I Woke Up Chained in an Old Woman's Basement
I woke up disoriented in a place I didn’t recognize. I had the slightest idea how I’d gotten there. I was lying on the floor, completely naked, and that was the first thing that made my blood run cold. I panicked and tried to sit up quickly, but discovered I had no strength. My body wasn’t responding, as if my muscles had been disconnected from my will.
I tried to calm myself and piece together the night before. The last thing I clearly remembered was having a drink with that woman, a striking, elegant stranger I’d planned to get into bed without much effort. The memory suddenly lit up in my mind. I had fallen victim to the exact strategy I’d used so many times myself. I’d been drugged. Someone had slipped something into my drink while I thought I was the hunter.
The executioner had become the prey. I was getting a taste of my own medicine, and the dose was far stronger than any I’d ever given. I couldn’t move a single finger. I scanned the room with my eyes, the only thing that still obeyed me. It was a gloomy, ramshackle basement, or maybe an abandoned storeroom: gnawed-away walls, a concrete floor, old cabinets, a broken armchair, and junk piled in a corner. A place nobody had stepped into for years.
The door opened. I expected the beautiful woman who had tricked me to walk in, but I was completely wrong. Someone entirely different appeared in the doorway. An elderly woman, a grandmotherly-looking old lady in her seventies, came in unhurriedly. What struck me most was her size: she was huge, stocky, broad-backed and thick-armed, with a body that easily weighed well over a hundred kilos. Her gray hair was pinned up in tight curls, she wore metal-rimmed glasses, and her severe expression looked even harsher because of the wrinkles.
Who the hell was this old woman, and what did she want from me?
She came up to where I still lay motionless. From the long pocket of her robe she pulled out a bundle of photographs and began showing them to me one by one, without saying a word. I recognized every single one. They were women I had deceived, used, and humiliated in the past. Taking advantage of my money and my empty promises, I had done whatever I wanted with them. When I got bored, I threw them out of my house laughing, with not a shred of remorse. I had been a bastard. I had never been a real man.
Then I understood that all those women had banded together and hired this old woman for something. To scare me, I thought. She put the photos away and finally spoke.
—You’ll be wondering what you’re doing here —she said in a calm, deep voice—. It’s very simple. For years you’ve despised, conned, and humiliated women. That ends today. I’m going to make sure of it.
She gave me no further explanation. She went to one side of the basement and, under my disbelieving stare, began taking off her robe. Underneath, she was in her underwear: a dark, loose set, thick stockings held up with garters to a wide waist, and huge flat boots that reached almost to her knees. Without the robe she looked even more imposing, a mass of flesh and resolve. Her tits hung heavy inside a faded black bra, two enormous sacks of soft flesh swaying with every movement. Her belly sagged over her wide panties, and her thighs, thick as tree trunks, rubbed together as she walked.
She went to a shelf and picked up a pair of long rubber gloves, the kind used for washing up. She started putting them on with effort; her arms were so thick the rubber barely gave. She pulled, twisted, and stretched the latex until each finger fit, and the dry snap repeated again and again in the silence. The gloves were worn, once yellow and now brown with grime. That gesture frightened me more than any words. What did she need dirty gloves for?
She came back carrying several metal objects. Without a word, she began tying me down. She put on sturdy handcuffs and locked them behind my back, tightening them until they hurt my wrists. I felt the cold metal and the touch of the rubber gloves. Then she moved to my ankles: two buckled shackles, anchored to hooks protruding from the concrete floor. I wasn’t lying there by chance. That corner had been prepared in advance. She snapped a thick padlock onto each shackle and turned the key, leaving my legs spread and fixed to the floor, my cock and balls hanging exposed to the basement’s cold air, helpless.
Within minutes I was chained hand and foot. I had offered the slightest resistance; the drug still kept me inert. The old woman checked her work with quiet satisfaction, certain I wasn’t going anywhere.
Little by little the sedative began to wear off. I recovered sensation, strength, voice. I pulled at the handcuffs, struggled against the padlocks, but the metal didn’t budge a millimeter. I was completely immobilized. And with the rage came the insults.
—Let me go right now, you crazy old bitch. The moment I get free I’m going to kick the shit out of you —I shouted, beside myself.
She looked at me impassively, unruffled. She went back to the shelf and returned with a roll of packing tape and a bandage. She stopped in front of me.
—You’re never going to open that filthy mouth again. I’m not putting up with your lack of manners —she said as she pulled down her undergarment and stepped out of it over her boots.
When she lowered her panties, a gray pussy came into view, covered by a thick tuft of gray hair that hid half her crotch. Her outer lips hung heavy and dark between her thighs, wrinkled by age, and the stale smell of that flesh hit me all at once, sour and pungent. She came closer with her used underwear in her gloved hand. It was sweaty, yellowed at the crotch, with a damp stain that still shone in the fabric. The stench hit me before it even touched me: old sweat, stale pussy, urine. She grabbed my face with one hand and, with the other, forced the fabric into my mouth, the filthiest part pressed against my tongue. She pushed with her fingertips, slowly, without giving me a second’s respite, until my mouth was completely packed. The taste was nauseating, sour, disgusting, salty, with a bitter undertone that scraped my throat. I gagged, but I couldn’t spit anything out. She wrapped the bandage around my mouth and head, turn after turn, tightening it hard, and finished it with gray tape. She used half the roll. The pressure was so brutal that I couldn’t even manage a sound. I was gagged, humiliated, reduced to a lump on the floor of that basement, with the taste of her dirty pussy stuck to my palate.
***
But her preparations weren’t finished. She grabbed a thick chain and threw it over a concrete beam crossing the ceiling. I didn’t understand what she meant to do until she fastened a wide collar around my neck, the kind used on big dogs, and locked it with another padlock, joining both ends of the chain. Now I was restrained from above too: hands behind my back, feet pinned to the floor, and my head pulled up toward the ceiling. I couldn’t move at all. I tried to shout, call for help, anything, but the gag swallowed every attempt. All I managed was to swallow more of that filthy taste, unintentionally sucking on the bandage soaked with her old discharge.
—It’s useless to try —she said, watching me calmly—. Nobody knows you’re here. No one’s going to hear you. I’m not taking off your gag. You’re going to spend a good while locked up in this place, and everything will depend on your behavior. If you learn quickly, maybe I’ll let you go soon. If not… you can stay here for days, months, or never get out.
I struggled with all my strength, but it was like fighting a wall. I was an inert object and she knew it. Her gloved hand came down suddenly and seized my balls, crushing them with brutal force. A dull, stabbing pain shot up through my belly. She squeezed them, twisted them, pulling downward, and I howled into the gag while tears sprang to my eyes. She let go when she saw my eyes roll back. Then she took my limp cock between her thumb and forefinger, the dirty rubber tip brushing my glans, and shook it with contempt, like someone fondling an old sausage.
—Look at what you’ve got hanging there —she laughed disdainfully—. With that ridiculous little thing you’ve made so many women cry. Let’s see if the leash teaches you to use it properly.
—You’re going to pay for how you’ve treated women —she went on, releasing me—. Day after day you’re going to learn to respect them. Nobody’s coming to help you. You’re going to know hell.
She went to a cabinet and took out a brown leather strap, wide and thick. She weighed it in her gloved hand with a cold smile.
—Have you ever had your ass warmed up with a belt? —she asked—. I’m sure you haven’t. If you’d been raised like that, you would have behaved differently. I’m going to whip you ten at a time. Each set harder than the last. You’re going to cry, but in silence, without bothering me. And I’m not stopping until your ass is black and blue.
She adjusted her gloves again, wrapped one end of the strap around her hand, and positioned herself a meter behind me. There was a second of absolute silence.
And then the first blow fell.
The leather struck my bare skin with a sharp crack and pain that ran through my entire back. I had never been whipped before. The sting of those first ten strokes was ferocious, and, just as she had promised, the second set was worse. She increased the force, and with it my suffering. The strap was a red-hot iron on my skin. I lost count of the blows and the sets, but I can assure you I began to live the hell she had promised me. Every lash was torment. I cried silently, unable to shout, unable to beg.
When I thought she was stopping, she came closer and grabbed my hair, yanking my head up with brutal force. She brought her wrinkled face close to mine to force me to look at her.
—You’re already crying? —she said, almost amused—. We’ve only just started. I wanted so badly to whip a moron like you with all my strength. Fate has given me a gift. This is going to be very long, I promise you.
Without letting go of my hair, she sat heavily in the broken armchair in front of me and spread her thick, wrinkled legs. Her gray pussy opened before my eyes, the outer lips drooping and the darker inner flesh peeking out among the gray bush. With her gloved hand she parted the folds, showing me the dull pink of her inner flesh and a large, swollen clitoris, jutting out between the slack flesh like a dark button.
—Look carefully, pig —she said—. This is the pussy you’re going to lick until I come when I decide. And you’re going to lick it properly, with your whole tongue, or I’ll beat the shit out of you until you learn it by heart. You’re going to taste what a real woman tastes like, not the young little cunts you used to fool with cash.
She shoved two gloved fingers into her cunt and pulled them out shiny, dripping with a thick, murky fluid. She rubbed them under my nose, smearing my lips through the gag, until the stale, sharp smell filled me from the inside. A thread of juice ran down the inside of her thigh, mixed with old sweat. She grabbed her tits out of the bra, two heavy sacks with dark, wide nipples like coins, and shook them in front of my face.
—This is what you pigs like, isn’t it? Tits. Well, lick air, because you’re not touching these until you learn.
She let go of my hair, moved back behind me, and resumed the set with even more viciousness. The leather rose and fell without pause. She destroyed me. I felt my skin burning, swelling, marked. I cried with every blow, stifling my sobs in the gag, and part of me, the only part that still reasoned, knew I deserved it. I had shown those women no mercy. Now I was paying the price. Between one lash and the next, her gloved hand would come down and grab my balls from behind, squeezing, crushing, pulling them downward until it tore a muffled howl from me. Then she would stick a thick, dirty rubber finger between my burning ass cheeks and rub my hole, probing my clenched asshole with the tip, threatening to shove it in, and I would instinctively clamp my legs together, unable to do anything, held from above and below.
—This ass belongs to me too —she panted in my ear, pushing the finger in until the ring opened a little—. When I get tired of whipping it, I’m going to split you open with something nice and big. And you’re going to thank me, pig. You’re going to cry and still beg me for more.
She yanked the finger out and unloaded another ten strokes on the same spot. The leather split the flesh of my ass with blow after blow, and each hit jolted my cock against my belly. To my horror, between the pain and the humiliation, my cock had started to harden, hanging stiff and red between my thighs. She saw it, burst out laughing, and grabbed it with a slap, squeezing it in her brown, filthy gloved fist.
—Look what we’ve got here —she said, wagging it contemptuously—. The little pig likes being hit. He’s gotten hard from crying so much. Let’s see how long you last.
She started giving me a dry, brutal handjob, squeezing hard with the rough rubber, dragging my foreskin up and down without the slightest delicacy. The rasping rubber scraped the skin of my glans, stinging, but my cock stayed hard, swollen, throbbing in her fist. With her other hand she pinched my balls, twisting them between her fingers until pain and pleasure mingled into something I could no longer name. A string of saliva ran from the tip, and she spread it over my glans with her thumb, smiling.
—Cum, pig. Cum like the animal you are, under the straps, tied up and gagged, with an old woman jerking you off. So you never forget how you ended up.
She quickened her grip, brutal, the dirty rubber making a wet, obscene sound as it slid over my cock. I clenched my teeth against the gag soaked with her pussy, shaking my head, but the orgasm shot up from my balls like an electrical surge, unstoppable. I came in torrents into her gloved fist, blasting thick semen over the brown rubber, over her thick fingers, over her gray stockings. Four, five spurts — the most humiliating, violent ejaculation of my life, forced out of me. She kept squeezing and shaking me until the last drop, until I hurt from how sensitive I’d become.
After that she let go of my limp cock and smashed her semen-covered hand against my face, smearing it over my nose and forehead, over the gag.
—Good, pig. Now you know what awaits you down here. You’re going to cum when I say, you’re going to lick what I say, and you’re going to cry when I say.
***
The whipping never ended. Every time she finished a set of ten, she paused for a moment, caught her breath, and started another one, harder. Helpless, silent, all I could do was endure it. During one of the pauses she grabbed my hair again.
—Shall I consider your punishment over —she asked— or would you prefer another set?
It was a question with no possible answer. I wanted to beg her to stop, but the gag made it impossible. I could only look at her with my eyes flooded.
—One more will do you good —she decided—. It’ll help you remember. In fact, you should thank me. This one’s going to be special. You’re going to remember tonight for the rest of your life.
She climbed heavily on top of me, straddling my face with her open, dripping pussy right above the gag. The weight of her thighs crushed my ears, and the stale smell of her crotch filled my entire head. She ground her sweaty cunt against the bandage covering my mouth, soaking it with her thick, hot flow, rubbing her swollen clit against my nose.
—Smell good, pig. Get this smell into your head. This is what you’re going to have for food and drink for the next few days.
She rocked on top of me, grinding my face with her open cunt until a warm stream of fluid ran down my cheeks and neck. I could barely breathe under that mass, tasting it through the fabric, with tears mixing with her juices on my skin. When she finally got off me, she left my face soaked, shining, stinking.
She lifted the strap and brought it down with relentless precision. Another set began, and I knew, as pain split me in two, that this old woman was only just getting started with me. The basement filled with the crack of leather against my skin and my silent weeping, over and over, with no end in sight.
To be continued.
