She had it all - riches, a college scholarship, a girlfriend - until her conservative, hyper-religious parents found out about the girlfriend and made her choose between conversion therapy and disownment. That was the end of her academic career.
Thr...
If you want to skip the explicit material in "Netzach," scroll down to the very end and read the summary notes. This entire chapter is explicit.
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TRIGGER WARNING
This chapter contains descriptions of breath play, including choking.
I would like to interject that breath play is not safe under any circumstances. Starving the brain of oxygen can cause permanent brain damage. It can also kill people.
I also don't advise recreating the simulated sexual violence in this chapter. "Consensual nonconsent" is a controversy in the BDSM community for good reason. For the record, although "Magister" has said he's suspended "ancilla's" safeword for the duration of the ritual, if she had tapped out or otherwise used their previously-negotiated nonverbal safeword, he would have stopped the ritual immediately.
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I wake up in the recovery position - prone, feet elevated, head turned to the side - and decide, based on the taste in my mouth, that I managed to escape vomiting. As soon as I regain consciousness, however, he pulls me up and, after taking a few experimental steps to see if I can walk, leads me across the room by my collar and stretches me over the couch. My nipples, already throbbing in pain from the clamps he hasn't yet taken off, become fire when they brush against the upholstery.
He's done something with cords to keep me in place. They're tight and uncomfortable.
Something lands hard on my back, a heavy spray of braided leather cords. And does not stop.
I whimper against the cushions.
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He's flipped me over on the couch, rearranging me so that I'm facing up. The cords are back on, only now they're not just holding me in place, they're holding me taut. My arms feel like they want to wrench out of their sockets, but he has a pillow placed under my hips, supporting my weight. Somewhat. My body still wants to slide down, and my arms are on fire. I'm still fighting to breathe under the hood, too, which only makes it worse. Somehow, impossibly, he has managed to crucify me in a legs-splayed position on the couch. I gasp for breath that never quite seems to give me any actual air.
