[Chapter 1:](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/oyu54p/compression_chapter_1_extreme_noncon_mdom_latex/)
She was left in an echo chamber of her own screams. The pain was unbearable, but unable to move even a muscle, she found herself unable to fight against the constant compression and contraction, and able to hear only her own thoughts and the sound of her muffled screams, when they were not interrupted by gagging and coughs from the great obtrusion she found in her mouth and throat. She found herself unable to adapt to these sensations, shocked each time when the compression began and ended, despite its almost rhythmic nature.
You belong to me.
Sometimes the compression would be all the way, like it had been the first time she experienced it, but others, she would find herself compressed only slightly. This seemed to be by design, as she was always kept on the verge of breathlessness. Beyond that, she was not able to think about much beyond her feeble attempts to expel the words he had spoken to her from her head. She was an observer once more, in the horror that had befallen her, forced to witness it over and over again, each time trying to silence the words growing louder and louder in her head.
You belong to me.
She had been told she would be here for hours, and with what little thought energy she could muster, she tried to count them. She failed spectacularly, losing count over and over. Eventually, she slipped into a haze. Her face was wet with tears, and she could very much feel them in the mask. Every so often her screams would remind her of the pain. Every so often the pain would remind her of the pain. Every so often she would try to break into sobs again. Every so often she would forget she couldn’t breathe properly and try to draw breath, only to experience choking gasps.
You belong to me.
The discomfort in her throat was constant and unyielding. She was a victim of compression on the outside and the inside, unable to prevent the contractions of her throat around the large body it was trying to close about. This gave a strange feeling which she was sure would be merely uncomfortable if not for the constant coughing, which it took her a good while to break free of. By the time she had finally managed to relax her throat, the pain had already set in, and her lack of breath did not help the matter.
You belong to me.
Her hours-long pain was broken when the machine abruptly stopped in its cycle, returning to its flattened position long after she had given up trying to count (or more accurately, forgotten she was trying to). She tried to gasp for breath and was painfully reminded that the machine was not the entirety of her torment, the little breath she could pull through her mouth being stopped in its tracks by suction from her mask. She tried to draw deep breaths through her nose but this only caused her to choke again.
You belong to me.
The mask was removed, and the same man who had begun this torment was the slowly appearing figure as her eyes adjusted to the light. Once the mask was removed, the protrusion practically flew from her mouth, not being held in by anything. It was followed by trails of drool and phlegm which were attached to it and flew in strings from her mouth and all down the top of her chest, before hitting the board and running down sideways. She felt the warmth of the drool turn to cold as it ran down the suit. She blinked a couple of times and stared at the man. She said nothing, she couldn’t. She was frozen, and the little thoughts she could muster were not of things she wished to say. He walked over and picked up the dildo from the floor, brushing it off and stepping back towards her.
Calmly, he drew breath, “Who do you belong to?” The words were clear and concise, but she could barely register them. She stared at him blankly. He repeated the question and she opened her mouth to answer, but found herself stopped from uttering the words. She couldn’t respond to this question. She would rather die than give the answer he wanted, and she knew any other answer would spell trouble for her, so, unsure, she chose silence. She chose wrong.
Her eyes widened abruptly as the dildo was forced back into her mouth, and then as the darkness of the hood returned. The machine was turned back on. The agony returned, only this time, she had no idea how long it would last. She could only focus on that last encounter she had had with her tormentor. He had asked her a question. It had taken her a second to process it, and he had put her back into the torture machine before she could decide what to say.
Who do you belong to?
You belong to me.
She was once again replaying the tortuous day in her mind, unable to even imagine the days before this. It already felt like a distant memory that she had once roamed the streets freely, and she had a horrible, sinking feeling that it would not only remain that way, but become more so as time went on. She knew that if he pulled her out of the machine again, he would ask that same question. She focused on this as much as she could, between the agonising compressions and now infrequent choking.
Who do you belong to?
You belong to me.
She could not bring herself to give him the answer he wanted, but clearly silence was not the way to go. The man was totally stoic, how could she appeal to him? She didn’t have the energy to come up with an answer, and long before she had had time to think long enough to decide what to say with her limited resources, after some length of time she had not bothered to try counting, the world was returned to her once again. She was a little more prepared this time, and allowed the dildo to ease its way out of her mouth. The man caught it in his hand. More attentive this time, she stared at him, with intent.
He did not seem taken aback by this on the surface, but she could feel that he perhaps was a little bit. She drew a breath at the same time as he did, and before he could ask his question, she spat her response, “fuck you”. It was crude, but she hadn’t had much time to think about it, and it had come mostly in the seconds after the machine stopped where she had decided that it was best to do something. The man maintained his gaze calmly. He did not say anything for a second.
“Who do you belong to?” He replied calmly after a second, unphased by her disobedience.
“Fuck you,” she said again, with purpose. He gave a resigned nod, and forced the dildo into her mouth once more, this time perhaps more gently, she thought. It was almost as though he had wanted her to say that. He placed the hood back onto her head, and not long later, the machine was activated again.
Who do you belong to?
She tried her hardest not to regret the decision she made when she was face to face with what she had to do. She almost felt she was beginning to get used to this horrible, awful feeling, but just as she did, a flash of discomfort and pain would come over her, or she would choke and splutter on the dildo in her mouth. Each time, she was reminded of the mantra she had implanted into her head.
Who do you belong to?
The compression and decompression was routine for her now, and replaying the torture she had been experiencing was par for the course. She heard the question asked a thousand times in her head, and each time she spat the same response at the one asking it. She would not be broken. She had decided that she would not be broken.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Fuck you.”
Who do you belong to?
She would not be broken.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Fuck you.”
She would not be broken. She could not allow herself to be broken. No matter how tired or exhausted or uncomfortable she became, she would make this man kill her before she submitted herself to him. She built inside of herself a seething hatred for him. She did not know his name, she supposed she may never, and even if she had the chance she did not want to know it. She did not need to know, she only needed to hate. She would not submit to him. She would continue to be spiteful until she died or he released her.
Who do you belong to?
This mental rape would not be the end of her dignity. She would die with her dignity intact. She would tell him the same thing until he tired of it, or got angry at her. She would force his hand. This hood would be all she ever knew for the rest of her life.
Who do you belong to?
The words “fuck you” were all she had spoken for who knows how long. She was so tired. This hood would be all she ever knew for the rest of her life. She sobbed to herself at the realisation that her pride had turned into a longing for it all to be over. She wanted the darkness of the hood to give way to an eternal darkness, she wished and prayed for it. She would say nothing of it. She would tell him as many times as it took “fuck you”.
Who do you belong to?
Her mind was tiring, the machine was too intense of a sensation to allow her to pass out, and it tricked her body into thinking she had enough oxygen to stay conscious. She was light headed and nauseous constantly, and the pain had given way to a constant, agonizing ache which she was sure would never subside if she did somehow escape and live a long, happy life. It could not be a happy life, at this point. She did not know how she could ever go back to the way things were.
Who do you belong to?
The way things were. How was it that things were before she had been trapped in this predicament? She figured she could not have been at this for more than a few days. She had been awake the whole time and she was experiencing no hallucinations or anything of the sort. Only a few days and already her life was slipping from her. Her life was going but her aliveness was not, a fate worse than death. Her pain would not subside no matter how she strained, and she was held so perfectly still that she could not move to readjust at all.
Who do you belong to?
She would not allow herself to be broken.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Fuck you.”
Who do you belong to?
No breaking.
Who do you belong to?
…
“Who do you belong to?”
“… I belong to you.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/p0nyq4/compression_chapter_2_extreme_noncon_mdom_latex