I Am The Thorn King, The Lord of Brambles

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