The Vengeful Spirit
My story is a strange one, and when I start at the beginning it may be a little bit confusing. But that’s exactly what it was like for me. Confusing, disorienting, and with nothing but questions. As yet, not all of the questions have been answered. But that is not the beginning of my story. This is.
At first, there was nothing, nothing at all. I would say that it’s a little like falling asleep in reverse. It happens suddenly, but you can’t really tell it happened. I felt like I had been forever, and yet clearly I had not been forever, because had I been nothing forever, I would have gone mad. And I had not gone mad. Instead, I merely questioned the nothing.
Eventually, the nothing was replaced with something. That something was, unfortunately, indistinct. It was not a visual, or auditory something, but it was...fuzzy, I suppose. It was something, yet it was without definition, or substance. Also, it wasn’t always there. I had no sense of time at all, so I don’t know how long it would be gone, but once I’d had a taste of the something, I longed for it, even though I could not tell what it was, nor interact with it. But when the something withdrew, to be replaced with nothing, I felt sadness.
As time passed, the something began to grow more distinct, and resolved into being primarily visual. They seemed to be scenes of some sort. People and activities, strung together with very little apparent relationship. I started to see them as though I were acting in the scenes, but I did not control the action, or what “I” did. It was very puzzling, because the actions “I” took almost never made sense. Nor did the transitions from scene to scene make sense.
The scenes were often filled with powerful emotions: rage, fear, sex, jealousy, desire, frustration, and other things along those lines. I would find myself infused with these emotions, as though I were feeling them, and at times I had more and more trouble distinguishing between myself and the “I” that was generally in these scenes. And when they left, and the nothing came, I would have only those emotions to comfort me, and memories of those scenes.
After a time—I don’t know how long. Forever, it seemed, though in my recollection it did go on for a merely finite period of time that merely feels endless in my memory. After this incalculable amount of time I came to a particular scene, one that changed my viewpoint. I don’t know what caused it to happen. Perhaps time had allowed me to grow to another level.
Before I go on, I should tell you a little about me. You’ll notice I have in no way described myself. That’s because, as far as I know, there is nothing to describe. I was definitely not physical; when the nothing came, I was nothing too. And when the something game, I was merely an observer, whose point of observation was fixed to someone else. And while I would sometimes confuse myself with that someone else, said someone else (as it were) was definitely not me. I often asked myself, in that time, who I was. But I did not know the answer to that question. Clearly I was the wrong person to ask.
Now then, back to where I was. Something in the something changed. A particular scene was happening, one that I had seen, in various forms, far too many times. I was bored with it. I, or rather, “I” was in a classroom, taking a test. I had never been in the classroom before, and “my” heart was racing, because “I” felt that if I failed this test, something dreadful would happen, but all of the questions were unfamiliar. And they tended to change when I looked at them. This scene was quite familiar, and usually built up to more fear of failure until it ended suddenly. There was nothing at all satisfying about it.
Being bored with this scene, I wished mightily that something different would happen. Of course, nothing did, and I was growing more afraid—well, “I” was, but we both were. I found myself wishing that the teacher would come into the room and excuse the class with an A. I think part of the key here was specificity.
And then it happened. I was shocked. “I” was shocked. “My” fear melted away. I was stunned. “And,” I got the teacher to say. “And you’ve been voted for class president!”
“I” was filled with sudden excitement. And then, like a brick wall, the nothing came, erasing the paper, the classroom, the teacher, and the “me”.
“I”, by the way, actually was a specific person. I’m not sure it always was, I don’t really remember the early bits too well. But by then, it definitely was. Well, most of the time. Sometimes it was someone else, but I think it was almost always someone that specific person wanted to be. Or feared to be.
That specific person was a young woman by the name of Annie. In her scenes, she was afraid of all sorts of interesting things, from bees to failure to being embarrassed to being forced to do things. She had scenes where she would get angry because she did something wrong, or because she was being ignored. She had scenes where she was happy to receive gifts and compliments, good grades or good results. I came to believe these scenes represented an inner part of Annie. At least, some of them did. Some of them were simply nonsense, so there was a great deal of separating the meaningful from the meaningless. And it had become a game.
But now, I realized as I was engulfed by complete nothingness, I had some control over these scenes. I could interact with them. I could possibly direct them. What would I do with them? I had to answer some questions before I could figure that out.
For example, the first question—was I Annie? My immediate feeling was no. There was no reason for me to really feel this way. I often felt exactly as Annie did, but some part of me insisted, with absolute certainty, that I was not Annie.
Did I like Annie? Yes, without question, something about her was likable. Why? Hmm. Couldn’t answer that one. That was troubling.
Did I want to control what Annie felt? Yes. Again, no question. Did I want her to feel anything specific? Yes. I answered myself far too quickly, so I asked myself again. But still the answer was yes. What did I want her to feel?
This was the part that surprised me. I had thought my first answer would be happiness. But it wasn’t. I wanted her to feel...embarrassed. Trapped. Helpless. Humiliated. But why? Couldn’t answer that part. But I liked her. That part I agreed with. Shouldn’t I want someone I liked to feel happy?
Nope. That just didn’t seem to be right. It felt like a paradox, but there it was. How could I reconcile this with myself? I couldn’t, really, but somehow, what I wanted seemed to be the best course. I waited through the nothing, and plotted for the next scene.
It didn’t work out too well, at first. I found that I had some control, but not full control. At least, not right away. That took many cycles of something, nothing, something again, and so on. But eventually, I discovered that I did end up with full control. I was able to control every aspect of the scene. Lighting, perspective, stability. Sound, sensation. Smells. Even, to some extent, the emotions that Annie was feeling. I even managed to divorce myself from her perspective. When I did that...well, let me just tell you about one particular one that I will always remember fondly.
The scene started suddenly, as they always do. Annie was in a desert, walking barefoot through the sand. Against the wind. Sand blew in her face. High up, the sun shone down, beating on her. This was definitely a fear for survival scene. It had some promise, but not entirely where I wanted it to go. So I changed it. The wind turned cold. The sun, still high in the sky and bright, somehow seemed powerless to affect the cold. Behind her, she could hear footsteps, but whenever she turned there was nothing there. Then she would hear the sound again—also behind her. And she would whirl, predictably, to look for it.
She heard the sound of laughter. I felt the fear rising in her, and I took some delight in it. Somewhere at the core of me—what little me there was—was the sensation of the purest joy and satisfaction. There was something completely delicious about her fear. But that was just the appetizer.
Tendrils came up out of the sand, to wrap around her legs. She tried to fight them, but they were too powerful for her. She screamed, but in the cold desert there was no one to hear her. The tendrils dragged her into the sand, and for a moment, she was drowning.
Then she was deposited into a cave. The tendrils were gone, leaving her free to move about, but the cave had no exits. Two chairs were in the cave. One of them occupied by a man with whom Annie had become somewhat familiar. I had made him up from other scenes. He had a little of the teacher, a little of the father figure, a little of the young men she dreamed of having sex with. He was, I think, handsome, at least to Annie.
“Hello again, Annie,” he said. Words I put into his mouth. Every little gesture. I imagined that I was the one making the gestures, though they were not even remotely me.
“Oh god, no,” she cried. “Not again!”
She was quite familiar with this character. I had gone through a number of different ones in scenes, and I got the most satisfaction from this one. She was...drawn to him, and yet repulsed by him at the same time. He was very effective at stirring up complex, difficult emotions with in her. Fear and lust, simultaneously. Loathing with desire. Hatred with yearning. All delicious.
“Sit down,” I said through my character. “Please.” I posed him into a smile.
“No!” She spun around, looking for an exit. Her hair, a shoulder-blade length mass of black curls, whipped around attractively as she panicked.
“If you do not sit, Annie, your punishment will be worse. There is nowhere for you to go. Sit.” He paused. Then, louder, “SIT.”
She turned back to him, her bright green eyes made brighter by the just-formed teardrops. She knew she wasn’t going anywhere, and she remembered what would happen if she didn’t obey this character. She sat.
“Very good, my slave.” Her reaction to that word—tensing up, feeling panicky, but also resigned—was delicious. It was that sort of reaction I coveted.
“You obeyed quickly, my dear. But not quickly enough. Your punishment will be light, but firm.”
“Please don’t punish me.”
She looked at my character. Two tears dripped from the inside corners of her eyes, down the side of her lightly freckled nose, across pale skin, disappearing into the red of her lips. “Please, you don’t need to punish me again.”
“No?” I—my character—looked at her with some amusement. “Tell me why I shouldn’t punish you for disobeying me.”
Her eyes widened a moment at having to think about this, then she looked down at the rocky floor. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Yes, yes you will. That’s the point of being a slave. It’s hardly enough. You have to go beyond that.”
She took a deep, shaky breath. “I, um. I’ll, er.”
“Faster, girl. I haven’t got all day.”
She looked back up at me, tears streaming down her face, dripping off her chin to land on her chest. “What do you want me to say? I’m your slave? Ok, I’m your slave.”
“More.”
“I’m your fucktoy?”
I—no, my character—smiled. “Getting somewhere. 15 seconds.”
Her words became a little more firm. “I’ll get on my knees and beg. Beg to be allowed to please you.”
I shrugged. “I suppose. Show me your breasts.”
She started to reach down toward the bottom of the striped T-shirt she was wearing, then paused.
“Without hesitation,” I commanded.
More tears came, but she did not hesitate further. She pulled the shirt—I don’t think it was the actually the same shirt she’d been wearing in the desert, as this one was much tighter and fit her figure—up and over her chest. It revealed a lacy, Victoria’s Secret style bra that was completely implausible with that shirt, but as I’ve said, these scenes did not make a great deal of sense. She looked at me for a second, and much to my pleasure, did not hesitate.
She reached toward her bra clasp, between her breasts. I casually noted that her nails weren’t polished, and were cut quite short. Sometimes they were in these scenes, sometimes they weren’t. They tugged at the clasp there, but she was a little awkward and had to try three or four times to get it to come loose. But she managed it, and she pulled the bra away and discarded it. She held her chest out for me to examine.
I—no, my character—did, too. From the almost invisible patch of freckles on her chest just between her well-formed breasts, to the oh-so-pale flesh that never saw the sun, to the pink, slightly mottled aureola, to her currently flat nipple. A tear drop landed on one of them and ran down, pooling on the aureola. Her flesh there immediately reacted; the aureola contracted down to the size of a quarter, and the nipple hardened and poked out.
“Still crying, slave?”
“I—I’m sorry master. I can’t stop.”
“Your time is up. But you tried, so I will let you choose. Fifteen lashes, the clit clamp, or hmm. How about 6 laps around the cave. On your knees and with your hands tied behind your back.
Her mouth opened, but she didn’t answer.
“Hurry, or it’s all 3.”
She stammered, like her tongue didn’t want to work. She slipped out of the chair and onto her knees, looking up at me. Finally, “The lashes. Whip me.”
I nodded, rising—no, my character rose—from the other chair. Two chains lowered from the ceiling, as I desired, with leather manacles. I went over to her and put her hands in the manacles, which then pulled her up off her knees, though not off her feet. She didn’t resist at all, but instead seemed resigned to what was coming.
Her body was perfect—at least, I thought so. In reality, I had never really seen other women, at least, not as distinctly as I saw Annie. But to this day, Annie is still the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen. Only a couple of inches shorter than my character. She had just large enough breasts to really get your hands around, but not so large that they looked unwieldy. Her waist was not small, but was perfectly proportioned, and her hips were almost even with her bust. Her complexion was broken only by the freckles—on her nose and cheeks, her chest, and her arms from her wrists to the shoulders. Her tummy was not quite flat, but very close; she had only a small bit jutting out, just under her navel. I walked around her several times, admiring her, standing there wearing only tight, blue jeans. The jeans accentuated her ass, which was second only to her eyes as her nicest feature.
“Fifteen lashes for not obeying fast enough, slave. And then you’ll be my fucktoy.” She only nodded meekly in response. I stopped behind her. The lash appeared in my hand. It was wide and flat. Also soft. It would not hurt nearly as bad as some other implements I could have chosen, but she had done well.
“One.” I swing the lash. It made contact with her back; her muscles all tensed up, pulling at the chains. They made a lovely pattern across her back.
“Tell me you’re my fucktoy.”
“I...I’m your fucktoy.”
“Two.” The lash connected again, with a loud slapping noise. “My obedient slave.” She didn’t respond—at least, not fast enough to satisfy me.
“Two.” I slapped her again. She yelped this time. “Your obedient slave.”
“Better.” I slapped her again, several times in a row. “Three. Four. Five. Six.” Each one was accompanied by a slightly louder yelp. But also—and I don’t know if I did this, because I certainly wanted it, or if she did it on her own—but she was becoming aroused. “Seven. You love me.” The lash made its sound, and after her screech of pain, she responded appropriately. “I love you, master.”
The rest of them went quickly, one after another. I was getting a little dizzy from her arousal, and it seemed like the room was starting to shake a little. I walked around to her front. I—no, my character. Though I must admit the distinction was becoming less and less obvious as the scene went on. My character took the whip and trailed the tip across her breasts. Both of her nipples were tight and hard now, fully erect.
“You belong to me, slave.”
She looked at me. A combination of terror and lust was in her eyes—and her heart. “I belong to you.”
“You are mine to do with as I please.”
“Do whatever you want with me.”
I wrapped the end of the whip around her neck and pulled it into a makeshift leash. I approached her and used the leash to pull her head up. She made choking noises, but I ignored them. With my other hand I grabbed her chin and kissed her. She kissed me back, so I loosened the leash, which let her get some air.
When I let her lips free, she said, “I want to pleasure you, master.” She didn’t look at me when she said it, and part of her so clearly didn’t want to say it.
Then, strangely, the shaking in the room increased. This happened sometimes, and usually signaled the impending end of the scene. I wasn’t ready for it to end, though. I focused. I concentrated. I held on as tightly as I could. This scene could not be allowed to end.
But it did. The strangest thing happened, though...it wasn’t replaced with nothing.