I was used to violent wake up calls, but this was no slap to the face or sharp electrical blast from nipple pegs or testicles clamps.

No, if I woke up as she was applying either, I would have pretended to be soundly asleep. It was always polite enough not to spoil the surprise, but that day Mistress Monica was attempting to savagely sink her teeth into the flesh of my arm when I came around and there was something so very vulgar about that it shocked me to the core. I’m aware, now, to be thankful that the studded leather that she’d bound me with was too thick and resilient to be penetrated, but at the time, all I felt was a sense of indignation and panic that I wasn’t used to in her presence.

Snarling and drooling, she tried again and again to tear through my gimp-armour. Her smooth porcelain skin had haggard overnight, resembling pale, moulded cheese. The calculated threat that I’d always adored to see in her ice blue eyes had been replaced with a vacant hunger and that wicked, sexy, smile was sub-human. I was more terrified than I had ever been. You must understand, the submissive/dominatrix relationship wasn’t about kinky sex, well not only kinky sex; I worshiped this woman, genuinely worshipped her. I dedicated every thought, every action, every moment of my life to her and now she’d transformed into a demented monster before my eyes.

With pure revulsion, I threw her from me. Maybe it was the primitive slavering, the vacant, unresponsive eyes or the stench of decay mixed with the blatant fact that she’d crapped those expensive panties during the night, but now I no longer felt beneath Monica. There was no shock, no faint surprise, no reaction at all, as she landed in a heap. Her movements were methodical, rising slowly to her feet, head hanging limply from her shoulders as she turned back to focus blankly on me.

I’d never so much as considered striking a woman before that point and I’m not entirely sure it counted. There was nothing left of Mistress Monica in that shuffling wreck. I had worshiped her so entirely that I would have recognised if there was. Still my stomach wretched as it drew closer and my fist collided with the side of the creature’s skull, a decade of intensive training impossible to ignore entirely. I would have given anything to have her wake me then, a clamp around my testicles, a ball gag forcing my teeth apart, but it wasn’t to be. Life would never be so good again.

When she staggered towards me a third time, I barged passed her and fled the room, slamming the door behind me and locking the monstrosity within. I suppose that there’s no point in lying, this is for posterity after all. I set aside a long twenty minutes to quietly weep to myself and don’t rightly know how long I would have taken if another of the undead hadn’t disturbed me. I’d seen enough dodgy old horror movies to take a rough guess at what they were; oddly I found that they looked even tackier in real life. It was Sam from next door, a condescending pervert when he was alive, always finding an excuse to leer at Mistress Monica. She’d threatened to fuck him in front me once but thankfully she couldn’t stand him any more than I could.

The terror was gone, leaving only outrage and an anger that ignited into intense rage as I watched this pathetic wretch hobble towards me. I was The Gimp, her one and only, a position of honour that I strived to earn every moment of my life, and this pathetic little part time admirer thought that he could supplant me by swanning in with the odd slack jawed compliment or innocent looking gift. What a total lack of commitment, what audacity, how he dared intrude in our lives. Even then, when the ground had fallen out of my world, this meddler insisted on imposing himself on the tattered remnants of my life. I would not allow it; I was still, and would forever be, The Gimp, but that title would have to adapt to the world that died around me.

I rose from my knees and in a single motion took hold of his rotting neck and launched him over the banister, his body was repeatedly brutalised by concrete steps as it fell the four stories to the ground floor. It was more satisfying than I would admit if I intended to show this to anybody, but that pathetic pop psychiatrist, Dr Lancaster, had once suggested that I harboured a violent streak when it came to my fellow men. I had stubbornly refused to accept his point while I sat across from him, fantasising about scalding his stupid fat face in oil or indulging in any of the other violent reveries that distracted me from his tedious, so-called insights. But it was impossible to deny as I watched my neighbours flesh splatter against the many stairs.

Adrenaline still surged through me and, knowing that I owed my Mistress one last act of service, I burst back through the door before doubt could rob me of the focus I’d found in violence. Judging from the previous night’s actions, it seemed that she’d truly cared for me. That felt somehow wrong, I chose to remember her instead as the demanding, vicious woman that had ruled me for the last twelve years. The corpse of the woman I worshiped was by the door when I opened it, lured by the scent of fresh meat. Fighting against her years of training, I grabbed a hold of her, wrapping an arm around that broken neck so forcefully that the head came clean off into my hands. I forget my own strength sometimes.

Still the jaw snapped open and closed in a vain attempt to bite into me and I dropped it to the ground. Don’t judge me too harshly if you’ve found my journal, I’m sure that you’ll find that it spooked you the first time that a decapitated head tried to devour you, if you’re sane enough to remember that far back. I want it understood that there was no malice or twisted humour in my next action; I bludgeoned it until it stopped moving. It just so happened that the closest object of significant weight was the strap-on that had been used to pummel me the night before. I still can’t laugh about it, despite the irony.

Some time passed before I was ready to leave, but unlike most other survivors, it wasn’t the monsters outside that kept the door closed, but the memories within. I was a ronin, a submissive without a domme and eventually I came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t do. My life was forever empty without a Mistress to ridicule and demean me; the search for my new keeper would have to begin. I was born George Early, but that name died along with civilisation. From that day forth I would be known as ‘The Gimp’.

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