The Breaking of Mother Night 4

by Mr. K. 

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He listens to you explain how she gently guided you to your feet. You whole body still convulsed as she firmly gripped your arm and walked you across the room

“I couldn’t talk. I could barely walk,” you tell him, now, in your coils of chains. “She … your wife took me another glass booth. She … was gentle as she guided me in and had me stand facing her in the chamber,” you tell him now, Mother Night, in chains.

You stand there in your new captivity, explaining how you were beset with a new pain wave. The glamorous wife closed the glass door, and, immediately, you were screaming.

“It was … It’s hard to describe. It was like a shower within my body. Like it was a rain of razors in my … all through my body … inside my body.”

“It was like you had your organs shredded and reconstituted, and shredded again, yes?” he asks, smiling. He sips his tea.

You remember the blinding agony - the way your body shook, and revolted against itself.

“Yes,” you say.

“And there was another booth. And another. And another,” he says. He exudes the fact that he knew all of this. He just wants to recount it. He wants to hear you relive it.

“She put me in one after the other. The pain was different from one to the next to the … to the next,” you admit. “There was …” You start, then pause, remembering how strange and complete the pain in that particular booth was. “It … it was as thought my spine, my brain, my whole nervous system was being lifted out of my body and tied in knots,” you say. You hear yourself gasp as you say it.

“I like the way you describe that. It meant to feel exactly like that.”

“Until you broke. I came into the room once she was done and found you on the floor. You were unconscious and so beautiful in your costume. Stretched out. Panting. Eyes closed. I always like having you like that,” he says wistfully. “In all of our past battles, there was always a time that I rendered you unconscious – a point at which you were down and out. I always loved those moments. I could really appreciate how wide and high your breasts are. I could, like now, really appreciate those thick, muscular legs. When I came into the room, I stood for a moment, appreciating that your daughter got her body’s hourglass from you.

I told my boys to take you, but to take their time picking your body up from the floor. I wanted them to appreciate the size of your breasts and the shape of your ass. I wanted them to smell your hair and appreciate the texture of your tight, tight costume. They did. You played with your unconscious body. When they carried you, they hoisted you up into their shoulders and carried you like a trophy. I had just finished with your daughter and all of her pulchritude, and now I was standing over you. I had the boys gather you up,” he explains. “I put you two in what we called Lullaby. Well, first, I enjoyed your bodies unconscious on the floor. Then I moved you to your new sleeping arrangement. Mother and daughter, together in a sleep in which we could control your minds. I enjoyed the sounds you made as I hounded you with nightmares.”

You remember the monster images.

“And when you finally let us come to our senses, you kept us on chained collars. You called … I remember you called us ‘pets,” you say. Your mind is still twisting and turning around the nightmare images – the monsters that tore at you. “You called us your ‘animals,’ and your wife brought out … I remember how she brought out the oil,” you recall. “I could smell it.”

He claps his hands and recounts how she rolled at a cart with bottle, and flasks, and what looked like a fondue pot on it. Everything was full of something fragrant that looked like olive oil.

“You covered me in it. You made me stand like a statue. I couldn’t move, and the two of you poured it over my skin, my body.”

You remember your nipples growing hard and your clitoris swelling and stiffening to the point that it seemed ready to tear through your costume. Your labia puffed and puffed, growing thicker an engorged with blood. Soon, your whole body seemed to hum. It also grew stiff. You felt as though, suddenly, you were made of thick, durable plastic.

“I had you stand like a statue, while your daughter watched, and we poured the ointment on you,” he says, his eyes wide.

“I thought you were making a doll out of me. In fact, you did. I was a doll for you …”

“Then you saw the cords, and you felt the pain of how we attached them to you.”

He smiles. You speak.

“You turned me into a puppet.”