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.
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."
Master. Your slave awaits your command."
"Excellent. I have
your breakfast here. You may arise and get it."
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.
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."
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."
do you ask to speak?"
"Master, your slave begs for
permission to speak."
"What are you?"
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.
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."
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
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."
I know you're sorry NOW, but now it's too late - you have to take your
medicine like a good little slave."
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
"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.
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."
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.
me," he said, "this hurts me more than it hurts you."
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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!
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
"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
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
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."
Master. Your slave is horny slut. She's a bitch in heat, who needs to be
used, and serve her Master."
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
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."
morning, Master. Your slave awaits your command," I answered,
remembering the greeting he'd ordered me to always use.
good. And my command is for you to tell me how you're feeling this
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?
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."
OK? Don't lie to me, because I can tell when you're lying."
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.
grabbed me by the hair pulling my head back sharply. "But what! Slave,"
he shouted, obviously displeased at my interruption.
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
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?"
Master, please," replied my inner slut in a husky whisper.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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?
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."
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..."
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"?
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
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.
I think I hear him coming now...