Training A Slave Part 1 Its true, I've always had an interest in the world of domination. The thought that it could be possible to re-train someone to live entirely dependant on your instruction, without any capacity to use independent thought is one that I find fascinating. To own another human being's existence is surely an idea that has inspired some of the world's greatest dictators, as human life is more valuable than any other known commodity. Of course, along with anything else I've ever done in my life, it had to be done to the greatest extreme possible, or it just wasn't worth doing. All this said, I didn't ever make a conscious decision become a Master, it's just something that that curiosity and lust finally led me to. My ex-wife will vouch for my enthusiasm in this quarter. Whilst we were still together I converted our loft into a crude dungeon, and inspired by sites on the internet (an incredible inspiration), I built hoists, whips from old belts and sawn off broom handles, cages from shopping trolleys and various other devices of captivity for us to experiment with. In those early days, it was I who was the submissive, and my other half would enthusiastically strap me spread-eagled to the rafters, caning my bare behind thoroughly before descending through the loft hatch to watch television in the comfort of the lounge. The juxtaposition of me in such deprivation and her in such comfort gave us both an immense thrill, and although at first she would pop her head through the loft hatch with worried frequency, after a while she would leave me chained in the loft for hours at a time, relishing in my discomfort. On some occasions she would go out, leaving me wondering how long I was to be left in my uncomfortable bondage, shivering slightly from the cold. Sometimes she would tease me by saying that she was going to fetch her friends to see me in my humiliating position, and on more than one occasion threatened to bring a man back to the house and force me to listen to their wild love making in the room below. These comments excited me immensely, although at this stage I'm not sure how the reality of this would have affected our relationship outside of the loft. These were all just idle threats however, and all-important parts of the fantasy. Eventually these sessions began to happen with less frequency, as we grew apart. I began to realize that the only reason I had accepted the lifestyle we had begun to lead was for research purposes. I wanted to know the levels of pain produced by whips, crops and the like. I wanted to know how it felt to be left in a completely dark, cold cell for hours perhaps days on end. I needed to know how tight bonds or cuffs needed to be to prevent escape. And most importantly, the effect that this treatment could potentially have on the mind of the hapless subject. I didn't know whether or not I would ever get to use the information I was gleaning from the experience, but I felt it was important to know anyhow. As I think I said, when I do something I take it to its highest level, and the usual practice of lashing your other half to the bedstead with a dressing gown cord and slapping them with a rolled up woman's weekly just wasn't enough to satisfying my thirst for knowledge. Essentially, I wanted to know if I could make the slave/master lifestyle a REALITY. I mean, I know that a lot of people claim to have 'lifestyle' relationships, but if you untie your wife at six o clock so that you can both pop over to Tesco's to do the shopping it hardly seems fair to claim that you are living the fantasy to its fullest potential. In most circumstances, it would seem that the shopping trip to Tesco's is the Reality of their existence, while the light bondage sessions in the bedroom when the kids are asleep is the fantasy. I wanted to see if it was possible to turn this round, and see if it was possible to, get a female subject to accept the bondage as the reality. I continued to use our loft space, but by now I had converted it into an office to enable me to work from home. In between typing invoices, I began twisting the thread of my experience into a novel and before long I found with great surprise that I had written 70,000 words. I still have a hard copy of 'The Training of Lorraine', and although I never made any attempt to publish it, it allowed me to explore the realms of my fantasies (for that that's they were at that stage) on paper. That was that for several years. I continued to work hard, separated from my wife, and bought my own house on the outskirts of town, a detached property that was in desperate need of maintenance. I paid a pittance for it when you take into account that in addition to the two floors visible from the road, it also had an unusually large cellar that extended beyond the walls of the house and under the main road. What it was used for originally I can only guess at, but as you can imagine, my thoughts ran riot every time I went down there. It was during the renovation of my house that I rekindled an old friendship with Debbie, the sister of an ex-girlfriend of mine. Before we lost touch we had a habit of getting blind drunk together and flirting outrageously. We never took it any further than that, however, in fact I knew a couple of her ex-boyfriends quite well I far as I knew Debbie had perfectly normal sexual desires. She had mentioned sleeping with two men as one of her fantasies, but never anything more extraordinary than that. It took me by surprise then, when one day at my house, in my newly refurbished living room, she spotted a paperback novel with female domination as its theme and asked to borrow it. A little surprised, I asked if she was into that sort of thing. She explained that although she had never experienced any bondage first hand, it was something that excited her and she wanted to know more. She was a quick learner and an even faster reader, and before long she had exhausted my supply of literature, consuming books at the rate of one per day. Safe in the knowledge that she was a fellow enthusiast, I began to tell her of my own experiences, and the hope that one-day I might find somebody willing to let me carry out my plans, and so create the perfect slave. As I finished explaining I could see that I had shocked her somewhat, and she left in more of a hurry than usually, claiming that she had a headache. I resigned myself to the fact that I had obviously said too much, and would apologize to her the next time we met. We had both had quite a lot to drink, and it wouldn't be a problem for me to blame the drink for my ramblings. Several days later, she turned up at my door. Although it was quite late, I ushered her into the living room and poured her a glass of wine before taking seat opposite her. I was about to apologize for my eccentric comments a few nights previous, when it became apparent that she also was waiting to get something off her chest. I kept quiet, waiting for her to begin. She explained that she had indeed been shocked by the turn of our conversation on that night, but not entirely put off. Although she had previously assumed that the literature in my bookcase was there for light reading only, my comments had made her realize the depth of my interest in this field. She began to ask questions, and as I answered as honestly as I felt I could, the atmosphere between us became easier again. The books she had borrowed had only served to whet her appetite, she explained, and she was keen to further her knowledge of the subject. I switched my P.C. on, and logging on to a few of my favorite sites I pointed out items and articles of interest. Occasionally she would stop me with a light touch on my arm as she read a particular passage or strained over my shoulder to see a thumbnail picture. Asking for a pencil and paper, she wrote down a few of the site addresses, and tucked it in her pocket to use at home. By now we had finished an entire bottle of white wine, and it was past midnight. Rising from our positions at the computer desk I began to show her out, pleased that not had she not been angry with me, or thought me strange when I had commented on my desire to train a slave. Her next question threw me completely. As I was about to close the door, she turned and hesitantly asked if I had ever wanted to enslave her. Without waiting for my reply she hurried off into the night, her query hanging in the air like a giant exclamation mark. Slightly flummoxed I prepared my self for bed, thinking about what she had said. I felt that the issue needed further discussion, at the very least, so the following day I arranged to meet her again, this time for a meal in our local restaurant. I knew that the tables were positioned in such a way as to allow us to talk with relative privacy. Rushing in, slightly late and out of breath, Debbie came through the doors, scanning the tables for my familiar face. She was obviously quite excited about the content of our forthcoming conversation, and she waste no time in getting to the point. "Have you thought about it then?" she exclaimed, barely giving me time to finish pouring her wine. I nodded, but said nothing, collecting my thoughts as I took my first long sip. "I'm not sure you realize what this entails", I began She raised her eyebrows encouraging me to continue "I'm talking about completely changing your lifestyle, sacrificing everything you've learned since you were old enough to listen" "I'm not completely naive", she said, "I realize that I must make sacrifices" "Not sacrifices" I corrected "THE sacrifice, you are to give up your whole self to me, everything, unconditionally." Silence fell between us as the waiter arrived to take our order. "I realize how serious this is!" she hissed, the moment he was out of earshot. "And I've given it a lot of thought" She paused and took a slug of the wine. "I live in tiny flat, I have few friends, I haven't spoken to my mother for over two years, and the boyfriends I have had have all failed to satisfy me in every respect." She began, speaking carefully "I hate my boss and I hate my job, and I've handed in my notice" she raised her hand as I tried to interrupt "I would have left anyway, it wasn't entirely down to you. I just feel that I want a change." "Yes," I replied, "but this is the sort of change that you could live to regret very quickly!" A couple passed us, on their way to the door and she paused, staring intently at me as she waited to resume her conversation. Leaning over the table, oblivious to the view I was getting of her cleavage (for I had begun to take notice of her attributes recently), she spoke again; with a yet more eager note to her voice, "Tell me what I have do!" I sat back in my chair, sighing. It was obvious that she was determined to see this through, and while the thought of finally realizing my dream was exciting me beyond belief, I felt obliged to continue warning her. "You realize that once I start the program I would not expect to stop under any circumstances." I offered, "No safe words, no leniency, no pity, no escape" I continued, sure that I must be putting her off. She looked at me and nodded with a half smile on her face. "When I was a little, girl, I spent almost an hour at the top of the diving board at our local pool. I never gathered enough courage to jump, and so never experienced the marvelous rush of adrenalin that my friend's had achieved. If only somebody had pushed me..." We paused as the waiter laid out our starters. After a few mouthfuls, she continued. "I've read all the books, and frankly the thought of being owned by a man, kept only for his sexual amusement and unconditionally serving him sets me tingling all over. I don't know why, I just know that the thought of being your, or anyone else's slave excites me. Just tell me what it would entail, give me some idea of what I'm letting myself in for, and I go away and think about it." She said, reasonably. "Well..." I began, trying to contain my mounting excitement, "It would involve eradicating every principle and moral you have been conditioned to accept since you were born and retraining you to accept a whole new set of ideals, most of them, related to or about sex, and revolving around me, your master. You would in effect be a completely different person, re-designed as an object of sexual gratification, a being totally and utterly committed to pleasing your master in every respect." I took another mouthful of wine and gave her an example, "For instance, every time somebody passes this table you stop talking" "Of course, I don't want them to hear what we're saying" she replied, blushing slightly. "As my re-programmed slave, " I explained, "I would expect you to obey me if I demanded that you undress immediately and offer yourself orally to the waiter" I scrutinized her face to judge the effect my comment had had. Her face took on an even deeper shade of red. "But surely that would make me a prostitute, and you a pimp" she queried "Its not about the actual act, I could be asking you to do anything" I said "Its about the fact that you are prepared to obey any of my requests unconditionally, even if that means completely debasing and humiliating yourself in public. You Would be trained you to carry out my every wish unthinkingly." She looked startled and I realized that she probably hadn't thought of a third party ever being involved in my plan. "So..." she began, looking thoughtful "I would offer myself to the waiter purely because you wished it, with no regard to my own feelings on the matter?" "You are not entitled to an opinion on the matter one way or the other, your only thought is to obey" "And if I refuse to carry out any particular order?" "As a fully trained slave, you would not have the capacity to refuse, but as a trainee you would be chastised most severely for disobedience of any kind" she raised her eyebrows "And what form would this chastisement take?" "That would all depend on the seriousness of the transgression. Publicly disobeying your master would merit pretty severe retribution, probably with a whip or crop. As with an animal, you would learn to obey by association. The subconscious association between, disobedience and extreme pain would force you to obey my commands without hesitating." As I spoke I realized that I was becoming hard under the table at the thought her becoming my slave. I fought to contain myself and continued. "I know that the suggestion of that probably excites you, it must, or you wouldn't have continued to read the books, but that's all it is at the moment, a suggestion. The reality of being lashed naked to a whipping post whilst I punish you may seem less attractive in reality! What's more, our relationship as friends would be changed permanently, our relationship would become irrevocably different." Silence fell between us once more as we concentrated on our food, although I stole a few sneaky glances at her face, trying to judge by her expression what she was thinking. "What if I said I was prepared to submit myself to you for a given period of time, say, a year? And was prepared to sign a contract to that effect?" I nodded. "I would need at least a year to try out my program," I said, "If it hadn't transformed you after that, it probably never would." Again she paused to think. "Look" I said, resigned to the fact that she was determined to see this through, "If your really that sure, Ill e-mail you the name of a BDSM site that has a printable slave contract connected to it. Its quite detailed and lengthy, and it would need amending slightly for our purposes but it would give you something to think about. How much notice do you have to work for your boss?" "Two weeks, why?" "That gives you two weeks to think about it and make any necessary arrangements, in the meantime Ill make some preparations at home for your 'stay'" I smiled and she smiled back. Both of us amused by the word 'stay' as if she was booking into a hotel for the weekend. "If you decide to call it off just let me know" I offered, "Its not to late to forget the whole thing and we need never bring the subject up again." She nodded silently, hanging on my every word, "Of course the moment that contract is in my possession, nothing you say or do could change the course of events" I knew from the expression on her face that she was treating this with the seriousness it deserved. I also knew, however, that in her wildest dreams she could not possibly imagine the extent of the suffering that awaited her on the path to servitude So that was that. The matter was all but settled. As I suspected she might, she rang me the following week to say that she had decided to accept and would I please e-mail her the amended slave contract for her to sign ASAP. At last, my dream was becoming reality. I immediately dispatched the contract, and set to work converting my cellar into Debbie's new home, at least for the next twelve months. As I mentioned, it was an unusually large cellar, and it looked yet larger when I had finished clearing it out. It wasn't just one large room either; its width was partially divided by thick stone walls, presumably put in place to hold the up the floor above. These wall lent themselves perfectly to making cells and using my home welder and some steel rod I blocked off the ends of two of these cavities with home made prison doors, creating two six foot square cages, barred at each end. I had also bought some large steel rings, and I cemented these at intervals around the walls and floor of both the cells and the large area in front of them. I also bolted several to the concrete beams that ran at regular intervals across the high ceiling of the basement. It didn't take me long to rig up some makeshift lighting and as a final touch I wired up a surveillance camera at one end. This would allow me to see what was happening in the cellar from any television in the house. I contemplated installing heating of some description, as although it was reasonably dry, it was very cold, but dismissed the idea. The cold wouldn't do her any harm, I grinned to myself, and it would certainly encourage her nipples to participate! I tapped into the cold water supply running across the ceiling and attached a length of flexible pipe and a showerhead. This would allow me to hose Down both the floor of the cellar and my slave in order to keep her clean should she be confined to the cell for any length of time. Turning it on by the tap I had installed I found it to be surprisingly powerful, and I was forced to hold the hose with both hands in order to stop it slipping from my grasp. The soak-away in the corner of the room seemed capable of draining the water, although it began to back up after a few minutes My final check was to plug in my portable stereo in the cellar and crank the volume up till the music began to hurt my ears. Leaving it running, I made my way back up the stairs to my living room and out of the house. Perfect. In my living room I was just able to discern the sound of the music faintly through the thick floor, but outside it was completely inaudible. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, I rang Debbie with her instructions. The two-week period was over the following night, and I instructed her to come to my house in the early evening, bringing nothing other than the clothes she was wearing. I also told her to ensure that all necessary arrangements had been made; as this was the last night she would be able to enjoy her freedom. I also asked her to ensure that she had removed all body hair. She reassured me that such arrangements had been, made, and her friends and relatives had all been told that she was taking a year off to go traveling. As I replaced the phone on its receiver I knew I would have difficulty in sleeping that night. And so the moment arrived. With bated breath I walked the short distance to the front door and opened it to find a meek looking Debbie on my front step. As promised she wasn't carrying any luggage, and was dressed simply in tight jeans and t-shirt, the t-shirt tucked firmly into the waistband, outlining her pert breast through the flimsy material. I caught my breath as I realized how soon I would be seeing her young body in the flesh for the first time. Nervously she entered my house and stood in the center of the floor, tentatively offering the completed contract for my perusal. I could see she had probably agonized over his moment for some considerable time. She almost looked relieved to be handing over the contract, having finally made a definite decision "You do realize what you are doing" I said, softly "If you want to back out, there's still time" "I understand", she replied "And I'm not completely sure what I'm letting myself in for, I can't be, I've never tried this before, I just know I'd regret not doing it for the rest of my life." I nodded, and leaving her stood in the center of the floor I took a seat by the fire. "We'd better establish a few preliminary ground rules, " I said trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "From this moment, you may only address me as Sir or Master." She nodded, surprised at the new note of command in my voice and the expectant look on my face hurriedly added "Yes, sir" The words sounded strange, almost comical, but the seriousness of the situation prevented either of us from smiling. "You must lower you eyes when in my presence" "Yes Sir" "You must obey my ever instruction unquestionably" "Yes sir" I stared at her for a moment and she lowered her gaze to the floor, her hands hanging limp by her sides. "Undress!" I barked suddenly. She looked up momentarily, a sudden look of misgiving in her eyes, but lowered them again as she saw the black look on my face "Here? Now?" she inquired timidly. I sighed "Have we not just covered this?" I said, a note of irritation creeping into my voice. "You are to obey my every command! As my slave you are certainly not allowed the privilege of privacy or modesty!" I could see it was difficult for her. I had never seen her completely naked, and I suppose there were only a handful of men who had had that pleasure. I'm sure she had never taken her clothes off for a man without a large amount of Dutch courage in her at any rate. This was the first and most difficult step, and we both knew it. Blushing a deep shade of red, she began to hesitantly remove her t-shirt, slipping it self-consciously from her arms revealing her white lace bra. She fiddled with the button fly of her jeans, stalling for time, before reluctantly pulling them down to her ankles and stepping out of both her slip-on shoes and crumpled denims at the same time. She stood up in her white lace underwear, cradling her chest in her arms, her face almost purple with embarrassment and shame. "It would seem we have a small problem in obeying instruction," I uttered as I walked to wards her, a pair of steel cuffs swinging from one hand. She looked puzzled "I expect you to obey my instructions to the letter" I began to fetter her hands in front of her body, closing the hasp of the cuffs with an ominous click "I asked you to undress, completely!" "I'm sorry, it's just..." Her voice tailed off as she realized she was again speaking out of turn. I began escorting her to the cellar steps, she bowed her head slightly to enter the small entrance that lay under the stairs and she began the descent into her new home. As I switched the light on she gasped audibly. I had surpassed my self in the construction of her prison, ensuring that no item had been overlooked. It was Spartan in the extreme, with only steel hoops and a selection of whips to break up the gray concrete of the walls. I had carried a small, solidly built wooden table down there as an after thought. The fact that two of its legs had been sawn off short, forcing the thick table top to lay at an angle, and the leather straps adorning its sides gave its function away immediately. The only source of warmth in the dungeon, for that is effectively what it had become, was the heat that seeped down from the rest of the house, and as heat rises, this was precious little indeed. I could fell the goose bumps on her upper arm as I guided her to the center of the floor to stand reluctantly below one of the rings I had cemented into the ceiling. She shivered slightly under my firm grip, partially through anticipation, partially due to the temperature. I wondered how long it would take her to become accustomed to the cold. Selecting a large padlock from the wall, I linked it through the connecting chain of her cuffs and then through the hoop in the ceiling, grunting slightly as I pulled her arms away from their protective position across her chest and over her head, forcing her to stand on the balls of her feet to prevent the steel digging into the delicate flesh around her wrists. I then pushed her legs apart, hearing her wince as her wrist took yet more of her weight, and secured a three foot iron bar between her outspread legs. Clicking the ankle cuffs home, I stood up to address my new slave. "You were told to strip, and as well as questioning me, you had the audacity to only partially remove your clothes" Her eyes opened wide in surprise and fear. She had never been put in such a vulnerable position or spoke to in such an authoritative or abrupt manner. "As part of your initiation into slavery, I had every intention of beating you most severely anyway as a warning against future potential transgression but you have given me an excellent excuse." I was even surprising myself by the way I had automatically fallen into the role of her master. She trembled slightly as I ran my palm around the contours of her shapely behind, still encased in clinging lace material. Running my hand yet further round, relishing in the warmth of her smooth skin, and the fact that she was physically unable to stop my intrusive exploration, I smiled as I felt the warmth of her sex through the slightly damp gusset, as I realized that she was becoming turned on by her position of forced vulnerability. She squirmed in embarrassment to try and avoid the touch of my hand, "Tut, tut" I clucked, it seems you are intent upon angering me." I leisurely walked to my selection of whips and pondered for a while, before picking a particularly vicious looking instrument made with long strips of thick leather hide. As I looked over, she opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again, unsure of what she could possibly say that might allow her to escape the inevitable pain I was about to inflict. Walking behind her, with the whip tucked under my arm, I released the sharp blade from my penknife and slid it carefully through the shoulder straps of her bra. Unclipping the clasp, I allowed the lacy material to slide gracefully to the floor, stark against the harsh gray concrete floor. I repeated the operation across the hips of her panties, and walked back round to the front of my slave to survey my property. She was even prettier naked than I could have imagined. Her head was bowed as instructed, and she panted slightly with the exertion of keeping the weight off her wrists, her light brown hair falling in waves across her pert firm exposed breasts. The cold had puckered her small pink nipples into hard beads, and as I watched they rose and fell with her labored breathing. Her tanned flat smooth midriff splayed out to wide sensuous hips, at the center of which lay the prize. The epicenter of her sexuality, and the part of her body that she had fiercely protected, until now. She had shaved thoroughly prior to her arrival, and her partially spread limbs revealed the lips of her sex, glistening slightly with wet expectancy. She squirmed slightly under my gaze, mortified at her blatant arousal under these conditions To her horror, I pushed the thin, blunt end of the whip handle between her lips, parting them yet further, revealing her small, protruding clitoris, red and engorged, begging for further stimulation. Having inspected my slave, and finding everything as I had hoped, I dragged my focus back to the matter in hand, her punishment for earlier transgressions. "Have you ever been hit with one of these?" I asked, allowing the stiff leather thongs to fall across her quivering buttocks." She shook her head "Shame, it may have given you an idea of what to expect. Still, no matter, you'll soon learn. It was then that I was pleased I had checked the amount of sound that filtered up from my cellar, for as I delivered the first stroke; she let out a scream of such intensity that it hurt my ears "Please no!!!, I didn't realize!!! Not again!!!..." "Have some dignity!" I reproached as I delivered another sting blow, harder this time. This time she wasn't able to scream, as she had used all her breath on the first one. Instead she opened her mouth noiselessly, her eyes wide with pain at the shock of the onslaught. Sensing my advantage I let another loose, aiming more carefully, directing the fronds to the underside of her buttocks, where they cruelly wrapped around her inner thigh, a few of the longer ones actually coming into contact with her sensitive labia. She had begun to groan, the pain in her wrist forgotten she slumped forward in her bonds "Stop... I cant...you bast..." I cut her short with a sting blow, this time tracing a line of fire directly across the center of her buttocks. The chains rattled as she desperately tried to break free. "Do you think that perhaps now you will learn to obey me?" I inquired, gently feeling the raised welt I had just created across her backside. "Let me down.. It's too painful. I don't want...!" she gasped between breaths Again I cut her off mid sentence "Wrong Answer!" Now I began to lay into her tortured buttocks in earnest, ignoring her screams and the rivulets of tears that were now coursing freely down her cheeks. To add variety, I directed a couple of particularly punishing blows to her breasts, the second strike landing squarely across her right nipple. Upon this stroke her head jerked back and her eyes opened wide. If the pain of being whipped across the buttocks had been unimaginably painful, this was ten times worse. For a few seconds she actually stopped breathing all together, struggling violently against her cuffs all the time, desperate to apply her soothing touch to the angry read weal's that I had just created across her milky breasts and buttocks. Sensing that I had made my point, I asked again "Are you prepared to obey me now?" At that moment she looked me directly in he eye, all her emotions tangled, tears wetting her cheeks and chest, fighting for breath. still suffering under the waves of pain emanating from her bruised flesh. She had no option. She nodded reluctantly, willing to undergo any humiliation I deigned necessary, if it meant avoiding another earth shattering stroke from the cruel whip. "Pardon, slave?" I questioned, wanting to hear her say it "Yes sir," she sobbed "Do you feel you have learned a lesson from your punishment?" "Yes sir" Cautiously, I unchained her hands from the ceiling, waiting for her to strike like trapped animal. I needn't have worried, her hands hung limply by her sides, longing to massage life back into her chaffed wrists, but frightened of incurring further punishment for doing so. I pushed the handle of he whip under her chin and lifted her face to meet my gaze. "Every time you disobey me I will beat you like that. I will beat you with the utmost severity for the slightest indiscretion is that understood?" "Yes Sir" Despite all my warnings, she had not anticipated the severity of her experience and the pain of the lash had been all too real. I detected that there was a new note of respect in her voice. "Now you may thank me for your lesson" I commanded," Would you like that? "Yes sir" more enthusiastically now, her previous feelings of shame lost in her eagerness to please me in any way possible and prevent a repeat of the incredible pain she had just endured. Pushing her head back down with the crop, and applying light pressure to her shoulder, she sank to her knees on the cold stone floor, quickly guessing the form that her thanks would take. With shaking hands she unzipped my fly, tentatively pulling my semi-erect member from my trousers. With an almost imperceptible pause, during which a thousand thoughts must have flown through her mind she reluctantly Opened her mouth and gently lowered her lips around my shaft, gently moving her head back and forth. I was already in a state of considerable arousal and within the space of a few minutes my balls began to spasm and I felt the blessed relief of my seed emptying into her mouth. With the facial expression of someone who has just bitten into a lemon, she withdrew from my satiated cock and wiped her hand across her semen-covered lips, forcing herself to swallow as she did so. It was then that remembered. She had told me during one drunken evening that she had NEVER given oral sex, and had no intentions of ever doing so as she found the thought of taking a mans member in her mouth repulsive in the extreme. I smiled at the recollections she knelt quivering at my feet awaiting instruction, a stray globule of semen glistening on her chin as she replaced my now flaccid member back in my trousers. "Thank you Master" she whispered, almost inaudibly. She was beginning to learn. I un-cuffed her ankles and gently lifted her to her feet. Escorting her to the open door of her cell I led her inside. "Perhaps we will do better tomorrow" I said, not unkindly, and gently stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. The sudden show of affection, contrasting with the violence of the previous whipping sent her into fits of sobs yet again. "There, there" I comforted. "I told you what to expect, didn't I?" She nodded dumbly, her eyes downcast. Locking the door to her tiny cell securely I made my way up to my living room, before pouring myself a large congratulatory brandy and flopping on my sofa to watch some TV. Then I remembered my camera. Flicking to the appropriate channel, the black and white image of the prison came into view. Debbie lay on the cold unyielding floor of her cage in the foetal position, her legs tucked up against her chest to try and conserve what little warmth she could. Between the tops of the backs of her thighs I could just make out her protruding sex, and even as I watched, her hands stole between her legs, cupping her sex, and began to gently massage her swollen, tender lips. I smiled, transfixed. I had read that a severe whipping would invariably lead to intense, undeniable arousal as the pain of the weals began to fade and give way to a warm glow, and sipping my cognac from the warmth of my sofa, I was seeing the proof. I pressed the red record button on my VCR. After only a few minutes, her hips began to buck, scraping her thigh against the rough concrete and her legs opened despite the chill to allow her hand better access. It was the only stimulus she needed, and as her finger slid effortlessly into her swollen vagina, her face contorted, her pelvis spasmed as she orgasmed. Not the pleasant, warm cozy orgasms she had in the bath at home, as she gently soaped herself, but a powerful, gut wrenching surge of pleasure that lifted her lower body off the floor involuntarily and caused her to let out a long low guttural moan. For almost two minutes she writhed in this position, the glowing pain of the fresh stripes across her body contrasting with her venerable caged position and the urgent pulsing of her sex. Finally the last wave of pleasure subsided and she returned to her previous position, curling up into a tight ball, oblivious to the fact that her entire performance was being observed and recorded upstairs. I smiled, despite the interesting display; tomorrow she would have to learn that she was only permitted to orgasm under supervision. I made my way up to my bed, lying warm and comfortable under the thick luxurious duvet, contemplating the next part of my curriculum.
Training A Slave Part 2 And so it was the following morning that I awoke late, yawned lazily and swung my legs out of bed and onto the plush carpet of my bedroom. Brushing my teeth in the en-suite bathroom I contemplated my days work ahead, the further training of my new slave. Years of anticipation seemed to have allowed me to slip in to the role of a Master with great ease, and rather than allowing myself to become over excited about things, I realized that I must keep calm and focused if I was to have any success in creating a perfect slave. After a leisurely breakfast accompanied by several cups of coffee, I dressed and made my way down into the cellar, shivering at the cold blast of air that greeted me upon opening the intervening door and feeling glad I was wearing a thick pullover. In the cell to the left, huddled in a protective ball lay my slave, shivering from cold and anticipation. She looked up as she heard me approach, and sat half upright, instinctively crossing her thighs to hide her hairless sex, and cradling her breasts in her free arm, in a futile attempt to protect her modesty. How soon the memories of her last lesson had faded. She eyed me cautiously, forgetting completely her instruction never to look her Master directly in the eye, but I let this go. I made a mental note of the transgression though; it would be dealt with later. "Sleep well?" I inquired, somewhat sarcastically. Her eyes finally dropped at this comment "No, I couldn't" she muttered in return. Again I made a note of her sullen tone and her reluctance to answer with enthusiasm. "Stand up" I ordered. She hesitated. I could hazard a guess that she had probably spent most of the night analysing her current position and agonizing over the moral dilemma her forced obedience had created. It was not in her nature to stand to attention, naked, at the sole request of a man who had yesterday inflicted more pain upon her person than she had ever dreamed possible. Nevertheless she began to stand, her body stiff and aching from her night on the concrete floor of her cell, her progress hampered by the fact that she was still trying to protect her modesty as she struggled to rise. "Put your hands on your head and turn around, slowly!" I commanded. Again the hesitation. Despite the fact that every part of her body had been scrutinized the day before, she insisted on trying to maintain an air of modesty. "Now!" I barked. Reluctantly, her shoulders dropping in temporary defeat, she linked her fingers on the top of her head, involuntarily pulling her pert breasts up and out, and began to shuffle round, her face reddening with renewed embarrassment. With satisfaction, I noted yesterdays weals standing in criss-cross white lines across her rump, and a particularly angry looking slash across her breasts, perfectly dissecting her right nipple. "So do you feel ready to carry on with your training?" I asked, reasonably "I..." her voice tailed off, unsure as to what to say that wouldn't enrage me. I waited patiently "I... Its just...you mustn't use the whip on me, I don't...I cant" her voice broke into a sob as she recalled her lesson of the previous day. " Answer me this," I asked, leaning closer to the bars of her cage "If I allowed you to go now, would you leave?" She caught her breath, astounded at what she had heard. "Would you let me?" she asked, hardly daring to suggest it "That's academic" I replied, "I repeat, would you leave?" " Yes!! I mean, where would I go? I don't know" she burst into about of fresh sobbing Sighing I unlocked the cage door, she looked at me warily as I guided her firmly to the centre of the floor and deftly cuffed her two wrists together in one fluid movement. "Oh no..." she began, trying to pull away from me, her eyes wide and panic stricken "You can't...." she spat through gritted teeth, trying in earnest now to break free from my grasp. It was not difficult to raise her flailing arms above her head and cuff them to the ceiling ring. Despite her obvious entrapment, she continued to writhe, hoping against hope that the chain between her cuffs would snap, or that the lock would fail. She was un-rewarded. Not bothering to cuff her ankles this time, as I warily viewed her kicking, protesting legs, I walked over to my selection of tools, this time choosing a long thin switch I balanced it delicately in the palm of my hand, feeling its weight before addressing my captive. "We don't seem to be learning very fast, do we" I intoned, facetiously In truth, I was not surprised. I had expected this reaction. It was far too optimistic to expect a subject to submit herself to you after the first beating, however severe. It was basic human instinct to make at least a token gesture of defiance, even in the face of overwhelming odds and this was it. I also knew, with almost certainty, that I would be easily able to defeat this latest show of impudence during today's instruction. I waited patiently for her futile writhing to finish, her head hung limp, the sudden surge of adrenalin she had felt, combined with her ordeal of the previous twelve hours had taken the fight from her. "Somewhere in you, deep down, there is a need to be dominated." I began simply. "From where this need originates, we cannot know, I can only tell you that you are not on your own, and a great many people share your desire, either to be dominated or to dominate." I paused to gather my thoughts. I had her full attention; even her sobbing had subsided to a whimper. " For most people, these needs will go unrecognised, undeveloped, and they will never have the opportunity to experience what their heart is telling them is right. For some people, being tied to the bed with a silk scarf by a gentle lover is enough to satiate their curiosity. I, on the other hand, am personally supervising the development of your particular needs. The books I leant you germinated that desire, uncovering thoughts that had before only existed in your subconscious. The possibility that you could make the theme of those books your reality only served to further add fuel to the fire. By the time you had read and signed the slave contract, you were inescapably bound to answer the desire that had begun to grow inside you, and from that moment on that seedling became MINE." I paused to let the words sink in "Unfortunately for you, I am not prepared to allow the need within you to gently flower, as my patience and time do not allow it. After finding and recognizing your needs, I intend drag them out of you kicking and screaming, moulding and shaping them to my own end. " I realized I was beginning to shout. "Can you understand that?" I asked, sternly "I'm sorry Master, " she began quietly "I do want to serve you, I want you to use me as you see fit. I can see my life has so much more worth in serving you, but the pain...its... I can't describe it." She floundered, unable to put the intense agony into words. "The whip is an important part of my process. I am teaching you by association. You have already begun to associate refusal to obey with intense, unbearable pain. Your brain is already beginning to encourage you to obey my voice without question, in order to escape a further punishment, an action you have no control over. Despite this you are claiming to be more knowledgeable about these methods than me?" "No Master, I..." "Perhaps it should be up to you to choose the time and manner of your punishment?" She began to sob again "No Master, I'm sorry, you obviously know best, but I don't think I could take another..." Her words tailed off in fear as she watched me walk to her right flank and raise the switch high above my head "Your behaviour this morning has been disgraceful, not in the least appropriate for a slave under my instruction", I intoned, in a matter of fact voice "Pleease!...Don't!..." She heard the switch before she felt it, its thin, whippy end tracing a delicate, fleeting arc through the air. The resulting crack as it met her tender flesh was drowned out by her scream, her head thrown back, eyes wide, every sinew in her neck stretched to breaking, her face a mask of contorted agony. Unconsciously her legs had begun to flail again, oblivious to the pain that it was obviously causing in her cuffed wrists. Before the waves of nauseating pain had had chance to abate I struck again, just above the first, harder this time, relishing in the sound the supple switch made in the confines of the cellar. No scream this time, just a look of frozen disbelief on her face at the new level of pain that she was suffering. The silence soon gave way to a fresh shriek of agony however, as I delivered a third, yet harder blow, just above the previous two. Her frame rigid, her spine arched in a futile attempt to pull her buttocks away from the source of the pain, I began to rain fierce, scything blows across her behind, gritting my teeth and perspiring slightly with the exertion. As her body desperately tried to re-enforce its psychological barriers to the pain, I continued my assault upon her already damaged flesh. Gasping, she began to succumb to the excruciating pain, howling like a whipped dog, tears flowing freely across her cheeks, her breath coming in short laboured gasps and her entire body-weight hanging from the cuffs over her head, the muscles in her legs too weak to support her. Eventually I ceased, breathing heavily, and wiping the sheen of perspiration from my forehead. "NOW do we have an understanding?" I asked. It was a moment before she could muster enough energy to speak, and it was difficult to discern her words through the sobbing. "Yes Master, I'm sorry Master, I won't question you again," she babbled. She sounded genuine, the comments seeming less contrived than before. I had to be sure. I walked behind her, tucking the switch under my arm. Very gently, despite the resulting groans of pain, I began to massage her scarlet, angry flesh. "Don't run away with the idea that I'm doing you a favour, " I said after a few moments had passed. "I'm rubbing life back into your numb flesh to ensure you feel the rest of your punishment." I finished, re-taking my stance by her right flank. Her eyes desperately sought mine "Jesus... NO.... PLEASE!!!" CRACK! "NOW will you accept your position as a slave?" I asked patiently, when her howling had abated "Yes, Yes, of course I'm yours just please don't...Oh, GOD!..." CRACK! "And I presume you wish to thank me for taking the time and considerable effort to punish you for your impudence today?" "Yes I'm so sorry... Thank you Master, thank you, but please don't..!" She was no longer in control of her speech, in a last desperate attempt to avoid any more pain; her brain was joining her body in defeat. "CRACK!" this time, rather than a scream a whimper. Faintly, behind the other sounds in the room, I discerned the noise of trickling water. I looked down and saw the spreading puddle of fluid trickling down her legs and collecting at her feet. She had probably been waiting to use the toilet all night; I mused, and had finally lost the battle to hold onto her dignity Trying not to smile, I addressed her again "So there can be no mistake about the level of behaviour I expect from you?" "No Master, I'll do anything that you.... NOOOO!" CRACK!!! The switch whistled through the air for a final time, the last strike being the hardest and most damaging yet. "If I should deign it necessary to punish you for any reason, you will submit to the that punishment willingly, or the suffering will be twice as bad, do you understand?" She nodded wildly, "Please, No more, I'm so sorry I disobeyed you... " I stood back to observe her for amount, hanging limply from the concrete ceiling beam, her eyes red with tears, her chest heaving with uncontrollable emotion, her legs swaying from side to side, trying and failing to hold her body weight. "I'd like to think, that after a bad start, we've made some progress this morning" I commented, thoughtfully. "Yes Master" she whispered, almost inaudibly. "But perhaps we'd better leave you in this position for a while, to give you time to reflect upon what you've learnt" "Yes, oh yes" she uttered, glad to be left fettered, knowing that at least the whip was being hung back on the wall. Taking one more admiring look at the effect my exertions had had on her behind, I mounted the stairs, leaving her in the cold dimly lit confines of her prison, gently whimpering as she watched my retreating figure, the desperate all encompassing need to caress and sooth her damaged rear prevented by the unyielding chains above her head. Relaxing back upstairs, sipping a fresh cup of coffee, I marvelled at the change that had been brought about over such a short space of time. It seemed like an age ago that she had arrived, conservatively dressed in faded jeans and t-shirt, nervously handing me her completed contract. Then she had been as excited as she was nervous, looking forward to the thrill that she expected this new experience would give her. It was safe to assume, I mused, that this was not entirely what she had expected. She hadn't been entirely wrong though, I considered, she would begin to appreciate her new role eventually. She would gain immense pleasure form pleasing me. But there was a great deal of painful training to undergo before I could allow her to enjoy herself like that, and my plans for this afternoon were no exception. Slipping my keys and wallet into my jacket pocket I left the house, quickly striding the short walk to my car. I was quite looking forward seeing Chris again. She was a nurse, a good nurse. I say was, because she no longer worked for the NHS. After an unpleasant incident, she had been summoned to a staff tribunal, and although nothing had been proved, it was universally felt by her superiors that she had irrevocably 'blotted her copy book' and she was pressured to leave. It was fortunate that her management wasn't as familiar with the facts as I was, or she would certainly have been in a great deal more trouble. It would be wrong to say I liked Chris; she frightened me too much for me ever to feel truly comfortable with her, more that I felt fascinated by her. We all have our own little idiosyncrasies, and I was no exception. But there was ultimately a point to what I was doing. The fact that she seemed to enjoy inflicting pain for pains sake intrigued me. I don't think it ever gave her any sexual fulfilment, she was simply sadistic. It is difficult for me to say anymore without getting her into deep trouble, so suffice to say, she had an unnaturally vicious streak down her a mile wide that made her perfect for my purpose It was for this reason that I had arranged to meet her. The pub was bustling with office workers when I reached my destination, young ladies in tight short skirts and crippling high heels. Their false laughter and mixed perfumes filled the smoky atmosphere as they jostled for position on the mating hierarchy, each trying unconsciously in their own way to catch the eye of one of the painfully casual, be-suited clerks at the bar, and then looking away indignantly if they succeeded in attracting their attention Feigning disinterest, the overly ambitious businessmen in the making leant so far back over the bar as to be comical, desperate in their attempt to look disinterested and nonchalant. As I watched I couldn't help but think how much less complicated a life of slavery must be, freed from the obligations these people felt to exhibit themselves for selection. Debbie had no need to maintain this charade; any responsibility or pressure that had existed in the outside world had been stripped from her with the clothes from her back. She had no 'image' to maintain. She had no heels or supporting straps or constricting bands with which to mould her body into the shape that society dictated. She led a truthful existence, without any external trapping s to deceive the onlooker, her only purpose in life being to do her Masters bidding. I made my way through the noisy rabble to find Chris already seated at the far end of the lounge, halfway through her first drink. She got up as I approached. Smiling broadly. Tall and lithe, and not altogether un-attractive, it was difficult to believe that this harmless looking woman could have been the perpetrator of such needlessly painful acts during her last period of employment. Shuddering inwardly at the thought, I smiled back, kissing her lightly on the cheek before making my way to the bar to buy our drinks. "So you finally did it," she remarked, looking at me over the rim of her Vodka. I nodded; Id filled her in with the details of my activities over the phone. I knew I could trust her to be discreet. I knew enough about her past to ensure she would spend a the rest of her life in jail should I ever feel the need to 'spill the beans' I turned the conversation briskly to the matter in hand. "What do you think Chris, is it practical?" I asked expectantly. "Certainly" she smiled, "anything's possible, you of all people should know that" she took another sip of her drink, "Even with anaesthetic its likely to be extremely painful though, probably for a week or two at least" I nodded; Id expected that, though I felt a twinge of pity for Debbie, if Chris said it was going to be painful, she meant it. "Have you bought the tool?" she inquired, a glint in her eye and a half smile on her face, Again I nodded. "Well, what are we waiting for ?" she asked abruptly, finishing her vodka and grimacing at the bitter taste before making swiftly for the exit door. I hurriedly bolted my own drink and caught up with her. Half an hour later, we were back at my house, Chris carrying a handbag filled with the equipment she required. She stopped me just at the top of the stairs to the cellar "Are you sure you want me to do this?" she asked, "Its permanent you know, once its done you can't undo it" "I know" I replied, eager to get the operation under way. I led the way down the stairs and turned at the bottom in time to see Chris's face light up at the sight of Debbie hanging exactly as I had left her, looking only marginally recovered from the ordeal she had undergone three hours ago. Despite the continuing pain in her buttocks, I saw Debbie writhe in embarrassment momentarily under our gaze, before remembering her position and standing stock still in order that my guest might continue her examination Her red eyes opened wider however, as Chris pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and knelt down to closer examine her shaven, exposed sex. Delicately pulling back the folds of tender pink flesh she quickly exposed the clitoris beneath, grasping it with her forefinger and thumb and tugging experimentally. Debbie gasped at the sharp, warning pain this sent surging through her pelvis. "Should be straight forward", commented Chris airily "the clitoris is quite well pronounce anyway so I've got reasonable target to go at. We'll start with the slightly easier nipples though, have you got the tool?" Out off my jacket I pulled the device she had asked for, causing Debbie to begin breathing heavily, unsure as to its use, but worried all the same. I had been to my local hardware shop that morning and bought a leather punch. Designed for putting steel eyelets in leather, it was pre-loaded with a stainless steel eye, and the material placed between its jaws, before squeezing the handles firmly together. A small sharp cutter punctured the hide and pushed a steel sleeve through the resulting hole. It was met on the other side by its mate and the whole thing was squeezed tightly together, leaving a reinforced metal lined opening of about an eighth of an inch. Designed for creating lace holes in shoes, it was perfect for my plan. I could see that Debbie wasn't as appreciative of the mechanics of my machine as I demonstrated it to Chris on one of the fronds of a leather thonged whip The relation between it and her clitoris and nipples started to become terrifyingly apparent. Her mind desperately searched for a way to prevent the inevitable pain and damage we were about to inflict upon her, knowing that if she protested she was likely not only to have the operation done anyway but also be whipped soundly for her reluctance to submit herself for the piercing. Tears began to appear in her eyes for the umpteenth time that day and she began to try to mentally prepare herself for whatever torment might be coming. Noticing Debbie's involuntary movements, Chris's face took on a worried expression. "That could be a problem" she commented, pushing her ginger fringe away from her face, "I need her pelvis absolutely fixed in order to site this ring properly, Its not as important for her to be still when I pierce her nipples, but one slip either way down there", she motioned towards Debbie's smooth mound with her head, "could ruin the whole thing. Her natural instinct is going to be to pull away" I thought quickly. What could I use to hold her pelvis motionless? Suddenly, I remembered something I'd seen in the back garden. It was a basketball practice net, a long smooth solid steel pole, about an inch and a half in diameter, mounted in a large flat base plate. It would need modifying, but it was exactly what we needed. I quickly found my tape measure, hacksaw and file in my toolbox and after measuring the distance between the base of Debbie's stomach to the concrete floor we headed out to the yard. I quickly marked the pole and began to saw through at the appropriate height. It took around five minutes to saw through the tough metal, and as I finished I used the file to take off the sharp edges my saw had left, rounding off the sides to create a slightly domed top. After detaching the pole from its heavy base we both set about carrying the two halves downstairs, panting with the exertion and making frequent stops to catch our breath. Finally we had the device reassembled and placed about a foot in front of my shackled slaves pelvis. Ignoring her frightened whimpers, after lightly greasing the pole with Vaseline, Chris and I took a leg each and lifted her bodily in the air, pulling her pelvis forward, arching her back and slowly began to lower her on to the pole. At the first sensation of the cold steel touching her, Debbie began to wriggle, the only effect of this being to assist its insistent path deeper into her protesting body. We stood back to admire our handiwork, me viewing the device critically, Chris giggling uncontrollably at the sight of the young girl impaled upon the metal spike She was completely immobilised by it and the positioning of it in relation to the ring that secured her hand-cuffs meant her hips and pubis were thrust unnaturally towards us. Her toes scrabbled desperately at the concrete floor, trying and failing to gain enough purchase to push herself up and off the unwelcome, bulky, cold intrusion Her pelvis remained as motionless as the pole that held it however and Chris replaced her surgical gloves and began her exercise once more. First, she stooped to wipe Debbie's clitoris with antiseptic and a mild anaesthetic, carefully working the fluid into the folds of skin around her pink nub, before repeating the process on each nipple, Debbie's face a picture of embarrassment as the fluid was massaged into the most private areas of her body. Finally satisfied that the areas were sterile, she wiped down the leather punch, paying special attention to the sharp round blade between its jaws. "Ok," she informed, " we're ready" On her instruction I pinched a piece of skin both at the top and bottom of the flesh just behind her left nipple and pulled them apart stretching the skin taut and bloodless. I looked up as Chris positioned the punch, keen to see my slave's reaction to the pain. Her eyes were already screwed up, and her teeth clamped tightly together, determined not to give us the satisfaction of screaming, but as I heard the sickening pop of the jaws as they cleanly sliced a circle in her soft flesh and forced the eyelet through the resulting hole into its backing, her expression changed dramatically Debbie could contain herself no longer and screamed, the high-pitched noise causing me to wince, and cause Chris to begin giggling again. The shiny round eyelet was positioned exactly, not through her actual nipple, but directly behind it in the flesh of her areola. The skin surrounding the metal had begun to swell swiftly around its circumference, but such was the speed and efficiency of the tool that not a trace of blood could be seen on either her nipple or the punch. Viewing her breast from the side, it was possible to look right through, the operation having created a perfect steel lined perforation. Transfixed, I reached in my pocket and producing one of the padlocks I had bought, I passed the hasp of it right through, clicking it shut with a definite click. Ignoring her pleas for mercy, Chris was preparing to repeat the operation on the other side, impatiently prompting me to hold the flesh taut as she gleefully clamped the handles together once more. As perfectly situated as the last one, I passed through another padlock, tapping it with my finger and smiling as I watched it swing. Finally we both stooped to complete the final piercing. Handing me a pair of small tweezers, and spreading the flesh of her subject's labia in order that I might gain easier access, she described how she would like me to get a firm grip on the tip of Debbie's clitoris with and pull out as hard as I was able. She had loaded the punch with its steel eyelet and stood by in readiness, poised to puncture the skin as soon as she felt the position was right. I did as I was asked, listening with some concern to the rasping short breaths coming from above me. Debbie had ceased to struggle now, the agony created by grinding herself onto the wide steel pole being almost as bad as the pulsing waves of dull pain coming from her violated nipples. Acting as a team, at the instant I pulled violently on the tweezers, Chris moved in with her device, squeezing the handles together with both hands, relishing in the tearing sound and the resulting scream from above. Again I passed small padlock through the hole and clicking it shut, allowed the labia to fall back and stood back to admire our work. It was almost comical. The two padlocks behind her nipples swung in tandem as her body writhed in the torment her damaged clitoris was producing. The third hole was sited in a way which meant the padlock that passed through it pulled the pink nub unnaturally away from her body, preventing the protective hood from retracting back over it, and leaving it on permanent display, sore and swollen. Collecting some thin, but strong chain from my accessories across the room, I unlocked her third padlock and passed it through the last link of the chain before snapping it shut. I now effectively had her on a lead, free to lead her wherever I wished, the slightest tug on the chain causing immense pain in her lower abdomen. Satisfied with the results of our mornings work, We lifted her off the restrictive pole with an audible sucking noise and un-cuffing her, I half carried her weeping, limp form back to her cell, each step binging fresh moans of pain from her tortured body. More out of principal than out of necessity, I locked the other end of the chain to the bars at the far end of her cell and shut the door behind me, walking back to join Chris, who was rummaging in her handbag. "Make sure you apply this regularly every morning and at night ", she said, producing a small tube of ointment, "And get her to take one of these every four hours" she handed me a small bottle of pills. I looked at her enquiringly "They're antibiotics," she explained, "They should help to prevent any serious infection" I placed the medicine in my pocket "And remember, don't pull on them until the swelling goes down or her body may decide to reject the metal." She turned to go "See you then" "Thanks Chris " I said following her up the stairs "NO, thank you" she said with sincerity as she stepped out in to the sunlight "Its been, a thoroughly entertaining morning. You must keep me up to date with her progress" I waved as she walked off, and turned to go back in doors. I walked slowly down to the cellar, feeling almost sorry for the huddled figure in the corner of her cell, shaking like a frightened animal. "How do they feel?" I asked, gently "They h- hurt so much" she stammered, between sobs, "They'll be there for ever, won't they" she asked, obvious distress in her voice. "Yes," I informed truthfully " Even if you managed to get the eyelets out, the holes would remain, they're two wide to heal. She began sobbing in earnest, the permanence of the violation we had imposed upon her beginning to sink in " But as well as giving me a completely secure method of shackling you, it also provides a constant reminder of you slavery" I said, watching her as she gently stroked the swollen, angry flesh around one of her nipples "Every tiny move you make will cause a pull on your clitoris, reminding you of your Master and the ownership I have over your body," I said "Can I trust you not to try and pull the eyes out?" I asked, "You wouldn't succeed, they're too tight, but you might create an infection by trying" "I...I...cant touch them, " she sobbed, trying and wincing instantly at the resulting pain. "I will be watching anyway," I informed her, pointing at the small camera mounted on the opposite wall. Her head dropped and her shoulders slumped yet further. It seemed that she had no choice but to accept this intrusive, unwelcome addition to her body, With this I left her chained to the cell door, sat on the cold concrete with her legs splayed so as not to disturb the padlock between her thighs, the short chain creating a graceful arc between her sex and the bars of her prison. And that was that. Her first lesson was over. She had learnt the penalty for disobedience first hand, and seemed only too willing to strive to please in future. We began to establish a routine. I would lead her up stairs by her chain every morning and allow her to use the bathroom. While using the toilet she was allowed to close the door, but not lock it. Not that I allowed her this privilege for her benefit, its just that I don't find anything attractive about that sort of thing. Initially I would then take her back to the cellar, and after locking her in her cell, turn the power hose upon her, paying special attention to her pierced areas, watching her breasts flatten under the stream of water, pushing her back against the bars at the back of her prison. I would then leave her, shivering with cold, her hair hanging in damp tresses over her face, dripping onto her breasts and running into the pools that turned the cold concrete black. Occasionally I would watch her on my surveillance equipment, where I would see her curled up by the door to her cell, patiently awaiting my return. During the evening I would usually take down the remnants of my dinner, a few gravy soaked chicken bones, the virtually empty silver foil trays of a takeaway, or a few mouthfuls of apple pie. I would scoop all these things into a bowl, regardless of the combination, and tip them onto the floor of her cell. She would eat with enthusiasm, leaving the concrete bare and clean the following morning. Occasionally I would give her 'maintenance' whippings. Although I never had cause to beat as severely or as copiously as I had the first few times, I would give her half a dozen vicious lashes with the deadly switch in rapid succession to serve as a short, if intensely painful reminder of her inferiority. She would walk to the rings unaided for these, raising her hands above her head willingly for me to secure, and although she would still emit piercing screams as her body was racked with the now familiar agonising pain, she would remember to thank me at the end of each punishment, before stumbling sobbing back to her cell. She had dropped the petulant display of false modesty she had insisted on for the first few days, and as one week turned into two, she would get to her feet the moment she heard my feet on the stairs, making no attempt to hide her body from my eyes. At least every other day I would demand she stood with her legs apart and her hands on her head while I inspected her piercings. She would make no attempt to pull away as she had previously and stood stock-still and unashamed as I parted her labia with my fingers to evaluate her clitoris and its eyelet. The swelling had now disappeared completely from her breasts and the two rings were only just visible, only the presence of the padlock and the puckered skin behind her nipple belied the fact that anything was embedded there. Occasionally they would catch in the dim light hanging overhead, twinkling like diamonds in the gloom of the cellar. The ring in her clit had taken considerably longer to heal, although she assiduously applied cream to it every day. I enjoyed watching these sessions and I would watch with interest as she sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, her back against the stones of the wall, gently massaging her sex, enjoying the sensations and then reddening with shame under my gaze. Despite her tribulations, she still had a shred of her former dignity, which I allowed her to keep, as I found it quite amusing. Slowly she would work her fingers into the flesh, curiously feeling the alien, cold, steel object that now resided there, enjoying the unaccustomed pleasure as her finger traced a circular motion around its circumference. After a few moments I would see her hips begin to tremble and her stomach muscles begin to tense and I would command her to stop, depriving her of the orgasm she had almost achieved. After three or four frustrated attempts to climax under my supervision, I discovered her on camera attempting to finish the job after I had left her and gone back upstairs. Needless to say, I immediately dragged her from her cell and shackled her to the now familiar ring, its shiny surface dulled and scored from the scraping motion of her handcuffs during her struggles. She received twelve of the hardest strokes I could muster for that offence, although I reminded her as she swung before me, both her behind and her sex burning for different reasons, that had she managed to finish the job, her fate would have been much worse. To be on the safe side, after returning her to her cell. I cuffed her wrists together, and looped the hasps of her nipple padlocks through the short adjoining chain. For the week she spent chained like this, her wrists held against her chest, it completely prevented her from touching herself, and also required her to eat her evening scraps from the floor like an overgrown squirrel. This I found to be hilarious viewing and recorded lengthy amounts of this behaviour on the video upstairs Every other day I would require her to satisfy me orally, and she would do this with a new found enthusiasm, eager to oblige, plunging my length as far back into her throat as was possible, cradling my balls with her free hand, fervently sucking each drop from its end as I came, running her pinched forefinger and thumb along its length so as to extricate ever last drop of warm, salty semen. After eagerly swallowing the warm, gluey mess, a look of intense satisfaction upon her face, she would feather the head with delicate laps of her tongue, ensuring that every last drop of my seed had been licked from its length before replacing it gently back within the confines of my trousers, carefully zipping them up and lowering her eyes back to the floor, surreptitiously licking the last drops from her chin and lips with sly darts of her tongue and awaiting further instruction. By now I had begun to allow her to shower upstairs occasionally, for although the hose had been fun to use, its cold stream did not remove as much grime as the hot stream of water in the shower did, and her hair had begun to suffer. It also gave her an opportunity to thoroughly shave herself, an important task, as an unsightly fuzz of hair had begun to grow back on her pubic mound. I would watch her as she soaped herself from head to foot in my bathroom, covering every inch of her body in a thick lather of soap before allowing the powerful hot jet to rinse the foaming suds from her body. She would step out when instructed and stand dripping and steaming before me, her skin shining with wetness, the perfect smooth contours of her lithe body shimmering under the light. It was at moments like this that I truly appreciated my position. In spite of the time and hard work I had invested in her, like an art dealer stood before his greatest and most expensive purchase, or a stamp collector gazing at his penny black, I would survey my property with pride, appreciating her fine lines and delightful subservient expression. I began to explore her practical use around the house, and during the day, I would chain her in a different room, supply her with the necessary utensils and leave her to complete given tasks. Some days I would loop the chain around the toilet bowl, and leave her to clean and polish the bathroom until it sparkled as if new. On other occasions I would leave her chained in her cold cell, and leave her with the removable racks and hob from the cooker, whereupon she would spend the day ardently scrubbing with a piece of wire wool. Bringing them back to a pristine shine. If I were able to detect the slightest piece of dirt at the end of the day, she would receive the inevitable switch. Before long my house was literally shining from top to bottom, something the greatest cleaner in the world could not have achieved, and as a small reward I would allow her to sit on the floor by my feet during the evening while I relaxed in front of the television. She would place her head lovingly on my lap and I would stroke her hair, much in the same way someone would caress a pet. Apart from the orgasm she had achieved the first night of her captivity, I was sure she had not managed to repeat the experience, and by now nearly two months had passed. The tension had begun to show, and as I delivered her 'maintenance' whippings, a thin trickle fluid would often be seen at the top of her thighs, the burning of the switch only magnifying the flaming need that had taken up residence between her thighs. I would watch her fingers linger around her sex as she soaped herself in the shower, before using every ounce of her will power to prevent herself from violently rubbing at the sensitive flesh and releasing her body from its state of enforced stress. It was her testament to her obedience that she never again tried to satiate this desire however, but I had no plans to allow her the privilege. I intended to carry on the forced deprivation, eager to see its outcome In the meantime, I felt that the time had come to further test the level of her obedience and had several ideas, which I was keen to try out.
Training A Slave Part 3 It was almost six weeks since this girl had walked through my door, offering her completed slave contract to me with her tiny hand, eager to embark on what she must have thought would be an exciting sexual adventure. I watched her now as she lay sleeping on the concrete floor of her cell in the cellar. One of two, it was more of a cage than a cell, measuring only six feet square, its two ends barred, ands its sides made of heavy stone. The dim light in the gloomy cellar glinted gently against the bars, picking out the patch of white concrete in one corner of her prison, the place where her food was tipped at mealtimes, the area licked clean, presume ably in an attempt to please me. She had begun to look unnaturally comfortable on the hard, cold stone floor. I had watched her for the first few days, twisting and turning against the unyielding surface, scraping her shoulders and hips mercilessly. Gradually, the power of sleep had got the better of her discomfort, and exhausted by the liberal beatings she had received, she'd slept soundly, only occasionally waking to survey her surroundings with horrified disbelief, as if she was convinced that they must be part of particularly bad dream she was having. Her eyes half open, she would gaze at the steel ring in the ceiling that had been the site of so much unbelievable agony, tears pricking her eyes, trying to rationalise her new reality. Shivering and white with cold she would fall back into her doze, her hips occasionally jerking forward, as she re-lived the horror of the whippings she had received in her dreams. Now she presented an altogether different picture, curled up in what looked like a comfortable ball. Her hands placed palm to palm, on under her head, a half smile playing across her lips. Her spine and buttocks created a perfect arc, her knees drawn tight up into her body, forcing her labia from between her milky thighs, smooth and hairless, the glint of the padlock that passed through the stem of her clitoris glittering ominously behind. She truly was beautiful, I reflected, shivering slightly at my inactivity, wondering how on earth she managed to sleep so soundly in the chill. She wore no make-up, her soft brown hair falling delicately across her cheek, her pouting lips slightly parted revealing perfect white teeth behind. There was no hidden agenda, no body shaping underwear, no string or strapping, nothing to deceive the eye of the beholder, by twisting her body into unnaturally pronounced positions. She owned no clothes, no high heels to shape her calves and force her to walk with her hips thrust out. She had no mini skirts, designed to titillate the voyeur with a hint of what might lay beneath. She had no figure hugging, chest lifting, breast moulding tops. She had no 'attitude', no image to uphold, no annoying habits or platforms of moral high ground. She had no affiliation with any clique, no misplaced loyalties She was exactly as you found her, a vision of truth, with no other tools of seduction than those which her maker had given her, no means of deceiving the onlooker, those attributes on display at all times, for inspection by all. The only onlooker to date had been Chris and I, and Chris didn't count, as she had been fulfilling a professional capacity. I had decided to at once test her obedience and also share my prize with some friends. Of course, I hadn't made my slave aware of this; the last thing I wanted was to give her time to mentally prepare herself for what was about to befall her. The element of surprise was everything in these situations. It intrigued me to know just how far she would debase herself in order to obey. The memory of the lash was strong, that much was obvious. The merest hint of the switch was enough to send a fleeting glance of horror fleeting across her face, her hands involuntarily reaching for the soft skin of her buttocks, feeling the tiny, almost invisible lines some of her more severe punishments had left. I also knew that her desire to please her Master was stronger still, a desire that had originally been born through the pain of refusal, but had now become an integral part of her subconscious. She did not now know why she obeyed, it seemed to her a natural thing to do. She could not know that her brain had forced her to adopt this attitude, as an instinctive barrier against receiving more earth-shattering bolts of pain through its overloaded nerve endings. The brain was indeed a complex thing, but incredibly easy to manipulate when using pain as a tutor. As I watched, she stirred from her sleep; her long lashes fluttering as she struggled to open her eyes. She opened like a flower, her long slender limbs stretching languorously as she shrugged off the stiffness of sleep, her perfectly smooth pubic mound and pert, full breasts coming tantalisingly into view. In an instant she realised she was being watched. It took a further second for her half asleep brain to register her watcher's identity, before she scrambled to her feet, bereft of all modesty, standing to attention in her tiny cage, her eyes trained on the floor in a gesture of servility. I smiled as I unlocked her cell door, stooping to unlock the padlock between her thighs, before threading through the short chain I was carrying and relocking it. I insisted on these demonstrations of obedience. Not only did it do the slave good to, adhere to a strict set of rules, but it also pleased me, the subservient actions re-enforcing my position as outright owner of my property. I began to lead her up the stairs to the bathroom above, somewhat spitefully yanking on the chain as I did so, relishing in the gasp it brought from the slave behind me. It must have been an eternal temptation for her to grasp the chain with her free hands, allowing a little slack to fall and so take the tugging, insistent pressure from her sex. Of course she never did, knowing full well the punishment that would befall her for such a transgression. Never did do I feel in more of a position of control than when I am leading a slave in this way. There is something utterly undignified and debasing to a slave, when being led around by the most delicate part of their anatomy. I also knew, that the presence of the padlock, as well as being symbolic, stimulated her intensely, the swing of the padlock grazing her labia and the weight of the thin chain gently but insistently pulling at her clitoris could excite her with incredible speed, the two flights of stairs to the bathroom on the first floor were often enough to bring her to the point of orgasm. Only to the point, of course. I had not allowed her the pleasure of sexual release since her arrival, although I enjoyed that privilege whenever it suited me, empting my hot seed in to her mouth with no regard for her own unsatiated needs. I was are of course, that there was a possibility she had reached orgasm during sleep, but his had occurred without her knowledge and constituted a physical release, the psychological tension still inexistence the following morning. It was not the lack of orgasm that frustrated her; it was the lack of the privilege to be allowed to stimulate herself. Waiting for her to finish on the toilet, I turned on the shower and stood back to admire her as she washed, an operation, which I found highly erotic. She would unconsciously pay special attention to her pink, swollen labia, rubbing the soapy lather dreamily into her sex before struggling to her senses and hurriedly picking up the safety razor. I could feel my self-becoming hard beneath my trousers as she searched the folds of skin between her legs for stray hairs, and I quickly turned my thoughts to other matters. There would be time enough for that later. Debbie had been brought up to believe that sex in all its forms could only be justified between, a man and a woman, and then within the sacrosanct confines of marriage. It was partially this strict upbringing that had brought her to me. A part of her sexual unconscious, stifled by the restrictions her parents had placed upon it, had struggled to break free, desperate to experience all the things her body craved for. It was this craving that had led her to explore her submissive side, her need to feel controlled, and had ultimately led her to sign the slave contract relinquishing her entire being and its fate to me. Of course she could not have imagined just how painful his process could have been, or common sense would have led her to tear up the contract instantly. I had forced this submissive streak out of her, pulling and twisting it to my own ends, until it had taken over every other part of her consciousness, and she had no other choice but to obey. However, every new experience I imposed upon her brought a fresh challenge and it was interesting to see her mental torment as she struggled against everything she had ever been taught was decent, in an attempt to both obey her Master and avoid the pain of the whip. The first time I had commanded her to stimulate me orally had been like that. At twenty- six years old, she had led an unadventurous sex-life to say the least, and had never pleasured a man in that way. She had always found the thought nauseating, presume ably a lesson gleaned from her religious, pious and eventually estranged mother. It seemed almost comical that she had knelt naked before me, every part of her body having been explored; her buttocks striped by the lash and still, have had qualms about taking me in her mouth. It was a task she looked forward to now, undertaking her duty with youthful eagerness, lapping frantically at my engorged member, drinking down the warm salty fluid with the satisfaction of a cat licking cream from its owners fingers. Despite the undoubtedly extreme existence she led, I felt that she was becoming complacent. Enduring her 'maintenance whippings' without complaint, and completing her tasks around the house without a word. It was time to begin the next phase of her training. I chained her to the door handle of the large cast-iron cooker in the kitchen, supplying her with a bowl of soapy water, a large ball of wire wool and a towel, and instructed her to bring it to a pristine shine. way towards my office, leaving her diligently scrubbing at the black, burnt on grease. Ten minutes later I had telephoned several of my closest friend's inviting them round for supper that evening. Later that evening, as debbi settled down her cell for the night, alone with her thoughts. She was surprised to see me returning down the cellar steps, carrying a bundle of clothes. As usual, she stood to attention, wondering wildly what it was that had caused me to break the routine she had become so used to. I opened the cell door and threw the clothes at her feet. She looked with some surprise at the faded tight jeans and thin white t-shirt she had been wearing when she arrived. "Put them on!" I barked, stirring her from her confusion. She began to slide the jeans up her legs, the stiff denim feeling unnatural against skin, which had become accustomed to being unclothed. Carefully tucking the t-shirt into the waistband she buttoned the flies, standing with her arms by her sides, waiting with trepidation for her next order. I stood back and stared. It seemed strange to see her dressed, her plump breasts and nipples straining against the thin material, plainly visible through the sheer white cloth. "Tonight I will require you to wait upon my guests," I informed her, to her shock. Other than Chris, I was the only human being she had had contact with during her stay. "You will of course obey my every command without question" she nodded dutifully, although it had been a statement, not a question "Any disobedience or attempt to embarrass me in front of my guests will be punished with the utmost severity" I continued, watching her visibly shudder. " Neither do I want my friends to guess that you are my slave, I want to surprise them" "Yes Master" "That would probably give the game away", I returned, sarcastically "Yes M." she intoned, stopping in time. I motioned to her to go upstairs and very nervously she made her way to the living room. "Hi, Debbi," came the chorus as she exited the door under the stairs and walked self- consciously into the room. She stopped in her tracks, allowing her eyes to raise fro their usual subservient position for long enough to take in her surroundings. Lounging around the room, in various positions were the guests, Chris, the woman who had so mercilessly pierced her was the first person she spotted, smiling at her from the sofa. Sat next to her, one hand on her knee was her short-term boyfriend, again one of my friends. I couldn't see the relationship lasting. Chris's relationships never did. It wouldn't be long before Graham discovered her true, sadistic character. As with the others, it was likely to be to his cost. Next to them was Andy, and despite being and old and trusted friend I hadn't yet got round to telling him about Debbi. Lastly, squeezed together on the same chair were Shona and Mike. Although not 'together' they were very good friends, and both professed to be mildly interested in 'the scene'. I had told them about Debbi, and they viewed her with fascinated interest. Dragging his eyes way from her breast Andy ventured, "I understand you're working for Tim now" "Y.Yes" Debbi stammered uncertainly "What were you doing in the cellar?" I interrupted quickly "She's cleaning down there," I said smoothly " I'm trying to get this house in some sort of order at last" "Is that what you do then?" persisted Andy, suspiciously eying her immaculate attire" you're a cleaner?" "Y...yes " intoned Debbi, catching on. "She's being modest", I interrupted again "she works for me in all sorts of capacities" "Ill bet she does!" joked Andy, causing the rest of the assembled company to chuckle. There was an element of truth in what I was saying. I addressed my guests; "Tonight she will be waiting on us while we eat. Whatever you need, just give her the nod and she'll get you whatever you need" "Really!" commented Andy, eyebrow raised. More sniggers from those guests who knew her role in the household. As my party moved to the dining room, taking their places and chatting easily, I guided Debbi into the kitchen. "Everything you need is laid out for you, it should be self explanatory" The job she had left prior to entering my house was that of a waitress at a residential care home, so I had no real worries regarding her ability to serve the food. I left to join my guests. Before too long Debbi emerged carrying two plates filled with spaghetti bolognaise I had knocked up that afternoon. Back and forth she went, until every member of out party was faced with a plate of food. "Are you not eating?" queried Andy, as she leant around him with the wine bottle, her unfettered breasts accidentally rubbing against his arm. "I.I've already eaten" she uttered. I relaxed. She was understandably tense, but Andy seemed to be buying the story. For the next hour she busied herself at the table, pouring glass after glass of red wine, until the faces of my friends were quite flushed with an alcoholic glow. As Debbie retreated to the kitchen to wash the dirty plates their inhibitions began to disappear. "So where did you find this one?" smiled shona, a cheeky glint in her eye. She was only too aware of my dominant streak. "I've known her for years, " I answered truthfully "Its only just recently that I've been able to offer her a job "Very pretty!" risked Graham, instantly receiving a sharp slap across the thigh from Chris "Really?" I asked with mock nonchalance "I hadn't noticed" "You can't tell me that you didn't notice her." Andy cupped his hands in front of his chest, the international sign for breasts. "I must admit, she's quite attractive, "I conceded. "And just what is it that she does?" Andy enquired. I got the impression that she'd had quite an impact on him . "Anything I want" I informed innocently "Anything?" repeated Andy, laughingly "Yes. " I answered in a matter of fact voice. "That's got to be worth a bet," he observed, looking round the room for approval. Playing the game, the rest of the guests nodded encouragingly. "How much?" I countered to Andy's surprise "You're serious?" "Yes, why not?" "What, I can ask her to do anything?" "Yes" "Anything at all?" "Yes." I smiled at him as he struggled to spot the catch. He made a swift decision. "A tenner then" "OK" I shrugged "Easy money" gloated Andy as I called Debbie from the kitchen. She came through promptly, standing at the head of the polished table awaiting instruction. "Debbie" started Andy; she looked at him briefly, "Tim seems to think you'll do anything Ill ask. You wont be offended?" She shook her head. "Take off your t-shirt" he commanded, slightly nervously, waiting for the indignant insult from Debbie. It never came. Instead, her face drained of its colour and she began to tremble slightly as my plans started to become apparent. The room had gone silent, Andy, puzzled at the way in which she had taken his request, the rest of the room waiting to see what would happen. "I've, got a better idea," I began turning to my slave, "Why don't you climb up on this table, and remove ALL your clothes?" It was Andy's turn to go pale this time. He was normally a chivalrous man, opening doors, that sort of thing, but his testosterone prevented him from intervening on Debbi's behalf. He wanted nothing more than to see the body he had been sneakily glancing at all night in the flesh, and unbelievably, the chance seemed to be looming. "How about it?" I addressed Debbi, coolly With a furtive, desperate glance at me, she clumsily climbed on to the table, a perverse centrepiece, and her bare feet leaving footprints in the polished surface as she shuffled to the middle. Six pairs of eyes looked up at her expectantly, silent, hardly daring to believe that she would comply. Andy in particular seemed to be literally holding his breath. I watched the tears prick her eyes, gazing hopefully at me, desperate for a reprieve. She was met with a cold stare as I, like the rest of the crowd, waited for the show to begin. She sighed, resigning herself to her task, and closing her eyes in an attempt to pretend that she was alone she tentatively began to lift her t-shirt over her head. Instantly, freed from the restraining material, they fell forward, full and round, her pink rosy nipples pert and slightly erect with embarrassment. There was a sharp intake of breath from around the table as she let the garment fall to the polished wood, and an audible gasp from Andy. It was not unusual fir women to become partially naked at my parties, but it was usually under the influence of a great deal of alcohol, fleetingly temporary, and always but always done voluntarily. Even those guests who were aware of Debbie's status were shocked at her level of apparent obedience, and they remained silent, expectantly waiting for the next move. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my slaves' hands moved to the waist band of her jeans, gently unbuttoning the fly and with reluctant limbs, every instinct telling her that this was wrong, she began to pull her denims over her round smooth buttocks and across her thighs, painfully aware that while bending, she was offering Graham a close up view of her bottom and plump labia, and Andy the benefit of the sight of her swinging breast, inches from his face. I smiled, her face had reddened to a deep scarlet, which was spreading across her neck and shoulders. Her eyes damp with tears she hung her head in shame, desperately humiliated by her incongruous position on the table, surrounded by so many fully clothed strangers. Over the brief ripple of applause and wolf whistling that had broken out, Andy shouted "Best tenner I ever spent!" "And look at those piercings" noted shona excitedly. "Is that a padlock between her legs?" "Never mind her piercings, look at those tits!" shouted Andy gleefully None of them seemed to have noticed her embarrassment or look of abject humiliation, distracted by her young firm body so extraordinarily displayed on the table they had eaten they're dinner off minutes earlier. "Almost makes you want to join the other team!" quipped shona, fascinated by the sight of another woman's body in such close up, "I know what you mean!" chuckled Chris, reaching forward to slap Debbie's buttocks playfully. At this I held up my hand "Hang on, hang on, " I cautioned "I've got to give Andy a chance to win his money back" Andy dragged his eyes away from Debbie for a moment to look at me "What did you have in mind" he grinned "Another command?" I offered He pondered for a moment, "O.K. Although I can't see what there is left for her to do, I think we've seen just about everything" he smirked, returning his eyes to my slaves chest and pubic area, drinking in her body, oblivious to her, obvious reluctance. Her face burning, she stood with her hands by her sides, terrified of the turn that this game might take. "Andy, push your chair back from the table", I ordered. He shuffled his chair back, puzzled. I looked at my shaking slave. Now was the moment of truth. "Debbie, my friend would like you to relieve him" She choked back a sob, her mind racing, desperately thinking of away out of the nightmare she seemed unable to wake up from. "Now there's no need." began Andy, expecting once again to be insulted in some way. I held up my hand once more, silencing the party. Her movements stiff, Debbie climbed reluctantly down from the table, and moving as if sleep-walking, she walked falteringly round the table, standing between Andy's splayed thighs, her shaved mound inches from his face, mortified and looking at me with despair in her eyes. I remained silent, watching her as she slowly turned to face the crotch of Andy's trousers, too ashamed to look him in the eye, and to Andy's disbelief, sink to her knees in front of him. It seemed that the ticking of the clock had increased ten times in volume, and the sound of his zipper coming down was deafening, as Debbi rummaged in his open fly, pulling out his semi-erect member, the evenings events having already produced a tell-tale trace of pre-cum on its purple head. With a final sigh she resigned herself to her task, and trying to mask her look of disgust, she lowered her head onto his shaft, allowing the stranger into her mouth bit by bit, as if it made the act easier to accept. An astonished smile began to spread over my friends face as she began to stimulate his glans with her tongue, using the well-practiced methods she used on me with such frequency. She began to warm to her task, presume ably to end the humiliation as soon as she could, taking his length into her mouth as far as he could, gagging as it hit the back of her throat and slurping loudly as she moved her lips up and down its gnarled shaft. The assembled audience began to recover from they're initial disbelief, and woken from their revere, shouted words of encouragement to my friend, slouched in the high backed chair, his face a picture of sexual contentment, the naked girl lapping reluctantly but persistently at his manhood. I smiled at the image. She was fighting with every resource in her body not to take the strangers manhood from her mouth. Every principle she had been brought up to believe was right and decent lay in tatters, her mental anguish equally as painful as the burning of the crop "What's it like Andy!" "Is she any good?" this from Graham, understandably feeling little jealous, but kept in his seat by the ever-watchful Chris "My turn next" shouted Mike hopefully, all his adolescent dreams coming to fruition on one night, "Leave some for me!" shouted Shona, jokingly "Shona!" reproached Chris, smiling despite herself. Straining to retain his composure in front of his friends, but unable to control himself, Andy began to ejaculate, his face contorting as the tiny jerks of his hips grew rapidly to violent thrusts and his hot semen spurted from his glans, flooding Debbi's mouth with his bitter, unwelcome seed. She withdrew, pursing her lips as she forced herself to swallow the salty fluid, her neck muscles tight in an attempt to prevent herself from gagging. A she licked her lips to collect the slippy sheen of cum from around her mouth, she replaced his rapidly shrinking member back in his trousers, the way she had carefully replaced mine so many times before. There was one thing left. "Forgetting something?" I inquired, sarcastically. Desperately she sneaked a glance at me, hoping to see a smile, hoping I wasn't serious. She was met with an icy stare; I needed to ensure that her humiliation and feelings of abasement were compounded. Reluctantly she turned to Andy, his face a mask of contentment, "Thank you sir." She almost whispered. At this the guests applauded, shocked but nevertheless entertained by the incongruous show they had just witnessed. As I looked round the room, noting the look of glee on my assembled guests faces, my eye was caught by shona. She was applauding mechanically, her eyes glassy, as if thinking about something else entirely. I wondered if she had been offended by the way that I had forced another woman to perform in such a degrading way. I didn't think so, as far as my experience told me she was as broadminded as the rest of my friends. Suddenly she shrugged, as if waking from a daydream. She immediately detected my stare, smiling self-consciously and blushing slightly. I was beginning to get the inkling of an idea, and vowed to test my theory later that night. Her duties over, I led the unresisting Shona to the cellar steps, the assembled audience shouting mock farewells as she disappeared from view. As we entered the relative gloom of the cellar I led her to the angled whipping table I had installed, placing her pelvis against the lip of the highest end, pushing insistently on the small of her back, causing her to bend at the hips, her torso laid down hill, the smooth unyielding surface of the table flattening her young breasts under her weight. As I began to bind her, I began to speak, "You performed well tonight, slave." I began, straining slightly as I pulled her arms down the sides of the table, binding them to the legs with the leather cuffs. "Th.Thank you Sir." She stammered, appreciating the unusual compliment, nevertheless worried that she may be being trussed to receive a thrashing. "The first time is the hardest" I commented, kicking her ankles apart to align them with the two rear legs of the table. "Y.Yes Sir." she whispered, suddenly struck with the notion that tonight was not to be a one off. "I intend to reward you, slave. Would you like that?" "Oh... yes Sir" she breathed, relived that the expected whipping was becoming less of a likely hood "Good" I beamed, absentmindedly slapping her raised proffered cheeks with the flat of my palm as I headed back toward the living room. "Ill see you later then." She made no reply, doubtless distracted by the thought of what it was that I would reward her with. Back in the warmth and comfort of my lounge, a few of my guests were preparing to leave. Graham had to be up for work in the morning and so had pre-booked a taxi to take him and Chris home. Likewise, Andy had early appointments and offered to share a taxi with Mike and Shona, At this point I tactfully, motioned to Shona to follow me into the kitchen, making pretence of needing help with the empty coffee cups that littered the lounge. "I thought perhaps you might like to hang around for a while," I ventured, dropping the cups into the hot soapy water. "Well.It IS getting late, but I suppose I could stay a little longer" she returned, obviously intrigued by my offer. "Something important you wanted to talk about", she inquired, airily. "Something I wanted to show you, actually" I answered, smiling impudently "Tim!" she scolded jokingly. We had known each other along time, and this playful flirting had become commonplace between us. She walked back into the other room in time to see Andy and Mike heading for the front door. "I'm going to hang around guys," she informed them casually, flopping back onto the sofa, a little clumsily, the effects of the wine becoming noticeable. "You old bastard," began Mike, twinkle in his eye, "Go on, get out!" I countered, laughingly. I sank into the seat opposite Shona, eying her thoughtfully, wondering where to begin. She folded her defensively arms under my stare, feeling a little uncomfortable. She was undoubtedly pretty, and I wondered at the fact that she and Mike had never become an item. Perhaps the fact that they both claimed to have submissive tendencies explained the matter; they were like two magnets of the same pole, constantly pulling in separate directions. "So what's the mystery" she began, breaking the silence between us. "I'm intrigued", I replied slowly choosing my words carefully "I was watching you tonight while Debbie performed. What were you thinking of?" She shrugged evasively. "Where is she anyway?" she asked, turning the conversation away from herself. "In her cell" "Cell?" she repeated, not quite certain she had heard correctly. "Isn't there a law against that?" her eyebrows raised in mock horror, but genuinely stunned all the same. "She willingly signed herself over to me about three months ago, I didn't force her, in fact I did everything I could to discourage her. I warned her then that she would suffer, but she insisted that she was ready to become my slave" "Your what!!!" "Slave. Don't tell me that you imagined that she behaved like that this evening out of personal choice do you?" I asked somewhat sarcastically, There was a moment's silence, "Mike and I often talk about how it would feel to be owned" she said quietly "but like this.." "How does it make you feel?" I probed "do you feel sorry for her?" "well.I." "You were certainly watching her movement with a little more intensity than the rest" "I.I." she tailed off, unsure how to put her feelings into words. Words that wouldn't come back to embarrass her at alter date. "Perhaps it excited you?" I assisted, enjoying her discomfort "Perhaps the sight of a naked, attractive woman humiliating herself in public for our viewing pleasure struck a nerve" She was silent for a moment, trying to formulate the mess of words that were flying round in her head. The display HAD excited her, but she wasn't sure why. Worse still it may have excited her for reasons that she rather ignore and suppress. "I'm not a lesbian!" she began indignantly. "I'm not suggesting you are!" I soothed, "But the fact remains that you were quite obviously excited by what you saw!" I persisted, determined to squeeze the truth from her. "Its just." "Yes?" "The thought of being owned excites me a little" she began hesitantly "to be forced to do those things, without the freedom that choice gives is." again she faltered, sure that she had already said too much. "So you feel that it would be possible to enjoy sucking Andy off, if you were free from the guilt associated with it, the thought that you may be demeaning your self is cancelled out by the fact that the decision is out of your hands?" She looked shocked. "Not necessarily Andy!" she returned quickly, I was speaking hypothetically. "Yes, but if for some reason you were forced into a situation where you had no choice other than to induce him to cum in your mouth, you might enjoy the act, unrestricted by responsibility?" She paused "I suppose so, yes" "Its more a question of how you would explain yourself to your peers, hen," I continued, you know that they see you in a certain light, a respectable light, and you don't want to jeopardise that, for fear of rejection" "I think so" she replied, thoughtfully, " I just know that the feeling of being controlled, ordered to do things that I otherwise wouldn't dream of is. Well." she ran out of steam. Unfamiliar with the strange feelings of desire that were washing over her. "Perhaps you would like to see her cell?" I asked quietly. She nodded wordlessly Slowly we descended into the depths of the cellar, I leading the way, Shona following close behind, her eyes squinting as they adjusted to the light. "Oh... god..." she blurted as she quickly spotted the prone Debbie, her prominent round smooth buttocks facing us, as offering them for our inspection. By contrast to the smooth skin, in the centre of the circle formed by her buttocks, hung the shiny padlock, glinting slightly in the dim light. Unspeaking, Shona made her way slowly over to the table, bending slightly to further inspect the lock and its housing, unaccustomed to being so close to a another woman's sex. "Touch it," I offered She shook her head vigorously. "Look, it doesn't hurt" I picked up the padlock between my thumb and forefinger, gently pulling it away from her body, stretching the tender skin of her clitoris slightly. I motioned with my head "Go on, hold it" Slowly, scarcely believing what she was doing, Shona gingerly took the padlock from my hand allowing her head a little closer to Debbie's labia, her curiosity getting the better of her. "It looks, well, so Savage!" she uttered. "What a marvellous way to shackle her" I murmured in response, watching shona's face redden as she pictured the scene. I allowed myself a look at my slave's face, her cheek pressed into the wooden surface of the table, her face scarlet from indignation at the inspection she was receiving. I reached under the table, pulling out the long plastic dildo I Had hidden there earlier. Shona dropped the padlock as if it was burning her, stepping warily back as I stood up with the phallus in my grasp. "When was the last time you enjoyed an orgasm?" I asked suddenly, relishing in the shock that registered on her face Not to be out done, fearing that she may be considered a prude given the surroundings "A couple of days ago, why?" she folded her arms across her chest again, unused to such personal questions about her sex life. "My slave hasn't enjoyed an orgasm since she arrived" I chuckled lightly "Nearly, the lord knows she has nearly climaxed, but never quite made it" "Oh." uttered Shona, unsure as how to react, but sympathising with Debbie's state of constant frustration. I had begun to rub the ribbed surface of the plastic against Debbie's labia, coating it in her lubricating juices, the black plastic gleaming with moisture. I began to push against the folds of pink skin, easing the bulbous tip into the opening of my slave's sex. Shona half turned her head away, desperately trying not to watch, but too fascinated not to. I began to plunge the dildo in and out rhythmically, drawing muffled groans from its recipient, her fists clenched into tight balls hanging helplessly at either side of the table. I paused, looking Shona directly in the eye "You try," I said quietly "No.I. " She stuttered shaking her head. I drew my ace card. "NOW!" I ordered raising my voice "I WONT TELL YOU AGAIN!"" The shock on her face was almost comical to behold. I wondered if she were faced with virtually no choice, she would obey willingly. Jerked into reaction by the authority in my voice, she grasped the stubby end, and as if in a daze began to gently pull the shaft in and then out, watching intently, fascinated by the labia clinging to its surface. I smiled. She was as predictable as I had hoped. Debbie was too close to her longed for climax to care who was providing it, and began to frantically pump her hips against Shona's thrusts. She had been stimulated to this point a thousand times in the last few months, and was savagely determined not to let the moment pass this time. Warming to her task, Shona began to move the dildo with the jerking movements, depriving Debbie of the friction she needed to come. She began to smile, as Debbie tried to outwit her, randomly jerking her hips against the phallus, as Shona let it slide easily through her fingers, teasing her mercilessly. Debbie had become considerably more vocal now, frustrated to the point of distraction, close to tears in her desperation to satisfy the burning longing in her pelvis. With one final, violent thrust, Shona buried the dildo inside her, causing Debbie to finally scream, abandoning herself to the waves of pleasure that began to build and yet further build, the walls of her sex clamping against the object still held within her, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her nails digging holes in the skin of her palms. We watched spellbound as her hips jerked wildly, a long low guttural groan pervading the silence of the cold cellar. Somewhat shocked by the effects of her ministrations, and finally jerking herself back to reality, Shona had let go of the black dildo, allowing it to slide slowly and gracefully out of my slave, dropping to the floor with an echoing thud. For perhaps three or four minutes we watched Debbie writhe, her breath coming in short laboured gasps, as wave upon wave of intense pleasure left her lying spent on the table, her eyes glazed, her limbs hanging limp and lifeless. The moment passed, Shona realised what she had just taken part in, and began to zealously rub her sticky palms across her skirt, desperate to remove Debbie's pungent juices from her hands. I led her gently towards the steps, and leaving Debbie panting and exhausted on the bench, made our way back to the lounge. "I. I.. Id better go," she stammered, reaching for her coat. I helped her into it, smiling at her obvious embarrassment. "You won't. " She faltered "I shan't tell a soul," I informed, to her relief With out further ado she made her hasty goodbyes and walked off into the night, loath to wait for a taxi, needing time alone with her confused thoughts in order to somehow rationalise the surreal events of the evening. I decided to leave Debbie strapped to the bench; she looked so peaceful it seemed a shame to move her. As I mounted the stairs to my bedroom, looking forward to my soft yielding pillows and warm, comforting quilt, I pondered Shona's activities that evening. I hadn't been wrong. My guesses as to the extent of her submissive streak were proven. She had left the house flustered and embarrassed that evening, but something told me she'd be back.
Training A Slave Part 4 And so life continued at its usual pace. Although I met Shona socially a few times after that event, it never seemed appropriate to discuss the events that had taken place in my cellar. Several times I had met her and Mike in the pub and she had not been her usual chatty self to say the least. Although part of this was due to her obvious embarrassment, I also think she preferred to keep the information from Mike, whom she had begun to 'date' on a reasonably regular basis. As mentioned, they had both admitted to having slightly submissive leanings when pressed, so I couldn't help but feel that the relationship existed for convenience. Neither of them had had an intimate relationship for some time, and it was a case of any port in storm. They were good friends first and foremost though, so it was unlikely that they would allow anything to spoil this. I foresaw the relationship tapering off over a reasonable short space of time. Debbie's role hadn't changed a great deal. The life of a slave never does. She remained obedient to me in every respect, although I had few chances to test it as far as I had on the night of my dinner party. I think that night had underlined our respective positions very adequately, however. She had followed my every instruction, even to the point of humiliating herself publicly. There had been several witnesses to her display of slavedom, and nobody, including Debbie, had been left in any doubt as to her position in the house's pecking order. There had been no recent instances of disobedience. She continued to accept her maintenance whippings readily, if noisily, and she carried out her duties in the house to an irreproachable standard. With regular and frequent practice, she had become something of an expert in the art of fellatio, and was able to bring me to the point of ejaculation in record time, readily accepting the opportunity whenever it arose, her previous misgivings relating to oral sex seemingly vanished. Although I occasionally allowed her into the house itself after dinner, it was normal for her to spend the long evenings in her cell. I believed it helped to continually remind her of her position. Recently though I had begun to relent, and had begun to chain her in the lounge while I went out with friends on Saturday nights. I think she believed that I was allowing her this privilege for work completed during the preceding week, although in truth I was considering her safety should a fire break out. Buried deep in the bowels of my home, it is unlikely that she would have been aware of the fires existence until it was too late, something I would have had difficult reconciling with my conscience. Although she was chained to the large bookcase in my lounge, in the event of fire breaking out, I believe she would have eventually ripped the padlock from her clitoris as the fire spread. A horrendous thought, but a life saving one none the less. It was with this in mind that I would leave her, cross-legged on the floor, glued to Sky News, the only channel I would allow her to watch, the rest being blocked by password. Every Saturday night, I would roll home, usually the worse for drink, and find her sitting in the same position I had left her, eager to take me in her mouth and relieve my tension before I would escort her back to her cell. I felt that this was good for her, whilst the fact that she was viewing one information channel, naked and chained, reminded her that she was still enslaved, the rolling news items helped to stimulate her mentally. I felt that she had been sufficiently 're-programmed' for me not to have to worry about this outside influence, and try as I might to find fault in her behaviour, this small privilege didn't seem to affect her obedience in any way. I for one had begun to lead a more interesting social life than ever. I had always made a concerted effort to stay away from 'the scene'. It seemed so contrived and affected. While I could see the attraction of taking your slave to a fetish club, it seemed to me that this was usually done as much for the benefit of the slave as his/her owner. Exhibitionists and voyeurs mainly attended these venues and everything was done with a very happy, consensual air. I often felt that a great deal of the guest were there because they enjoyed dressing up. The concept of these nights was marvellous and brought a great deal of entertainment to a large number of people, but that was my point. It was entertaining. The life of a slave, a real slave, could not be described as entertaining. Fulfilling perhaps, rewarding even, but never entertaining. This didn't stop me attending on my own occasionally, and enjoying the events for what they were. I had begun to meet a great many people with similar leanings to me, although other commitments in their lives prevented them from pursuing their dreams to the extent I had. Many of them removed their leather trousers the next morning only to replace them with pinstripes, in preparation for the beginning of a busy week at their office in the city. Despite this I would spend many enjoyable evenings reclining in the plush leather chairs, my brandy in my hand, and my feet resting comfortably on the back of the nearest available slave. For obvious reasons, I never took Debbie, the reality and depravity of her existence would have proved too much for these weekend actors and actresses, and so I would attend slaveless, preferring to retain my anonymity as an 'Owner'. I made a great deal of useful contacts during this time, swapping e-mail addresses, web- site addresses and useful numbers. It seemed that BDSM was alive and very much well in the South of England, if the amount of addresses mounting up in my diary were anything to go by. It was typically British, the way that none of this activity was apparent on the face of things, but it soon became clear that I wasn't the only 'genuine' sex slave owner in the UK. In fact, there were owners in the South of England who kept their slaves in considerably worse conditions than me. I didn't know how much was reality, and how much was urban myth. But several names cropped up time and again, usually in relation to a particularly cruel act or punishment used in the 'breaking' of a new slave. I didn't see that it was necessary to be as inhumane as that After all, although I had whipped Debbie regularly, her training had relied as much on mental punishment as physical. I would nod and smile politely at these revelations of incomprehensible torture, secretly pleased that I had been able to nurture an obedient slave without having to inflict such incredibly agonising tuition. I mentally pictured her on my whipping bench, her buttocks a network of fine red lines, each one earth-shatteringly excruciating in its application, and found it impossible to imagine that a more intense pain was either possible or necessary. On one such occasion, the subject of conversation turned to an apparently well-known name in the world of sexual slavery, one Karl Leeson. My curiosity roused at tales of this man's alleged acts of cruelty against young women and girls, I began to listen, intrigued by the tales that followed him. One of the 'Doms' at this particular club, an amiable chap in his early forties was more than willing to furnish me with the details as he had heard them, warning me beforehand that a great deal of what he was relating was unsubstantiated. Karl Leeson, it would seem, had spent a great deal of his life in either prison or the British army, obsessed with discipline but unable to adhere to it himself for any length of time. New recruits had rapidly flourished under his strict and demanding regime, those that is that stayed the course. There had been a higher than ever instance of soldiers leaving the army and disappearing back into society during his period as training officer, and after a while questions were asked and aspirations cast about his suitability to train young recruits. His life outside the confines of the barracks had also been note-worthy, seemingly spending his spare evenings paying desperate prostitutes large sums of money in order that he might flog them, quite literally, tying them securely to an object in their room before removing his army issue belt and flaying them within an inch of their lives. More than one prostitute, emotionally and mentally scarred by the ordeal, had approached the army with her complaints. They had all been paid off, in an attempt to avert a national scandal; and Karl had been warned to contain his more violent urges, or face expulsion from the forces. The physical and mental punishment he lavished on his recruits served to satiate his sadistic desires for a while, before inevitably, he began to once more yearn to continue his ritualistic abuse of the young girls he favoured. One evening, legend had it; drunk and highly-strung, he had once more visited the red- light district, searching diligently for a prostitute who didn't recognise his huge, distinctive figure. Finally finding a girl who was prepared to accommodate him, they disappeared into her room. This time, the girl spent three weeks in the local hospital, and rather than approach the army with her tale of brutality, she took her story to the national press, who soon discovered many more girls willing to relate stories of torture at his hands. Inevitably, the army was forced to act, and moved him to a secure unit for the mentally unstable, the many doctors who questioned him astounded by his apparent lack of mercy, remorse, or awareness of the terrific pain he had inflicted on his unfortunate victims. It was almost five years before he managed to convince the authorities that he was a reformed and trustworthy citizen, being discharged from the hospital gates straight into the waiting car of the Russian government official that had been sent to 'collect' him. His notoriety had reached their ever-attentive ears and they were prepared to offer him a fantastic sum of money to act as a mercenary, 'disposing' of people who were considered a threat to the communist regime. For some considerable time he enjoyed his work, before relations between Russia and the rest of Europe began to thaw, and he became surplus to requirements. Satisfied that he could never relate any of the things he had carried out on their behalf, lest he should incriminate himself, they allowed him to go, severing all connection with him and disposing of any files or documents that carried his name. This is how he found himself back in his native country, a huge amount of cash (some earned, some appropriated) in his account, and his bloodlust more prevalent than ever, his experience abroad only serving to develop his fetish, rather than satisfying it. He had bought a large mansion set in considerable grounds in the South of England, a well known house, well known for the terrible exploits that occurred within its high, impenetrable walls. Word had it that many owners from around the world had taken their slaves to his house, following an indiscretion that they felt merited a more serious punishment than they were capable of inflicting. Little was known of the slave's fate after being admitted, as owners and slaves alike were sworn to secrecy before and after leaving his premises. It would seem that he was not the kind of man that you were likely to betray, as nobody I found was prepared to speak of the methods he used to chastise the disobedient slaves, only shuddering visibly at the mention of his name. It was his habit, allegedly, to occasionally visit fetish clubs around the United Kingdom, searching for naive, ownerless slaves to inflict his unique brand of training upon. It was with interest then, three Saturdays later, that I heard he was at the bar, sitting alone with his gin and tonic, a area around him of some ten feet devoid of people, an unusual event in itself, given that the rest of the club was full to capacity. I braved the no-mans-land and made my way over to his side. Without turning, he spoke, a deep toneless voice, slightly unnerving me. "Mr. Peacock" I started, surprised at his knowledge of my name. "You have been asking questions about me?" With this he turned, fixing my eyes with his, his dark, thick eyebrows drawn low over his deep, dark eyes. It gave him an appearance of being perpetually angry, although given what I had heard so far, perhaps he was. "Yes, I.I was curious" "Perhaps you wished to present your slave to me for extra-curricular training?" "I don't own a slave," I answered easily, used to lying to the people that surrounded me, keen to protect my anonymity. He laughed derisively, "You are perhaps one of the worst liars I have ever come across," he stated simply, crushing my confidence and instantly making me wish I'd never approached him. "Ok, so you've uncovered my secret, its just something I don't like to broadcast. here" I struggled for an explanation, motioning behind me with my head. He looked briefly round at the overweight executives, trussed up in leather and steel, cavorting round the club on their hands and knees, ecstatic at their temporary removal from the world of reality that they lived with six days a week. "I understand," he stated, simply Silence fell for a moment, but my curiosity drove me to continue our conversation "I understand you are a slave trainer?" He laughed, putting his drink down and turning to me "No, YOU are a slave trainer" he stopped to light his cigar "I am a little more than that" I waited patiently as he blew smoke rings through his thick-pursed lips. "You are a genuine slave owner right?" I nodded "You're not connected with the Saturday night slave contingent" I shook my head. "My slave is with me full time, she is as genuine a slave as the laws in this country will permit" He paused taking another long draw from the evil smelling cigar as he pondered my statement. "Where is she now then?" he asked, making a show of looking behind us. "She.she's at home watching TV." I suddenly felt slightly stupid; I felt the need to clarify the situation "She's chained though, naked, and I restrict her viewing to news channels, its only one night per week, the rest of the time she's locked.." I tailed off, realising I was rambling, running out of ways to convince this stranger that she lived under anything other than the strictest conditions. He was smiling, showing a set of perfect white teeth. "You trust her then?" "Y...Yes I suppose I do" I said, slowly. Trust had never been a word I had associated with Debbie "She is behaving herself in your absence?" "I'm sure of it," I said resolutely. He didn't answer for a moment, shaking his head slowly and staring deep into my eyes. "You are blind or stupid or both my friend. " he began, " A slave left to her own devices will do anything but behave. She is putting the time you spend away from her to good use. Remember, necessity is the mother of all invention, and from a slave's oppression is born a devious nature that a master criminal could be proud of. When you discover that she has been deceiving you, contact me. Slaves rarely disobey again after a short stay at my house" he finished ominously. I pocketed the card, more as keepsake of this incredibly charismatic gentleman, than from the point of view of someone who would ever need his practical assistance. On her short length of chain, glued to the television, I found it impossible to think of a way in which Debbie could transgress. "Television" he repeated to himself, shaking his head again, a note of incredulity in his voice. That was the extent of our conversation that evening, and I returned home shortly afterwards, the entertaining antics of the club's members seeming somewhat incongruous after the dark and foreboding conversation I had just held. It was soon forgotten however, and life moved on at its usual pace. I held several parties in quick succession, even inviting some of the less eccentric members of the fetish groups to my home, swearing them to secrecy before they entered. It had become apparent that confidentiality was sacred in these circles, and a Dom's word was his bond. It was usually more than his reputation was worth to jeopardise his anonymity. Debbie served my guests at all these events, resplendent in her nudity, occasionally performing for particular guests, always with the same charming reluctance she had shown the first time. It seemed that life could go on forever in this amiable manner, until near disaster struck, quite unexpectedly, and Karl's words turned out to be more prophetic than I could ever have imagined. It was a Saturday evening, and I had arrived home slightly earlier than usual, full of high spirits and alcohol. After enjoying my customary oral relief, I led my slave to her home in the cellar, before settling down in front of the television. It would be fair to say that I watch television very rarely. There tends to be very little on that attracts my alternative tastes, and the set-top box had not been unlocked for about a month, programmed to show nothing other than Debbie's news channel. With some difficulty I remembered my password and began to scan the channels, flicking briefly through each one. At one point I stopped, scarcely able to believe my eyes. In front of me was the screen reserved for the primitive e-mail service that my cable operator supplied, and on it was a message, obviously written by Debbie, and addressed to one of her old friends. I read the text, my blood running cold as I realised that she had detailed all our activities, even going to the trouble of remembering names and dates. My heart missed a beat It was unthinkable that any of these individuals could have their double lives discovered, the consequences would be catastrophic. What's more, the 'trust' that I had spoken of earlier was non-existent. While I was out drinking, assuming that my slave was innocently watching the television, she had used it not only to contact the world outside her home, but also to jeopardise the careers of my friends. I sat back, perplexed and angry. I needed to think, to find away out of this mess. Debbie cowered at the back of her cell. She could see from the expression on my face that I was angry, and she had a fair idea of why. She was expecting the hiding of her life, it never came, and instead I led her naked and un-protesting back to the living room and sat her in front of the television. Up until this point not a word had been passed between us, although her face became ashen as I flicked through the channels to the offending page. Slowly and carefully I explained that she was to write to her friend once more, explaining that her e-mails had been a work of fantasy, and that the people she had named had never behaved in the manner she had described. I had no doubt that her friend would swallow this, as it is much harder to believe that I have a house full of slave owners than it is to believe that Debbie was having a bit of fun at her friends expense. I dictated the content of the letter to her, allowing her to word the message as she saw fit, not wanting it to seem contrived. She finished by crowing over the fact that she had led her friend into believing these fantastic messages, and promised to call soon, a promise I intended to see she could never keep. Sure that she was to be whipped within an inch of her life, I led her back to her cell, gently ushering her into its confines before leaving the room, her eyes searching mine, desperate to know my intentions and the manner of punishment she was inevitably going to receive. As I sat upstairs, a large brandy in my hand, I breathed a sigh of relief. The e-mail should be sufficient to halt any potential problems that her previous messages might have caused. That only left one problem. Debbie. The whole concept of keeping her as a slave had changed; she had crossed the line and broken too many unwritten rules. It astounded me, that despite the obvious pain I inflicted during her punishments, she was still prepared to risk yet greater punishment by behaving in this way. I could not for the life of me fathom a way to re-dress the balance, as the pain of the switch was obviously not enough? The answer occurred to me in an instant, and from the moment it emerged through the fog in my brain I desperately tried to quash it, but it remained unflinching and glaringly obvious. There was only one road open to me. Where I had failed as a tutor, only one man could succeed. A man with a reputation for training unruly slaves matched only by his reputation for cruelty. I did not see another way to counter the problem. With a sinking heart, yet convinced I was doing what was best, I took the card from my wallet and rang Karl Leeson Less than an hour later I was driving us deep into the English countryside, the map on my passenger seat open at the relevant page, my slave in the back seat, dressed in the jeans and t-shirt she had originally arrived in. I had not told her where we were going, and in fact had not spoken to her at all since dictating the e-mail to her earlier. Realising that we were nearing our destination I decided to explain her fate. "You cannot be trusted," I stated, simply, breaking the silence. "A slave that you feel must be supervised constantly is little better than worthless" I continued, realising the effect my words must be having. I glanced in the rear view mirror, hardening myself against the sight of her pitiful face, ignoring the apologetic tears that had begun to well in the corners of her eyes. "I am taking you to an expert on this field, somebody I met at the club. We will be here a week, during which time he will undertake to punish and correct you as he sees fit. Do you understand?" I twisted in my seat in time to see her nodding reluctantly. As I turned back to face the road I spotted the landmark I had been told to watch for, and slowed the car to a crawl, turning into a tiny lane, little more than a cart track, and began our ascent up the side of the rolling hill, the car bouncing from side to side as it rocked up the stony trail After an age, by which time I felt as if every filling I owned was coming loose, we crested the hill, affording us a tremendous view of the surrounding green countryside. Like a patchwork quilt the agricultural land lay before us, a network of hedges and ditches, the roads and paths below us seeming tiny in the distance. There was little sign of habitation, apart from the odd farmhouse in the far distance, and apart of course from the huge mansion that dominated the hillside that we about to descend. Gingerly picking my way around the potholes, I occasionally risked taking my eyes off the road for long enough to inspect our destination, marvelling at the high stone walls that surrounded it, becoming ever higher as we neared, till they entirely blocked our view of the beautiful home within. As we pulled up at the main gates I spotted what seemed to be an intercom, and pushing the button on its stainless steel surface was rewarded with an immediate answer. "Drive up to the house" the voice stated simply, prompting me to return to the car and drive through the menacing steel gates, which had begun to slide apart on well-oiled runners. The road within its confines was much better, the gravel crunching beneath our tyres as we made our way up the tree lined drive to the front of the house, pulling up finally at the stone steps that led up to a pair of the biggest oak doors I believe I have ever seen. There didn't appear to be a doorbell of any description, so I prepared to knock, my efforts curtailed by the fact that one of them was already opening, and an immaculately dressed butler was beckoning us into the hallway. "This way please Sir" he intoned, ignoring the presence of Debbie, who walked closely behind me, the grandeur of our surroundings adding to her fear. Before long we turned into the drawing room, where our host reclined casually in a large leather armchair, dressed in suit and tie, a cigar hanging lazily from his fingers. Crossing the room quickly and brushing his well-oiled hair back into place, he shook my hand, the briefest of smiles flickering across his face, his handshake brief and firm, his hands strangely cold in the warmth of the room. An open fire flickered welcomingly in the grate, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. The neat lines of books were broken up occasionally by an oil-painting or two, images of haughty stern looking characters, one or two bearing a striking resemblance to our host, who had begun to speak again. "So this your slave?" he remarked, obviously It was the first reference anyone had made to the pretty brunette that had followed me into the house, conspicuous in her worn denims and thin, almost transparent t-shirt. He turned to face her. "Strip " he commanded suddenly, the sharp note in his voice causing us both to jump. Falteringly, still not entirely accustomed to casting off her modesty under the gaze of strangers, she began to remove her clothes, peeling the white t-shirt from her lean, lithe arms self-consciously, glancing nervously at us both before fumbling with the buttons of her jeans, sliding them slowly down her firm legs to a crumpled heap on the floor, stepping out of the fabric and allowing her arms to fall to her sides, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. I felt my-self become aroused at the sight. It didn't seem to matter how often I watched her undress, it always excited me. She seemed blissfully unaware that her hesitant, embarrassed, reluctant movements gave the whole performance an air of intense eroticism. "Hands on your head!" He barked, obviously quite used to this sort of procedure. Slowly, Debbie did as she was asked, her breasts being drawn up and out by the movement, as if inviting our inspection. He walked directly towards her, briskly kicking her ankles apart, and without further ceremony or warning, drove his index finger forcibly up and into her sex. Debbie 's hips bucked violently, surprised by the sudden and painful intrusion, and she let out an indignant yelp, the rough skin of his finger grating against her dry, unyielding labia He began to explore her vagina, probing and massaging, before extracting it and eyeing it with disdain. Almost absentmindedly, he pushed the tip of his soiled finger into Debbie's mouth, forcing her to clean it. "You don't abuse this hole, evidently" it was more of a statement than a question. I shook my head, slightly disconcerted by his uninvited inspection of my property. "Bend over slave! Touch your toes," he commanded, again in the forceful tone that seemed to command obedience. Casting a wild glance at me, she did as she was ordered, her legs still spread, her fingertips touching her delicate pink toes, her calves stretched taut, the soft skin of her thighs smooth and shimmering in the firelight, her pink puffy labia protruding shamelessly from between the V of her splayed legs, and above this, her anus, the object of his attention. Carelessly spitting on his index finger he placed it upon the tight bud of her sphincter, before again pushing it home, his fingernail mercilessly scratching the tender virgin flesh as it entered This brought a shrill shriek from Debbie, who had never experienced the sensation of a foreign object entering such a sacred part of her anatomy. Karl threw her a disdainful look, removing his finger, and pulling her upright by the back of her hair. "More un-chartered territory?" he commented to me, sarcastically, again proffering his finger to Debbie's lips. This time she hesitated, loath to do as she was being asked. "SUCK, SLUT!" Karl commanded, abruptly, reddening slightly with irritation. I began to see how he had earned his reputation. He seemed to have a very volatile temper indeed, switching from amiable to furiously angry in the blink of an eye. Fearful of the consequences, and filled with trepidation at the thought of what further pain this powerful man might inflict upon her, she complied, dutifully sucking at the flesh until he drew away, drying his hands on the spotless handkerchief drawn from his jacket pocket. Ringing a small bell on the mantelpiece, the doorman reappeared almost instantly, standing to attention, awaiting further instruction. "Take her to the preparation room" he ordered "oh yes, and take these ridiculous garments with you!" He kicked at the small pile of clothes Debbie had removed with apparent disgust, turning to resume his seat by the fire and motioning me to sit in the similar chair opposite. As the Butler disappeared from the room, Debbie's discarded garments in one hand, held away from his body as if they were infected somehow, and a terrified, mortified Debbie in the other, his fingers circling her upper arm, propelling her gently but firmly towards her fate . I felt obliged to speak. "I." Karl held up his hand, silencing me in an instant. "Don't worry" he began, a half smile upon his lips "We'll take good care of her" Perhaps it was his brusque, offhand manner, or maybe the glint in his deep black eyes, but I drew little comfort form his words . "What methods of correction do you intend applying?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "She will be whipped several times a day" he began, in the tone of voice a waiter may use to inform a customer of the contents of the menu. "We will brand her with your initials later in the week" he continued, smiling as my eyebrows began to rise "It looks quite attractive when it heals" he added, soothingly. "Anything else?" I asked, with feigned nonchalance, "Oh, there will be plenty of time to discuss the curriculum later" he said, vaguely. "Now perhaps you would like to see your slave being whipped properly?" His emphasis on the word properly both angered me and worried me. He was at once suggesting that I was incapable of delivering appropriate levels of punishment upon my slave, and at the same time insinuating that her forthcoming beating was likely to be extremely severe at best. There had never been any crisis of confidence on my part. During the considerable time I had spent training Debbie I had never questioned the fact that was I was doing was right. Now however, walking alongside this infamous gentleman's measured tread, I was beginning to question my own judgement. Perhaps I had been a little hasty in contacting this man. Perhaps the legends about the severity of his punishments were not as exaggerated as I had assumed. Perhaps I would have felt better dealing with my slaves disobedience myself, instead of entrusting her correction to a man I knew so little about. Perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily, I told myself, forcibly banishing any doubts from my mind. Besides, the thought of a discreet brand on my slave was not altogether displeasing. A short walk later, and I Was prompted to enter a door marked 'viewing area' which I pushed open, to find a semi-circular arrangement of soft leather armchairs, all radiating towards one blank, black shiny wall. Karl had left me as I entered the room, and it was with some surprise that I heard his muffled voice, seemingly coming from the smooth wall. "Lights!" It boomed. In an instant it became clear that the wall was in fact not a wall at all, but a piece of clear plate glass, appearing solid until the lights behind it were switched on, instantly rendering it transparent. I consider myself to be reasonably levelheaded, and not given to unnecessary melodrama, but the sight that was offered to my incredulous eyes caused my heart to skip a beat. The window offered a view onto a room not unlike a squash court. The room I occupied was half way up one wall, offering a perfect vantage point from which to view the proceedings. The room itself was about the size of a tennis court, as if viewed from its end, and the floor was of polished wood, reflecting the intensely bright halogen spotlights that littered the high ceiling. The walls were stark white, only serving to amplify the feeling of brightness. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the change in light. It was then that I spotted Debbie. From the centre of the ceiling hung along thick chain, disappearing into the ceiling and presume ably attached to a winch. Her delicate wrists were bound in leather cuffs and connected to the chain's end. Even as I watched the chain had begun to shorten, rising noiselessly into the ceiling, taking her weight and then slowly lifting her feet from the floor, her toes reluctantly leaving the safety of the wooden floor, and pawing uselessly at thin air. With a start I realised that to add to her suffering she was also blindfolded, and in her mouth sat a large ball gag, something I had never felt it necessary to use. She was sobbing, more from fear than pain I assumed, although it would not be many minutes before the taut burning sensation in her shoulders and arms became acutely painful. She swung gently, tiny and alone in the centre of the huge room, her naked, slim body incongruous in the austere surroundings. As I watched, keen to know how the events would unfold, she struggled slightly, the bonds already cutting into her flesh, the cramp in her shoulders already beginning to show. I had never suspended her. From a hidden, unmarked door in the sterile walls walked Karl. Walking slowly towards Debbie, nodding curtly at me, hidden from view behind the glass, he began to uncoil the whip he was carrying. For a moment I stood motionless, horrified, for as he unleashed yard after yard of the long thick leather tail it became apparent that it was a Bullwhip, specifically designed for use on the thick, leathery, impenetrable hides of cattle. Surely he couldn't expect to use the same tortuous instrument on my slave? Karl began to test his barbaric instrument, cracking it expertly on the shiny wooden floor. At this, Debbie began to writhe in her bonds, oblivious to the growing pain in her wrists, aware only of the fearful sounds that echoed around her. Suddenly and with the utmost conviction, I regretted my decision. I should have dealt with the problem myself, isolated her in her cell, and stopped her minimal privileges, anything, but not this. I fought with my conscience, wildly wondering how I could stop the inevitable torture that was about to unfold before my eyes. Short of running from the room and finding the entrance to the chamber below, wrenching the whip from his grasp, I could not see an escape. Trying to contain my mounting anxiety, I headed for the door, wrenching with growing concern at the handle as I realised it was locked. From behind me, muffled by the thick glass, I heard the whip crack once more, this time with a different note. A sickening, thudding crack. I rushed back to the window, pushing my palms and face against the cold glass, like a child looking into a sweet shop window, both desperate and loath to see what result it had had on my slave. Instantly I turned away, incapable of allowing my eyes to rest on the scene. Unable to scream, the ball gag only allowing muffled cries, my slave spun gently round from her chain, as she spun full circle the extent of the damage became obvious. Starting from a point a little below her left shoulder, and ending below her left buttock was a long thick reddening line, already beginning to swell. I walked to the back of the room, unable to see the hapless girl spinning below me, listening helplessly as the whip sounded once more, in an instant delivering more pain than my largest switch was capable of administering in a week. I tried the door again, testing its strength with my shoulder, to no avail. It was as solid as the plate glass that offered a view of the macabre events below me. Unable to watch, and powerless to intervene I listened with horror as the whip fell again and again, the space between its measured, ear shattering rifle-shots interrupted only by my slaves gurgling whines and the soft, almost inaudible voice of Karl, as he taunted her. "You'll behave now bitch" CRACK!!!!!!! "You'll learn the hard way." CRACK!!!!!!! CRACK!!!!! "If it's the last thing I do" CRACK!!!!!! Incapable of intervening, close to tears myself as I listened to the muffled cries for mercy coming from my slave, I pushed my palms over my ears, unable to listen to the horrifying noise any longer. Slowly, after several moments, I pulled my hands from my head, realising that the noise had stopped. I walked tentatively to the window, unsure as to what awaited me. Karl had gone, and although Debbie was still cuffed to the chain, it had been lowered enough to enable her toes to touch the ground, enabling her to take fraction of the weight of her tiny wrists, preventing permanent damage to the joints in her shoulders and arms. As I stared, transfixed, Karl had entered the seemingly unlocked door, and stood at my left shoulder. I turned to face him, unable to express my feelings. "You.You." I stuttered red faced, relieved that Debbie remained alive at least. Speechless, I turned back towards my slave. As she slowly revolved at the end of the chain, I saw the full extent of the punishment. Karl had not restricted himself to her buttocks and back. His blows had failed to discriminate specific areas, and her body looked as though she had been plunged into scalding water. Every inch of her seemed to have been damaged by the whip, her flesh bruised and angry, a network of thick scarlet lines, and each one more intensely painful in its application than I could possibly conceive. Even her breasts had not escaped, and I cringed as I tried to imagine the agony that she must have endured as the thick, stiff, leather whip had laid its stinging, destructive surface across such tender sensitive skin Noting my dumbfounded expression, he began to speak, his voice soothing in the quiet of the comfortable room. "Perhaps a little more severe than the punishment you are inclined to administer?" "A little!" I uttered incredulously "Little and often is not a maxim I find applicable to slave training" he continued, ignoring my criticism "I find that infrequent, yet intense sessions have amore lasting effect." I shook my head, unable to accept that the barbaric scene I had just witnessed could be justifiable. For the first time I had begun to feel pity for my slave. Nothing she could have done could warrant such torture. "However" he continued brightly, interrupting my thoughts, "The initial punishment is always most severe, acts as a bit of awake up call" he smiled, a twinkle in his eye. Despite his attempt at levity, I felt far from cheerful, and made him aware of it "Patience." he reprimanded, "You must allow my treatment time to take effect, after all it was you who brought her to me, you must have felt she needed some sort of specialist training" He was right. I was responsible for her current condition. Although I could not have known the form or severity this madman's punishment, I had delivered her into his hands, and must accept responsibility for the consequences. I thought back to Debbie's disobedience, seemingly an age ago. It still filled me with anger. "You say this is the worst punishment she will receive?" I asked, beginning to crack. "Yes, of course, I mean, how much more could she take?" I nodded reluctantly. It seemed I had little choice than to let the events run their course. As we walked out of earshot of the room, away down the plush, carpeted corridor that led to the dining room, I was too far way to hear her anguished screams for help, audible even through her gag, as the butler poured the first bucket of salty, antiseptic, ice-cold water across the angry scarlet wounds across her back.
Training A Slave Part 5 After a sumptuous meal that evening, during which our host regaled me with countless stories of challenging 'projects' that he and his staff had undertaken, I was taken to my room, a beautifully appointed room on the top floor of the mansion. I had tried to steer the conversation round to the future fate of Debbie, and some clue as to what he intended to submit the unfortunate girl to next, but he cleverly avoided revealing his plans, expertly steering the conversation back to his successes with previous slaves. The only pieces of information I had been able to glean were that my slave (he refused to use her name, presume ably unwilling to offer her even that small scrap of dignity) was housed in the complex of stark barren cells nestling deep in the bowels of his property. I also learned that she was not alone in this accommodation, and that he currently had a great number of similar charges in his custody. Owners tended to leave their slaves with him for a variety of reasons, he had explained. Retraining, or as accommodation to allow them to take holidays. Some masters even preferred to house their slaves here during their menstruation. After the barbaric scene I had viewed earlier, coupled with the easy way he talked about the horrific punishments he casually meted out on an incredibly regular basis, I lay restless in my bed, the soft sheets and heavy quilt doing little to appease my worries. He had promised not to permanently harm her, at least not physically, but I found it difficult to believe that any human being could undergo the torment that Debbie had experienced earlier without permanent scarring of some sort. Sleep I did, however, and woke feeling refreshed and slightly more positive, banishing the previous days worry from my mind Debbie was, after all, a slave. By very virtue of the word, her personal and physical agonies could not be allowed to concern me, purely the effect that this intensive training might have on her behaviour and ultimate usefulness. As I shaved in the small adjoining bathroom, noticing for the first time the luxurious nature of my accommodation, a small knock at the door announced the arrival of the butler, who asked in his flat uninterested monotone if I would like to view my slave before breakfast. I nodded; keen to see how much damage the whip had inflicted the day before. We descended the stairs, several flights, before the steps ended in cold anteroom. My eyes struggled to focus as the lights were switched on, harsh fluorescents that reflected starkly off the whitewashed, mould-ridden walls. In front of us was large steel door, its opening facilitated by an electronic keypad fixed to the brickwork beside it. With his hand concealing his movements, the butler swiftly entered the code, before pushing at the metal, and stepping into the corridor beyond. Another light switch, and a row of yet more fluorescents stuttered into action, illuminating a corridor of such length, that it must have stretched beyond the limits of the house and out under the extensive gardens. Our breath condensing in the damp, cold atmosphere, we began to walk its length, our footsteps echoing unnaturally in the stillness At intervals of no more than six feet, cell doors were set, constructed from thick metal bars, allowing the passer-by to view its inmate with ease. My footsteps faltered, the butler striding purposefully ahead, as I stopped to gaze into the murky depths of these prisons. The cells were tiny, barely long enough to lie down in. The only items within the cell were a concrete toilet and what appeared to be a shower fitting protruding from the wall furthest from the door. It shared its light with the corridor, having no light of its own, the bright tubes casting long silhouettes of the barred door across the concrete floor. No blankets, no mattress, no towels, in fact the only concession to comfort appeared to be a small shelf in the corner, which on closer inspection proved to house a few essential items, hairbrush, toothpaste and toothbrush, shampoo, safety razor and soap. The cell I had chosen to view had been empty, but peering into the unlit confines of the next, I could see it was occupied, a young girl of no more than twenty five stood under the trickle of water from the shower, her legs crooked slightly as she worked the safety razor across the delicate folds of skin between her legs, her face hidden from view by her dark hair hanging in wet fronds. Realising I was no longer behind him, the butler had impatiently made his way back down the corridor, and now stood behind me. "Breakfast is served shortly, sir" he remarked, oblivious to my fascination. At the sound of his voice, the girl started, dropping the razor instantly, and sprang to attention, her feet apart, her hands clasped behind the small of her back, her eyes fixed firmly on our feet, the shower still gently coursing across her shoulders and chest. I stared intently at her, unashamedly taking in the contours of her body, unhurriedly casting my appraising eye across her slightly heaving chest, the smooth globes capped with pink fleshy nipples, erect from the effects of the cold air. My eyes travelled down past her flat taut stomach towards her pubis, her shaven labia dripping slightly, sending rivulets of water tracing their way across the gleaming skin of her firm thighs. "Carry on, slave" barked the butler, at which the girl stooped to retrieve her razor, and under my unrelenting gaze re-started her task, the fingers of one hand pushing aside the puffy flesh, while the other hand traced the edge of the blade across the almost imperceptible fuzz of hair that had appeared overnight. I tore myself away, following the butler down the corridor, allowing myself a glimpse through each door as we passed. About half of the cells were occupied, a total of fifty or sixty girls I calculated, each one in a varying state of readiness. Many were shaving, so intent on completing their task that they missed our passing completely, some had already bathed, and were sat on the concrete floor, their skin shining with moisture, their hair lying wet against their shoulders. All were shivering, the water emanating from the shower being less than tepid, some ruefully rubbing welts and wells that occurred on every imaginable part of their bodies. Many squatted on their haunches; their arms wrapped round their knees in an attempt to warm themselves. Given the current temperature of the corridor, I could imagine that showering under lukewarm water must be far from pleasant, the water dragging precious heat from their bodies. Our host obviously harboured no prejudice, for although the inmates were predominantly white girls in their twenties and thirties, I spotted two Asian and a number of older women. Finally we arrived at my slaves cell. With apprehension I peered through the bars, uncertain as to what to expect. Debbie lay in the centre of the floor, curled up in a ball as she had so often done in my cell at home. Her hands were still cuffed; attached to a heavy metal ring in the floor; presume able to prevent her from aggravating the sores which crisscrossed her body. I was gratified to note that while the punishment had bruised her tender flesh quite severely, and must have inflicted unimaginable pain, the skin remained largely unbroken, and the angry red marks would doubtless fade quickly. The butler inserted the large master key into the lock, and swung the door open, striding into the centre of the cell and swiftly unfettered her wrists. "On your feet, slave" he growled, the disdain for his prisoner evident in his voice. Debbie jerked into action, wincing as she straightened her shivering body, the movement causing the weals across her body to throb. Her eyes wide with worry, she straightened up, standing in a manner similar to the first prisoner we had seen, her eyes towards the floor, her flesh goosepimply in the chill, her shoulders occasionally shuddering with cold. I walked towards her, gazing fascinated at the marks our host had left, running my finger across the raised angry skin, causing her to wince slightly at the renewed pain "Good morning!" I turned around startled, to see the now familiar form of Karl stood behind us. "Prepare the slave would you" he continued, addressing the butler before turning back to me. "May I escort you to the breakfast room" he inquired, politely I followed him from the cell, walking along side him towards the end of the corridor. The warmth of the house was welcoming after the damp chill of the cells we had left behind. "I have several slaves to brand this morning," he informed, as we walked into the dining room, " I think perhaps we should mark your slave at the same time" Carefully spreading a napkin across his knees he began to consume the food lay out in front of us "Have you ever seen a branding?" he asked leisurely, picking up his coffee and taking a sip "No, I don't believe I have" I answered, my curiosity roused. " You are in for a rare treat" he relied, confidentially. At this moment a naked young girl appeared noiselessly from behind us, carrying fresh coffee. He placed his hand over his cup, and she stepped back, waiting patiently for further orders. "Come here slave," he snapped. As the girl approached, he turned in his seat, grabbing a handful of her fleshy thigh, roughly spinning the girl round to reveal her shapely taut buttocks. "There." He pointed with his index finger at the centre of her right cheek. Leaning forward to afford myself a better view I stared at her flesh. At the end of his finger lay a brand, the raised skin white, and the burnt flesh having healed to produce two perfect indelible initials in her soft behind. "KL" I read. "My initials" he explained, He released his hold on her thigh, pushing the flat of his hand between her thighs and pushing from side to side, forcing her to shuffle her feet apart, exposing the soft milky flesh of her inner thigh. "And here" he remarked, pointing again at an area of skin directly below her slit and the inevitable pierced clitoris and labia I leaned forward again, bringing my face closer to her shaved mound. "Slave" I read, the white letters standing out clearly. He motioned to the girl to leave, returning to his breakfast. "Pretty thing, isn't she" he remarked conversationally, as he finished his meal. I nodded in agreement. "Does it hurt, you know, the branding?" I asked, feeling foolish the moment the words has left my mouth. He smiled, shrugging his shoulders "I suppose so, how is that relevant?" Satisfying himself that I had finished eating, he got to his feet, allowing the young serving girl to expertly clear our plates. As she bent across the table to pick up the china, I again stared at the marks in her skin. I had never considered branding Debbie, but having seen the finished result, the idea was growing on me. An indelible mark of slavery would go a long way to reinforcing her position as well as looking rather attractive. Besides, surely it was only natural to want o mark ones property? A short time later, I was to discover the unique way in which he carried out this operation. The room in which he had led me was in the basement with the cells, situated at the far end of the corridor. I noticed as we retraced our footsteps back past the countless barren cells that most were now empty, their inmates presume ably employed elsewhere in the premises. "This is where I carryout my little experiments" he commented convivially, as he walked through the unlocked door, politely holding it open to allow me in. It immediately reminded of a dentists surgery, its clean white walls, the chair in the centre of the room with its peculiar restraints and attachments, the angle-poise spotlight protruding from the ceiling allowing him to train its intensive light on any specific part of the body he happened to be working on. My gaze swept round, taking in the stainless steel instruments on gleaming steel trolleys, before alighting on the scene at the end of the room. One wall was covered in a steel framework, an intricate spiders web of tubular metal poles angled slightly away from the wall. Secured to this frame work were five girls, their backs to us, their arms stretched out above their heads, their wrists cuffed securely to the beam most adjacent to their hands, and their legs splayed out beneath them, held firmly apart by more steel cuffs. I spotted Debbie instantly, her young shapely rear unmistakable among the row of bodies. As I stared, Karl finished the preparation, using additional leather straps to secure the girls to the frame at varying parts of their bodies, around their calves and thighs, threading a broad leather strap around the small of their backs, and across their shoulder blades, his jaw set with effort as he increased the tension, completely immobilising the helpless slaves. One or two had begun to whimper, fearful of what fresh torture awaited them. They did not have long to wait. From one of the trolleys, Karl picked up what appeared to be a small torch, about the size of biro. With a sharp click, the end of the tube sparked into life, a small intensive blue flame hissing from the tiny outlet in the end. At the very end of the instrument was mounted a sharp steel tip, the flame playing across its base, and filled with ordinary lighter fuel, originally designed for soldering with, I'm told," he informed cheerily. At this juncture, the whimpering turned into audible sobs, the girls desperately trying to escape their bonds, and although their shoulders and arms moved slightly as they writhed, the lower half of their bodes remained motionless, held immovable by the constricting leather straps. He dragged a plastic chair from across the room, carefully placing it at the correct distance from the first girls buttocks, before seating himself, leaning forward slightly towards his canvas. I winced at the first scream, unable to prevent a sympathetic shudder running through me as he began to apply the torturous instrument. Seemingly unaffected by the ear splitting noise he continued unabated, his left hand steadying the quivering buttock, his right carefully and unhurriedly dragging the iron across the flesh, a slight wisp of acrid smoke emanating from the tip, as it coursed its way mercilessly through the skin. The girl had ceased screaming, her body stiff with pain and terror, a small rivulet of sweat appearing between her shoulder blades and running down her spine. Instead she gasped, fighting for breath, her torso tying to expand against the confines of its binding. Pausing to apply a dampened cloth to his handiwork he stepped back, oblivious to the wailing emanating from the other girls, and smiled, obviously pleased withy the result In deep scarlet, the cauterised flesh displayed the letters A.U. Once more he bent to his task, his hand steadying the flesh of her upper leg as he again applied the iron, this time to the tender skin of her thigh, directly below he labia. Again she screamed, even before the tool made contact, the heat of the vicious flame playing across her exposed slit. I watched fascinated as he continued, amazed at his complete lack of compassion, the helpless young girl first screaming, then gurgling, her head flung back and shaking from side to side in denial of the agony she was being forced to endure, the sinews in her neck taut, her mouth wide, gasping for air. Again the smell, the wisp of grey smoke from her burning flesh. Impatiently, he wiped away the trail of sweat that had begun to course from her back down her legs, sizzling on the red-hot point of his scribe. Finally he was done, and the girls body became limp, exhausted from her ordeal. Deep breathy sobs from the depths of her lungs, occasionally wailing piteously as the wound throbbed, sending fresh waves of pain through her lower body. I shook myself from my reverie, and walked over to admire his handiwork. Circling her upper thigh, written in perfect copperplate, were the words 'A.U.'s slave' The noise from the others had stopped briefly, rendered dumbstruck by the sound of their fellow victim's screams. Now her ordeal was evidently over, they had begun again in anticipation of their being next. I recognised Debbie's voice amongst the throng, pleading and entreating, her voice cracking with emotion as she desperately sought a reprieve from her impending torture. Karl stepped forward, and playfully slapped Debbie's rump, leaving a red handprint on her already scarred buttocks. "Want a go?" he inquired, his eyebrow raised inquiringly. I would like to say at this point that I could not find it within I me to carry out such a horrendous act on another human being. I would like to say that I had insisted that Debbie be released and driven her back to Sussex. There are many things I could have done, instead of which I took the proffered iron gingerly from his outstretched hand, and with the other dragged the seat over to a point beside my slave. In a dream I gazed at the protruding, naked globe, quivering slightly despite its tight bonds both above and below, and slowly brought the point of the iron down towards the inviting flesh. My heart racing, my hand shaking slightly with excitement and anticipation of the unimaginable pain I was about to inflict, I gently pushed the red-hot tip into the skin. My ears ringing to the sound of her deafening shriek, I began to move it across her cheek, watching amazed as it left a perfect searing line behind it, the smell of her singing flesh filling my nostrils, thick and pungent. Like an animal she snorted, grunted, screamed, but to no avail. Learning from my colleague, I took the offered cloth, and wiped the area, before continuing. A more memorable scene is hard to imagine, the screams of five slaves echoing around the room, the scent of scorched flesh hanging heavy in the room, the indescribable pain being inflicted on my slave in the name of giving her a permanent identity, and the terrified howls of her counterparts as they waited their turn, helpless to prevent the inevitable agony they would endure in their turn. I switched my attention to the area between her splayed thighs, carefully mentally mapping out the area I would write to, before once more applying the iron, mercilessly carving out the letters in her soft buttery flesh. Finally I finished, stepping back and handing back the iron, my legs weak with adrenalin, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I found the large leather clad chair in the centre of the room and sat on its edge, my mind racing, desperately trying to rationalise what I had just done Karl was busy unfettering the limp form of my slave, allowing her to fall to the floor in a crumpled, exhausted heap at the feet of the other victims. She lay on her side, her hands bunched into fists between her thighs, preventing the fresh brand from touching her opposing leg. Her face was wet with tears, her ordinarily pretty face screwed into a mask of disbelief and pain. I watched as her breasts rose and fell with her sobs, her body rocking to and fro as she fought to recover from the agony she had undergone. The butler entered, summoned by a bell by the side of the door, and unsympathetically hauled Debbie to her feet, half carrying, half dragging her from the room. "Perhaps a brandy?" asked Karl casually, as her sobs became faint behind the closed door, "You look as white as a sheet" I nodded numbly, following him down the corridor, leaving four girls trussed to the cold steel of the frame, one branded, the others left to wonder how long they would have to wait for his return, their arms cramped and aching, their most intimate parts on display. An incongruous sight by any standards, four pairs of shapely buttocks protruding helplessly toward the onlookers, their vulnerable scarlet labia plainly visible between their shivering thighs as they powerlessly awaited their fate. It is impossible to describe how I had felt about the incident. Initially I had felt nothing but compassion for the slaves, cringing as I imagined the incredible pain they must feel at such a horrendous act. After the first few agonising strokes of the iron however, I had felt a strange fascination, a morbid satisfaction almost, at the juxtaposition of the victim and the perpetrator. The slaves had undergone the most indescribable pain imaginable purely to satisfy Karl's whim. His only concern was that he should be able to practice his perverse form of identification on their flesh, oblivious to the inordinate amount of pain his plans may incur. It is also worth remembering that while none of the slaves he had branded would have submitted themselves willingly to such atrocities, they were all (I assumed) willing participants in his alternative world, and had at some point consented to be treated as he saw fit. Most will have imagined at some point that their life of slavery might involve a brand of some description and did not allow this to deter them from signing their contracts. It is safe to say however, that during the period spent bound beneath the ministrations of Karl's iron, every last one of them would have regretted ever submitting themselves to such a sadistic individual. Karl had informed me on a previous occasion that all his slaves signed three monthly renewable contracts, which stipulated in no uncertain terms that they were to be his property to do with what he wished during that period, and after each three monthly term they were free to leave. Despite what I had seen since my arrival, it would seem that most decided to stay on at the end of their term. As a slave owner, the thought processes that impel a slave to submit herself to this kind of treatment have always fascinated me. I had never claimed to understand them fully, and after seeing the multitude of branded, flogged, servile, compliant female slaves Karl owned, I understood even less. It was during our lunch together that he began to explain a little more. I had nervously suggested that the branding was unnecessarily cruel, and the whipping a little harsh. Nervously, because I had a feeling of hypocrisy even as I said it, for I too had been involved in the branding, and could therefore not condemn it fully. "It is simple to explain" he shrugged, nonchalantly. "It is a matter of indisputable truth, that some of us have a desire to be dominated, especially sexually" I nodded "And although this desire may start out as a passing thought, a nagging, inquisitive thought that we banish from our minds at the risk of offending our peers or 'seeming different', some of us germinate this seed of curiosity, and find satisfaction in its fruit" I nodded again. He was describing almost to the letter the situation I had been presented with when Debbie first spoke to me of her curiosity surrounding the life of a slave. "So," he continued, placing the tips of his fingers together, his elbows on the table, as if lecturing a slightly slow schoolboy. "We have our slave, she knows little about the life she is involving herself in, still less about the things that have driven her to explore this particular facet of her psychic" Again I nodded "What satisfaction can she hope to derive from her exploration then?" I paused, not wishing to sound foolish. "Sexual fulfilment?" I hazarded. He snorted derisively. "I have slaves that have been deprived of orgasm for years! Even your slave has had her labia sealed shut to prevent penetration! How can their lives be sexually fulfilling?" I shook my head, reddening slightly under his derision. "The desire to please" he explained, in an exasperated tone. "To relinquish all other ambitions and goals, principles, tenets and theories, and dedicate themselves to a life of pleasing their master!" I shrugged, "I suppose so, but how does that relate to the pain side of things?" I queried, floundering. "Simple" he sighed, taking a sip from his drink. "A slave decides to forsake all other aspects of her life for her master, to live her life for Him, give up her body and soul to serve him. It's not a difficult concept to recognise. After all, women will persist with the most incredibly unhappy relationships out of love or a sense of obligation. The only thing the slave requires to be happy is to have her dedication tested, constantly evaluated. If a slave feels that she has performed well for her Master, carried out her duties and obligations in a way that shows an unfaltering dedication for her master, she has justified her existence. A slave that is neglected, unoccupied, un-used, is no longer a slave. Her life is empty, meaningless." He paused again to light a thick pungent cigar "There are three fundamental reasons for punishing a slave," he continued, " The first is the most obvious; maintenance To maintain the general order of you relationship with your slave, you must be seen to punish her suitably and effectively for lapses in duty or dedication to her task. It is not her desire to be punished under this heading, in some circumstances she may even find it unnecessarily harsh, but for the most part she will accept that it is deserved. It is essential in maintaining you position as a dominant master." He paused again, taking another deep draw on his cigar "The second is atonement. If your slave has transgressed in any way, overlooking the transgression will create fundamental cracks in your superiority. While your slave may struggle against the whipping post, crying for mercy, her body writhing in unimaginable agony, she will ultimately feel better for the release. After the event, as the swollen flesh throbs, and the tears dry in salty lines across her face, she will feel an enormous sense of virtue, having paid in full for her misdemeanour" He paused as his naked maid brought two large schooners of brandy, walking backwards from the table, her eyes lowered. "The third covers both the previous points, and is undeniably the most important." He sipped his brandy, collecting his thoughts, "It is to do with the justification of her existence, and proof of the dedication to her task. It is to do with her proving to herself as much as anyone that she is committed to her life as a slave, and the satisfaction she feels in having experienced an ordeal that would horrify most in an effort to demonstrate the depth of her commitment and dependence on her master. I remember you explaining to me the way in which you had ordered her to orally satisfy one of your friends" I nodded "She may have enjoyed the experience, but it is unlikely. Being asked to perform such an intimate act in front of strangers under these circumstances is humiliating and degrading in the extreme. The satisfaction she gains from being asked to perform such a task is not sexual, it is the fact that it allows her to please you, it satiates her need to obey, to be given orders." He took another sip from his glass "Today you branded her. It is difficult to imagine amore painful experience than that which you inflicted upon her today" I cringed slightly at the memory. "She was bound tightly for the entire time, unable to move, but were it not for the obvious physical reactions relating to the pain, she would have allowed you to do the same thing unchained. She will wear your initials with pride, the ultimate indication of ownership, and the amount of pride she feels is directly linked to the amount of pain she underwent receiving it. After all, you could have written it on their in felt-tip pen, but that would hardly carry the same value would it?" He chuckled slightly. "Essentially, that is why you are here. You had become complacent, allowed her too much independent thought and freedom. She clamoured for instruction, guidance, chastisement. If you spoke to her now about the punishment she has received in this house, about the pain she has endured, the sleepless night on a cold concrete floor, she will ensure you that they have been the most painful, agonising, humiliating days of her life. If you ask her if she wants to leave, leave these walls on her own, a free woman, she will refuse The most painful experience for a slave is to be rejected, and it is all the more painful for those slaves that have endured as much physical and mental retribution as mine have. The pain of rejection is directly related to the amount of pain you have seen fit to inflict upon her. It is the pain that dictates her value" He left the room, leaving me to digest his words. What he had said made a lot of sense. He had in effect, just been articulating the disjointed thoughts and theories I had arrived at myself. I sank the last of my brandy, accepting the offer of another from the ever present, ever servile maid behind me. With her kneeling naked and silent by my chair, the cognac bottle held in both hands in front of her, I marvelled at the perversity of human existence, and the strange way in which some choose to find contentment.
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