When he said we were going to a Goth club, I got excited. Something new. I was not familiar with the lifestyle, but as a good submissive, I did my research so I could please him. I discovered 23 varieties of goth. Some I was familiar with like the emo punk girl, the death metal head banger, even the vampire goth. But others like steampunk and rivethead goths, I was not at all familiar. I decided to dress as a Victorian/Elizabethan goth. That way I could be sexy and sophisticated with a whimsy of romance. Goths are romantic, dark, mysterious, even a little morbid. I was going to enjoy this club. From what I read Goths were not violent, just kinky. They dabble in the BDSM culture, pagan rituals and the occult, but are basically just a gloomy lot of sexual deviants. Surely, I would fit in.
The club was an old castle turned into a private nightclub. My companion paid thousands of dollars for a VIP suite for the night. The room had an eerie feel. On the surface, it looked romantic and dark. Very Victorian era. Something wicked was lurking beneath the surface, however, I just had a feeling. It is not my place to question a Master. Ever. I ignored my feeling, did as I was told. Master tied me up, skull fucked me, force fucked my ass, even flogged me. We played our usual master and servant game. I convinced myself this was just a fantasy role play for us; something different than the usual bondage games.
Master told me he had a surprise for me. He blindfolded me. I could hear him opening a door, talking in a whispered tone, then I heard silence and a loud thud, then more silence. When he removed the blindfold, I saw a coffin. At first I thought maybe this was a vampire fetish he wanted to explore. I wish that was it. Master thought it would be fun for me to fuck a corpse. I thought he was joking. Certainly this was just a guy pretending to be dead, so I climbed into the coffin to show Master what a good girl I am. The body was ice cold. There was an awful smell. I tried to leap off, but Master held a knife to my throat. “Be a good girl Blair, or you will be punished, permanently,” he said. Such a sinister smile on his face when he said it too.
When I asked how I was suppose to fuck a dead guy, he slapped my face so hard, he busted my lip. I was giving a hand job to a lifeless dick. I felt sick. His cock would not get hard, not even too my mouth. Master shoved a cattle prod up the dead guy’s ass and his cock came to life. I closed my eyes, mounted that ice cold cock and rode him like he was alive. I kept telling myself it was fantasy; that he was just an actor at the club. But the harder I rode him, the more I realized this was not fantasy, but Master’s macabre desire to humiliate me, scare me, hurt me. Flesh was falling off the dead guy’s pecker the harder I rode him. Master saw the disgust and horror on my face and just laughed. I wanted to vomit.
Master made me spend the night in the coffin with a rotting corpse. The next morning when he let me out of the coffin, made me shower, then spent the entire morning force fucking my ass with a medieval cross. My ass was gaping open as usual. But there was nothing usual about fucking a corpse. Goths may be dark; they may be macabre, but they can’t hold a candle to Master’s perverse world.
