I Am The Thorn King, The Lord of Brambles

I Am The Thorn King, The Lord Of Brambles

Chapter Two

 

            This orphanage is so small, and there are so many children . . . how do they keep them all?  Where are their parents, anyhow?  Shouldn’t they care for their children, teach them?  I have only one friend here, and the other children don’t like it.

            “Playing with dollies, he’s playing with his dolly!”  I look at who they scream of: Her.  My only friend.  And yet the demons tell me, through my own private channel to Hell, that I should cast her down.

            She cries as I turn from her, and cries louder as the fading sun reveals  my true form.  My multitudes of spines and spikes, briars and bristles,  peaks and planes cascade down from my temples to cover my poor deceived body, quivering from the sound of  my voice that rumbles in the air like distant thunder:

            “I Am The Thorn King, The Lord Of Brambles.”

 

            Consciousness comes gaspingly fast as I lie in bed on this cryptic, rainy morning.  I slide on a pair of shorts and cross my bedroom to stare at the mountain amphitheater stretching away outside my windows.  I turn away from the view to enter my exercise room.

            Two hours, a shower, and a quick breakfast later, I’m ready to begin with Slave.  Down there, in the dungeon, my fantasy will come to dark life.  Brick by brick, hour by secretive hour, I have constructed my lair.  Through the door behind the fake wall in the pantry.  Down a flight of stairs.  A second door, then a short corridor of solid cinderblock and heavy iron-bound oak doors, lit only by a few intentionally dingy hanging lamps.  A supply room, bathroom, and Slave’s quarters are the conventional parts of the dungeon, while the Training and Torture Rooms wait at the far end of the hall.  It’s time for Slave to wake up.  Along the way, I change into my usual training clothes, taking time to swipe up a thin bamboo cane and two of her prescription birth control pills. 

            I put my ear up to the door, and hear some slight rustling.  It is good that she hasn’t slept – she makes my coming job easier.  As I open the door and walk inside, her bloodshot, puffy eyes whip around to me and she whimpers as she frantically tries to conceal her nakedness.

            “Good morning, Slave.  Today marks the beginning of your training.  You may respond to me by saying ‘Good morning, Master.’”

            “Good – mmmorning.”  I wait for a second more, but her confusion is plain.

            “Wrong.”  I step forward and land the cane across the small of her back.  She cries out, reflexively reversing her body to hide her back against the wall.

            “Good morning, Slave.”

            “Master!” She shrieks.  Like a foil, my cane drops under her guard to flick her from the middle of her sex to the red crease at the top of her ass.  Her hips pitch forward and she howls.

            “Good morning, Slave.”  She recoils as her eyes come up to mine.  I know what she’s thinking – he’s crazy, what does he want?

            “Good…….morning…..Master.”  Her whispered acknowledgement, however ill-done, is enough for the moment.  She cringes immediately, and when the blow does not land, she only continues to stare at me.

            “Get up.”  She is a little slow to comply, so as she turns I crack her across the bottom crease of her ass, sending minute ripples across the cheeks.  She yips at that, and straightens her legs with more urgency.

            “Good, Slave.  I like to see a little enthusiasm from people.  Makes me feel even more in control.  You do know that I’m in control, don’t you?”

            “Yes.”  Annoyed, I grab her head with my other hand, turning her eyes into mine.

            “Not promising, Slave.  What do you do when you address me?”

            “Master!”  She squeals pleasingly, so I release her and she drops to the ground, shaking and panting.

            “Next time you will address me properly.”

            “Yes . . . Master!”  To avoid any messy cleanups, I walk her to the bathroom to use the toilet.  A few minutes later, she’s back in her cell.  I toss the pills to the floor in front of her, slamming the door behind me on my way out, leaving her so that the anticipation can gnaw at her.  It is a full thirty-six hours before I return to the basement.

            I study my Torture Room.  Cabinets hold most of my tools, while others hang within easy reach of my hands and her eyes, upon the walls, or on benches.  Finally, just for theatrics, some pokers sit in an iron brazier of coals next to a pillar, and an open iron maiden leans in the corner.  Today will go hard on her, though not so hard as that.

            I force myself to move slowly and deliberately – anticipation is at work on me as well.  Stop that, I admonish myself, the hands of the Master do not shake.  With a quick glance, I decide on a wide leather belt with heavy iron rings, three pairs of handcuffs, and the cane I started with.

            When I open the door to Slave’s quarters, I can’t help but notice how filmy her lips are and how dull her eyes look.  I toss the belt and handcuffs to the floor from the doorway, a cane tucked under my arm.

            “You are to attach one set of cuffs to your ankles, locking them together.  The belt will go around your waist, not your hips.  Next, you will attach the other handcuffs, one to each wrist, and then attach the other end of those cuffs to the rings that will be at the sides of your belt.  If you accomplish this by the time I get back, I will you give you something to eat and drink.  If you do not, you will receive a beating instead.”  Her eyes widen as she goes still, staring at my retiring shadow. 

            I want her to be conscious, but not able to gain her strength back.  As well, I could do without having her puke in large volumes, should she choose to.  Upstairs, I scoop up a large handful of macadamia nuts, a birth control pill, and a glass of water, and return.

            She’s managed to do it.  I come over to her side and kneel beside her.  She looks at me only momentarily before studying the floor between her stretched-out legs.

            “Open your mouth – I’m going to feed you.”  Tentatively at first, then greedily, she sucks down half the water before I take it away.  Her mouth parts slightly, matching the slackness in her eyes.  I feed her the nuts, knowing that their dense fat calories will keep her going for some time, if she can keep them down.  I show her the pill, and she looks more than a little relieved.  I place it in her mouth and give her the rest of the water.  After I haul her to the bathroom and back, I leave her once again, with instructions to be waiting on her feet when I return.  I require time to collect myself, though I don’t tell her.

            Once in my study, I spend some time reviewing ideas, memorizing diagrams.  I am only a Master in the making, and relatively inexperienced.  However, I also have practically all the time in the world.  Convenient, considering that if I don’t take my time with this, I’ll botch the whole thing.  I have to succeed, because this is my one chance.  I can’t risk another abduction. In my opinion, Masters are tied to their Slaves, as attached to them as any normal person can be to any other major investment.

            However, some aren’t really Masters, in my view.  They are Ghouls, devouring their thralls with recklessness and child-gone-wrong insouciance, wanton cruelty pushing them to subject their prey to heinous tortures.  Even death doesn’t stop the torment at times.  I know a powerful few; people that I must tolerate within my circle of contacts because they are critical to myself or the group, for now.  Frowning at the thought, I take time to go over my Art of War, as well as my Machiavelli.     

            A short time later, nightfall has come, and I go to check on Slave.  She bolts up to her feet from where she had been dozing in a squat against the wall.

            “No, please, you have to understand!”

            “It’s alright, Slave.  You were technically on your feet when I came in.”  At her look of relief, I know that I am beginning to win – she seeks my praise, because she knows that it staves off torment.

            “However, you did not call me Master.” 

            I walk over to her, casually, a smile on my face.  This is an unknown to her, and she recoils from me.  I slap her hard across the breasts once, watching her cry out and collide with the floor.  I haul her up by her hair, listening to the screeching and cursing begin anew.  I drag her to where she was before I slapped her, glaring at her.

            “If you shrink from me again, you will be punished.  You must be obedient to me, which means that you do nothing without my command.  If I wish you to run from me so that I may have the pleasure of chasing and raping you, then you shall do so.  If I wish you to cower before me, then you will cower.  My wish is your command.  But never,” I say as I place my forefinger and thumb on her nipple, “never think that your punishments, tortures, or servitude will stop simply because you’ve had enough.  Kneel.”  I clamp down on her small, pink nipple and twist sharply, forcing her to the ground.

            “Lean back and hold on to your heels.  Thrust your chest up.”  She rushes to it, albeit awkwardly because of the handcuffs.

            “Now.....don’t move.”  I draw my hand back and slap her left breast, heaving it into her other mound with a rippling thwack.  My strike has opened one of my bite-marks from our first night.  I backhand her right breast straight down, the smack of my knuckles loud against the firm softness.  She yelps at each.  After five slaps apiece, I stop.  She raises her head, her lips quivering and her breath coming in snot-clogged sobs.  I hoist her up by the belt, and shove her into the corridor.

            In the flickering shafts of light in the corridor, I see how battered her body is.  Her hair is a complete tangled, frizzy mess.   Her eyes are a ruinous shade of red, crusted from her tears.  Her breasts look mauled; bruises, indented teeth marks, encrusted blood, nipples beaten to the shade of roses left for dead in a dry vase.  They must be killing her – I’ll have to address that soon, but first she will be introduced to the Torture Room.

            “And now, Slave, a limited tour of your new home.  On one side you have the support rooms – supplies, necessities, and the like.  On the other, you have the Training Room, which you will get to know quite well, I assure you.  It’s the largest one, by the way.”  She seems troubled, or is at least showing something besides fear and confusion.

            “Permission to speak granted, Slave.”

            “What....what is that room, at the end, with that little iron-barred window?”

            “That,” I reply, “is the Torture Room.”  Her scream echoes and amplifies in the corridor too fast for me to think beyond the shock and pain, forcing me to reflexively cover my ears.

            She lurches from my grasp, stumbling away.  I reach out to her, and narrowly dodge a knee meant for my groin.  She leaps for the door, but I’m faster and flank her in the last few feet.  I hammer her once in the stomach, crumpling her over my shoulder.  Like a sack, I carry her into the room.  I listen to the creak of the heavy iron hinge-pins, the wail of my prize, the rushing blood in my ears, the whistling slam of the door behind us, the bestial dark of the room we stand in, and as I listen I feel myself harden beyond my control.

            I set her on her feet, pinning her arms to her sides with my own.  I turn on the lights, and she takes it all in within a few horrible seconds.  She slumps forward, and it’s only my arm that prevents her from collapsing to the floor.  Her head lolls to the side, and I realize that she has fainted.  She’s made of fear.  Perfect.

            I carry her to one of my wooden stock variations and set her down.  It’s set close to a wall under one of the ubiquitous multi-purpose bracket/pulleys set into the stone.  Quickly, I dig through the chest in the corner and come up with some rope and various other restraints, dumping them to one side.  I open the stocks and Slave’s handcuffs, then shove her with my foot, bringing her around.

            “Get up and put your head and hands into the gaps.”  She whimpers, but does as she’s told.  I close and lock the stocks, then strap her feet together and tie the strap to the frame of the stocks.  She shifts her feet slightly, feeling the slight give in the binding.  I tie a rope to the loops in her belt, at the sides and in the small of her back.  She seems worried at this, but then becomes noticeably more agitated once I secure the rope to the support system and begin to raise her exposed lower body higher and higher.  Eventually, she stands on the very pads of her feet, her toes close together and her ass high.  Her succulent breasts hang down, swinging slightly.  I tie off the rope – no give in this one.

            I can see the reproachful look of her sex, the way the lips puff out; angry and purple in their defiant pain from last night’s rape.  I can also see the damage done to her breasts.  If I don’t do something soon, she might become infected.

            “Slave.  Look at me,” I bark.  Slowly, hesitatingly, she looks up at me from the corner of her eye.  I continue more calmly. 

            “Slave, I must break you before you can be mine, seeking to please me unconditionally.  I must push you beyond your psychological limits to the brink of your physical limits.  However, as I said before, I will attend to your medical needs if I deem it necessary.  Once you trust me with this responsibility, I will never ask you again, for you will have given away your ability to choose.  I should point out that at the moment, your breasts and vaginal area are of particular concern.”

            “You’re fucking batshit crazy!  That’s – OW!”  I present the removed pubic hairs for her inspection.  My quirked eyebrow seems to speak to her.  She breathes deeply.

            “Master.  May I speak, Master?”

            “Yes.”

            “Master, this is not fair!”

            “That is none of our concern.  Now choose.”  The seconds crawl by as she bites her lip and a bare number of tears roll down her face.

            “Yes, Master, please attend to my wounds, master.”

            “Very well.”  I rummage in the supply room, and in a short time I return to my prettily arranged beauty.

            “Remember, you are mine.  Say it.”  I soak my rag.

            “I am yours, Master,” comes the hoarse, shaky voice.

            “Good.”  With that, I rub the dripping rag all over her breasts, drenching them in rubbing alcohol.  Her gasping, choked screams and violently bouncing breasts send chills down my spine – yet when I grind the rag high between her thighs, I nearly cum from the thumping jerks of her ankles, the hysterical bucking of her ass.  By the end, she has torn some clumps of wispy hair from the nape of her neck in her frantic efforts to escape.

            “Now you are at no risk of infection,” I sigh.  Her face remains flushed, her breathing shallow and fast.  I pluck a slim-handled leather whip from one of the wall fixtures, the pommel flared yet with a smooth, unridged contour.  I place the base of the whip around her bound ankles, and begin to draw my way along her body with it.  The whip swirls around her like a lustful snake, each inch following the one in front of it, coldly tasting her skin.  She shudders from the moment it touches her.

            “This is a whip, Slave.  Leather.  Do you know what I’m going to do with it?”  Silence.

            “No need to answer, Slave; it was a rhetorical question.”  Her body whole body pulses red as she screams her frustration and fear:

            “Why!?  Why are you doing these things to me?  Why do you punish me even when I’ve done everything you’ve asked?” 

            “Why, Slave?  Because I wish to, that’s why!  I get pleasure from it!  I need no other reasons.  Now, I was planning on giving you just a few lashes.  However, you failed to address me properly.  Several times.  That adds, Slave.  How much?  I’m not sure.  But we’ll see.”  She’s trying to cry, but she’s all out of fluid.  Christ, finally, I think.  I’ve been trying to get her to do that for a while now.  Now she will go without fluid for a little longer so that she may be further broken down.

            “Prepare to receive your punishment, Slave.  If at any time you wish it to stop after twelve lashes, just say the word.”  Taking her dumb silence for attention, I go on.  “The phrase that will stop your punishment after twelve lashes is ‘Master, please fuck me.’  As with your capitulation to my medical ministrations, this phrase will forever take away your ability to choose.  The same rules apply, naturally.”  She seems to withdraw into herself in shock, and I allow her the silence to contemplate this new change.  Suddenly, I am struck by the urge not to rush the process: I have worked hard for just this sort of moment.  With a feeling of pride, I stare at my captive.  My Slave.

            Her well-defined muscles show the influence of years of volleyball, weight training, aerobics, Pilates, and track stardom.  Her feet are fine-boned, delicately arched, the way a painter’s foot would look if feet were as talented as hands.  Her ankles are graceful – separate pieces working in unison under one skin.  Her smooth, inverted oval stomach drains my eyes.  Her narrow waist and defined ribcage make the size of her hips and ass even more dramatic and breathtaking.  Her breasts are larger than I first suspected; a full C cup without any stretch of the mind, yearning for attention.

            Her neck isn’t one of those long, graceful ones, but neither is it fleshy or ugly.  Still, it does well to compliment the coy beauty of her clavicle.  Her face and back are almost totally clear, with some small traces of the scarring acne left over from her teenage years so recently left behind.

            She won’t look me in the eyes now, but I can see them just the same.  Green like an unripe carrot, like the blush of spring.  Her hair is a wild mane in this light.  Layers rustle over layers, the look seeming like a rich dark brown with undertones of strong red wine.  Her nose has a good strength to it, as well.  She looks vaguely Mediterranean with a touch of Old Europe, or perhaps Arcadian, one of those women who bewitch with their looks as much as their spells.  She is the quintessential exotic, with just enough European mutt to bind the parts together like a mortar of diversity.  A Gypsy.

            Her skin, where it has not met my attention, is warm and soft, with a slight hazelnut or almond hue, almond like the shape of her eyes.  I reach out and touch it, not believing it to be real.  My hand glides to hold one cheek of her ass.  Here my attention stays for a long time, marveling at its lush and firm substance.  The divine isthmus between her finely muscled back and full, swooping siren hips and ass captivates me.  The dimples on either side of her tailbone invite me to press my thumbs in, press while my hands would grip the firm anchors of her hips in the sweet battle.  The meat of her ass, hips and thighs glow with firm health, abundantly endowed beyond most men’s taste or mettle.  This is a haunch to be savored with unrelenting ardor and vigor, in as many ways as are known.  The small of her back has a lovely way of seeming to dip in, a gentle valley between the hills of her ass and the rounded plain of her sweet back.  The whole expanse, from the two ribbons of muscle coming down on either side of her spine, to the flare and rounding of her hips, to the swell of her ass, all remind me of a polished mandolin.  Pride over my choice of captives fills me, and I have barely begun my survey of her tapered yet heartily muscled legs when a sniffle from her breaks my reverie.

            “Are you ready, Slave?”

            “Master, please, don’t do this.”

            “One.”  Though I do not put my strength into the blow, the damage done is most pleasing.  A long, scrawling red welt appears across her lovely ass.  The crack of the whip still lingers in the air like a match leaves a smell after it is struck.  She has gone silent, starting to put up some of her mental defenses.  She’s set on not crying out.

            “Two.”  I can see the whip wrap around her thighs and lash her across the back of one of her knees; it buckles, such as it can. 

            “Three.”  Part of my lash has landed where the first stroke hit; blood wells up from the forming blister.  She jerks and flinches, but holds her ground. 

            “Four.”  It lands, and she stifles a yelp.

            “Five.”  A sob.

            “Six.”  This one barely touches, but to much affect.  It opens a four-inch long minor cut across the upper divide between her ass cheeks.  Blood begins to ooze down her crack, soaked up by her neatly trimmed bush.  I don’t give her time to react, though.

            “Seven.”  She’s screaming at me to stop now, pleading, begging.

            “Eight,” and “Nine,” scrawl across her legs.

            “GOD, PLEASE!”  She’s thrashing in her straps now, sending her breasts and ass into chaos, her hair into medusan locks, her neck bruising on the wood.

            “I am not God.  I am Master.  Ten.”  This one, a vertical slash, barely misses that so-vulnerable crease between her thighs and cheeks.  Instead, it lances across so many other welts, raising them higher or bursting them.

            “Eleven.”  The leather tongue seems to drag from cheek to cheek.

            “Never.....NEVER! FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!”  I deliver two more, this time across her back and shoulders, the X forming in less time than it took me to conceive it.

            “And that makes thirteen.  Now for fourteen.”

            “You said it would stop after twelve!”

            “No, I didn’t.  Think hard about what I said.  Fourteen.”  This time, I put my hip, arm, and wrist into it.  It lands with ripping force across her ass in a diagonal line.  Her hips try to surge forward and away, but the restraints do their job.  She sucks air for a long second, then unleashes a shuddering wail that carries over into the next strike.          

            “Fifteen.”  More power, lashing the from her thigh up to her hip.  Her hips, comes the voice from below my waist.  Her shoulders sag totally, throwing her ass even higher.

            “Sixteen.”  A vicious explosion at the very tip of her tailbone.  She’s in a state of shock now, but for some reason I’m not allowing her the time to make the decision she must make.  Though I do not will it, I say the word: “Seventeen,” and see it scourge her on the plateau above her ass.  Somewhere inside me, something has gone wrong – I’m getting out of control.  As my arm goes back for the next, I hear her groan the tearful words I’ve been longing to hear, but the beast doesn’t want to listen.  This is the dangerous crossroads – will I allow this dark side of the moon to take over, to turn me into a Ghoul?  Time – I need to buy time for her.  Time for myself. 

            “Louder, Slave.”

            “Master, please fuck me.”

            “Louder!  Know what you say!”  I can feel the whip lowering, growing heavier.

            “Master, please . . . Fuck . . .”

            “Yes?”                

            “ME!”

            Consciousness returns, and with it, self-control. 

            Yes, but now what?  I look at the marks on her, and know that the time will come when I will have to mend her.  But for now, it’s all I can do to hold myself back from wasting the moment.  Her skin looks so pale against the welted highlights.

            “Very well, Slave.  However, I want to move you.”  She has begun to realize her new role.  It’s there, in the set of her shoulder and neck.  Rather, a lack thereof.  The new pliancy of surrender in her muscles.  In the calm she now exhibits.  A pain-filled calm, to be sure, but a calm nonetheless.  Just then, an idea occurs to me. 

            “And, Slave, I must do something with this whip while I untie you.”  I spread her quaking cheeks slightly (Oh, Christ, stay focused!) and lick the handle of the whip liberally.  She perks up at the sound and the touch, but I doubt she knows what’s coming.

            “Slave, I want you to hold this until I tell you not to.  If you do not, you will be punished again.”  As I speak, I stuff the handle of the whip deep into her sex.  A shudder and hiss escape her, and I see her ass quiver a little.

            “Remember.  Hold onto it until I tell you to.  If you manage to hold onto it, I will later give you a pain medication and tend to your hurts after it has taken effect.”  I see her head move slightly at this despite the strain and the pain, and I know that it is a powerful card to play.  I’m sure she also knows that she is being trained.  Just as she knows that she is powerless to stop it.

            In measured steps, neither hurrying my pace to make her task easier nor slowing it to make her stumble in her mission, I extract her from my arrangement.  Finally, she stands up.  Perhaps a little too quickly, though, and she staggers into my arms immediately after.  With my hands on her spine and sides, I can feel the muscle spasms leaping frantically under her skin and see her legs cramp up completely.  She can’t help being here, I know.  She grimaces at my shoulder.  I stare at her hair.  She stares at the floor, and I stare at the way she doesn’t clench her hands, now in the cuffs attached to her waist-girdle.  When she shoots a frightened but anxious look up at me, I remember that she’s still holding onto the whip.

            Taking her by the shoulder, I lead her over to a long table with built-in wrist and ankle straps.  The table is polished hardwood, devoid of any possibility of splinters.  The cuffs and segments can be angled or moved to any distance, either in tandem or individually; one of my “supplier’s” better ideas.  Time to break it in.

            Slave stands next to me, her legs crossed and her face showing a great effort.  The handle is more than halfway out, and slipping gradually.  I can see the panic creep into her mind, her chest heaving with frantic oxygen.

            “Thank you, Slave, that’s enough,” I murmur and reach over to grasp the whip handle.  She sighs as the full weight of the handle comes under my control.  Following a hunch, I push it back up into her.  To my genuine surprise, it slides in right up to my fingers with ease.  She blushes furiously while I contemplate this new development. 

            Ah, of course.  That close, grinding, rolling walk from the wall to the table......that had to have done something.  After tossing the whip to the floor, I pick her up by the waist and hoist her onto the table.  For a few seconds, she holds my stare unwillingly, like a rabbit into a flashlight.  Then she glances down between her clenched thighs, to the patch of dark hair peeking up.

            “Lie down with your head off the edge of the table and looking up, Slave.”  She moves gingerly, trying not to bump her smarting skin on anything.  I unlock one of her wrists, only to bind it into the strap that I’ve set near her head.  The other side gets the same treatment.  Observing the way she lies, I adjust the ankle straps and secure her legs open and with a slight bend to her knees.  I turn a crank that adjusts the tilt of the whole table.  As I walk back to her head, I can see her eyes follow me.  Now, her body is very slightly declined in relation to her head.  Perfect height.  I open a drawer built into the table, and select a pair of nipple clamps along with a handful of clothespins.

            I walk over to her legs, chancing to look down the length of her body as she raises her head to look at me.  She’s shaking.  I can feel myself smile as I clip first one, then the other lip.  Her sounds are delicious. 

            I reflect that it’s as good a time as any and disrobe, feeling myself, hot and swollen, snap up to hit me in the stomach before settling down slightly.  I slide my pants the rest of the way off, relishing her groans.

            “Take them off!” she pleads loudly.  I laugh, though I doubt that she would get or appreciate the joke she just inadvertently made.  Still chuckling quietly, I go back to my work on her, ignoring her and her jerking body.  Or at least, try to ignore the latter.  I can’t get her to be still enough to apply any of the pins.  With a growl of annoyance an disgust, I slap her now-open sex powerfully and listen to her howl.

            “Remember, Slave, there can always be more pain, more discomfort, more everything.”  She keeps going, like a child throwing a tantrum.  So I let her throw it, but not without a little ongoing reprimand.  I continue the pussy-spanking, letting her be as bratty as she wants.  She gets louder and louder for a minute, and then I think she gets the point.  She bites back her wild yelling and restricts herself to jolts when I slap her.

            I go back to administering my clothespins, and she studies the wall, biting her lip and flinching each time I apply a new one.  When I run out, I take up my nipple clamps and walk around to her head to apply them.

            “Anything to say, Slave?”  As I allow the first nipple clamp to snap shut, I can see her groan travel all the way from the clothespins to the nipple clamps.

            “Master, I thought you said you were going to fuck me!  You didn’t say anything about more torture!”

            “In good time, Slave.  Besides, I only said that I wanted you to say ‘Master, please fuck me.’  Never said anything about what I’d actually do.  Don’t be so linear.”  She begins to cry again – single, salty crocodile tears rolling down her forehead.  Some of her clothespins have come loose, and I reapply them.  More whimpering.

            “Don’t make a sound beyond breathing now, Slave.  Otherwise, face the whip.”

            I stand up, straddling her neck, curiously feeling the heartbeat on her neck through my cock.  I kiss her areola wetly, making my mouth an O, drawing my tongue across, painting the O in completely.  I feel the heat of her blush against my thighs.  When I have all that I can in my mouth, I suck slightly and slowly begin to pull away from her, lightly dragging my teeth along and licking strongly, constantly.  At her areola I pucker my mouth, sucking her wetly, teasing her hard nipple with the tip of my tongue.  I suck harder, then lighter at the last, letting her nipple almost plop out of my mouth before plunging back down tongue-first.  She gasps; she will tell herself that it is because of the pain.  I tell myself it is because of pleasure.  Only her body really knows.  In our moment of pain/ecstasy, I snap the jaws of the clamp closed.  She writhes in a vacuum of sound.

            “Excellent, Slave.  You are released from your imposed silence.”  She looks at me with revulsion, fear, pain, and an undeniable subservience.

            “Master, may I please have some water?”

            “Well,” I reply, “since you asked so nicely.”  With that, I ratchet the table to where her head is slightly above the rest of her body, and leave the room to get some water.  I stalk to the supply room, shivering as much from her continued mews of pain as my nakedness in the chill of the dungeon.  I take one of the water squirt-bottles and bring it to the sink.  Waiting for it to fill, I absently glance around the room, and discover matches and some lighter fluid.

            What the hell, I think; we don’t have to be cold for this.  Maybe she’ll appreciate the warmth from the brazier.  Besides, it’s difficult to have a good hard-on when it’s such a cold, damp dungeon.  I put them in a bag and head back to the room.

            I drop the bag at the base of the charcoal-filled brazier, thinking proudly of the good ventilation in the room from the vents overhead.  She’ll enjoy the heat, since it’s only some seven feet away.  I come up to her – she’s so fuckable, pleading silently with her mouth open.  I squirt a few ounces in, which she swallows quickly, only to open her mouth for more.

            “Don’t think so, Slave – you’ll have to earn more, just like you earned that bit.”  She stares at me incredulously for a moment, then closes her eyes and tries not to cry.  I turn back to the brazier and unzip the bag.  I douse the charcoal in some lighter fluid, and flick a lit match in. 

            Screeches of unholy strength jolt me from behind so badly that I almost pitch into the flames.  Wide-eyed, I turn. 

            She’s bucking on the table, bouncing the four-hundred-pound monstrosity like a damn ball.  She looks like a crack addict, screaming at levels I hadn’t managed to elicit from her with any of my cruelties.  She’s possessed and electrified at the same time, thrashing in her bonds so hard that I can only pray none have broken yet.

            What the FUCK is going on?  In one moment, it hits me.  The fire . . .the pokers   . . . she thinks I’m going to burn her.

            “Slave!  Stop!”  I leap on top of her chest to grab her head, still unsure of what to do.  Now I have the tiger by the tail.  I slap her across the face, enough to knock her down had she been standing.  Still nothing.  Shit, that never works.  For the moment, she has the strength of a berserker, and if she breaks loose, she’ll overpower me. 

            The fire, get to the fire, idiot!  I leap off her and snatch up the water bottle, pulling the stop out with my teeth.  In my desperation, it pulls out completely, and I look for all the world like a stark naked Civil War rifleman.  Only after the flames are out do I dare a look over my shoulder at Slave.  She immediately stops, and simply stares at me for a moment in complete silence and stillness.  Then, like a breaking dam, she begins to cry piteously, hopelessly.  She probably thinks she’s going to be punished.  Even if I were capable of it right now, I doubt I would anyway.  Obviously, what had happened had been beyond her control. 

            Catatonic, I slump against the cool stone of the pillar next to me.  The steaming brazier.  The sobbing girl.  Myself.  I look down.  On top of it all, my erection is gone.  Still somewhat stunned, I turn my head and spit the nipple of the water bottle away, hear it clatter against the wall.  Fucking perfect.  Still, she can’t see me like this.  I rally and push myself off the pillar.  Heart, head, and lungs pounding, I trudge the few steps over to the table, newly relocated half a foot further from the brazier.  I stop and stare at her for a long while, simply breathing deeply until I’m back to normal.  However, I doubt I look normal at the moment.  I probably look more like a psychopath.

            “Slave.....What in God’s name do you THINK you’re doing?  And you had better damn well call me Master, or else I’m just going to blow your head off, dump you in an incinerator, and be done with it.”  Her lip quivers as she looks at me.  It’s a long silence.

            “Master, please, I’m sorry,” she whispers hoarsely.

            “ . . . Go on.”

            “Master – ”

            “Slave.”

            “I thought you were going to burn me with those pokers, Master.”

            “I’m not going to, you know.  Ever.”  At this, she sobs anew.

            “Let me explain, Slave.  But first, just shut the fuck up for a bit.”

            “A-alright....Master.” 

            “In essence, I find such things as mutilation, branding, and the like, to be particularly vile.”  I’m silent for a little while, lost in thought as I stare at one of the stretch marks on the flesh between her thigh and her ass.

            “Master, may I ask you a question?”

            “Sure, Slave.”  For some reason, the marks are endearing.

            “Why?”

            “Why?  Because I’m not that damn sick.  Hypocritical, I know.  But there it is.” 

            And I don’t have the stomach for it.

            “Anyway,” I say as we both regain eye contact, “you have my absolute word that I will never personally do such to you, nor will I allow anyone else to do so.”

            “Thank you....Master.”

            “Now, if you think you can keep relatively quiet for a bit, Slave, I’m going to get some warmth in this place.”

            “Whatever you wish, Master.”  . . . Interesting response.

            I turn back to the doused coals and dump them into the waste bin, then refill the brazier with some more from a nearby concealed bag.  Soon, the place begins to warm up from the fire.  Returning to Slave, I ratchet her back to where her head is below her body, first removing the clothespins attached to her nether lips.  The nipple clamps stay, to her dismay.  Then, after digging through yet another cupboard in the wall, I return with a five-inch vibrator/clit stimulator and lube.

            “This is for holding the whip,” I dryly comment as I squirt the lube all over her sex.  Then, to groans of Whatever I begin to massage her. It’s far easier to train humans than other animals, actually.  Practically, not ethically, I mean.  The adult human mind does not require instant gratification, though that works best.  

            Slowly at first, then noticeably, she relaxes under my hands.  Massage classes do help.  The release of tension becomes audible in the room, heard above the crackling of the coals.  I stop to turn the vibrator on.  The hum of imitative life is loud.  Then, using one hand to spread her, I shove the transparent, hard, plastic dick into the hungry mouth.

            I walk over to her head and stare down into her eyes.  After a few minutes, I hear her grunt and as I look to her hips, I can see her attempting to adjust herself uncomfortably.  There’s a slightly congested look in her eyes.  Then, finally, she gasps and I put the tip of my cock in her mouth.

            “Suck, because your life depends on it.”  She makes a small noise, then slowly explores my uncut tip with her tongue.  She’s not terribly experienced; I can tell.  However, I can also sense that she has vast potential . . . vast.   I can feel my hardness return and move to the back of her throat.  I thrust slightly forward, but quickly remove myself as she starts to thrash around.

            “Slave, calm down.”

            “But Master, I’ll choke!”

            “Only if you panic.  I will not let you choke, but you must not panic, no matter what happens.  I will know when you’ve had enough. . . trust me.”  I slap her roughly across the face – “Open.” – and start to pump her mouth with shallow strokes. 

            “Suck on it more, and don’t be shy about spit or noise.”  She obeys, and I can feel her bring me further into her mouth, her full lips dragging and lingering along my shaft.  Her slopping, burbling sounds only heighten my excitement, and I thrust deeper.

            The vibrator is doing its work – I can see her moving her hips into it, hear and feel her petite groans wrapping around my cock.  Gradually, I lengthen the time between her breaks for air.  Eventually, I thrust deep and stay there.  For the first few seconds, she is passive.  Soon, though, she starts to struggle.  I pull out and listen to her gasp.  She catches a few breaths before I stroke back in, deeper still.

            “Don’t move, Slave.  You won’t be hurt.  Just calm down and relax and you’ll be better off.”  I fuck her throat smoothly for a long time, and I can see she’s starting to suffer from her lack of oxygen.  Finally, she deep-throats me.  As she does, I pinch her nose shut.  She doesn’t move – only her throat spasms, and I can see where my lump is through her skin.  Ten seconds, and I pull out a few inches and release her nose, listening to her frantically suck air and fight back her gag reflex.  Quickly but without shoving hard, I stuff her again with my cock, pinching her nose when I’m deep. 

            She’s frantically humping air, fucking the vibrator.  I pull out and release, listening to her gag before I thrust back in.  My hips start to heave back and forth.  I feel my balls slap her face, feel her throat spasm as she tries to breathe.  I can see her eyes lose focus, and with a few final balls-deep thrusts, I cum deep in her throat.  She retches, but nothing except what I just gave her comes up, so I push it back down.  At last, I pull out.  Panting, she grinds her hips up, hunting the plastic cock.  Her scream crescendos, then falls to grunting, the buzz of the vibrator in the background.  At last, her head thunks into the wood underneath.  She gapes at the ceiling, frozen in her shock, shame, and denial.  I remove the device, kissing her deeply once I lick away her hot tears.

            “Very good, Slave.  We’re done for today.”  Gently, I release her and help her sit up to the edge of the rack, and give her a bottle of water.  She didn’t return my kiss.

            “Wait here, and try to sip the water so you don’t get sick.”  She nods mutely and nurses at the water.  I walk over to a cabinet and rummage around for the medical kit.  I place it beside her and pull out the rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab.  She looks at me, her chin starting to quiver at the sight of the rubbing alcohol.

            “It’s not like that, Slave,” I softly reassure her.  She only stops when I take hold of her wrist to swab a small part of her forearm with a soaked piece of cotton.  I reach back into the kit and pull out a green-glass syringe:

            “I promised you a drug for the pain, didn’t I?  Now give me your arm.  Soon, you won’t feel a thing.”  She starts sobbing with huge shudders of her shoulders, burying her face in her hands.

            “Goddamnit, Slave, what is it now?”

            “You’re going to kill me with that and dump me in an incinerator!”

            “Ugh.  This is morphine, Slave.  Morphine.  Slave, have I lied to you yet?  No.  I will never lie to you.  I may not say everything that I mean, but I will never lie to you.  You shall always have that dignity.”  She stares at me, dumbfounded.  I squirt out the minute air-bubbles and heft her arm.  Suddenly, she lays her hand over mine.  I’m not prepared for this, and I stare at her, at a loss.  Her eyelashes are so long, so dark.

            “Promise, Master?” she rasps, her voice nearly gone.

            “Yes, Slave . . . I promise.”  I place her hand back in her lap. 

            “Master, may I ask you a question?”  The frightened look is back in her eyes.

            “Of course.”  Christ, I picked up a talker . . . maybe that’s why I did, though.

            “How long am I going to be here?”

            I feel my eyes narrow, and I give her the shot.  She begins to fade, exhaustion and comfort coursing through her body.  She goes limp, collapsing off the table into my arms.  Her eyelids flutter, but her eyes still stare at me.  With a sigh, I pick her up and start upstairs.  In my arms, she whimpers and groans.

            “What was that, Slave?”  Her answer is slow in coming, slurred, and from an obviously unconscious person, but it comes nonetheless.  Her first real step, all on her own.  The beginning of the beginning.

            “What may I do, Master?”