Chapter 3: The Sound Revolution

Alexandra Rasputin, teeth digging into a ball gag and breathing through her nose, is hanging from the ceiling of the Rumpo Room. She is wearing a white lace bra and panties, hold up white stocking and killer heels. Her hands are bound, not too tightly, behind her back, and she is suspended from the ceiling by a rope, weighted to cause mild discomfort in her arms. A spreader bar is attached to her ankles, her idea. She enjoys the strappado and finds it stylistically pleasing, the sense of helplessness is both thrilling and frightening, but she derives a perverse comfort from Conan’s attentiveness. He checks with her all the time to make sure there is not too much pressure on her arms. Well, normally Conan is attentive. Tonight he’s just plain weird. He’d muttered cryptically when they’d walked in it was ‘a very special anniversary’ but wouldn’t elaborate. He paddles her arse now and again. She finds the pain cleansing. Conan, naked save for bottomless chaps, circles her, taking pictures on his phone. They do this often. She likes looking at the pictures later. Conan tells her she looks beautiful on them and she believes it. They are aesthetically pleasing.

It is a wet and humid summer evening and the atmosphere in the Rumpo Room is stifling and oppressive. They are both dripping with sweat and outside of their breathing the only audible noise is the rain beating on the roof. Raising her head risks dislocating her shoulders so she is staring at the floor, her long flowing locks just inches above the bare cement floor. She cannot see what he is up, but can hear him in the back ground, arranging things in the background. Clink of a bottle catching a glass. Rustling, the scrape of a table being pushed near her. Suddenly he drops to the floor on his knees and presses his face against her. Alexandra smells the whisky on his breath and in short she is afraid but she cannot scream, all she can do his press her tongue helplessly against the ball gag. She raises her head and a sharp hot pain shoots along her arms into her shoulder blades. Conan throws the glass he has been guzzling from against the wall and steps onto the sharp fragments. He leaves a blood trail and he shuffles aimlessly around for a few minutes, draining the bottle of scotch. When that is empty that too is flung against the wall.

“Death day” slurs Conan, giving her two hefty whacks on the arse with a studded paddle. His phone flashes. Alexandra hits the floor after he unties the rope tethering her to the ceiling.

“You can watch me cunt but I don’t want to hear you speak. Understand me cunt?”

Furious but realising she is unable to repel his advances Alexandra assents with a nod. Conan has a cinerary urn in his hands.

“It’s her death day.”

Alexandra is trying to undo the leather strap binding her wrists but it’s hopeless. Conan is irked by her attempt to cast off her restraints, “Don’t move a muscle bitch. See the evil in my eyes.”

His cruel eyes are black and fathomless and she ceases her struggle, hoping that the amount of booze he’s sunk will eventually render him senseless.

“When you’re all alone,” Conan splutters, convulsed by sobs, the face paint streaked with tears, “Here’s what you’ll keep saying.”

He walks over to the table he has set up and cranks the ancient gramophone into life. The spectral echo of My Mammy fills the bunker. Hugging the ashes urn tight to her chest Conan mimes out of sync with the crackling 78.

“Mammy, mammy, the sun shines east, the sun shines west, I know where the sun shines best...”

Conan rolls Alexandra over so she’s face down on the concrete and feels her arsehole and pussy roughly through her panties. Despite her fear and discomfort she finds it a turn on and is soaking wet. The charade has to some extent humanised Conan. He is more flesh and blood and fucked in the head and vivid for Alexandra. Conan sticks his thumb in her anus and two fingers up her pussy. Then something seems to go in him.

“Slut...”

Alexandra watches him stagger towards the exit clutching the urn. He doesn’t even give a backward glance as he extinguishes the light and slams the door shut behind him. At first Alexandra worries that he’ll wrap his car around a lamp post and kill himself then she is worried about herself, when the fuck will he come back for her. She is alone in the darkness with only the sound of a crackling stylus for company. Head full of creepypasta, she pisses herself.