The dark dungeon lay deep in the swollen earth. IT was as if the ground itself was repelled by the indignities suffered there.
Me? I payed good money to get here and I'm not leaving until my darker desires are satiated.
Ushered past the 50 room hall(more), each a more progressive kink. I can hear the chains, the whips, the screams of the pleasure of pain. I can barely contain myself in this vinyl mask. So. Very. Turned. Hard.
The first set of ten rooms contained the more vanilla stuff: light domination, teasing submission, nipple clamps, butt plugs, and the like. Kinky, but not what I paid for. A good show for the inexperienced dipping their toes into the dungeon scene. In a few years these novices will be making their to room 50, my final destination.
Rooms 11-20 exemplify the more mainstream kink: punishment, extreme domination/submission, puking, pissing, shitting, and all manner of conventional sex toys. These people are just beginning to push the envelope, almost ready to graduate to more extreme pleasures.
Down and down I go, passed 21-30 (electricity is introduced), beyond 31-40 (CnB torture, needles with various injections), below 41-49 (flesh eating, blood drinking, sensual stabbings) and on to the 50th door at the end of the hall.
None of that other stuff fulfills my kink anymore, I've leveled up my sexual appetites. What lay beyond those black metal doors is pure ecstasy for my soul. The most forbidden fruit, the culmination of all my as of yet unfulfilled desires. I am ready.
I am ready for consensual sex in the missionary position for the sole purpose of procreation.
If you choose the left, you return to your dead end job with your lovely wife and kids. You're reading them a bed time story and you're hating yourself for never taking a chance. You'll always wonder if(more) you've made the right decision.
The right remains unpredictable. It. Will. Destroy. You. in. the. End. You will be hunted; you will live on the edge, never having enough time to look back on past decisions. Only enough time for "do".
An adventure awaits your first step. Breath. Take it in. Let the cool air enter your lungs, and exhale your fears.
Not unlike a baby bird, uncertain of flight; spread your wings. (less)
Isolation is suffocating, regardless the size of the cage. Even with the entire world to myself the air feels stale and old, like breathing in deep in an old-folks home.
I am the one remaining human being on planet earth.
Everybody else had sense enough to leave when the bombs dropped, the plant-life decayed, and the food chain began losing chinks. It didn't really hit me until the bacon was gone and by then it was too late. The headlines read "Earth Successful Evacuated", may as well have said "So Long Motherfucker, and Thanks for All the Fish".
Are these the thoughts of the final Dodo? Or the last Tasmanian Tiger?
As terminal as my situation is, at least I have all of the amenities left behind by the evacuees: game systems, movies, computers, books, remote controlled doo-dads. Sadly, they took all their sugar snacks. (less)
Steaming piles of dead leaving puddles of warm life on the field. It is strange how much the red and green remind me of happier times, of holidays I'll no longer enjoy. Bits of brain and skull slither off my boots as I trudge through the gore.
(more) This is to be the price of peace, death. There will be more of it as the days progress.
"Help me! Oh god, Help me!" I hear from the other side of a large boulder. As I get closer, the sound gets louder and more desperate. "Please miss, please help"
I do help, the kind of mercy that a dagger to the heart provides. I can see the warped gratitude in his eyes as his consciousness fades and his pupils dilate. He mouths "Thank you" or a silent "Why?" as he becomes no more.
Other will not enjoy as nice a death, evident by the constant twitching of almost corpses across the open plain. I'll find them and ease their passing, not unlike this expired individual dripping from my blade. Charity work, I call it.
Most will appreciate the service I provide, prematurely ending prolonged suffering. There will always be those that humbly accept the cold relief of my dagger.
The flax-counter has eighteen minutes remaining, when it hits zero I will be dead. No time to think, only to act.
I knew that tripping the prox-sense would result in my immediate termination, it's common knowledge; but I have to warn them. They must know. They must be(more) told the truth.
I have about ten minutes until I arrive at Mulcern gate, about six minutes to herald a commune, and roughly two minutes afterwards my bracelet will be active, the toxin will perform a L3-Memwipe (wouldn't want them probing me for post-mort info.) resulting in a permanent cease and desist on all of my vital functions. I will forget how to breath, and I will cease to be.
Right now I need to hold on. I need to get to the Mulcern gate. I need to warn the others. They deserve to know the schemes of the schemers on future histories. They need to be exposed to immediate dangers and tribulations of their unborn children.
Getting here took too many precious minutes, dodging and weaving among the free-partitioners, catching the tri-delta to Mulcern under the guise of a High-Arbiter. I'll get there in time. Little time, but just enough.
The future has come: beautiful, inexplicable, prepackaged complexity. It is the fear of other, less apparent futures that fuel my desire to impart. Empathy for those not yet lost, and them that are to be exposed to the horrors of peace earned through war.
An end result achieved premature, without the need for blood not yet spilled. (less)
There was never a time in my short lived career that I regretted fucking Carol on my lunch hour. I only regretted that she was the bosses daughter.
Eleven hours ago, I will haver been on "leave of absence" for exactly 28 hours and 12 minutes. I do(more) not expect to ever be back in my dimly lit cubicle dungeon, but "leave of absence" was their choice words, not mine. A necessary precaution I suppose; you never want to fire somebody on a Monday.
On Friday I'll get the call and on Monday next week, I'll come in and grab my things. On Tuesday I'll drink by myself at the local hub and mirror the sentiment until Friday makes a return trip and I'll have to update my Facebook profile and hit LinkedIN for another shitty clean collar career.
Today, I'll enjoy my free time. I'll enjoy this false sense of security that time will pass and my job will still be there tomorrow, it will. XboxLive will be my false friend for the evening and I will end the night as I always do: on my back watching the stars. (less)