pumpkin queen
Master is always full of surprises. Like tonight, when he comes home with a large, ripe pumpkin in hand. "Trick or treat?" he whispers devilishly, pulling harshly at my long ponytail. Gagged already, I shrug my shoulders, as if I have any choice in the matter. As if I ever have a choice when he’s in this kind of mood. He encloses my ankles and wrists in cool metal cuffs, makes me sit on the floor restrained that way. Delicately, he slices open the tough, orange skin, scoops out its mushy insides. In an equally meticulous manner he carves out the face: slanted eyes, a taunting, wide grin. "You like your costume?" he asks, holding the thing up so I can get a better look at it. Or it can get a better look at me, more likely. I feel its blank stare piercing through my dress. Hideous, mocking giggles escape its five-toothed mouth. Face flushed, I reluctantly nod my approval. Humiliated by a pumpkin, I think to myself, what else is planned for tonight? And soon enough I find out. It’s now my turn to be crafted, sculpted, and hollowed out. Late into the night he torments me, like I’m in some scary movie, unsure of how it will end. He pays close attention to my breasts. Pulls me up by them and stands back to watch as I dangle there in agony. Then he ties me down to a table. I cannot struggle while he uses my sore, bruised tits as pincushions. Casually, he plunges one needle after the next into the soft, tender flesh. The blood dripping from my wounds doesn’t slow him down a bit. Finally, the pumpkin is brought out again, thrust like a mask over my tear-stained face. Utterly exhausted, drained, my limp body is mounted onto a wooden cross. He uses the whip, painting long red lashes all over my pale, sensitive skin. "Happy Halloween," he sings out, striking me mercilessly one final time. And I smile wide and bright, lighting up the vacant spaces in my pumpkin face.
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