She
slips from her robe,
hangs it on the back of the door, a door that is now locked to everyone
and
everything beyond it. Underneath she is sweet smelling and scrubbed
pink from
her nightly long, hot shower, cleaned thoroughly from top to toe,
inside and
out.
She
sits at the dressing
table and the impassive eyes of the cameras positioned around the room
watches
as she puts on her make-up. As he has said, even in sleep a slave must
assume
she may be called upon at any time for any reason. Very few concessions
can be
made and a slovenly appearance is not one of them. Anyway application
doesn’t
take too long now she is so practised at it and because, with his help,
she has
narrowed down her selection to a few things he finds most pleasing.
Before that
she was always a little lost with cosmetics, rarely achieving a look
she didn’t
find clumsy and heavy.
That
done she begins to lay
out the requirements he has specified for each night of the week.
Whereas once
he would detail his reasoning behind the selection, she no longer
either needs
or wants him to. She takes these things on faith, her belief in him
seeing that
her hands act as if they were his, determined and confident in carrying
out his
wishes for her.
With
everything in its place
she returns to the dressing table and fixes her hair. She pauses for a
moment
and regards the strangely serene women looking back at her from the
mirror. She
looks so very different now and her hairstyle is one of the more
visible
physical changes on a long list of them. Whereas once her style was a
strange
mixture of trying too hard and vague indifference, now it simply
compliments
her. And as in all things that were good in her life, his hand was
here, too.
The idea of a master spending time to discuss hairstyles against facial
and
head types would have once been absurd but, as he had said, all of her
must be
dedicated to him. In his mind, and now hers, it was perfectly natural
to seek
to change what he found displeasing.
When
it came to dressing,
the first thing she puts on is her collar and that was the one item
that never
changed. Again, this was something they’d spent time on
before she’d seen
things from his point of view and embraced his choice. Her collar is a
thing of
simplicity and purpose, just a wide, black leather strap, double holed
along
the length, with three rings, one at the front and one each side. As
always,
she pulls it first so that it’s a snug fit and then tightens
it to the next hole.
A thrill of pleasure tingles through her as she feels and hears her
breathing
deepen. Of all the things she’s experienced, it was this
delicious feeling of
being slightly light-headed that she found soothed her most of all.
Next
she folds the waist
clincher round herself, closures at the front so that she can fix the
first
few, before twisting it to the correct fit and securing the rest. This
takes
time and she pauses regularly to retain her composure. Sweat on the
face
doesn’t do much for make-up, after all. Allowed to decide,
she would have put
dressing before make-up and thus saved herself the need to control her
reactions to the degree she now regularly has to. This, of course, is
why she
wasn’t allowed to decide and she had come to understand the
wisdom of his
judgement in this, as in everything else.
Next,
she rolls opaque, high
sheen stockings onto her legs, pulling them high onto her thighs, as he
likes
it, before attaching the 6 wide, thick suspender straps on the
clincher. The
stockings are seamed and she takes a few seconds with her back to the
mirror,
peering behind her and adjusting the stockings to get them straight and
true,
continuing to honour his desire for attention to detail.
She
is now dressed but, as
she often thinks to herself with a smile, what outfit is finished
without
accessories? Again, the order these are to be added has been laid down
by him
and first to go on are the clover clamps, linked by a chain that passes
through
the front ring of the collar. The clamps bite hard even without tension
and
took a long time for her to adjust to wearing them. Now though, once
the
nipples have numbed a little, she can sleep even with them pulled tight
through
the collar ring, her nipples pulled upwards as they will be this night.
Of
course, in order to do she must remain still or the sudden burst of
pain from
pulling on the chain will wake her but she’s improving
slowly, as he assured
her she would.
She
doesn’t always sleep
clamped. Sometimes she wears nipple suckers, little bulbs that sit over
the
nipple itself so that by morning it is swollen and red and tingling
sometimes
painfully. Then there are the heavy duty nipple pumps that suck the
entire
nipple into the trumpet-like mouth. These are difficult to keep on and
she
often wakes to find one or both have slipped off in the night. It is
one of the
things she has been tasked to work on preventing. But when they do stay
on, the
effect is dramatic, the flesh heavily swollen and puffy and intensely
sensitive. He has often sent her to work in that condition, the
movement of her
bra on the flesh enough to see her turn into work a trembling, needy
mess. She
revels in it.
Clamps
on, she turns to the
butt-plug. The third one on a list of five in all that she will learn
to
accommodate to such an extent she can sleep with it in place, this one
is thick
and wide and she ensures she liberally coats it with as much spit as
she can
summon. Lubricant is not allowed as he considers it another shortcut,
something
he simply does not permit her the luxury of. She places the plug on the
seat of
her dressing room chair and lowers herself on to it, wincing as her
body is
forced aside to accommodate it. Eventually, breathing in controlled,
tight
gasps, eyes almost watering from the pressure and pain, she feels it
pop into
her body and she leans to one side, reaching under herself to push it
home
fully. That done she tentatively settles her weight back down on the
seat of
the chair and exhales deeply, taking a minute to regain her composure.
The
plug makes her wince as
she moves, a dull ache quickly settling in deep inside her body that
she knows
will ease off soon enough. For now, though, it makes her every step
considered
and tentative, something that he has told her is inevitable until she
becomes
accustomed to this and other violations. Nothing easily earned is
usually worth
having, as he has always told her.
She
takes the inflatable
vibrator next, pumping it to a usable stiffness before sliding it into
her
body, her increasing arousal ensuring the penetration is smooth and
easy. A
slight sigh escapes her as she feels desire rise up inside her from the
presence of it, the way her body moulds around the shape, enveloping
it,
gripping it. To her, this is heaven and using the vibrator has become
something
she looks forward to with great anticipation.
With
it snug inside her, she
tucks the vibrator control onto one of the front suspenders and then
takes the
inflation bulb in her hand. She knows how many full pumps she is to
give the
toy and though she knows the discomfort will be considerable, the
thought of
trying to reduce it by any means never crosses her mind as she begins
to
squeeze the bulb. Inside her, she feels the rubber shaft begin to swell
further
and further with every pump and by the time she squeezes the bulb for
the last
time she is breathless from what she now finds to be the exquisite
sensation, a
pain and a pleasure all at once.
She
then starts on what is
now a very awkward and uncomfortable procedure; she laces herself
closed. Her
labia have been pierced for a few months now, the pain and nausea from
it
happening long forgotten, replaced with the reward of his pleasure and
her
beauty. The rings she once felt as alien and uncomfortable to wear and
unsightly to look at she now sees as he does and takes a great deal of
pleasure
from both. They seem somehow right, fitting and proper for her in so
many ways.
And carefully, but with a practised and confident hand, she laces them
together, bringing them tight with the supple, black leather cord, neat
and
uniform from top to bottom, the final pattern achieving the desired
look of a
laced up corset perfectly. And once tied, the swollen vibrator inside
her is
further secured in place. Even if her body tries to expel it, then the
pain of
it will wake her so that she can tend to the problem and ensure
discipline is
maintained.
Before
resuming, she again
checks the camera feeds, ensuring they’re all up and working
and directed where
they should be. She then checks she has everything she needs to hand to
complete the preparations. An error now means what follows must be
completely undone
so that she can correct it and that would be a slow and time consuming
necessity. She has been late in her preparations before and though she
takes
pleasure in the thin scars her breasts display as a result, she finds
no joy in
why they were required.
She
wraps a belt around her
waist and makes sure that the two rings fixed to it are positioned on
either
side of her waist. That done, she continues by passing a wide strap
around her
ankles, pulling it tight and buckling it at the front. A second strap
is
fastened round the tops of her calves and the last round the middle of
her
thighs. Each strap, like her belt, has two rings and she pulls them
tight
enough that they dent the skin and positions them so that the rings are
either
side of her body. Then as a luxury, she takes a few seconds, as he
often encourages
her to do so, in order that she can push against the bindings,
appreciating the
delicious restraint they provide. As he said, there is delight to be
taken in
the details that, if you rush, you never get to savour.
Legs
secured, she delicately
lies on the bed, shuffling to the required central position. The bed
itself is
simply a mattress covered by a pristine white sheet with one firm
pillow at the
top. Both headboard and footboard have been removed. As she moves she
takes
care not to push the assortment of trailing rope ends she has laid on
the
mattress, the other ends of which are mounted at various places under
the bed,
positioned to best serve their intended purpose.
And
one by one, starting at
her ankles, she ties the rope ends through the rings on her restraining
belts,
trying to ensure they pull equally in both directions, effectively
keeping her
suspended between them, unable to move either left or right. The
process is
repeated until she is lying down and securing ropes to the rings on her
waist
belt by touch alone. The last two ropes, either side of her neck, are
left
free.
She
moves quickly now, aware
of her time constraints and determined to be in her place ready for
him. She’s
been late before and whilst she adores the thin scars that adorn her
body in
various places, the ones earned for being late or slovenly are
permanent
reminders of her shortcomings. He has seen to it that she keeps a
careful,
thorough journal online that describes both the crime and the
punishment and
often tasks her with reading through the descriptions. She knows that
no matter
how confident she may become, she must never allow that to become
arrogance;
all she thinks and feels must serve him, not her.
The
shaped headphone buds
are pushed deep into her ear canals, followed by a ball of Plasticine
to ensure
they stay in place and adhesive tape placed across her ear. Her head
fills with
the faint hiss of static and she smiles. But the smile diminishes when
she reaches
for the hood. Though she is much improved from the girl who wept after
a scant
few seconds in its constrictive darkness, she stills feels her heart
race when
she picks up in usually trembling hands. It is yet another catch 22 for
her;
she has come to love the utter black void to be found inside it, but
can barely
tolerate the almost clammy grip of the latex on her face.
At
least tonight her mouth
is to be left open and she can breathe freely without having to adjust
to one
of the inflatable gags, not all of which are breathe through, that can
be
fastened in place over the mouth hole. She takes a breath, exhales
slowly as
she has been shown and again pushes against her bindings to take
comfort from
their restraints and focus her mind on her place and purpose. And then
she
wraps the latex round her head, pulls it taut and the world goes black
as she
zips the hood closed. She sits still for a few seconds and mentally
adjusts to
the effect. As he has proven to her, when confronted with a fear, it is
always best
to face it than hide from it. It doesn’t go away unless you
decide it will;
denial achieves nothing.
Fixed
with a sticky tab to
the side of the hood, in line with the mouth, is the small microphone,
the
cable trailing upwards and over the end of the bed and though she
cannot hear
herself in it through the headphones, she knows its working.
She
attaches the final two
rope ends to the side rings of her collar, pulls them tight and as
rigid as she
can and that leaves only her arms free, as required.
And
as she lies there,
waiting in the darkness for the demon to come to her, she feels the
effects of
the pill she swallowed in the bathroom. She hears her heart, the blood
rushing
in her veins. An airy, light-headedness infuses her mind and she feels
herself
float a little, as if she is a balloon slipping her moorings. A
contented smile
spreads across her face as she wonders, with neither fear nor doubt,
what he
will test her with tonight. Reflexively she reaches out to ensure that
the last
items on the list are close to hand and where they should be so she can
lay her
fingers on them with quickness and ease.
The
pen, a permanent marker
that takes days to fade away from skin.
The
hypodermic needles
capped and waiting.
The
scalpel, the wicked
blade safe in its plastic cap.
She
feels these things and a
ripple of delightful anticipation rolls through her like quicksilver.
As one
hand touches them so the other caresses the almost healed scars on the
underside of her breasts and the fully healed one around her nipples,
feeling
the faint ridges of previous unions. She aches to reach round to touch
the
tattoo in the small of her back, the symbol she wears as recognition of
his
ownership. His mark on his slave’s flesh. The thought of it
sends a hot, liquid
shudder through her.
The
need within her swells
and grows, heat upon heat, passions twisting into a whirlwind that
seems to
spins round inside her head. A low, almost mournful keening sound,
something
between a whimper and a moan, escapes her mouth. The world she has to
live in,
the one outside her bedroom door, where family she no longer wants and
friends
she no longer cares for all exist, fades away. The memories of that
world rush
into her head, good and bad, and they all seem trivial to her,
meaningless,
unworthy even. She deserves to have the life she was born to live, not
the
charade she’s endured for so long.
This
I know because he tells me so.
This
I know because he tells me so.
This
I know because he tells me so.
She
repeats it, over and
over, as she’s been told to do when the shadows of this world
eclipse the old.
And
then, as she hovers on
the cusp of breathtaking vulnerability, as she feels violation and pain
no
longer but simply an amalgamation of sensation that sends her soaring
and as
her devotion burns with a ferocious incandescence, she gasps.
The
static in her mind
changes, heralds his approach.
If
it were not for the hood, you would see her
eyes roll back into her head with an almost religious zeal.
He
speaks softly, his voice
seeming to come from the very centre of her mind.
‘Hello
my girl.’