The Collector

The Collector

Voices tell me what to do, how to snare her, how to stuff her mouth, what tape to use over rose-red lips. Design her with ropes, the Voices say, with straps and wire. Test her with implements, measure, examine, probe.
Her body speaks in long, low sounds. Moans. Groans. Magical sighs. Fragrant girl sounds. Female flesh, kneaded by rope, by straps so tight they squeeze her bones, forming and re-forming her shape. They make her ache. They fold her limbs around bars, force forward bulbs of breasts, and widen her spread.
Hook her by nose and teeth. Make her dribble and drool. And taste her, the Voices whisper. Taste her.
The Voices are spare. They drip with girl. They pester. They whine. They won't leave me alone.
Weave her like a puzzle about herself, the Voices hum. Hoist her in the air. Hook her ass. Perform tests upon all her delicious holes.
My holes now. All mine. To manipulate as I please. Ahhh. She has an ass like butter, creamy and white. And I whip her into something new, beating her into froth.
Make her come, the Voices demand. Make her.
I am a man of pipes and clamps, of pins and steel margins. I manufacture her. Through my simple use of conduits and connecting pieces, she becomes a machine that can fuck herself.
How beautiful she looks to me now, suspended above in the shape of a cross, swinging slowly, a vision surrounded by a white and holy light. And I rest at last, lying below this heavenly sight, in silence. A voluptuous, stiffening silence.
The Voices have gone.
And I desire to touch her, but am fastened in place. A pin has been thrust through my heart, affixing me to the cold, hard ground.













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