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I Am The Thorn
King, The Lord Of Brambles
Chapter Three
����������� What am-are I-You?� I am the slave made of crag, yet I am the stone
and rock, yet I am the sculptor-David-masterPIECE-Michelangelo.� Two objects in the world of the mind and
Socrates and Pythagoras that runs perpendicular to the world of Yeats and
Beckett and Einstein, cannot have the same name.� So why do we have the same name?� Why is there even a �we?�� Go fuck yourself.� But what about me?� You�ll get your turn, supplied by the second
rule: though two objects cannot have the same name, it is certainly possible
that one object can two names.� Oh,
that�s nice, yes.....oh, yes, do that AGAIN.�
Ah, but there�s a third rule.�
What?� What are you talking
about?� Leave me alo-oohhhhhgoddontstopnothethird
RULE.� The third rule states that an
object can exist without a name.
����������� It�s three in the morning, and my dreams keep waking me up.� I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, plunking the toilet lid back and seating myself.� I could see if I wanted to in the black of the tiled room, but I keep my eyelids clenched, hoping to cram the leaking sleepiness back behind them.
����������� And what the hell was all that about, anyway?���������
����������� I shouldn�t talk to myself like that
� it just encourages them.� The dreams, I
mean.
����������� You talk to yourself� because you�re lonely.� You know that, don�t you?
����������� Damn.
����������� Slave�s been asleep since she had dinner, around seven.� That�s already eight hours, but she�s still somewhat in recovery.� She wasn�t in as bad a shape after those first few days of her training as I thought, but that still meant that she needed about a week to heal.� Fine � it was time that was needed to touch her mind more deeply than her body.� One week in solitary confinement.�
����������� The first day, she was essentially unconscious.� For the second, she was awake and mobile, so I slid in her meals and replaced the chemical toilet while she slept.� By the fifth day, she tried to stay awake to simply catch a glimpse of me.� She awoke as I closed the door too loudly on my way out. �I saw the crash of her body against the door, heard her hoarsely try to shout to me.� She was being driven to the brink of her sanity from isolation.� Yesterday, I came into her cell to find her crying and rocking in the corner.� The moment she realized I was in the room, she threw herself on my leg, silently refusing to let go.� I shucked her off my leg, gave her the meal, and left.� Tenuous at best.� ��
����������� I crawl back into bed, my mind made up.� I can�t afford to actually have her go crazy, so it�s time. �Let the breaking end, and the training begin.� I roll over to catch up on sleep.
�����������
����������� I stand in front of Slave�s door in blue sweatpants and a green tee-shirt, my bare feet cold against the stone.� It�s seven in the morning.� I turn the key in the lock, and walk in to see her bolt awake from her cot.� Her lips part slightly, her eyes are wide and cautious.
����������� �It�s seven A.M., Slave.� Good morning.� You may greet me by saying �Good morning, Master.��
����������� �Good morning, Master!�� She dissolves into coughing, overcome by her abused vocal chords.
����������� �Excellent, Slave.� You remembered.� Now, just to be fair, I�m going to review rules with you.�� She hugs herself and waits.
����������� �First, I am your Master, and you are my Slave.� You will comply with my every command immediately, and you will ultimately obey only me.� Second, you shall call me Master, and I will call you Slave.� Third, you may use your voice as you wish.� Fourth, you will actively try to please me, and never question the methods in which I gain my pleasure.� Fifth, if I am displeased with you for any reason, it is my decision to mete out punishment as I see fit.� Sixth, my word is law.� Should anything I command you to do conflict with these rules, obey the command.� You must always obey my commands.�
����������� She looks stunned, and small wonder.� To have the rest of your life laid out in six rules.� I slap the side of my leg, watch her as she flinches defensively.
����������� �Now, Slave, I give you a choice.� Either come here, kneel before me, and pledge yourself to me and my rules, or be left in here to rot.�� I can feel the cold sweat trickle down the back of my neck.� Doubt and despair scrape up my spine, halting in the skin and jerking out, over and over again.� Seconds howl by me.� I cannot give her a second chance � she would see me as weak, and would force me to obliterate her by the punishment I would have to give.� If I�ve miscalculated . . .� she can�t withstand more of this.� It takes everything I have to maintain an imperious, yet neutral facade.� If she refuses, if she defies me, if she calls my non-bluff, I will have to dispose of her; dispose of her and start anew and risk discovery again.� Slowly, stiffly, she crawls before me.
����������� �Master, please,� she rasps, �I accept.� Please, Master, please, don�t leave me.� Please.� Please.� Please.�� She trails off into a whispering sob, her head shaking back and forth.
����������� �Very � � I strain through my humbled voice, then recover, �Very good, Slave.�� I cup her chin in my left hand, turning her trembling eyes up to mine, newly steeled.
����������� �Let�s get you cleaned up, Slave.� Been a while, hasn�t it?�� She only continues to quiver.� I smile at her.
����������� �Hasn�t it? . . .�� Nothing.
����������� �When in doubt, Slave, just say �Yes, Master.��
����������� �Y-yes, Master.�
����������� �Good.� Now go use the toilet.� We�ve got a busy day.�� She goes to the chemical toilet I placed in the corner.� When she is done, she comes to stand before me.
����������� I offer her my hand, and she places her own cupped fingers in mine.� I lead her out into the corridor, heading towards the bathroom area.� Somewhere in the fifty feet between her cell and where I�m leading her, her smell, covering her body for the last week, races straight from my nose to my loins, pulling as much blood with it as it can.�
����������� I can feel the darkness begin to throb, to awake, to let loose its jaws.� I whirl to Slave, grabbing her throat, forcing her to the wall with a deep growl.� She�s panting in total fear, clenching my unyielding wrist with both hands. �I roar, lust exploding from me as terror implodes her.
����������� �On your knees!� �She looses a sob as she hurries to the floor, and then holds motionless as I hunch over her head to grab her hair, bringing it to my face, inhaling the musk until I can do no more.� I hunger for the next breath, my exhale bestial, my inhale slow and deep, to the bottom of my lungs.� I kneel next to her on the floor, smelling her, learning her, understanding her.� Smelling through the fear and despair, to the secret smell.� The smell that is Her.� She does not reek of fear anymore, her heart not the life-fear-beat.� Now it is the predator-is-near beat.� Barely slower.
����������� I smell her as though I were reading a book, paragraphs and pages rippling in the draft of my breath.� The acrid odor of her armpits.� The shiny, salty smell of her shoulder blades.� The taste of pain in her mouth.� The cool and smooth scent of downy-blonde hairs on the nape of her neck that mixes with her stale sweat.� The flesh heaven between her breasts.� The rivers of her hip bones that lead to the sea between her legs � I am gone.
����������� �Stand up, Slave,� I growl as I whip my clothes away from my body.� I barely wait for her to be on her feet before I grab her leg under the knee and pull it up to my chest.� She gasps and automatically puts her hands on my shoulders, her mouth wide.
����������� �Lower yourself and pray that you�re ready.�� Without hesitation, she shoves two fingers in her mouth and places a gob of spit and phlegm inside herself as she slides down the wall and slightly forward, offering her ripe sex to me.� She barely has the time to get her fingers out of the way before I rush into her.
����������� Almost.� I get an inch or two inside before meeting dry resistance.� Still six more to go.� I pump and weave just inside her lips, and soon feel them swell in defeat.� The tears are streaming down her face, where I can see it through her hair.� I stroke deeper.� Halfway now, and the going is smooth.� Soon after, I�m slamming in and out of her, pummeling her hole.� She lets out cries of pain with each thrust, tight as she is.� With one hand on the wall, I can feel and see the veins slugging along to my tempo.� I bury my face in her neck, the place with the most distinct smell of all.� Harder.� Deeper.� Stronger.� Louder.� Faster.�
����������� It doesn�t take more than eight or ten minutes.� A last, roaring frenzy.� Pumping, slurping, sucking.� Her high-pitched sobs, the slapping sound of her high, full, firm ass against the harshly cut stone.� I pull away, and watch the cum slip out of her.� All I can hear is our ragged breathing.� Easily fixed.� I grab one of her nipples and pull until she�s squealing on her tiptoes.
����������� �Time for that shower, slave.� I suggest you keep up.�� She nods as fast as she can, still squealing.� I stride quickly to the room, keeping her tit in the air and nothing but her toes on the ground.� She struggles to keep up, but manages not to fall.�
����������� We have arrived in the cavernous bathroom.� It has a vague �L� shape to it, with the door leading into it at the top end.� The whole room is tiled a dark, polished red.� I had this room built first out of all of them, as I didn�t want to take the time to lay all that tile and set up plumbing.� Thus, I had to have it be the first part of the dungeon built so as not to raise suspicions.� A toilet sits in the open against one wall, a simple necessity.� Further down and across from it is a set of three adjustable showerheads built into the wall.� A long hose extension is coiled on a hook beneath each, with controls for heat and flow farther along the wall.� The shower system is greatly enhanced by the rig of pulleys and stainless steel chains that I installed in the ceiling, and a drain in the depressed center of the floor.� Around the corner is a small pool, empty for the moment. ��
����������� I pull even higher and give her a sharp twist of my wrist and fingers, sending her careening into a higher octave.� At last, I let go and grab her head to face the tiled wall.
����������� �Stand with your legs a little more than shoulder-width apart and your hands clasped behind your back, palms out, Slave.� Head level, eyes ahead.� This is �Stand.�� I may also cue this to you with a raised upward palm.� Remember it.�� I walk to the far end of the room and wheel back a workbench full of waterproof tools.� I pick up a spreader bar with ankle cuffs, and a pair of handcuffs.� I crank down some of the chains hidden in the ceiling recesses.� I cuff Slave�s hands over her head, attaching them to the chain just over her head, and hobble her with the spreader bar.� Now she�s ready for her cleaning.� For me, preparation is the best way to ensure success.
����������� I turn the water on, and she shrieks at how cold it is, twisting as it hits her in the face and breasts from three angles.� She splutters, choking on the water until she has the sense to bow her head.� She tries to dance around, but the chains and the bar limit her movement severely.� Gradually, the water heats up to a pleasantly hot temperature.� With the door closed like it is, the room will soon be filled with a warm steam � damp, dark, hot � we stand deep inside her sticky, harshly fucked sex.� She relaxes, and as I turn to check some adjustments to the chains, I can feel her eyes upon me.�
����������� This man of average stature, of pale skin, of sharp words, of soft footfalls, of sure balance, of dark heart.� He is your Master.� Look well.� Know the dread muscles that shift under his skin like dunes of sand blown by a dervish wind. �Know the coarse gunpowder hair upon his body.� Please the brute arbiter between his legs.� Remember the vicious power that courses through his body, his raging arms, his unrelenting torso, his swift and sturdy legs, his barbaric shoulders, and his cruel hands.� Fear the mind that you yet know nothing of, save that it has taken your life from you, and feeds on your pain.
����������� I look at her, and she whips her gaze back to the wall.� After rummaging around a bit, I pad over to her, a pair of sandals in each hand.
����������� �I�ll be bathing with you, Slave, as always.� These are so we don�t slip and have something unfortunate happen.� Lift your foot.�� I put the gripping sandals on her feet, though I have to help her a bit with the weight of the bar.� She�s still very weak.� I can feel the warm spatter from the shower starting to drench me, trickling down my back and legs.� I stand in front of her, fully soaked, water rolling off of me, carrying the tension of serious training with it.� I cup one of her breasts and slowly rub it, appreciating the unique sensations of touch for each part of it.� I glance over her shoulder to the back of the room, noting how it is beginning to fill with steam.� I let go, and help her stand more in the center of the three streams, re-positioning them to hit every major part of her body.� I pull up a bottle of shampoo, keeping my place in front of her as my hands work behind her.
����������� I pour a liberal amount into my hands and work it into a lather with my hands behind her body to shield them from the spray.� Then, slowly, I start to work it into the tips of her hair, rubbing deep.� She remains silent, though we are only inches apart.� I look at her bloodshot eyes and see pliant beauty there.� She stares ahead, over my shoulder.� Such obedience . . . I can feel myself grow hard enough to rest in the V of her legs.� My hands wander somewhat from their purpose, grabbing a cheek of her ass now and then.� Her long hair takes some time, but the tangles start to come out, and by the time I come to her scalp, it feels sleek.
����������� �Alright, Slave, lean forward to rinse.�� I step slightly to one side and watch her move to catch the water in her hair.� I help her as before, sweeping the shampoo away and down her face to the floor, flowing back behind us to the drain in the center.� The steam now fills the room like so much gray, opaque light.
����������� Next comes the conditioner, same as before, except this time I stand behind her to get a better angle, for her and myself.
����������� �Stick your ass out, Slave.�� She complies, and I grin at the supreme view.� I can�t resist, and stick the first inch or two into her, letting it sit there.� I can see her back shudder a little bit, and her hips twitch slightly, finding a more comfortable way to hold herself.� Her hair gleams under my hands, and I end by putting my hand on the back of her head, gently forcing it over and down.� The water cascades down, but her hair still needs to be rubbed for the full effect.� I push forward further, sinking into her, thinking about how much it must disturb her to be wet enough inside for the little trick to work.� She must also be puzzled at how I decline to actually fuck her, content with being inside her as I help her with her salon.� Her breath catches a little when I flex my cock in a long, swelling kegel, stretching her.� Once she feels rinsed, I pull on her hair to get her to stand up, releasing myself of her sheath.
����������� Now for the body.� I pull her out of the direct stream and command her to stand up straight, and then walk over to the rack of hose attachments, selecting a soft scrubber.� I squeeze a liberal amount of body soap into the head, and turn the flow to a trickle before beginning to cover her skin.� She inhales sharply as the head pushes through the top of her muscular ass to vigorously scrub her from crack to clit.� Finished with that, I rinse her down, and select a new shower-head.� Approximately eight inches in length and five or six inches around, it�s a respectable cylinder.� The slightly bulbous head, with fine, rounded ports coming down from the first three inches of the tip spray water in every direction.� I pour soap all over the cylinder, and put Slave�s head far down.� She must expect what is coming next, and she bucks, evading my capturing hand.� Can�t have any of that.
����������� �I told you, Slave � you have to obey me immediately.� Now pay for it.�� Her head whips around as I grab a paddle from the tool cart.� The whistle of air through the holes in the paddle alone could make me smile.� But that crack as it strikes flesh can only be described as gleeful satisfaction.� At the first one, she grunts, but hard on its heels is a scream as my second, harder swing lands almost directly on top of the first, right across her ass.� The force of it pitches her forward into her chains, keeping her from falling to the floor.� Now she�s really trying to evade it, but it avails her nothing.� My swats fall all over her legs and cheeks.� On the seventh swing, she cries out.
����������� �Master, please, I�m sorry!� Master, please stop!�� I don�t bother to stop my swings, but I still answer her over her yelping and crying.
����������� �Remember.� Because you are my Slave, you will obey my every command immediately.�� I swat her a little harder than before, and watch her cheeks start to really glow.� Droplets of water flee from the path of my swing.
����������� �Remember.� Your punishments are mine to administer, both start and stop.� You, your pain, your pleasure, your body, your will �� I finish with a two-handed wallop and listen to her jolted scream and sob � �All are mine to control and do with as I please.� Now keep crying as long as you need to.� The sound of it makes me hard, knowing that I wanted it to happen.�� I drop the paddle to the floor with a clunk and clatter, and pick up the cylinder, first washing all but the faintest trace of slippery soap from it.� Every time she sobs, my dick swells and the head flares with a kind of hunger.
����������� �So.� The paddle was punishment for disobeying my command.� I still have to punish you for asking me to stop.� For that, you will take this without lubrication.� Now bend over, idiot.� I�m disappointed with you right now, and that is not a good place for you to be.�� Not that I expected anything different from her � but the verbal abuse helps to break her down further.� She will feel more accomplished when I treat her well if I rough her up verbally first.� However, I must not make my insults of the trashy, gutter variety: �Bitch.�� �Whore.�� �Slut.�� No.� These must be personal attacks on those aspects of herself which she has held dear in the past.� Just now, her intelligence has been called into question, and the feigned disgust on my face reinforces it.� I can tell this is the case when she looks at me, and stops crying about the pain.� Now, tears well up because of her imposed stupidity.
����������� �Did I say you could look at me?�� She hardly makes a noise before I cut her off.
����������� �Shut up!� You�ve lost talking privileges for the day!� And stop looking at me with that stupid, bovine look on your face.� I promise you, Slave, if you don�t show some spark of aptitude soon, I�m going to rid myself of you.� Now bend over like the cow you seem to want to be!�� Unsurprisingly, she does, stifling sobs.� She�s shaking, and as soon as I come around behind her, I�m shaking as well.
����������� I push the tip of the head of the showerhead in without any water on � it goes pretty easily.� The rest of the shaft is another story.� By only the second inch, she tightens up and the shaft stops going in.� She�s in for a real treat, if this is it.� I grab her shoulder with my left hand and take a death-grip on the base of the dildo with my right, and begin an inexorable, slow shove.� She screams � oh, how she screams.� But every time she gets truly too tight, I stop where I am and ream her with it until some kind of lubrication shows up.� Halfway in.
����������� �Get used to this, Slave.� You�ll be taking truly massive dildos in time.�� My helpful advice doesn�t seem to be appreciated, and she wails in dismay and pain � then goes into a silent sort of crying when I work another inch and a half in.� Now we�re reaching the end of the usable part of the dildo � only about two inches left to go in.� I screw it the rest of the way, twisting it to the right over and over again.� Her voice lilts, but not in a scream.� More an operatic intake of breath.
����������� I turn the faucet on with my free hand, keeping a hold on the shower-dildo.� The warm water starts to flow into her, and she squeals and dances in place, water and cum and fluid and a little pinkish liquid all flowing down her thighs.� After a minute or so, she starts to shudder and breathe like a horse after a race.� Deep, coughing pants that start in her withers and go all the way up through her nose.� That�s when I start altering the temperature quickly, but not over a very wide range.� Hotter, colder, colder still, back to hot.� Her eyes roll and her knees go weak, short screams bursting out every now and then.
����������� Gradually, I turn the faucet off and watch her go limp.� She sighs with exhaustion as the dildo comes out, and I take a good look at the raw hole.� I stand, turn the shower off, and hoist her to a standing position.� She won�t look me in the eye, and sniffles beautifully.� I unlock her, throw her a towel, and start to dry myself off.
����������� �Now, Slave � you�re all clean.� The question is, what could we possibly do that wouldn�t get you dirty, would please me, and wouldn�t tax that little cow brain of yours, eh?�� She is silent, and stares away with a mix of despair and hate.� Good, that comment got to her.
����������� �Stand.�� She follows the command, and waits.
����������� �Think you could handle the beginning of your training, Slave?�
����������� �Yes, Master.�
����������� �Good.� First, you will Heel on the way to the training room, understood?�
����������� �Yes, Master.� Like a dog?�
����������� �Yes and no, Slave.� You will crawl on the floor on your hands and knees, and you will be one step behind me and to my right.� But a dog?� No.� A dog I would have respect for at this point.� You aren�t worth that, yet.�� She fights the tears, but they come anyway.
����������� �Heel, Slave.�
����������� She does, and we start to make our way to the Training Room.� I stop before we enter the room, and turn to her.
����������� �Rise to a squat or kneeling position, Slave.� Show me that you can suck me well.�� She looks at my thighs and hanging member as she rises.� Then, slowly, she takes my cock in hand and starts to jerk slowly, lapping at my balls.
����������� I lean my head back and take in the experience: a gorgeous woman, my gorgeous woman, doing her best to suck me off simply because I ordered it.� Amazing.� I can feel my erection grow, and her full lips and mouth slide and tease their way over it.� I look at her again.
����������� �Look up, Slave.�� Her eyes fix themselves onto mine, her hand caresses me, her mouth adores me.� All faked, for now.� All mine, forever.
����������� �You do have potential, Slave.� But you need to let go of your past life to be treated well, to live.� I have faith in your potential and mine.� With time, you shall be great, and we shall do great things together.�� Tears roll down her cheeks, and she gags and chokes a little.
����������� �Be sure to look up when you suck, Slave.�� She looks up, and I stare straight down at her.
����������� �One day, you will make me proud, and you will revel in it, and you will thank me.�� She sucks harder for a second, and then goes back to being mediocre.� Slowly, surely, I shall win.
Chapter 4 in the works: Bondage Party
-Vorpal Bull
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