Chapter Five
The Pervert
The manor's Mistress ice-cold stare had struck me like lightning, and
something had started coming apart inside me. I clearly felt the inner
freezing, statue-like rigidity which now invaded my body, while my
abdominal muscles kept spasming, totally out of control, like in a bout
of hysterical weeping. The craving desire to make my escape, to pray
desperately for the miracle of a sudden vanishing, was matched in my
head by the frenzied bliss I felt at having succeeded in going beyond
that last inner border, by diving headlong into torture. And above all,
while all this was going on in my head, and despite the feeling of
being both rigid and ready to shatter to pieces, as if sheer terror had
turned me into glass, I kept perceiving with total clarity the
unmistakable smell of my own vaginal juices, which now flowed out of my
copiously enlarged cunt and bathed my thighs, in unheard-of abundance.
Midori lost no time in binding me upon a table, reclining on my back.
The ropes kept my legs wide apart, while my arms were tied alongside my
torso. Some minutes went by before I also felt Monika's presence, which
was heralded by the noisy clatter of her high heels on the highly
polished floor. She was pulling Naima, the black slave, by her leash.
Naima in her turn was wheeling forward a small cart which was
positioned at the foot of the table I was reclining upon: from my
supine position there was no way I could see what was on the cart's
upper tray, but I had no doubt that I would find out pretty soon, and
as I crossed Midori's steel-hard stare, the prospect of the immediately
forthcoming punishment, and of its certain unaccustomed intensity,
quite literally robbed me of my breath.
Monika called out for the Asian woman to join her, and they both picked
up a few short, broad candles. "Maybe they only want to drip molten wax
upon me?" I thought; from the very start of my severe training
sessions, punishments inflicted with molten wax had become a real
pleasure, as I had learned to enjoy the sting of the hot boiling drops
in the same way as I would have enjoyed a lover's kisses. However, it
is not for nothing that the tormentors had been recruited for their
outstanding skill, and what they had in mind was much more
sophisticated and cruel that what I had envisioned. In fact, the
candles ended up being arrayed under a metal plate, like that used by
Chinese and Indian restaurants to keep the dishes warm, and two small
bottles of a clear liquid, bearing chemical labelling, were positioned
upon it.
Nothing more happened for the next few minutes: Monika rushed out of
the room again, Midori went up to Lady Fiona and whispered something to
her ear, and I lay there, alone with the growing turmoil which was
invading my mind and my body. Undine's desperate yells and sobs, as she
went on suffering under Enrica's tender care a few feet away, provided
a lullaby of a sort. My thoughts turned to Tanya, and I cursed myself
for having wasted such high-minded heroism and nobility of soul for
such a despicable traitor; strangely enough, I found myself thinking of
her as a "useless creature", on account of her having neither the
unattainable, superhuman charisma of the Mistress, nor the skill to
play her part as a slave. That was my whole world, from that time on:
Mistresses and slave girls, and nothing else. The whole male
population, everyday trade and work, family life, everything was gone
for good, without so much as a whiff of remorse on my part. Now it was
Mistresses and slave girls, and I belonged to the latter. A slave
forever. A slave, a lesbian, a licker of shoe soles, addicted to piss,
with a ruined asshole, in perpetual arousal, with a constant need to be
tortured, even to the point of actually provoking my torment... I was
drawn out of my masochistic daydreaming by a metallic noise from the
trolley. Midori had taken a syringe from a tray, one of those huge
syringes of old, made of heavy, thick glass, and she was fitting it
with a needle. She had already started walking to me when something
stopped her in her tracks: I could not read her thoughts in her proud,
enigmatic eyes, but her body went rigid, she turned away on her high
heels, and she went out of my vision field, only to return several
minutes later. A renewed bout of panic took hold of me. When I saw her
again, Midori was unscrewing the needle to put another one in its
place: a thicker one in dark metal, which even from a distance appeared
to be much larger and much more cruel than anything normally used in
medical practice.
Going to the glass bottles, the beautiful tormenter cautiously touched
one of them and, feeling the burn, abruptly drew her fingers back. She
then plunged the needle inside and filled the syringe up, after which
she pushed a few drops out of the needle: falling down, they splattered
on my belly. The liquid (which, I gathered later, was nothing worse
than simple, non-toxic saline solution) was not boiling hot, but it
certainly was not cold either, and merely contemplating the question of
where this scalding substance would end up made me whimper, although I
could not say whether it was out of fright or out of anticipated bliss.
The first injection was made by Midori in my left breast, with a
studied slowness as she pushed the needle in, repeatedly tapping the
syringe in order to increase my suffering. Nevertheless, I did not
scream until she began pushing the plunger down, drowning my inner
flesh in liquid agony. Of course, my tits were already in pain from the
manhandling they had undergone for the whole day, but at that moment
the pain I was experiencing belonged to an unheard of category, not
that much more intense maybe, but without a doubt quite different from
that I was then almost used to. What the injection had added to my
flesh was pure unadulterated agony, a minute rivulet of torment which
was to stay there, between my very cells, my milk glands and God knows
what, even after the woman had withdrawn the needle, twisting it and
wrenching it along its way to make sure I would suffer even more. Then
another injection followed, still into the same breast, and another
one, and again and again and again, but always with the same slow,
deliberate cruelty. Midori worked in a methodical way, never twice
stabbing my flesh under the same angle, sometimes pushing the needle a
mere fraction of an inch under the skin, sometimes driving it all the
way to the very heart of my mammary, so that I was sure she was going
to drive it through my heart. The liquid was invading me, as each
renewed injection added some new tortures to those which already were
making me stiffen and yell, and whose intensity did not in any way
decrease.
The torture went on for a long time, with the tormenter showing no sign
of wanting to move on to another part of my sweating, spasming body.
When I gathered courage enough to open my eyes and to actually look at
the condition my poor breast was in, my first thought was that my tears
were distorting my eyesight: my tit had grown into a huge balloon,
dotted with innumerable minute pink marks, a thing which had nothing to
do with my breast as I was used to it. At that moment Midori had just
made her mind to get busy with my nipple, and I clearly recall that
some time was needed for me to fully register the pain of that terrible
perforation. My attention was wholly centered on the reaction of my own
flesh as I saw it slowly swell up, while the nipple itself stiffened as
it never had. A glance at the trolley, right before I drowned again in
a red-coloured ocean of pain, showed me the first bottle, empty, along
with a reserve of full bottles which had been brought out from some
unknown place.
That time I screamed for a very long time, as much from the physical
pain as from the thought that I was being permanently ruined by the
woman. That frightful quantity of liquid, forcefully injected between
my most sensitive cells, into the most minute spaces, had made my
mammary swell out of proportion, growing into a grotesque appendage.
Was it going to remain that way forever? Was I to become a sexual
monster, who'd be too ashamed to even go out in the street?
Even as I was trying to keep my thoughts coherent, despite the constant
interruptions caused by the injections, a variation was brought to my
torture: Midori grabbed my breast with both hands and she started to
squeeze, twist and mould it as if it was made out of clay. My flesh had
been made more sensitive than ever, so her every squeeze reverberated
through my brain, and after some time I fainted. I was awakened in no
time, thanks to some foul-smelling stuff which Monika put under my
nose; Midori was still working upon my tit, and I could feel with
frightnening clarity the settling down inside my very flesh of the
liquid she had injected, and which thus allowed her to mould me like a
clay doll. Other injections followed, by the dozen, then renewed
mauling, then more injections, until the tormenter was perfectly sure
that she had brought every single part of my poor tit to its maximum
tension. Then she moved over to my right breast.
At some point I really thought I was going mad. I begged her to kill
me, in Italian, in German, in English. I begged her to let me go,
offering every kind of degrading sexual services in exchange. Midori
nevertheless remained unmovable and she went on making me suffer, with
the cool single-mindedness of a machine, even after Undine had been
dragged out of the room by the other dominatrixes and sent to bed. When
I next could hear another woman's clicking high heels, dawn had been
peering through the window for some time, and my tormenter was busy
putting the final touch to the torture of my right outer cunt lip,
after she had caused properly identical swelling in my poor cunt's
inner lips, as well as in my left cunt lip. I had spent the whole time
relentlessly lamenting: my throat and eyes now burned almost as
fiercely as my tits and cunt, and whenever I started fading or giving
the impression that I was not suffering enough, Midori had taken care
to wake me up, using the salts or forcefully kneading the swollen,
shiny flesh of my ballooning tits.
The newcomer was Lady Fiona, who silently ordered Midori to desist, and
came closer to address me in her deep, sensual voice: "Does it hurt so
much?"
"Yes, Mistress", I managed to answer feebly, while taking in with awe,
as always, her grace and beauty.
"Good. As you know, I enjoy knowing you are in pain."
Surprisingly, this simple sentence made me proud of being her slave.
"I bet you must be very thirsty," my Mistress went on, gently stroking
my cheek.
"Yes, Mistress".
"I have not peed yet this morning. Would you like me to pee into your
mouth, little one?" Her eyes were bright stars in which, from the very
first moment, despite the agony which gripped my mind, I had utterly
lost myself.
"Oh, yes, Mistress, I beg you to. My face is your toilet". The very
effort of mouthing these words brought me inhuman fatigue, but I had
been totally overpowered by the perspective of having something to
drink, and, even better, of being given by the lady who had come to own
me body and soul her urine, which I had been judging, for some time
now, to be the most exquisite beverage on earth.
"Maybe later, then", she smiled at me with her bright white teeth,
after which she addressed Midori in German, much more brusquely, and
went away. It was then and only then that I realized we had spoken in
English, a language which still had my preference despite all orders.
The Asian woman resumed jabbing her needle into my cunt, inflating it,
kneading it, torturing it. I resumed my desperate screaming, but in a
totally changed mood, which had nothing to do with the mindless
resignation I had spent this night of torture in. From now on I
suffered in order to give Lady Fiona pleasure, and also to show her,
even while she was away, that I was utterly convinced I was meant to be
a slave.
It was almost half an hour before my sublime Mistress came back to
stand near my table, which by then was sodden wet with my tears and
sweat. At that moment the very last square inches of my martyrised sex
were enduring the pangs of being injected with the boiling hot
solution. She was wearing a floor-length satin gown with a high
reaching split in the side, which let her thigh out as she lightly
rested it against my cheek.
"For now I want you to answer my questions, slave", she mewed in her
languid, throaty voice.
"Yes, Mistress".
"You probably have no longer the strength to tell lies, but I must
remind you that it is the duty of every slave to always tell the truth
to her Mistress".
"Yes, Mistress".
"Yesterday evening, the things did not quite happen as you told them,
right?" One of her well manicured hands had pulled a bit more open the
slit in her gown, showing me a corner of her black, clean-smelling
panties.
"N-no, Mistress".
"Then what happened, slave?" Lady Fiona slapped my tits with all her
strength, making me yell in agony. Of course I confessed everything,
overwhelmed as I was by her very power, by the pain I was in, and by my
irrepressible desire to savour her piss. The more I kept talking, the
more she kept toying with her panties, pulling it aside ever so slowly
to bare her intimate parts, which to me was as beautiful a performance
as a night at the opera.
"But you did not lie only to protect that whore, right?" Lady Fiona
remarked when I was through.
"No, Mistress. I also wanted... For some time now I have been aware
that I am a real masochistic slave, Mistress. I longed so much to be
tortured."
Lady Fiona slipped her middle finger between her cuntlips, giving me a
whiff of her pleasure to smell, and withdrawing it glistening with dew.
"Aaah... Good little slave," she smiled tweaking my nipple and leaving
me breathless, "and now do you repent your desire?"
I laboured to gather my breath back, and I needed a few seconds before
I could answer "N... No, Mistress". The hot stream of piss splashed
into my throat, and I gulped down all of it with the contented
abjection of a dedicated toilet.
"I had judged you quite properly," Lady Fiona commented as she finished
answering the call of Nature, lowering herself upon my face so I could
lick her clean, "you are exactly what I was looking for. To begin with,
I will finish your torture myself".
Not bothering to listen to the heartfelt thanks I would have loved to
offer, the lady lost no time in taking a comfortable seat near the end
of my couch. As it now was easy to guess, the needle was that time
headed for my clitoris, which was almost buried in the surrounding mass
of swollen flesh. Near the end, as I immersed myself in the perfect
consciousness of my masochistic desires, I fainted several times and I
also had at least two orgasms, ranking among the best I ever had in my
whole life.
I was untied shortly before lunchtime, and I was sent unceremoniously
to the kitchen, so as to carry out my cooking duties. The floor had
been cleaned of any bloody spots, Tanya was nowhere to be seen, and the
other slaves gaped at me when I went to them.
My body was disfigured in a fashion as terrible as it was sensual. My
tits were now huge swollen, shiny balloons with incredibly turgid
nipples, sitting on enlarged, upraised areolas. In stark contrast, what
I had between my legs was long, heavy, dangling lumps of flesh which
felt as if they were made from lead. Every step, every move added some
new torment to the continuous burning of my most sensitive parts, yet
during that day I fulfilled my duties in a state of total bliss, even
when the supervisors whipped me, without the slightest excuse of a
motive, aiming at my sensitive, swollen parts, and instantly reducing
me to a creature devoid of reasoning, whose consciousness was only one
of total torment. At some time in the afternoon, Enrica ordered me to
kneel down behind a chair, resting my tits upon the seat, and she
settled down on them, squashing them with her whole weight. I fainted
right away.
When I brushed by small Bettina in a hall, we exchanged satisfied
smiles, as became people who had fulfilled their life's purposes.
Checking myself in the mirror as I was cleaning a crystal showcase, I
found myself to be so unexplainably, yet strongly and scandalously
arousing in my disfigured state, that I briefly attempted to masturbate
here and there, only hoping not to be caught out: the sudden pain which
shot out from my genitals prevented me from experiencing anything but
psychological pleasure. That evening, kneeling under Lady Fiona's
table, I was granted the honor of licking her at leisure and of giving
her all the pleasure I was able to: such was my small reward for having
freed myself of all that stupid bunch of hypocritical inhibitions which
had, up to then, prevented me from experiencing true happiness.
Quite a number of days were to pass by before my organism could process
all the liquid which had been injected inside it, but at long last I
went back to having a quite normal anatomy, even though my breasts now
were a bit larger, and my cunt too. During the time that followed
nothing of importance happened to me, except that in a few other
occasions I found courage enough to directly beg Lady Fiona to subject
me to extra torture, which was granted with great pleasure. Every time,
I would have rather died than endured what was in store for me, but
when it was over, I wound up even happier with myself, and even more in
love with my wonderful tormenters. Bettina followed my example, while
the other slaves went on behaving in such a way as to avoid any
avoidable punishment. This was especially the case for Tanya, who went
back to her duties a few weeks after the incident, quite unmarked by
whatever punishments she had undergone.
Then, one day, I suddenly found myself in Lady Fiona's office, the very
same room I had been ushered into for our first meeting. The clothes I
had worn at the time of my arrival were on the desk, carefully folded,
right in front of the comfortably seated Mistress.
"Today is the last day of your year in slavery," she unceremoniously
explained. "You have been a good slave, and I want you to know that you
can call me whenever you want should you need me. Here is my number".
She put a visiting card upon the pile of clothes. "Hurry up getting
dressed, the car is waiting for you".
Chapter Six
The Whore
I complied, but only because by that time, instant obedience to orders
of any kind had been made part of my very nature. While I was putting
on these clothes which to me were quite superfluous, feeling quite
strange to the touch, I would have liked to tell her a million things,
but I could not manage a single word. I can only recall that I felt two
large burning tears running down my cheeks, while the Mistress,
unmoved, merely dismissed me, remarking "You may keep the ass plug. I
will not be needing it" before leaving the room without further ado.
I put on my shoes, which I found strangely uncomfortable on account of
their heels being too low, and I went out in the garden. The big entry
portal, which I had not gone through for a whole year, was open. It had
always been, and as I breathed in the fresh air of the outside I
realized with a start that none of us slaves had even given a thought,
in all probability, to the fact that going out of the mansion was such
a simple thing. Of course, going though the garden with all its alarm
systems and its electric-powered gate was another thing entirely, but
our whole universe had been reduced to the house and none of us had
ever questioned that state of affairs.
I went out in the limousine with my head in a turmoil, totally lost in
the real world, and when I found myself before Katja's flat I was in a
state of trance. I mechanically rang the doorbell, and it was only when
the door opened that I realized I was back home: Katja enthusiastically
embraced me, kissed me, helped me out of my raincoat, then there was
the smell of the meal, the warmth... All that fuss looked like some big
mistake to me, as if I was shocked not to have to kneel down in front
of her or even simply to be given a kiss, but soon enough I relaxed.
Our love night was a long, incredibly beautiful one: Katja was
overjoyed when she discovered the amount of dilatation my two holes
could withstand, and she found my sensitivity to any sexual stimulation
of the "usual" kind to be quite exceptional, leading me to particularly
intense climaxes.
The following morning, we told our respective tales. Her job in the Far
East had earned her a lot of money, which would allow her to shortly
move into a larger house, and even though she readily admitted to have
slept with several Japanese girls, I fully believed her when she told
me she had never stopped thinking of me. But my own tale, in contrast,
deeply disturbed her. Now and then, upon hearing of the tortures I had
been subjected to, Katja blanched and obviously remained unconvinced.
At other times, specific tales excited her a lot, and she asked me to
masturbate her while I went on talking. Then I enthusiastically told
her that I now had discovered my deep, true nature as a masochistic
slave, and that from now on she could do absolutely anything with me,
and that I needed to suffer and to humiliate myself for her. I
confessed to her that, at times, the regime I was subjected to in Lady
Fiona's mansion had made me forget my relation with her, and I vented
out in one single stream all the doubts I was having: I explained to
her my uneasiness at being treated by her as her equal, and how much
happier I would have been if, instead of covering me with kisses and
caresses, she had demonstrated her love by making me submit as she saw
fit. I attempted to convey to her my astonishment and disgust at seeing
my Mistress having to use a ceramic toilet, when she could quite simply
order me to swallow all her excrements, and all the other weird
principles I had been inculcated during my year of slavery.
At first Katja was rather perplex. Then her excitation and sadism began
to take the better of her, and she was overjoyed at the absolute power
she now exerted upon me. Her punishments were far from being as
intensive or sophisticated than those in Lady Fiona's mansion, but they
were quite as satisfying for the two of us. Up to then, my thirst for
masochism was not too much for her.
Then came a Saturday, when Katja had agreed to whip me to
unconsciousness, as I had relentlessly begged her for during the
preceding days. I was devoutly licking her feet when she decided to
confess the difficulties she was experiencing.
"You see, Cristina, I am under the impression that everything is not
right," she began sadly. "You're so sweet with me, but there is no way
I can compete with Lady Fiona or any other professional dominatrix. I
am but a photographer, a sadistic one if you want to put it that way,
but I am in no position to satisfy your needs." Her monologue went on
for some time, concluding itself when I had to admit, more or less
against my will, that the tortures I craved were of a much higher level
than whatever beautiful Katja could provide for, with her four whips
and her handful of dildoes, and above all with the love she felt for
me, which effectively prevented her from using me as a true slave.
I suggested her to make me work in a brothel or a S/M club in daytime,
so as to satisfy my needs and be less demanding on evenings, but Katja
had already made her mind: her eyes brimming with tears, she gave me a
large sum of money to move into my own flat, and she begged me to go
out of her life. We cried at length together, we tried to comfort each
other by making love, but even as we clung to each other in the throes
of ecstasy I had to admit she was right. That very night I slept in an
hotel.
The following morning I went to one of the best supplied adult shops
which Katja had introduced me to, and I purchased the main S/M and
contacts magazines, which I carried to my room in order to look for
somebody who might be interested in my masochistic possibilities. There
were very few interesting contacts: I did write a few letters to the
most promising ones, despite my rather deficient command of Dutch and
German. What I concentrated upon was the contacts by the professional
dominatrixes. I gave a phone call to all the dominatrixes who had
placed an advertisement in the magazines and to all S/M dungeons,
offering myself as their personal slave. I discovered that none of
these women needed me, but after having paid a visit to the main
dungeons of the city and having explained my situation to the ladies in
charge, I easily and rather pleasurably passed the "admission tests"
and I was hired as a collaborator in two such dungeons, which I went to
one day out of two, bar on Sundays.
I became a salaried whipping subject, and that strange position gave me
some nice satisfactions for some time. I earned a lot of money, but
above all I was used as nothing more than an object by the utter
strangers who came in, hurt me, demanded that I give them pleasure, and
then went out without so much as one word. Of course, I did not like
much being dominated by males, and the suffering I was subjected to
never was as refined as that I had been used to, but thanks to my fast
growing fame as an absolute slave, I was targeted by the most demanding
sadists, those the other professional submissives would not even
consider. Moreover, I just loved the degrading side of the position I
now found myself in. A photograph of mine was printed with some
frequency by the specialized magazines. I was shown wearing only high-
spiked shoes, so high that I was on the verge of falling forward, and a
collar, linked to a leash held by a woman, only her hand being shown.
My legs were spread wide, with one kilo weights hanging from clamps
affixed upon my inner lips; similar weights also stretched my nipples
down. A high, baroquely ornated mirror behind me allowed an easy view
on my nice little ass, which a savage caning had striated with a deep
red pattern. The most striking features, though, were my facial
expression - with my eyes staring straight at the reader and my
slightly pouting lips - and the photograph's caption: "Slave Cristina.
A real masochistic girl of 23 years, eager to satisfy your most
perverted desires. Specialized in extra hard treatments: needles,
weights, protracted whippings, dilatation including with both hands,
all-including toilet service. Extremely enduring, loves pain - a most
entertaining plaything for sadists of all persuasions".
Under the photograph was the advertisement of one of the dungeons I
worked for, whom my collaboration had put in a position to ask for much
higher fees than usual, and therefore to afford advertising fees in
almost any paper. In a way, it was very satisfying, one night, to be
stopped by the old owner of the general store in front of my flat, as I
was checking out at the cash register with the goods for my evening
meal: "But you are the girl from the paper?" he asked, his eyes boring
into mine.
"I beg your pardon?" "The whore in the paper, the one who gets
whipped".
"Yes... That is me."
"You make me sick. When I was a young man I did visit the girls, but
only for healthy, wholesome sex. I would never had thought that such a
disgusting slut could even exist. I cannot bar you from my store, but I
do ask you not to come back. I have respectable customers to care for."
"V... Very well. I will not come back," I whispered, red with shame. I
was so used to the sado-masochistic universe that I had all but
forgotten that, in the "real" world, I was nothing but a perverted
slut. I ran back home with my cheeks burning almost as much as my ass'
ones were on the night a seemingly indefatigable Englishman had used a
paddle to beat me for an incredibly protracted time. I did not eat, but
I cried hard and long: being a slave was something I could be proud of,
but being regarded as a common prostitute was like an insult, which I
could not live with. To have dedicated all those efforts, all that
single-minded concentration, and to end up being treated like a street
hooker! My only satisfaction was that my submissiveness had earned me
this outrage: even in my despair, that thought comforted me somewhat,
and before I crumpled down in exhausted sleep I masturbated, dreaming
of my degradation and what I had made of myself.
The lady owners of the dungeons I worked for always were very careful
to reach an agreement with their customers, whereby I would not be
permanently ruined after a session; this did not prevent me from
undergoing breathtaking tortures at their hands, so that I ended up
experiencing again the mixture of terror and pleasure which I had found
with Lady Fiona. I came to spend my days waiting for such moments: I
found myself, in more than one occasion, dutifully sucking on a
customer's cock, on my knees, and thinking only that, maybe, I would be
more lucky with the next one, who might just be the one to show as much
cruelty as my former Mistress.
To tell the truth, I do not know why I did not call her from the start.
Maybe, in a way, I did not want to disturb her, but naturally I ended
up dialling the number she had given me. The writers of the ads I had
responded to had shown themselves to be unequivocal madmen, inexpert
beginners or other such uninspiring people; my work in the dungeons had
turned me into a common prostitute rather than into the high-level
slave I deeply aspired to be; and so it came to pass that, one evening,
after having spent the day in the hands of ordinary little men who had
not even picked up one whip in the whole day, I called her with deeply
felt resolve.
It was Ann, who meanwhile had been promoted to the exalted rank of
supervisor, who picked up the phone. She quite matter-of-factly
transferred my call to Lady Fiona, and merely hearing her sensual
throaty voice on the phone made me melt down. The call itself, though,
what somewhat short: Lady Fiona had no need for a new slave, and all
she could do for me was to speak for me to somebody. I received the
order to wait for her phone call, after which the Mistress hung up the
phone without further small talk.
I fell down in a true and real state of despair: I had dreamed that the
Mistress would welcome me back to her harem, and instead... Sobbing, I
even looked up Katja's number, but the number I had known was no longer
valid since she had moved, and I remained there, upon my bed, cursing
my own stupidity and the fate which seemed to hold against me, when I
only wanted to be tortured for the pleasure of others.
The call in which my every hope of a happy life now rested did come
after all, two days later. A man's voice directed me, in severe and
clipped words, to an address in Hamburg, in Germany. When I asked for
explanations, the man only ordered me to show up within twenty-four
hours, giving me a name as a reference. The he hung up.
Needless to say, I hastened to comply: I called the two dungeons I
worked for, telling them I was interrupting our collaboration and I
could not tell when I would be able to resume it. I packed a few
clothes in a suitcase, along with my personal toilet kit, and I ran to
the airport. Whatever was waiting for me, it had been selected for me
by Lady Fiona: I was going to get, at long last, what I longed for.
Chapter Seven
Salvation
During the trip, and during the never ending transit periods in various
airports, I tried with all my might not to fantasize over the man with
the mysterious voice, but I only succeeded in thinking of him to the
exclusion of anything else. Was he a former war criminal? a trader in
white slavery, feeding the hungry markets in the money-awash Middle-
East? Or had Fiona played one of her cruel jokes on me, sending me to a
convent? I was utterly in stress: when I arrived in the city and my
taxi drove by the high, black spire of some Gothic cathedral, I recall
that all I could think was "I wonder how it would feel to be impaled on
this". My masochism was bordering upon madness, and I was inebriated
with my own submissiveness.
However, these fantasies went away as soon as I was at the indicated
address. Instead of a high castle, a jail or a concentration camp, as I
had imagined, there only was a business building, and rather recent and
well maintained at that. The name I had been given was to be found on
the brass plate of a law firm, where I was ushered in by an elegant,
ice-cold secretary, who showed me into a waiting room quite similar to
that of a dentist, at least as for the levels of hospitality and
personal warmth. I remained there for almost two hours, bored to death,
but also absolutely terrorized of showing signs of deficient
submissiveness, and therefore risking of losing that last chance I was
given. I compelled myself, instead, to commit to memory every single
detail of the ugly pictures hanging from the wall facing my armchair,
until the secretary at long last called me and showed me to a dark-
panelled wooden door.
The office's inhabitant greeted me in excellent Italian, only made a
bit harsher by a slight German accent. "Miss Cristina, please take a
seat." He was a middle-aged man, with grey hair and hard-staring grey
eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles, and a well-cut suit from the best
tailors.
I sat down in the indicated chair. "I am Mr. Schneider, a lawyer and
the legal representative of your new employer. Will you please sign
those documents."
"What are they?" "Sign, that is all," he hissed in an ice-cold voice,
which made me reach instantly for a pen and initial the papers he had
pushed toward me. "It is you slavery contract," he deigned to explain
as I finished my chore, "thanks to which my client will avoid every
possible legal complication arising from your relationship. These other
papers are your letter of leave to your landlord, abandoning your flat
and all related utility contracts, the document empowering me to sell
all your belongings, and the papers for changing your residence."
I signed everything, duly impressed by this bureaucratic efficiency.
How in Heavens had they contrived to obtain all the necessary data?
"Now give me the keys to your flat, your papers and your purse." I put
everything on the desk.
"Is there anything in your suitcase you cannot do without?" "Yes...
Let's see... Ka... A friend's photographs, and... No, nothing else. I
will take them now."
"No. Do not bother. We will burn it all along with your clothes. Please
undress completely."
The idea of losing that ultimate link with my former lover was utterly
unpleasant, but I had but myself to blame. Why had I brought them with
me? A few minutes later, with the practiced ease brought by years of
submission, I was stark naked in front of that total stranger, having
taken off even my earrings, with only the rectal plug which was a
necessity for me. The lawyer touched a button near a door, which slid
open, revealing a private lift.
"Go in. A car is waiting for you in the parking lot. You will enter it
in the back. Good bye".
I complied breathlessly, with the feeling of being a loose part being
sent here and there in a factory chain. I did not see Schneider's face
any more, and I did not see the driver either, as the wide back of the
car was separated from the front seat by a sliding partition. The
centrally operated doors locked themselves shut as soon as the car was
under way, and for quite a long time the only thing I could do was to
look at the landscape through polarized glass windows, which ensured
that nobody could look into the car. We went through what I took to be
the downtown area, then along a highway above the harbour, then a
residential area, an autobahn, a hamlet, a small wood, a bare plain...
And, to end with, a factory. After the gate leading off the road, a
rather long strip of dirt road led to a high wall. An electric gate
slid aside to let us in, and the car found itself in a small courtyard.
A quite beautiful girl with long red hair worn in a ponytail came out
to open the car's door. There could be no doubt as for her function:
she wore a leather collar, ankle and wrist restraints, which allowed to
bind her with ease, the usual extra high spiked shoes which had become
part of normality for me, and thick metal rings through her breast
areolas and the outer lips of her vagina. She motioned me to follow her
to one of the smaller buildings which ringed the courtyard, and as I
entered it I heard the car start off and drive away in a hurry.
That is where I met the Doctor. He was a rather old man, with wrinkled
skin and almost no hair left. He held a medical file and a ball-point
pen in his hands, and while the red-headed slave kept silent in a
corner of the room, on her knees, he proceeded to interrogate me
without further ado. He wanted to know about my health and my medical
history, then, without even asking for my name, he deftly took all my
measurements. By "all" I mean that, among other things, he made me lie
down upon a gynecological chair and, without the slightest regard for
my comfort, he used a number of instruments to ascertain the depth and
maximum circumference of my two holes, the stretching capacity of my
cuntlips, my clitoris, my nipples, my whole tit mass, and even that of
my tongue. Then he took samples of my blood, my stools, my urine...
This lasted for an eternity, during which I could not muster the
courage to say one single word. The Doctor was silent too, but probably
for quite different reasons. Apart from his short directions in German,
he spoke to me only to dismiss me: "We are through with the
examination. From now on you no longer have a name. Whenever it will be
necessary, you will be number forty-two".
The slave then led me to another room, a small storeroom where I was
fitted with a collar and restraints identical to hers. She bound my
wrists behind my back, she affixed a leash to my collar, and still
without a word, I was dragged to the tallest building.
The End (for now)
