She walked past the destined door again, trying not to appear to be wavering, pacing in front of it, and not doing a good job at it. She’s wearing what she left the last warehouse with: silky semitransparent white blouse, flaring skirt not reaching mid-thigh, and below-the-knee boots, except her has her regular white panties and bras underneath. She checked her watch again. Five minutes. It probably doesn’t matter if she’s early, or late, but she never liked going into an appointment early, although she always arrive early. Of course, this isn’t an appointment. She’s not sure what it is. Or why she even came.
She was so relieved to be out of that warehouse two months ago, yet she clung onto the spiked bra that she left with. The one she had put on herself uncoerced. Perhaps it serves as a tangible reminder of her ordeal, as all evidence on her breasts quickly healed and faded. It was such an awful experience, the painful stimulations, but somehow that itself made it a great accomplishment, in overcoming all those unbearable holes. She even thought of putting the bra on again. It would hurt terribly unpleasant, she knows, but to feel— And she did, once, feeling the horrible tightness on her boobs and the spikes pricking into her sensitive flesh. And then she resolved not to do it again, even though her thoughts kept wandering back, because her thoughts kept wandering back.
Then she got the postcard. The glossy picture side has a simple illustration: two black up-pointing vees on a white background, in thick, perfect, straight strokes, as if outlining two overlapping triangles, like stylized mountains. That is all. Yet there is no doubt that it is from the warehouse. On the back, there were only two lines: an address and a date-and-time, a month hence.
Why is she coming? she kept thinking. The note obviously wanted her to have plenty of time to think about it, too much time to think about it. She wanted another adventure, even if she would hate every second of it. And she’s pretty sure she will. But then to suppress this desire is just as great an accomplishment, even if less eventfully, physically. And if she goes, will she discover why this is all happening? and why her? even just little bits of hints, though she wouldn’t be surprised if it were to leave her as clueless as the first time. And would she meet the people responsible, perhaps a handsome young man, perverted but cute in a dark way— No, she’s projecting...
And she thought, what if she doesn’t show up? Then whatever’s there would go to waste. No. It’s already wasted when they started playing this sick game. And when she didn’t show up, would they take her like that first time? Perhaps making it a little worse? Yes, but not too much. There’s no point in threatening her unless they tell her. Or is she suppose to figure it out? In any case, they must have wanted her to do this, whatever it is. But what if they took someone else instead? They wouldn’t possibly let it drop. But even though she would be glad to be hurt no more, how could she wish it on anyone else? Nobody deserves it. Neither does she, but at least she’s already hurt. She knows what’s coming and can take it, kind of, right?
And why wasn’t there a swat team? Why didn’t she go to the police? She knew she should have reported it as soon as she got out. Maybe it’s too awful to relive, maybe too embarrassing to describe. She just wanted to be out of it. Yet she can still remember everything that happened, every feeling, every sensation. She has a feeling that they would not be caught regardless of what she did. They would not be stopped. Everything’s just set up too perfectly. But is that what she wanted, unconsciously, just a little tiny part of her? No, she cannot possibly think that. After all that had happened...
She checked her watch one last time, watching the seconds count down, and opened the door. As the door closed behind her, she took a quick look back, but resisted the temptation to check the lock. It’s not a locked room that will hold her this time. She came, still not quite sure why, and she will see it through. Right? She had not looked back again, yet she hesitated, just within the threshold. She looked around instead. As she expected, it looked like another warehouse, dark and dusty, windowless gray on all six sides. There’s a table against the far way with a plastic container on it. There’s a door left of the table, and another one on the right wall.
She slowly approached the table, and yes, there’s a sheet of instructions:
- Take off everything below the waist.
- Go through the door to the left.
- Put cuffs on ankles, wrists, and below elbows.
- Lock right wrist to left elbow and left wrist to right elbow.
- Sit over the edge and step down.
She’s not really surprised, except that the focus is evidently going to be on the bottom rather than the top, but again she hesitated. She looked into the plastic container. It’s empty. There’s not even dust. Staring at the plastic does not help, but it’s all she got.
She took off her boots and put them by the table. Then she took off her watch, skirt and panties and put them in the plastic container. Her blouse came down to the middle of the upper swell of her hips. Finally, her purse. As she lowered the purse, she thought of the spiked bra inside. Since receiving the card, she had not put on the spiked bra again, armed with the additional justification that her breasts needs the down time. But now she wondered. Her boobs are most likely not going to be touched. She could have— Should she change her bras now, or should she have worn it all along? The instructions didn’t say, nor did the card in her purse. Is that going to take away from whatever she will be facing, and should she welcome the distraction or not.
She dropped her purse with her bottoms without opening it. Reading through the instructions one last time, she went through the designated door. It was completely dark inside, except for a dim light in the floor that illuminated the immediate area, where the cuffs are. It’s a narrow room, or more like a hallway: she could feel the walls on either side without fully extending her arms. Two cuffs, labeled left and right ankles with stickies, are connected by chains to tracks in the floor, leading forward into the darkness ahead.
Taking one final breadth, she bent down and put on the ankle cuffs and they lock together magnetically, snug enough so she cannot possibly get her feet out. The wrist and elbow cuffs locked on the same way. She figured they would lock together when positioned correctly. But are they suppose to go in front or behind her? Played back the instructions, she doesn’t recall it saying one way or the other. Hmmm. Of course, it doesn’t really matter. She tried both positions, making sure to keep the cuffs apart. It would be loose in front but could be tight in the back, thrusting her chest out. Hmmm.
She crossed her arms behind her and inched her hands towards the opposite elbows until the cuffs snapped together. Yes, it’s tight, but after a while and some token struggling, she got used to it. Taking a look back, she walked into the darkness. The chains kept her feet about two feet apart, and the other ends of the chains followed her in their tracks. Soon, she reached the edge and carefully sat down awkwardly, letting the chains fall down along vertical tracks, splaying open her legs about three feet apart. The tracks must be wider apart below. It’s completely dark here, and she cannot feel the space between her legs. There must be something down there between her legs, and it’s a surprise.
She gradually woke up and took stock of her situation. She’s sitting on a ledge and she wore nothing on her legs! Not even panties. She could feel the rough concrete on her bare skin. Her bare legs dangled over the edge, held spread by chains cuffed to her ankles, about three feet apart. Her arms are tied behind her, left wrist to right elbow and right wrist to left elbow. Her back leaned against a concrete wall and she is wearing a silky blouse that ended at the middle of the upper swell of her hips. It is completely dark. She yelled for help, but there’s no response.
Sitting on the edge, she slowly nudged her bare bottom forward on the rough concrete. She stretched her feet to a point, exploring the darkness depth, but found nothing within reach of her splayed open legs. With a final scoot, she tipped over— and crashed her crotch on something sharp, before she could lift herself on her toes above the sharp edge. It’s really a short drop, probably only a few inches, but the uncertainty of the utter darkness caught her off guard, and she was unable to brace herself for the landing. If she had locked her knees and pointed her feet, she might stump her toe a little but not slam into the sharp edge.
And a sharp edge it is, right at her slit. Maybe not quite sharpened to a point, but she felt she need not verify that at this point. That first sudden drop was real bad. It was a sharp pain, though perhaps it was the sharp impact rather than the actual shape. In any case, she suspects she will get to know the edge intimately before the day’s over.
Instead, she test-felt lower down with her inner thighs. It’s definitely a wedge that ended just above her knees. The way it splayed her legs open at around ninety leg-to-leg made pressing her inner thighs against it the most comfortable position, all things considered. It felt smooth but not slippery, and not at all cold against her smooth inner thighs, probably wood, finely sanded but uncoated.
Beyond the wedge, she could not reach whatever support that must be holding the wedge up: the wedge held her legs apart effectively. There’re also the chains on the ankle cuffs, but those only loosely connect her ankles to the tracks further out. Perhaps the chains are there to prevent her from tipping herself over and off the wedge, which would be rather difficult considering she is already on her toes and thus have no leverage, and with her hands bound and her current position, the landing would be awkward, but still preferable to staying on the wedge indefinitely, but of course it’s all moot.
There’s no way she could get back on the ledge. Oh she tried. With her legs spread wide and chained even further out, she found it impossible to get the chains up the tracks that must be in the vertical wall. Even if her arms were free, she would not be able to reach. Actually, if her hands were tied differently, she might be able put her hands on the ledge and push herself up, but her lower arms were tied together wrist to elbow, parallel and somewhere above the ledge. Her jump attempts all fell short, even prep’ed by pressing down into the edge or leaning to one side on one foot. And the wall is too slick to put one foot flat against it and pushing while the other foot strained to hold up her weight. Her best attempts only produce the best thuds as she fell back onto the wedge.
So she must go forward. On her toes, with legs spread wide, she could just barely shuffle forward a little at a time, dragging the chains along their tracks, trying not to lower her slit onto the wedge so as not to drag against it. Although she cannot see in the darkness, the wedge obviously go on and on, intent to take her through whatever tortures planned for her until release or whatever other conclusion awaits her.
Could it go on and on forever, like in a loop? No, you can’t merge into a loop. Topographically, there would have to be three edges meeting at a point, and wedges can’t meet. Unless, say, parts are lowered into the ground. Or there could be a drop into a loop, or into the current track to form a loop. But what’s the point of just going on and on? At some point she’ll have to decide that nothing will change and stop.
Ahh. Something scraped her clit and the surrounding area, something cold, metallic. She lifted herself still higher so she’s standing on the ends of her toes and shuffled back forward, yet it’s still not enough. But the metal’s flexible, not solid. It’s like a mesh of thin strips, with sharp edges. As she pushed forward harder, the front of her vulva, pushing against the metal mesh, forced it down between her legs, where the mesh sprang back up against her crotch. And the metal mesh is on the sides of the wedge too, forcing her legs wider apart and her crotch lower against the mesh.
Scraping her crotch and inner thighs on the metal mesh, she plowed forward. Is there really a choice? Her legs and toes are already tiring, so it’s better to keep moving. Unless she went back, not knowing whether there is more mesh ahead or behind, and just stay at one spot. But would she ever be released that way? The mesh is distributed unevenly: sometimes it barely grazed her, other times she had to push hard. On she pressed, and then it’s over, back to the smooth wood.
But then, the wood gradually got rougher and higher, until she cannot help but scrape her crotch on the top of the wedge every couple of steps. And that’s with her thighs pressed tight against the wood. And she started getting splinters, sharp slivers of wood that poked her and embed themselves just under her smooth skin. Here and there, they pricked her inner thighs, and occasionally, her crotch. Those really hurt the sensitive tissues. She counted seven of them before the wood returned to normal.
Then the wood turned to ice. She jumped at the first contact on her crotch, as much as her tip-toed spread posture allowed. First it’s freezing cold against her skin, almost a burning sensation, then it got wet, though still cold, as her warmth melted the surface of the ice. The wedge is getting higher, and she cannot avoid touching her crotch. A film of melt water slid with her along the wedge: she felt constantly wet and cold, but not freeze-burnt. How can wood be replaced with ice, unmelting ice, especially not knowing when she’ll reach here? The ice must be maintained, not just left in place. Probably some freeze-cooling unit underneath, but weak enough to allow the ice to melt almost on contact.
The ice turned back to wood that absorbed the melt water, then turned to hot plates. The plates must be inclined, though unnoticeably so, as her first hint of the hot plates is direct contact on her still cold crotch. And her crotch immediately jumped, as much as the tip of her toes allowed. Even so, heat radiating from the plates quickly warmed her crotch and inner thighs until they bathed the oppressive heat. The wedge again rose as she shuffled forward, forcing her to either press the hot wedge into her slit, or press them into her inner thighs, or rather switching back and forth, up and in, down and out, up and in, down and out, and so forth.
Then the wood wedge returned, though it remained at the same height. Then the wood became rough, not like the splintery section, but like rough sandpaper. She felt it as she pressed her thighs against the wedge, scraping the inner surface on the coarse grains. At least the abrasive grains did not cover the top of the wedge, the part that’s pressed into her slit when she relaxed her thighs. Now having the wedge in her slit became preferable. Until even that part became covered with the rough grains. Then, of course, it’s back to squeezing her thighs as much as possible, but still dropping down once in a while.
After her inner thighs, and even her more sensitive but less touched slit, were rubbed raw, normal wood returned once again. And remained. It’s became clear that this more uneventful section is much longer than the sections between the eventful sections, even though it’s hard to judge time and impossible to judge distance in the darkness. The five eventful sections: metal mesh, wood splinters, ice water, hot plate, sand grains.
Then it suddenly hit her, like a light turning on though it remained dark. The five Chinese elements in the traditional order: metal 金 mesh, wood 木 splinters, water 水 ice, fire 火 plate, earth 土 grains. Which are also the five planets of antiquity: metal star Venus 金星, wood star Jupiter 木星, water star Mercury 水星, fire star Mars 火星, earth star Saturn 土星, though not in the correct planetary order, and have nothing to do with the wedge.
The wedge continued monotonously. These elements are different from the five classical Greek elements, fire, earth, air, water, cosmos, each with atoms in the form of one of the five regular polyhedrons. Of course it’s not the hundred plus modern chemical elements, but more like states of matter: solid, liquid, gas. Fire could be another gas, or plasma, but so can cosmos. The Chinese elements also, with a single gas/plasma, but with three solids. Oh, that makes sense. Modern elements are classified as gas, liquid or solid, and metal or nonmetal. Earth would be nonmetal. And substances are classified as organic or inorganic. Wood would be organic.
Still, the wedge continued. The real difference besides cosmos is air. Maybe that represented the end of the wedge. That would be nice. But then, she had her answer. Her left foot found air as the floor gave way beneath her, while her right foot hit a steep slant that propelled her forward, causing her body weight to crash down onto the wedge at an angle, right on her clit. As her returned upright, the wedge shifted down into her crotch. Her toes, pointed, cannot find land. Swinging her legs back, she could barely feel the slant of the floor. Can she make it back to land? How could she cross this—void? She really should do something, quickly. Can’t go back. Right?
She tried squeezing her thighs against the wedge as tight as she can. That relieved the pressure on her crotch, slightly. She needs to balance her weight on her crotch and shuffle one thigh forward, and then the other. Slowly, she inched forward, slower than inch by inch, actually, dragging herself forward with her slit on the wedge as if it were its tracks. Her pointed toes constantly searched for the ground that is not there.
And finally, landfall, and she tried to recover as she again shuffled on her toes instead, with only occasional lowering of her crotch as her thighs and toes strained to hold her up. Air really is different from the other elements, just as the East is different from the West. The wedge stretched on and on. It’s over, right? The elements are all done. Would the pattern be messed up by other sections, perhaps tickling, itching, pricking, and electrifying ones?
And again, she was caught by surprise. The wedge is now sticky, like duct tape. It probably is duct tape, wound the wrong way around the wedge, spiraling down its length. The wedge again rose, so she had no choice but to squeeze it with her thighs or press it into her slit. Either way, she pressed the tape onto her skin, and as she shuffled forward, the tape clung to her skin, stretching it, before pealing off rather painfully. After a while, it’s back to wood.
All of a sudden, her cuffs clicked open and the wedge gave way. Finally free, she fell forward, swinging down her front onto the floor. She considered kissing the ground, now that she actually could, but settled for lying with her cheek on the ground. After resting for a bit, she gathered herself up, shook out her limbs, and walked to the next room gingerly.
The next room was still dark, but a spotlight shone on a chair like at a dentist’s, with wide-spreading stirrups. There are mirrors in front and below, and a tray table with a variety of tweezers and packs of medicated wipes. The splinters. She mounted the chair. The chair back was unusually oriented, but actually forced her head closer to her crotch comfortably. The stirrups are really wide apart. She painstakingly pulled out all the splinters and medicated the area. Then she went to the next room, put her clothe back on, and went home.
THE END