A young lady is captured and trained to be a slave by her loving master.
The harsh sound of the alarm awakens me from a peaceful dream. In the
dream, I was once again free; once again my own person; running through
an open field and enjoying the sun on my face. Unfortunately, it was
only a dream. Not so long ago, my life was like that dream, and waking
up meant getting ready for work during the week, or for play on the
weekends, or doing any of those things FREE people take for granted. But
now, awakening only reminds me of the soft leather cuffs locked onto my
wrists and ankles, the loose chains connecting them, the collar around
my neck, and the small cell which has been my "home" for the past
several months. At least I THINK it's been months, not having any way to
keep track of time. I muse that, unlike similar kidnappings I've read
about, I'm at least allowed to haveclothing most of the time. Right now
I have on a simple white slip with white panties underneath.
Quickly, I rouse myself from these pointless musings and make myself presentable. I only have a few minutes to wash the sleep from my face, brush my hair and assume the "slave" position before the madman who calls himself "master" enters the room. I kneel in the center of the cell with my buttocks resting on my heels, hands at my side (if they're not loosely chained, as they are now, they would of course stay wherever they're fastened) and cast my eyes downward. When I hear him enter, I wait for him to speak first, then respond in the respectful manner he has trained me to use.
"Good morning, Slave."
"Good morning, Master. Your slave awaits your command."
"Excellent. I have your breakfast here. You may arise and get it."
"Thank you, Master."
With that, I retrieve the breakfast tray through a special opening in the bars of the cell, and proceed to eat one of the two meals I receive every day. He watches me eat for a few minutes, and then, without another word, he leaves, presumably for work. Of course, I remain alone in the cell for the day. I have no TV or radio or other means of amusing myself, just a ten by twelve cell with sink, toilet and cot. I won't see him again for many hours, when he returns to "play" with me. This daily routine has been my life since the day I let down my guard in a dark parking lot.
That day, I had just left a late meeting at the department store where I worked. I was stressed and harried, and just wanted to get home as soon as possible. (Now I know he'd been watching and waiting for just such a time, when I was preoccupied with other matters, to make his move.) He approached me looking agitated and worried. He said his car had been stolen, and asked if I had a cell phone he could use to call the police. What I saw was a "normal" looking middle- aged gentleman, well- dressed, apparently in trouble, and needing my help.
But as I searched my purse for the phone, I suddenly was aware of the pressure of a gun barrel against my head and his quiet voice assuring me that I'd be all right if I didn't make any noise and did what he said. (He would later taunt me by telling me that the gun was a fake, and if I'd only raised a commotion, I'd probably be free today.)
He quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists behind my back and had me get into his car, which turned out to be right next to mine. He drove a short distance to a deserted ally, the whole time speaking quietly, assuring me that he wasn't going to hurt me, that he just needed to "borrow" me for a short time. In the ally he had me get into the trunk of the car, which was conveniently equipped with straps which he used to hold me firmly in place. He forced a rubber ball into my mouth, sealed it with tape, and slammed the trunk closed. I was left with no way to move or shout or otherwise call attention to myself.
He drove for what seemed like hours. I've never been so frightened, thinking that I'd surely be dead before the night was through. But by the time he finally stopped and turned the car off, I was almost relieved that I'd be freed from the confines of the trunk, even though I dreaded what I thought was about to follow. When the trunk opened, I could see that we were in a typical garage much like you might see anywhere. He unfastened the straps, taped my ankles together, and carried me into the house.
He sat me in a chair in the den and proceeded to explain that he'd told a few fibs along the way; he had not just "borrowed" me, but had effectively stolen me. I was only dimly aware, through my fright, of everything he said, but slowly the realization came to me that he was living out some kind of master/slave fantasy. As he talked he retrieved various lengths of rope from a drawer and proceeded to more completely tie me to the chair.
First he tied my elbows together, removed the handcuffs, and then tied my wrists with the rope. He explained that I would never again have the complete use of my hands and arms for more than seconds at a time; that they would always be fettered in some way except to put on clothing or the like. In a similar way he tied my knees together and replaced the tape at my ankles with rope.
He then proceeded to give me what he called my first "slave lesson." He told me that he knew my name, but from now on would only address me as "Slave." He said I did not need to know *his* name, and that I must always address him as "Master." Furthermore, he told me that I must never use the words "I" or "me" or "my" - I must always refer to myself as "your slave." I was not a person anymore and was not entitled to be an "I."
This first lesson ended with his command that I must never speak unless spoken to, OR unless I first asked (or rather "begged") for permission to speak. He then spent hours forcing me to "practice" my lesson. He removed the gag (having assured me that screams could not be heard by anyone, and would be severely punished), and began his drill:
"What are you?"
"Who am I?"
"You are the Master."
"How do you ask to speak?"
"Master, your slave begs for permission to speak."
"What are you?"
"Your slave." ...
Over and over, he repeated these and similar questions as my initial indoctrination. When he was finally through, he untied my ankles and forced me to hobble through the house, carried me down the steps to the basement, and introduced me to my new "home." He then proceeded to rip the clothing I wore from my body using a knife where necessary. One of my best business suits lay shredded on the floor, as he carefully slid new panties up over my ankles, locked cuffs and a short connecting chain onto my ankles, then cut the ropes at my knees, and slid the panties up the rest of the way.
Then he cut the ropes from my wrists, replaced these with cuffs also, and removed the ropes at my elbows. He told me that most of my time would be spent in relatively loose bindings such as these, but I would soon come to know a great many strict bondage positions, as this was the way he liked to play with his slave. The last thing he did before leaving me alone that first day was lock a collar around my neck! , to which a small tag was affixed, reading simply "Slave." Thus my first night as a slave to a madman was spent with ankle and wrist cuffs, collar, and panties as my only "clothing."
Later that day, I hear the phone ring. Of course, I have no way to reach
it - if ONLY he were that careless ("Hello, 911? I'd like to report a
kidnapping.") I can also hear the answering machine pick up the call.
Sometimes it's a real message, and these have given me brief glimpses
into his real life, but usually, it's "for me." He uses the machine to
issue me commands during the day, most often regarding the clothing he
wants me to have ready when he returns. That's what the call is this
"Hello, Slave" he coos into the phone. "You're to have the tan business suit ready when I get home today. Oh, and you're also to be wearing the harness gag. In fact, you're to put the gag on right after this call."
Click. Not even a "good-bye."
Of course, I can't dress myself with my wrists and ankles cuffed. But he actually leaves keys the within reach so I can remove the cuffs and change clothes, IF I'm so instructed. He knows that leaving the keys poses no risk of escape. After all, I can't get out of the cell. But, you may be wondering why I don't just remove the cuffs whenever I want when he's out, and the answer is a not- so- hidden video camera, which turns on randomly throughout the day recording my every move. If the tape shows me disobeying his orders, there's hell to pay, as I well know by now.
My first taste of that "hell" came after only one night as his slave. That first night I was so frightened I couldn't sleep. But as I lay awake, I began to think back on many of the details of my abduction. I remembered how he took great care whenever he fastened a cuff or rope or strap on me. He'd made sure that it was only tight enough to hold securely, not to cause pain or discomfort. He had plenty of opportunity to be cruel, but he hadn't been. With this in mind, I began to wonder if the man wasn't really some kind of wimp, who didn't have the guts to really get tough. And I also thought about why he said he'd abducted me in the first place. It seemed obvious that he wanted me in good shape and unhurt. And so I resolved that I'd call his bluff at my next opportunity.
When I heard him coming down the steps in the morning, I stood up and tried to look as confident and dignified as possible wearing only cuffs, collar, and panties.
"I see my slave is standing at attention," he said. "I suggest you kneel down before your Master right away."
"No way!" I retorted. "I am NOT your slave, and never will be. You have no right to keep me here. You'll get caught. I'll escape." Etc. etc.
He let me go on for several minutes before he calmly opened the cell, stepped in and zapped me with a stun gun he had ready. It all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to fight back or struggle. The pain was awful, and I collapsed in a heap on the floor. In my dazed condition, I felt him start to gather me up and speak in that soft voice of his...
"I can see my naughty slave didn't fully learn her lessons from last night..." And then I blacked out.
When I came to, I felt my arms stretched high over my head. My wrists had been tied (painfully tight this time) and attached to a hook in the ceiling. My ankles had also been tightly bound, and my toes just barely touched to floor. I was also aware that I was completely naked now. I tried to move my head and to speak, but found that my mouth was again filled with a bitter tasting rubber ball. The ball was attached to a harness- type system of straps that seemed to go all over and around my head. The straps firmly held the ball in place and tightly forced my jaws closed around it. Also, a rope was attached to the strap at the top of my head, and was pulled behind my back and tied to another rope circling my waist, forcing my head back so I stared up at the ceiling.
"Well, well, well... I see you've rejoined the conscious. I was really hoping that I wouldn't have to do this so soon after acquiring you, but I can tell you're going to be a more difficult study than I thought at first."
"Yes, I know you're sorry NOW, but now it's too late - you have to take your medicine like a good little slave."
"I'll let these little outbursts go for now because I think you may need a little reminder that you don't speak unless spoken to. Isn't that correct?"
"I'll take that as a 'yes, master.' Very good. Now then, on to your punishment."
When he said that, I started to struggle frantically, because I thought this *was* my punishment. But I soon learned otherwise as what I had thought was the floor beneath my toes, turned out to be a short stool, which he suddenly kicked from under me, leaving me dangling by my wrists.
The pain was more than I thought I could bear, and more involuntary grunts and mmpphhs escaped my lips. But even this was not enough. He then stood on the stool so he could show my upward pointed eyes a slender "switch" he'd made from a bush in his back yard.
"I'm just an old- fashioned kind of guy, so I really like these old- fashioned 'switches.' They can sting like the devil, you know. Now, concerning your little tirade this morning, I believe I counted seven times when you used forbidden words to refer to my property. I think two strokes per word would be about right. That makes 14 strokes, correct Slave?"
"And after each stroke I expect to hear you thank me for teaching you this necessary lesson."
And with that I endured 14 strokes of the switch, somehow mmpphhing a "thank you, Master" after each one. He took his time, pausing for various periods between strokes, sometimes for what seemed like five or six minutes. During these pauses, he would continue to instruct me on the importance of following his rules, or "these little sessions" would become quite common, which he assured me he didn't want any more than I did.
"Believe me," he said, "this hurts me more than it hurts you."
After the last stroke, he replaced the stool so I could get some relief from the strain on my wrists and arms, and "stepped out for a bite to eat."
When he finally returned with "leftovers for later", I learned that naughty slaves do not get to eat for the day. Neither do they get the relief of loose bindings at night or even the small comfort of the cot which he removed from my cell. Thus I spent my second night as a slave hurting, tightly bound, and cold on the hard concrete floor.
But enough "fond memories." I have things to do.
First the harness gag. (He used to have several of these, but he's down to just his favorite one now.) There's a dresser and wardrobe just outside my cell to hold all "my" clothes. I have to reach through the bars with my wrists still chained to open one of the drawers with the "toys" to get the gag. (As I said, I CAN remove the cuffs to get dressed, but if I have them off any longer than absolutely necessary…, well, see the part above about "hell to pay.") I fumble around and find the harness gag and manage to get the straps positioned properly. I have to make sure all the straps are as tight as I can get them for "inspection" later.
Now to find the tan business suit. From his choice of clothing, my guess is that he's going to want to play either "Secretary's lunch break" or "Deposing the lady lawyer." In any case, he left the choice of underwear to me, so I select a basic white bra to match the panties I already have on, and of course stockings and garter belt.
I must dress in a particular methodical order. First the garter belt goes on. Then one of the ankle cuffs comes off so I can slip on one stocking and immediately replace the cuff. Repeat with other leg. Now I pull on the skirt. Lastly, I get to work on the bra, blouse, and jacket: Take off one wrist cuff, slip arm into bra, and replace the cuff. Take off other cuff, slip bra on the rest of the way and fasten, then replace cuff. Repeat with blouse and jacket, making sure to have both cuffs on in between each item. And of course the slip I was wearing comes off as the bra goes on.
This rather tedious process ensures that I always have at least three cuffs on at all times. I always follow his dressing instruction to the letter. I don't know if he'll watch his little video tape on any particular day, and I have no intention of finding out the hard way by taking any shortcuts. And at least it give me something to do.
With dress-up time done, I wipe the spittle from around my mouth, and lay down on the cot to wait. My jaw is already starting to ache from the gag, so I try relaxing the muscles as best I can. I try to occupy my mind by imagining ways to escape, but I must admit I also find myself daydreaming about the days when he comes home in a particularly good mood. It infuriates me when this happens, because I know that's just what he wants, but I can't help myself! You see, I've learned that, besides being a madman who doesn't hesitate to beat me, my so- called "master" can inflict pleasure as well as pain.
It was the very next morning after my painful lesson with the switch. I thought I would never fall asleep that night while so tightly tied and in such pain. But I know I did sleep, because I definitely remember waking up to find him leaning over me, gently stroking the matted hair away from my face. I was startled, and tried to crawl away, which he let me do for a moment. Then without a word, he slowly walked toward me, bent down and continued brushing my hair back. Then he removed the gag, waiting patiently for me to try to get some feeling back in my jaws, and offered me some water. He removed the cruelly tight ropes from my wrists and immediately retied them - but now he tied them firmly, not cruelly. Likewise, he retied my ankles leaving a short length of rope between my legs.
Then he put some type of ointment on the welts on my buttocks and thighs, and whispered that he had something "special" in mind for today. I tried to ask permission to speak, but he just shushed me, perhaps knowing that my jaws would need a little more time to recover.
Helping me to my feet, he led me, hobbling, up the stairs to the kitchen where he had a generous breakfast ready. He encouraged me to eat and drink my fill, and even allowed me a semi- private "potty" break. Then he instructed me to kneel in the proper slave position and asked if I had anything I wanted to tell him.
"Master," I said. "Your slave is very, very sorry for speaking out to you. Your slave will never do it again, so please don't beat your slave again, Master."
Apparently this was the right thing to say, because he grinned broadly and said I'd learned my lesson very well. He then commanded me to get up and led me into a bedroom in a part of the house I hadn't seen before. Producing a scarf, he blindfolded me, and had me lie down on the bed. He fastened my tied wrists to the head of the bed, and, after cutting the rope between my ankles, tied them to opposite sides of the foot of the bed so I lay spread wide.
My immediate thought was "here it comes," because I suddenly realized he hadn't raped me yet - even though that's what I assumed this whole abduction was all about. But even at that moment, with me tied down, helpless and available, he continued to surprise me. Just as I was preparing myself for a quick "wham- bam," I instead felt a gentle sensation on my right nipple. He was licking my breast!
He continued licking my nipple, and sucking on it, and nibbling on it with his teeth. At the same time he was caressing my other breast and stroking my hair with his hands. His mouth continued to work on both breasts, and then up to my neck and face. He licked my lips and kissed me long and deep, all the time kneading and pinching my breasts and nipples. My breathing and pulse quickened and I realized I was becoming aroused in spite of myself. He began tracing my lips with his fingers and I found myself hungrily sucking on those fingers like I used to suck on my boyfriend's cock in what seemed now like another life. His other hand reached down to my clit and I heard him chuckle to himself upon finding such a warm moist welcome to his strong firm touch. But then he suddenly stopped.
"Not quite so fast, my little vixen," he said, as he withdrew.
"Uhhnn!" I moaned, as I thrust my hips around trying to find those fingers.
"I'll be the one to decide if and when you cum. Today, you're going to learn a whole new meaning to the word ‘torture.'"
Before I could say anything, he placed a gag in my mouth. But instead of a ball, this one consisted of a short penis- shaped plug attached to a strap. Then he proceeded with his "torture," toying and teasing every part of my body, coaxing me to a fever pitch, but never letting me cum. Being blindfolded, I never saw exactly what he used that day. One moment I would feel the soft tickling of a feather inside my thighs, then a gentle scratching of sandpaper on my nipples. Sometimes he filled me with a dildo, sometimes he used a vibrator on my clit, and sometimes his own teeth and tongue. I felt ice cubes hardening my nipples, and squealed in shock as hot wax fell on my breasts and thighs. I know that several times it was his real hard hot cock that entered my pussy, but with slow, shallow thrusts, only to withdraw before I could gain satisfaction.
I became delirious with desire, raw animal lust filling my entire being. My consciousness was consumed by my unfulfilled need. I found myself writhing madly in my bonds, screaming through my gag, begging and pleading for release. I don't know how long he continued, but eventually he mounted me one last time. His enormous throbbing cock found its entry, while he grabbed my hair and, pulling my head back, began thrusting, thrusting, faster and faster. I was screaming through my gag, "Yes, yes! Fuck your slave. Fuck her!"
And at last he was finished. I lay on the bed, a panting, sweating, quivering heap of spent sexual energy. He softly caressed the length of my body, while whispering what a good slave I'd been. Then he removed the gag and again asked if I had anything I wanted to tell him.
"Yes, Master," I gasped. "Thank you, Master. Your slave wants to be tortured like that again! Please, Master, please keep torturing your slave!"
"Oh no, I think you've had quite enough for today. But I want you to learn from this lesson, as well as the one last night, Slave. Think about the pain yesterday, and remember what a little slut you've shown yourself to be today."
"Yes, Master. Your slave is horny slut. She's a bitch in heat, who needs to be used, and serve her Master."
And with that, he untied me from the bed and had to carry me back to my cell, as my legs felt too weak to walk. He replaced the rope bindings with the leather cuffs, and generous lengths of connecting chains. I was allowed to eat dinner with him later that night, and when he locked me in my cell for the last time that day, he kissed me, wished me a good night, and said what a good slave I was going to be. Thus I spent my third night as a madman's slave, in a deep contented and satisfied sleep.
Oh great! I did it again. I was going to lie here and try to remember my
life as a free woman, and instead I've gotten myself all hot and
bothered. Have you ever tried NOT to think about something and then
that's all you CAN think about? That's what happens to me every day when
I tell myself not to think about being a slut. So here I am - horny,
alone, and not permitted to touch myself. (Remember, the MASTER decides
when I can cum, and he's got that damn video camera monitoring me when
Sometimes I wish the madman who kidnapped me had been a "normal" rapist, so my mind wouldn't be so confused now. After all, when I'm not being turned into a brazen slut by his devious torture, I can recall being an intelligent, independent woman, with a mind of my own. One minute, I'm sure I'm not REALLY a slut, but the next minute I'm on my knees *begging* him to use me again. God, talk about dilemmas! And I've been wrestling with this dilemma since the fourth day of my captivity.
That was the day after my "good-slave" lesson. The "bad-slave" lesson had occurred on the second day of my captivity, and consisted of an introduction to his "switch" while dangling from my wrists. I'd never been struck before, and I couldn't believe how much it hurt. It was "only" 14 strokes, but it seemed like many times that to me, especially because he made me muffle out a "thank you" after each stroke. The day after that incident I was considerably more receptive to his master/slave routine, and my reward was the "good-slave" lesson. This was to meant show me that he could give pleasure as well as pain, and no matter how I tried to resist it, his almost day-long teasing and toying with me brought me to orgasms I never dreamed were possible, and left me literally begging for more.
And so on that fourth day, I awoke before the alarm, feeling wonderfully rested and refreshed. I'd never felt so deeply satisfied. In fact, it took me a while to remember where I was and what I'd done and said the day before. "No," I told myself, "that wasn't me! I'm not a slut and I'm nobody's slave!" I was sure there was some logical explanation for my behavior, I just didn't know what it could be.
Then I heard him starting down the steps, and remembered that I'd better get on my knees fast if I didn't want to feel his "switch" again.
"Good morning, Slave."
"Good morning, Master. Your slave awaits your command," I answered, remembering the greeting he'd ordered me to always use.
"Very good. And my command is for you to tell me how you're feeling this morning."
Now, why did he command me to do that? Could he read my mind or what? Did he somehow know what I'd just been thinking?
I tried to be coy, at the same time remembering to refer to myself in the third person (his edict: a slave is an object, not a person, and cannot refer to herself as "I").
"Your slave feels OK, Master."
"Just OK? Don't lie to me, because I can tell when you're lying."
I hesitated, not knowing how well he would be able to read me and not sure how much of my confusion I should reveal. But I finally decided to just tell the truth.
"Umm, well, you see, Master, your slave feels very satisfied in a way she's never felt before. But I, uh, I mean 'your slave' can't understand why she acted the way she did yesterday. A few days ago, your slave was an intelligent, self-reliant woman. She never begged a man to use her like she begged you yesterday, and she certainly never referred of herself as a slut before. Your slave is troubled about these conflicting feelings."
There was a pause, and I was afraid he'd jump on my slip-up when I referred to "his property" as an "I". But thankfully he didn't.
"Yes, I know you're confused because you've been brainwashed for so long into thinking that you were independent. But *I* know you're really just a pretty toy made to please and amuse any man who takes you and trains you. You acted the way you did because you *are* a slut, and the sooner you accept that fact the happier you'll be here. You are meant to be owned and used. You have no other purpose in life..."
"But..." I interrupted.
He grabbed me by the hair pulling my head back sharply. "But what! Slave," he shouted, obviously displeased at my interruption.
"Your slave begs forgiveness for speaking out, but, how could you know all that about me, oops, about your slave? How could you be so sure your slave would respond the way she did."
He relaxed his grip. "I'll answer your question, but don't push you're luck. I will not tolerate disrespect from my property." He paused and I said nothing. "First of all, all women secretly want to be owned and used by a man. It's part of their nature, although it's more pronounced in some than in others. You, in particular, always acted so haughty and proud - your behavior was just an unconcious reaction to your true desire to be enslaved. Any man who knew what to look for could tell that you desperately needed to be taken and trained to be fulfilled as a woman. Despite your apparent success in life, I knew that you were really miserable. I knew you found the wimps you used to date too timid and unassertive. You needed a true master who could see through your facade and take complete command of you. The more aloof you tried to be, the more certain I was." He continued to elaborate on clues he said revealed my true nature. And it was scary how much of what he said actually rang true, although I kept denying it to myself.
But the day was not going to be completely spent chatting. After a few minutes, he seemed to rouse himself out of philosophizing, and got down to the business of continuing the training of his new slave. "You'll soon begin to see the truth of what I've been saying," he said. "Yesterday I showed you what a wanton little slut you truly are. But remember it's *your* purpose to please me, not the other way around." And with that, he proceded to tightly bind my arms behind my back, strapped on a ball gag, attached a leash to my collar and led me to the living room. He forced me down to my knees, bent me over the coffee table, and tied me down tightly. I found myself becoming aroused at his rough treatment, and tried to suppress it, but as he cut off my panties, I heard him chuckle to himself as he felt the telltale moistness. Then, without the elaborate foreplay of the day before, he proceded to quickly rape me doggy-style, leaving me moaning into my gag, completely aroused but unsatisfied. And as he rested and flipped through a magazine, I was left bound to the table, unconciously swaying my hips trying to entice him to fuck me more. My inner slut was on the loose again.
As he'd implied, that day was spent with him forcing me to serve his pleasure. And his pleasure entailed tying me up in numerous positions, always keeping me completely helpless, and fucking me repeatedly. He fucked my cunt, my mouth, and my ass. I was hogtied, ball-tied, bent in a strapado, and suspended upside down. I was also introduced to nipple clips and crotch ropes. I'd never dreamed there wereso many ways to tie a girl up.
After hours of this, he instructed me on some of my more mundane slave duties. First, he dressed me in a "French maid" costume and strapped my elbows behind my back. He connected the leather cuffs on my ankles with a short chain and locked cuffs on my wrists too, but left my wrists otherwise free. He finished my maid's outfit with a bit-gag attached to a head-harness. Thus costumed and restrained, I was commanded to dust, sweep, vacuum, serve dinner, clean up, etc. All the chores a traditional wife might be expected to do, I had to do, only I did them while hobbled and restrained. With my elbows bound, I could not use both hands together, unless I kept them behind my back, in which case I couldn't really see what I was doing. And I almost fell numerous times tottering around on three-inch heels, with only about 6 or 8 inches of slack in my ankle chain (thank goodness he didn't make me wear the 4-inch heels). It was frustrating and humiliating work, and he took great pleasure in watching me attempt these chores, occassionally offering "encouragement" in the form of a whap! on my ass with a riding crop.
After all my chores were finished, he fed me and let me have a bathroom break (finally!). But the evening was still young. There was still time to show me the exercise room. Apparently, he didn't want me to get out of shape, because he had a room full of equipment, to which I was chained, tied, or otherwise fastened, and forced to work out. For the last part of the workout, he commanded me to dance for him. I'm not much of a dancer, but I fiured it wouldn't do much good to protest. So, with my arms tied behind my back, but legs free for a change, and with "Like a Virgin" playing on the stereo, I started a half-hearted attempt to dance. Maybe I was still warm from the workout, but as I got over my initial clumsiness, dancing before him like some harem girl, and seeing the swelling in his pants, that inner slut started asserting herself once again, making my movements more sensual and evocative. Of course, he couldn't help but notice.
"You look mighty fine, Slave. And your dance is very effective, as you can see," he said, while opening his fly and pulling out his enourmous erect cock. "Would you like to suck it?"
"Yes, Master, please," replied my inner slut in a husky whisper.
He allowed the song to end, then ordered me to kneel at his feet, and suck his cock, which I did eagerly and hungrily, with my arms still bound tightly behind me.
That night, he fastened my wrists and ankles together with handcuffs, chained my collar to his bed, and let me sleep with him. This was my "reward" for learning my lessons so well. And so my fourth night as a slave was spent gratefully at my Master's side in my Master's bed.
Anyway, here I sit, waiting for the return of my Master, and recalling
those first few days of my captivity as his sex slave. I estimate it
won't be much longer until he returns home, so I don't know how much
more of this I can get into writing today.
Actually, this little memoir was my Master's idea. After months of his training and discipline, I was quite the model slave. But over the last few days, I had become moody and restless, to the extent that the Master's usual "attentions" failed to have their usual effect on me. I don't know myself why this was, but yesterday he brought me his Powerbook, and said "I know you used to like to write, so I command you to start writing again. You're to recount your experience as my slave. You should include your own thoughts and feelings as opposed to just a factual account. I will not punish you for anything you write, but all other aspects of your behavior must continue to be strictly respectful to me as usual." A rather odd form of discipline, this, but I guess it's already worked pretty well. After all, I'm back to mentally calling him "Master," instead of "that madman." Once again, my Master has shown he knows his slave better than she knows herself. But unexpectedly, writing this has got! ten me thinking about an incident that occurred after about a month in his control; an incident I though I'd put out of my mind for good.
It was fairly late one evening. We'd been playing one of his little games, the one I call "Chrissy, the clumsy cheerleader." I was dressed in a cheerleader's outfit, and was being disciplined for not holding the splits long enough (the truth is that he tickled my foot!). I was seated on a high stool, my wrists tied behind my back and pulled up sharply to a hook in the ceiling. He had pulled the stool little by little away from the spot where the hook was, so that I was finally forced to sit quite upright, with my arms pulled straight out back almost parallel to the floor. My ankles were tied to the legs of the stool, and my mouth was stuffed with one of his ever-popular ball-gags. When he was satisfied with my position, he pulled my cheerleader sweater up and tugged my bra down so my breasts popped out, for him to knead and kiss and squeeze. Despite the strain I felt in my shoulders, his manipulation of my tits was getting me hot, and I squirmed on the stool trying to get one of the knots in the crotch rope to rub my clit. And when he clipped the clothes pins on my nipples, I practically exploded inside. Those hateful little things are like a direct jolt to my pleasure center when they first go on, although they hurt like hell after a while. Thus stimulated, I pleaded into my gag for him to take me down and fuck me. But just as he stood back to admire his handy work, a funny look crossed his face, like he'd just reached a decision about something, and he left the room without a word.
When he returned, he was carrying something I hadn't seen before. It was a metal rod, about the size of a fireplace poker, except for the end which was finished in an elaborate pattern that looked something like a circle with mirror-image letters inside. Suddenly, I recognized it as a branding iron, and my arousal of just seconds ago turned quickly to stark fear. He was going to brand me! I started to panic, bucking about on the stool, and almost dislocating my shoulders. He rushed over and physically settled me down.
"Relax, Michelle, I'm not going to use this now," he said, using my *real name* for the first time since he'd captured me. It had been so long since I'd heard my name, it sounded strange to me. Why was the Master calling his slave by her name, I wondered?
"I just decided to show this to you today..." he continued. "Yes, it is a branding iron, and yes, those are my initials." He held it in front of me like he was displaying a fine wine at dinner. "As I said, I won't use it today, but I *do* hope to use it on you some day - to permanently mark you as mine."
Despite his assurance, tears of panic still streamed down my face. He lifted the short little cheerleader skirt to reveal my naked ass, and pressed the business end of iron up against my skin. It felt hard and cold, and I shivered at its touch.
"When the day comes to use this, it won't be cold - it'll be red hot," he said. "I'll tie you face down to the x-frame, so thoroughly you won't be able to move a muscle. But I won't gag you, because I'll want to hear your screams. I'll bring the heated iron over to you, and let it linger by your face so you can feel its heat against your cheek." He demonstrated with the cold iron, holding it by my face. "Then I'll guide it down the length of your naked body, letting you feel the heat all along the way - and finally press it into your flesh right about here," again demonstrating with the now cold iron.
As he did so, I imagined the hot metal pressed deliberately onto my skin. I started crying again, and I mmpphed through my gag, "Please no, Master, please!" Why was he taunting me like this?
Again he continued, "The pain will be worse than anything you've experienced before at my hands. It will probably be worse than anything you've *ever* experienced. You'll scream like you've never screamed before. You'll smell your own flesh burning under the red hot iron. And when I pull the iron away, the air hitting the wound will redouble the pain - you'll think you're going to die."
He paused, letting the impact of his decsription sink in. But what he said next was even more shocking to me.
"But, Michelle, this is one thing I will not do to you at my own whim. Your permanent marking with the iron will be your own decision, and it will be the last decision you'll ever make for yourself. That's why I'm using your real name - to emphasize the fact that this is completely within your control. And that's also why I'll want to hear your screams - because they'll be screams you offer to me of your own will." He started removing my gag as he went on, "You may not believe it now, but a day will come when you have so completely accepted your true nature as my slave, when you've so accepted my ownership of your body, mind, and soul, you'll crouch at my feet and beg me to do this to you." Having finished removing the gag, he said, "You have permission to speak."
After hearing all this, I was convinced that he'd completely flipped, and couldn't help saying so. "You're CRAZY if you think I'll ever ASK you to brand me! You're just plain nuts! You might as well get rid of that thing now."
"We'll just see about that. But you can rest assured I'll keep my word not to use it until you ask for it." And then, putting the branding iron down, he abruptly changed gears, saying, "I still seem to have a clumsy little cheerleader who needs to be punished."
Realizing our strange interlude was over, I quickly stifled my tears, and put myself back into obedient slave mode, "But, Master, your slave's mood is ruined," I said, sniffling and pouting.
"We'll just see about that, too..."
And so, on that day my Master confidently predicted he would someday capture his slave's mind and soul as well as her body. And I had successfully avoided thinking about his prediction until now. But then, why am I thinking about it now? Is this some kind of plan of his? He must have known that forcing me to write about my experience would eventually bring me to the topic of the branding iron. Does he actually think I would agree to such a thing now, when in reality I would still escape from here given the opportunity.
After all, if I were freed today, I could return to the world I knew. My job, my friends, deciding things for myself. But then again, I can't deny that the man who captured me has shown me a side of myself I never even knew existed. And he's brought me levels of ecstacy I'd only read about in romance novels. Would I be able to find THESE things again "outside"?
And could I really return to that other world again? The deadlines, the obnoxious people, the bills to pay, the stress... The man who captured me takes cares of my every need. And this man - this Master - had to risk his own freedom to get what he wanted - me. How many other men have I known who would do that? Not one! My Master has made me the center of his world like no other man I've known.
My God! Suddenly a mental fog lifts, revealing an exquisite gem of a paradox, a fundamental truth that hits me like a slap in the face. These steel bars, these ropes and straps that confine me physically, have actually freed a part of me I don't want to lose and would never know otherwise. The REAL prison is the mental one I'd built for myself in the world outside. I begin to see that my true decision is not about avoiding a hot branding iron. It's about being truly free in my capitivity rather than enslaved in so-called freedom.
And I suddenly know what I must do when my Master returns home. I will crawl to his feet, and beg permission to speak. I will tell him that "Michelle" has gone for good, and I will beg him to please get the iron hot, because "your slave" is ready.
Listen! I think I hear him coming now...