and then I'll kill you! Cum! Cum!"
She opened her eyes—they were seas of turmoil.
I had never seen her so conflicted and my cock was hard.
"I can't take no more!!!"
"If you feel it, let it happen."
Then she was crying, looking at me, mumbling something I couldn't understand.
"What?"
"Never..felt like this..before."
Then she came, and she was crying to the Lord, or whoever her god was, because she knew when she was done cumming I was going to put a bullet through her head like she had seen me do to so many girls on the archive.
Then she came, and it was a shiver mixed with tears pouring out of her eyes like the ridiculous Disney animation of Alice crying her own ocean which in a few seconds she would be small enough to swim in.
I rubbed the vibrator in a circle and let her orgasm wear out.
She opens her eyes and looks at me.
"Sing me a song before you do it."
"Ok."
"Thank you. Will you please sing me 'Amazing Grace?' "
"You want me to sing you 'Amazing Grace?' "
"Please. That's the song my dad sang to me when I was little."
"The dad who raped you?"
"Please just sing it and then do what you have to do."
"You want me to sing you to sleep."
Anna nods vigorously.
She says, "Do you know the lyrics?"
"Yes," I say, "I grew up in the same Christianity-obsessed world you did. I know the lyrics to 'Amazing Grace.' "
I have the Glock in my left hand and I put my right hand on Anna's forehead.
"Now close your eyes now and go to sleep."
And I sing to her.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now I'm found,
was blind, but now I see.
And verse after verse, I feel Anna's pulse calm, her breathing slow, and I think of what a delight she's been to have in the crate.
Her breathing regularizes, and soon I'm not sure if she's sleeping or awake.
I sing the last verse.
When we've been there ten thousand years,
bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise,
than when we first begun.
Her breathing has gone from the shallow awake breathing to that deep, nasal, sleep breathing.
I stand up and lean in close to her head.
"Anna," I whisper. "I..well.."
I kiss her on her forehead.
Then I brush my fingers through her hair.
I go to the door of the crate and open the inner lock. The sound wakes Anna up—but only halfway.
In a sleepy voice, she says: "So are you gonna kill me now? Take me out to the rock field?"
"No," I say. "You're one day off. I'm gonna kill you tomorrow."