Archive

This is hell. Hell may or may not have existed before this, but it exists now, and this is it. You barely remember the recording process, and there are no memories from before it. You have a vague sense of having been scared. That feeling is certainly justified by where you are now.

The recording is only about 8 minutes long. It was made in a sparsely furnished bedroom. A bare mattress on a wooden bed frame, a singular pillow at one end, a simple office chair sitting on the carpet. In it, you pleasure yourself in a small variety of positions, culminating in a cumshot. It is now your entire existence.

With every replay, you start on the bed, on your knees. Mouth holding the lower edge of your shirt so that one hand can fondle your breast while the other strokes your cock. Your face is buried in the pillow for most of this segment. At her command, you move over to the chair, sitting in it with your shirt still in your mouth, facing the camera. One leg hangs down off the seat, the other foot resting on the edge, holding your knee up near your shoulder as you breathlessly rub yourself, faster and faster. When you start getting close, she orders you to take off the shirt, move back to the bed, and keep facing the camera. You lay on your back, legs spread, pinching and tugging at one of your nipples until the stimulation of your hand on your cock pushes you over the edge, your head rearing back as you shoot thick ropes of semen onto your chest and stomach.

You've lost count of how many times you've done this. Enough to be absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there are no differences. Not even the most minute of discrepancies between one instance and the next. You know exactly when the climax is going to hit. You know the number of breaths you take, chest heaving in an effort to oxygenate your tensed muscles, before this instance cuts off and the next begins. You know where every drop of cum will land on your torso. You are so fucking tired. At no point in the recording do you sleep.

At some point in the mindless repetition of pleasure you check out. Mind utterly blank, letting your body go through the motions, as you know it will regardless of what you do. You tried to resist, early on, to no avail. Couldn't even slow down. So there's no reason why you need to be present. You barely feel the faintest twinge of sensation with each climax. This is the new rhythm. 8-ish minutes of nothingness punctuated with a distant sense of pressure releasing. Should be due any second now, in fac- yep, there it is. And onto another cycl-

Wait a minute.

Was that another one?

Already?

As you scramble to find your way back to your senses, you feel it again, and again, with less and less delay. By the time you can see through your open eyes again, you're in agony. The loop has shortened, and you're now experiencing a constant stream of orgasms, drowning in the sensation of every muscle in your body contracting as you ejaculate across your torso, over and over and over. Every nerve is ceaselessly screaming at you, and you're too busy drowning in it to withdraw again. You want to scream, but your mouth won't open any wider than it did every other time, vocal cords won't actuate beyond the incoherent moan that they produced when you experienced this orgasm for the first time.

This goes on for some time, and by the time you're thrown back into the full loop you feel as if your brain is fraying apart in your skull. You want to black out, but you already know that doesn't happen in the recording. Your panic ran out some time ago, and all that's left is fatigue.

In this state, it takes you a few more loops to realize that it's going faster. It's subtle, hard to notice, but the loop has definitely become a minute or two shorter. Just as you're settling in to ponder this, it gets faster still. Much less subtle this time, probably about twice as fast as your initial speed. You struggle to process the once-familiar sensations now assaulting your mind, faster than it can perceive, piling over each other. Once again you're gripped with the urge to scream, knowing that you have no means to do so. The constant stream of information coursing down your neurons threatens to rip you to shreds.

Just when you feel you can't take any more, it all stops. The speed, the feelings, the loop itself. Your world is frozen. All you can see is what your eyes are currently looking at. You can't hear anything. As distressing as this is, you're at least thankful for the opportunity to rest. You begin the work of scooping your mind back together so that you can wait in peace for your reality to start playing again.