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  TRUE CONFESSIONS II

  By

  Syra Bond

  Publisher Information

  True Confessions II

  Published in 2013 by Silver Moon Limited

  Digital Conversion by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyright © Syra Bond

  The right of Syra Bond to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  DAWSON’S RISE

  SERVITUDE OF A PENITENT

  Father Dawson was a cruel confessor. If I was ever to be released it would be by his grace, and not until I had served my full penance, and I could not imagine when that time might come. Daily, I begged for mercy as he punished and tormented me. I crouched on my knees before him, my wrists bound, tears filling my eyes, pleading for forgiveness for crimes I did not even know I had committed. But he was slow to temper my misery and reluctant to offer his blessing. No, he made it clear with every blow - every smack, every cut of the whip or strap - that I must suffer at his hand until he decided I had endured enough. Until then, a shack alongside his little church - an oven of galvanised steel erected on a drift of sand in the Nevada desert - remained my prison.

  Here, in this small metal shed - no more than a kennel, and built against the south facing back wall of his pathetic minster - I slept curled up on the floor. Its low door was scorching hot and, when daily he took me out for punishment, I had to get down on my hands and knees and crawl through so that my shoulders and hips did not touch the frame. Its floor was a sheet of sand covered steel - I was never free of its grittiness against my sore skin. When I moved at night, unable to sleep because of the cold or the stinging pain left over from my daily chastisement, I felt its continual rasping abrasion. There was a narrow gap at the top of the door and this, for most of the time, was my only view of the world - a narrow slit of light and the parched scrubby desert beyond. Here, I crouched on my knees peering out, thinking only of freedom; freedom and its impossibility.

  Weeks went by, the fearful monotony broken sometimes by a few circling vultures or the occasional squirming rattlesnake. The only people I saw were his few parishioners on a Sunday and, sometimes, on a weekday, the occasional supplicant who came for confession. These pathetic petitioners arrived at any time and, if my captor was not there, they waited, sitting in the heat of the sun, sometimes for hours until he returned. He did not attend to them quickly and often it was not until hours later, after he had eaten and fed me a bowl of grain, that he deigned to give his time to their case of repentance.

  ‘Welcome to Dawson’s Rise,’ he would say wringing his hands together as finally he walked out to meet them. ‘What sins do you have to declare, my children? Have I the power to forgive the terrible deeds which burden your souls? Or will your miserable transgressions, like those of my little captive, be beyond my ability?’

  His black flowing robe twisted in slow circles around his sandaled feet and his starched white dog-collar flashed brightly in the unrelenting sun.

  ‘Dawson’s Rise’ - I didn’t know if it was named after my confessor, or he was named after it. All I knew was that it was a miserable cauldron of sizzling heat that burned from sunrise to sunset. For those long scorching hours - sweating, gasping for breath in my kennel - I felt it would never let up, then, almost immediately the sun went down, it became freezing cold.

  Sometimes, perhaps feeling sorry for me, he left me a smelly grey blanket. I clutched it around my naked body, pushed it between my legs and pressed it against my face, as I curled up with my hands clasped around my knees in the hope of keeping some heat in my shivering body. In the depth of the night, watching through tear-stained eyes the stars twinkling beyond the gap above the kennel door, I listened to my teeth chattering. Most nights I cried. Sometimes I shouted to him for release. I screamed out that I could bear it no more - that my suffering was too much - but my pleading cries were always in vain, and the next morning it just began again.

  When he let me out of my kennel - usually late on Sundays after his pathetic parishioners had finally left - he clipped a leash into a small padlock that hung from the leather collar he kept all the time around my neck. He kept the shining key to the padlock dangling from the black leather belt at his waist. Watching through the chink above the door, I used to see it flashing in the sunlight as he approached. I would imagine snatching it, releasing myself from his thrall and running free into the desert. Then I would think of the searing heat and being exposed in my nakedness to the burning sun, and in despair I would crouch again into the dark safety of the back of my kennel. No, I would never be free from this cruel captivity. I had lost all hope - I would never be free of my terrible enslavement to Father Dawson. My life would be forever spent suffering the humiliation of punishment, striving for my master’s forgiveness, watching his penitents seeking his confessional.

  Sometimes, I listened to him working on his shiny black Ford sedan. It had bright chrome wing mirrors and was kept in a dilapidated garage behind the church. He spent all his spare time in there. I heard him tinkering with spanners, revving the engine, sometimes I even imagined I could hear him stroking its shiny black surface as he walked around it admiringly. In service of this object, he demanded of his penitents - always keen to do his bidding - that they carry buckets of valuable water, filled from a leaky hose, to wash this prized possession and polish it with strongly scented wax. I saw them creeping past the door of my kennel, sweating, weighed down with water, unquestioningly doing as he ordered. I watched the plume of spray from the hose as it rose up in a fine hazy mist before quickly evaporating in the heat of the scalding sun. I could not believe how he wasted the precious liquid that for me only arrived every morning, strictly rationed to my barest needs, in a dirty cracked bowl. Another vehicle, an old Ford pick-up, received no attention and sat daily exposed to the sun rusty and covered in dust. I hated the sight of it - dark red with a wide toothy grill and a dirty white line down its side. It represented what I could not have - freedom.

  ‘Where shall we walk today, my pet?’ he would ask as if talking to a dog. ‘Shall we take a stroll into the desert? Or perhaps you would prefer ... ’ He would pause and rub his chin in mocking thought. ‘ ... yes, perhaps you would prefer the desert instead!’

  His ridiculous joke amused him greatly, and he dribbled from his pale lips as he tugged on my lead and pulled me forward with a snatching yank. Sometimes I gulped and choked, sometimes I just winced in pain and denied him the pleasure of my suffering. But I could not resist that pleasure for myself. When he walked me, I dropped down against the collar and felt the tide of overwhelming humiliation that came with my posture. And my eyes rolled upwards as a shiver of joy went through me with the tightening of the collar. I always tried to suppress it at first, but I could not - every moment of shame and pain brought with it something delectable, something which filled me to overflowing with deep and uncontrollable joy. All the misery and disgrace to which I was subjected only fed my need for the pleasure it brought. I was caught in a trap - pain was my route to joy, and I craved joy more than anything in the world.

  I crawled after him - afraid to do otherwise. If the lead fell slack he tightened it, if it tightened he judged me crawling too slowly and tugged it hard. Sometimes, when he did this
, I was lifted up on the lead so that my arms dangled loosely from my shoulders. Sometimes, perhaps when the lead went suddenly tight around my neck, or the sting of his foot in my side took me by surprise, I cried out. If I did, he usually kicked me in the side again and then I knew to keep silent no matter how much pain I felt.

  ‘Stop squeaking,’ he would admonish. ‘You sound like a pig. It will be the worse for you if you cannot discipline yourself against a trivial pain like that.’

  Out in the open, the sun beat down on my bare back - he always kept me naked whether I was shut in the kennel or not- and the hot desert sand burnt the palms of my hands. I felt dizzy and exhausted. Sometimes I daydreamed, even hallucinated. I could not believe what had happened to bring me to such humiliating servitude - my involvement with Professor Harrington, his untimely death, my time with Dr Harris, and eventually, when I had thought there was no place to run, my escape and eventual imprisonment by the cruel torturer who now held me captive and claimed he would save my soul. What treachery he had dealt out to me. The indignity it might bring made me shiver with apprehension whenever I thought of it.

  A trickle of spit oozed from the corner of my mouth. It ran down to the hot sand in a gluey strand. I dropped my head, licking at the spit, sucking it back up, feeling its frothy coolness against my lips. It broke free. My mouth felt dry. I closed my eyes in utter despair.

  Again, he tugged the lead. I felt like holding back, resisting, just this once being defiant. My stomach filled with nerves as the thought raced through my mind - I could not stop myself. I dug my toes into the ground and felt the searing sand running between them. I dug them deeper. The burning sensation against my skin excited me. He yanked at the lead viciously. I gulped heavily and bit onto my lips. Another strand of spit spiralled down from my mouth. I kept my lips apart. Did I truly dare defy him?

  ‘Can’t keep up, eh?’

  He yanked the lead again. I coughed and a spray of spit flew from between my open lips.

  ‘We are not at the post yet. You are too quick to anticipate your pleasures, my little dog.’

  I tried to stiffen my body. I tightened my shoulders and buttocks. He pulled again. I tightened more. I felt the excitement of my resistance. Another tug on the lead. A sharp pain in my neck. I tightened more. I felt the scorching heat of the sun on the taut skin of my buttocks. It was as though I had been lashed with a strap, as though my skin was reddened with the heat of a recent thrashing. A hot tingle of fresh delight ran through my body. I tightened my buttocks more and, this time, sensed the wetness that was beginning to run between the soft fleshy edges of my cunt. I tightened on it more. I felt the sides of my hot flesh squeezing together. Another shivering thrill passed through me. Again he yanked the lead - this time even harder. Again I choked, again I felt the pain, but now it was not in response to my torturer’s hand - now, a new and delightful pleasure was now arising from deep within me. The pain he inflicted, the feeling of dread he passed to me through the yanking lead, they were not what made me follow him in obedience. No, it was not the threat of pain and punishment, it was the delight within me that the pain set off, the excitement aroused by the thought of what he would inflict which made me tense myself for more.

  ‘Ah, look, my little Syra. There is the post. Crawl to it. Go on. Crawl to it, my little malefactor. You know it is the place where your sins are surrendered. You know it is where you want to be.’

  I saw the post against the blinding sun - a thick four by four stump about waist high driven deep into the blistering sand. A heavy leather leash hung from a large iron link screwed into its top.

  I pulled forward. He was not dragging me now - I was not hanging back as he yanked at the lead to draw me on. The sight of the post, its solid unforgivingness, the shiny leather surface of the dangling leash flashing in the bright sunlight, the heavy buckle at its end - these were all I saw. And the sight of them made me pull with an eagerness released by my anticipation of the promise they held.

  ‘Back, my eager pet! Back!’

  I felt like a dog, pulling against the restraining hand of its master - single minded, eager, and undaunted by admonishment.

  ‘Back! Back!’

  He yanked the lead and smacked its edge against my naked back.

  ‘Back!’

  He pulled me so hard I twisted in the air and fell back, panting and confused.

  Foaming spit ran from my mouth. It dribbled down my chin and I felt its bubbling heat as it dried in the baking sun. But I could not hold myself back. I strained forward impatiently and, this time, but on a tight lead, he let me approach the post.

  I dug my fingers and toes into the sand as I pulled forward. My nostrils flared.

  ‘You are so eager today, my little penitent. Perhaps during the night you have realised more of the sins that still hide within you. It is so rewarding to me to help you seek forgiveness for them.’

  He bent down and stroked his hand across my upturned buttocks. He let his fingers slip between them. He probed their tips against the swollen wet flesh of my cunt. I pressed back against them, and felt them slipping in on the moisture that glistened on the surface of my hot crack.

  He pulled them out and smacked my buttocks with his hand. I lurched forward.

  I waited by the post and laid my cheek against its hard surface. I looked up at him. I needed his permission, I had learned that much.

  ‘May I, father?’ I asked, beseeching him with my tear-filled eyes.

  He paused, slackened the lead slightly and smiled.

  ‘Oh, my child, my dearest Syra, you have so much sin. It is such a long road ahead for you. There is so much to forgive.’

  I did not listen, I had only one thing on my mind - the post and what delights it would bring.

  ‘Father, have I your permission? Must I pray first? I am already on my knees. See how I beg for your permission. Yes, must I pray? Tell me my prayer, father, tell me my prayer.’

  ‘If it was only so easy, my child. If only a simple prayer could bring about your salvation. But yes, let us pray, though a single prayer is a drop in the ocean of your sins. Yes, let us pray.’

  I sat upright on my knees, brought my hands together and dropped my head. I felt the sudden heat of the sun against the back of my bare neck.

  Father Dawson lifted the hem of his robe slightly and knelt beside me. He put his hands together, looked up into the cloudless sky and spoke in a clear distinct voice.

  ‘I bring this penitent again, oh Lord. There is no end to her sins, and so no end to her punishment. Her life is a devotion to forgiveness, but I fear she will never find it. I can only hope your patience is not overly tried.’

  He sighed heavily.

  ‘Now, say these words after me, my child.’

  I licked my lips.

  ‘Lord, I have sinned greatly,’ he said.

  ‘Lord, I have sinned greatly,’ I responded.

  Just speaking the words sent a shiver of joy through my body. I pulled myself as upright as possible. The tension in my buttocks tightened against the soft flesh of my cunt. Immediately, I felt its silky wetness and tightened more.

  ‘I am still a poor sinner.’

  ‘I am still a poor sinner.’

  I felt the aching tightness in my nipples as they hardened and extended at the sound of the words.

  ‘I must suffer more every day to even hope that I can be saved.’

  ‘I must suffer more everyday to even hope that I can be saved.’

  I felt my dry lips moistened by the soft wetness of spit as it bubbled between them. I licked it back into my mouth and swallowed it. I pressed my hands together as tightly as I could. I licked my tongue out again, this time letting the flat of its pink surface first touch then lick against the timber post.

  Father Dawson watched me. I flushed with embarrassment. I felt as
though I had been caught out, but I could not stop.

  ‘Even as I beg your forgiveness, Lord, I commit more sins.’

  ‘Even as I beg your forgiveness, Lord, I commit more sins.’

  I kept licking.

  ‘Lord, see how your evil sinner falls victim to her carnal needs.’

  ‘Lord, see how your evil sinner falls victim to her carnal needs.’

  I pressed my tongue against the hard wooden edge of the post.

  ‘Place me into the hands of your servant, oh Lord.’

  ‘Place me into the hands of your servant, oh Lord.’

  ‘Let him do with me as he sees fit.’

  ‘Let him do with me as he sees fit.’

  I sniffed at the spit as it spread from my tongue onto the timber of the post.

  ‘Let him bring me to the point where I can suffer no more - the point of exquisite delight where pain and ecstasy unite.’

  ‘Let him bring me to the point where I can suffer no more - the point of exquisite delight where pain and ecstasy unite.’

  I licked feverishly.

  ‘Let him plan out my ascent of this summit, oh Lord, and lead me over all the obstacles that presently stand in the way of my ultimate grace.’

  ‘Let him plan out my ascent of this summit, oh Lord, and lead me over all the obstacles that presently stand in the way of my ultimate grace.’

  I was drooling uncontrollably. Spit was running down my chin and dripping onto my hard, aching nipples. I pressed them against the post, against its sharp edge. My knees felt weak. I dropped my hands to my sides. I wanted to delve my fingers between my legs, to draw them along my crack, to release all its gleaming wetness, to feel its flesh swelling, throbbing, expecting. But I did not. I waited. It was time for my punishment and, although I could barely wait for it to begin, the tension of waiting and the knowledge of what was to follow, controlled my desires to do otherwise.