Cade Posted 3 hours ago *Chapter I can be found here: https://www.fetish.com/topic/246060-train-at-nowhere-junction-i/ **This story has been edited from its original work; anything marked [REDACTED] has been removed to meet Fetish forum posting standards. My Use (Act 1) By the time we finish our meals (I did, in fact, eat most your fries), you bounce frantically in the seat trying to calm your rapid breathing to regain control, mind racing because you don't want to wet yourself in public. I take a long, mocking suck from my straw, in pāinfully obvious disdain for your impending situation. Gurgling could be heard from the cup as I take the last of the soda inside, then I meticulously place it on the tabletop almost as if part of some - incredibly slow - ritual. “Clean this up,” I say absently, could be to no one or everyone, as I stare out into the night landscape. A young couple bickers at a nearby bench, capturing my curiosity as you try to focus on the task at hand. You pick up the food wrappers with trembling hands while the lady of the couple stands and shouts at the lanky fellow still sitting at the bus stop. He raises his hands in defeat and she turns away in a huff, dragging a small dog behind her; you hurriedly discard the trash in a nearby receptacle before standing beside me in earnest desperation. Nearly dancing in rhythmic insanity, you plead in a manner that leaves no question your anguish, “My Lord, PLEASE…we've finished eating, may I use the ******** now!?! Please!” You clutch your fists and press them into your crotch, trying to afford yourself just a few more seconds. I chuckle sadistically and lean back in my seat. “You may…I guess,” my tone is playful and sly. Something doesn't feel right to you. You know me too well; why didn't I make you beg? In a stupor, you respond, “Thank you?” Your chaotic thoughts come to the conclusion that you shouldn’t look a gift “sadist” in the mouth - you might just get bit. So, with a relieved shrug, you begin walking with purpose towards the glowing sign that indicates the direction of the restrooms as I stand. “Ehm.” The solitary and distinct sound of me clearing my throat stops you cold in your tracks. “This way, dirty slut. Follow me.” I turn in the opposite direction, through the many benches in the pavilion and towards the shadowy side of the building. You spēēd walk to catch up to me, passing the table Big Jon sat, just opening his second pizza pie. Certainly, you're no stranger to being fōrcēd to ******* in public - you've had to experience everything from being walked as a “dirty dog” to being made to present as you simply **** your clothing (it doesn’t get easier). However, with this lot setup, there is a constant run of cars, trucks and diesels that circle the buildings looking for a spot to gas up at, parking or turning their larger vehicles around. With only a couple isolated parked cars, most likely the employees, the side of the building might as well have been some obscene stage, each vehicle that passes lighting us up with their headlamp spotlights. To your surprise (and a little disappointment - you really need to go), we don't stop along our little side quest for me to humiliate you in your mundane bodily functions. Instead, I lead you around the very back of the building to an additional set of restrooms, blocked off and locked with a big “OUT OF ORDER” sign to finish the effect. I push past a traffic cone blocking the entrance, and fishing keys from my pocket, I unlock the door and go inside. The sickly flicker of florescent bulbs welcome you in behind me despite your utter sense of dread. “Wait at the door,” the command in my voice leaves no room for questions. Standing uncomfortably next to a trashcan and a series of not-so-clean sinks, you watch as I circle the fair sized room, checking stalls and surveying the space in various stages of mental planning. I walk past you to a storage closet off to the far corner, using the keys once again to gain access. Pēēking my head inside, I retrieve a familiar duffle and make my way to the farthest stall from the entry. “Is…that a bag from the house?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from anything to do with liquid. “Yes,” I respond, not looking away from my mission. “I knew I'd need a few things, so I dropped them off earlier in the week.” I disappear behind the partitions, dropping the bag with a loud, heavy crash that makes you jump in surprise and nearly [REDACTED] yourself out of anxious fēār. My disembodied voice pulls you back, “I noticed this stop on a trip for work, I stopped in for gas.” The unmistakable clanking of chain being manipulated gives you the shivers as I continue, “I got talking with Jerry, and it turns out he's a really good guy…and funny. Funny kinky.” My head pops out from the stall so you can read my expression. I return to the prep work, you hear another zipper and after a minute, you see me reaching overhead to the bars stabilizing the stall walls as I tell the tale. “It seems he’s very much a voyeur…watching people ‘do things’ really gets him going, I guess. I got to talking about what I enjoy which excited him. He’s really never seen anything like…well…this.” I pause to double check the set of camera brackets I've put up: one in the front and the other diagonally across in the back, you note. “So, he’s agreed to let me use this space for the night to do whatever I want,” I reveal as I attach cameras to the brackets, “as long as he gets to watch.” That creepy revelation causes you to shiver; the sudden connection to the unbearable pāin burning in your lower abdomen like coals in a wood burner nearly doubles you over as if I punched you in the *******. An oppressive silence fills the room like a toxic gas threatening your consciousness, and your head spins as I step out of the stall with my eyes on the screen of a table, adjusting the camera angles to maximize the view. “P-people are going to watch, my Lord?” Your discomfort is obvious and delicious to me. In lieu of an answer, my head turns towards you slowly and a wide, toothy grin spreads across my face. Ducking back into the stall, the room falls quiet again except for the occasional rattle of chain while I finish setting up. Anticipation weighs heavy on your shoulders, and you're already hunched over with legs crossed tightly, hugging your abdomen in some insane attempt to hold on just one more minute. Then, two minutes. And then what feels like an eternity pinched between your thighs until the distinct and deafening click of a lock being closed snaps you to attention. The now mostly empty bag startles you as it flies from the nook you know must be a portal to hell; you watch as it hits the tile floor and slides under the sinks. “Come here,” my voice echoes off the walls, pounding you from every direction as if to drown out your heartbeat - loud in your skull. You literally have to fōrcē your stubborn feet forward, more out of the terror gripping your soul than the agony of each step from an impending explosion in your lower abdomen. Dread drags at your heels as each footfall plods you closer to the very Devil. No matter how you try to creep, your path ends at the stall’s archway, where you stand stunned, staring agape at the creation of my cruel cunning and idle hands. The tight space looks incredibly claustrophobic, a mere watercloset with manilla pāinted walls flaking to expose countless years of vandalized coverups. My familiar handwriting adorns the space and you have to focus your swimming mind to read the thick Sharpie letters. Sprawling the propped open door reads the declaration “FREE USE FUCKMEAT” with charts to track various details on the walls. An empty three section chart with the labels: “facecunt”, “twat” and “asscunt” occupies the largest wall across from the door, and another chart behind the door with the labels: “facial”, “bodyshot”, “creampie”, and “anal creampie”. One last chart in the space over the [REDACTED] only had two sections for “condom” and “lube”. Then there is the matter of the [REDACTED]; a large bottle of lube with those convenient pump spouts that make it easy for one handed use sat atop the tank while around the [REDACTED] neck circled one end of the chain, locked in place to itself. Tracing that chain to the other end, your eyes take in each link on their path to my hand, where I stand before you with the most sincerely terrifying grin and a lock. There is no fight or protest in you as I raise the chain to your throat, wrapping it nonchalantly as if just any other necklace, but with a Master’s lock as the clasp. The chill of the metal on your burning flesh freezes your mind as if a block of ice, all thought trapped within and lost in the cold. The heat leaves your body through your feet as I loop the lock’s latch through a set of links creating an inescapable collar connecting you to a disgusting [REDACTED]. Your mind has checked out, though; as the lock snaps closed under your chin, you don't even realize you’re [REDACTED] yourself, a puddle of [REDACTED] splashing and pooling around your damp sneakers. I look down in disdain. “Now look, you've gone and made a mess! And just when we were ready to start!” My tone carries no frustration, but more of a gleeful satisfaction, and that's when you realize: this is all part of my design, sick and twisted as it may be. “You'll just need to clean it up,” the words only barely leave my tongue before I take your sundress in my fists and tear it from your flesh rudely. The thin material rips so easily, and yet, even as I yank the shreds from your form, you are jostled and manhandled. I discard the remains on the ground in front of you, now standing in only soiled panties and tennis shoes with ankle high socks, all tainted ******. Dropping to your knees, the chain jingles and crashes against the tile as you take up what was once your pretty outfit, using it to mop the ***** *****. I scrutinize and walk around you, a predator circling its prey, absorbed by this act of subservience being broadcast out into the internet. Thoughts of brutality and *** fill my head, threatening to spill out like [REDACTED] from your frightened *******. How does a sadist deny their ravenous desire to make someone they're attracted to suffer? Of course, the short answer is: I don't. Your ass bobs as you wipe at the mess on the floor, the soaked panties beckoning my attention. I'm certainly no one to ignore the obvious, so I reach down and get a firm handhold on the very back of the waistband before jerking them upwards abruptly. You let out a shrill yelp as the damp crotch splits your labia and slides between your cheeks, the excruciating discomfort of fabric burn against your intimate openings reminding you that this traumatic experience has only just begun. As I continue to pull, your lower body gets lifted as the fabric stretches and your face drops forward to plop against the wet tiles. A sob breaks your disassociated demeanor moments before the panties hit their limit, the crotch tears and you fall to the floor with a splat. “Right where you belong,” my snide tone causes the flood gates to break, and you start to weep. “Oh, come now…it's far too early for tears, pathetic fucktoy. Dry those eyes before someone takes pity on you.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the door into the restroom. You quickly sit upright and move to hug my leg, but instead, learn the length of your tether as the chain pulls taut and ***s you. “S-someone, my Lord? Someone’s here…” My smirk is the best warning of how much danger you're in as I look down on you for a long moment. “Yes, I know,” the simple response sends your mind spinning imagining someone seeing you in this disheveled state - well, besides whoever is watching the camera feed. You pull against the chain trying to scramble to follow me as I turns and walk towards the entrance. Stopping before I pull the door open, I turn to look at you with my face a mask of stoicism and say, “No matter what happens, I expect you to obey and represent me with pride. You are inferior and below everyone you see tonight, it'll be good to keep that in mind.” Shock grips you and the solitary word, “Everyone?” spills over your lips. However, it falls on deaf ears as I pull the door closed behind me. You are left alone and afraid, chained to a [REDACTED], and not a clue what to expect next.
Cade Posted 31 minutes ago Author “Censorship is to art as lynching is to justice.” - Henry Louis Gates, Jr.
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