>This is a high level of cruelty to maintain for so long. I am impressed.
>It’s been very effective training. I’d take her out of the beginners’
class now. A much finer level of response and obedience.
>Enforced silence, too, is interesting. I have tried this to good effect with Inge in the last weekend party, and by the end she was crawling deeper into subspace than I have ever seen.
>If two days had that effect (and that is still a fantasy level, say what you will), imagine what two weeks has done. I can see the difference. Each day she moves and holds herself more like a slave. By which I mean a body calibrated to someone else’s purposes and not its own.
>next summer?
>You are looking well ahead. It is only a very short time she is with you. But yes, the idea is a fine one.
>I’ll look into it. As to whether she will still be with me, it may seem like a short time to you. I think even in that time she’s beyond the point where she could conceive of leaving of her own volition. Even if she wanted to. And there’s no sign at all that she wants to; quite the opposite. We are only going deeper.
>I think only public pressure, or perhaps legal, will take your governments from their deadlock, or is it apathy? What happened to that coalition of yours; is it still active?
>Yes, they’re still at it. I give them money, I consult. I can’t manage the meetings. The pace is unbearable, frankly, and the pointless bureaucratic crap drives me mad. I can cope with bureaucracy when I can see an end point, or when I have some hope of steering round it, but this….
So I focus on what I can do. Energy-efficient buildings are being funded more now, at least, so I can specialize there.
>hypothesize a relationship between sleep patterns and social isolation. Sleep loss relates to mood, shiftwork interferes with relationships and so on. As research topics go it has advantages, as I can use data already existing from many disparate areas and pull them together into something new. The area is not well studied and has some good practical applications. So as a career move it could be worse.
>Sleep patterns. Well, well. Given your late-night jaunts, an intriguing choice on your part. I hope your supervisor turns out to be more congenial in person. Perhaps he has a sleep disorder. Or maybe it was just the heat; did you know it was 39 degrees that day in Chicago? Have fun there in August.
***
The only thing to be said for the southbound Don Valley Parkway during Friday afternoon rush hour was that it wasn’t as bad as the other direction. But northbound was bumper to bumper, so that wasn’t saying much. Mind you, the DVP was capable of congesting itself for no reason whatsoever, in either direction, at any time of the day or night. Happily Anders no longer needed to summon up patience when he had to use it to get home. The longer he was delayed, the longer his slave had to wait. And the longer he got to enjoy her waiting. It made every trip home a covert sexual experience.
He knew exactly where she was. The click on the webcam audio as she locked herself down resided comfortably at the back of his mind. He was securely in possession.
He braked, geared down and sang a rousing verse from an old, convivial feasting song. It was all going so well. Fatalism gave him a sour glance, reminding him that life couldn’t possibly stay this good. It had only been a few months. Anything could happen. Would it all still work a year from now? Ten years from now?
But projecting too far into the future was pointless; he told his grandmother to go take a nap. She refused, and got to work on global warming. Should he buy a hybrid truck? Or would he create less waste by keeping the truck he had? His faithful, reliable old truck; he’d hate to part with it.
At last he made it to his exit, picked up his package from his friend the locksmith, and headed for home. All the development work was done; it was time to test the product. The house was dark and cool after the July glare.
Anders slid the kitchen door aside, stepped into green light filtered through the trellis and vines overhead, and took a deep breath. A smell of damp grass, potting mixture, cedar. The yard was lush and getting overgrown; the patch of lawn that was out in the sunshine needed cutting again. He should trim some of the bushes, too. Fertilize the grapevines one more time. Prune the red maple bonsai. Some work to do this weekend.
He turned to the corner where his pet was waiting, deep under the arbour, leashed securely to the house. She was close to the wall, not using anything like the full length of her chain, but he could tell she was calm, at least; no longer panicked at the thought of being outdoors in just her harness, or flinching in anxiety at every noise.
There had been walks in the dark of night to start with, with Anders tugging her by the leash through the shrubs to the end of the yard and back.
Then he had taken her out in the dying light of the sun and made her stay out with him until the stars came out. Apart from his own, no windows overlooked the yard; the fence between them and the railroad yard was particularly high, and the houses behind them were all out of sight and single story. On the weekend he had gotten her dressed and shown her the fence, indulgently allowing her to follow its circuit and check for knotholes and cracks. This worked; her panic subsided.
The trowel she’d been using was set aside and the pots were planted; she had turned to face him, still on her heels with soil-covered hands hovering above her thighs. Pale streaks of dirt decorated her breasts, with here and there darker lines and spots where saliva had escaped. She arched her back and presented the breasts to him anyway. The eyes looking through the bridle straps looked happy to see him.
Upstairs in the shower, Anders soaped her lovingly, and surprised her by not immediately replacing the bridle when they were done, leaving her only in collar and cuffs.
‘So. Do you think you’ve learned to keep quiet?’ he asked.
She looked up in some surprise. ‘Yes, master. I think so.’
‘Good. We’ve got something else to think about right now, and I’m going to need a little verbal feedback.’ He laid her back on the bed, sat between her legs and took the device out of the package.
‘Here’s what I hope will stop those busy fingers.’ He held a thin, light curve of grey metal about as long as her hand, the shape of a squashed oval, with a number of slits, perforations and grooves over its length, lined inside with a fine metal mesh. The thing was vaguely spoon-shaped at one end, with a clasp-like piece set into it at the other. He held it and turned it above her face for her to see, and noted with pleasure that she looked but did not try to touch; her hands stayed above her head on the bed. This slave of his was beginning to be well-trained.
Anders set the thing aside and examined the soft, naked vulva before him. Looking for any sign of redness or infection, he tugged firmly on each of the six rings in turn; all was well. He turned each ring so that its bead was all the way to the inside, next to her skin. The pink wings of flesh within were taking on weight and a dusky hue, and slippery moisture was beginning to reflect the light. He ran a finger back and forth over the arc of pubic bone, spiralled in toward the hidden nerve centre, then out to slip along the creeping tide of liquid. Her breathing was quickening; he gave her pubic bone a kiss, and sat up.
‘This should fit well. You remember the mold I made.’ The first step in construction had been a mold of her form from heavy foil and plaster. He folded her knees back for more access. The metal followed her curves exactly, providing a shallow cup over her pubic bone, a differently oriented curve over pouting pussy lips, reaching back to her perineum. She watched, breath coming short, as he began inserting her labia rings through the six slots meant for them, two and two at right angles to the length of the device, on either side of a long central slit. The rings proved a little trickier than Anders had expected, since when one went through, the previous one tended to slip out, but at last he had all the little hoops where he could get at them.
He pressed the metal shield down hard on the soft flesh, felt her tense and try not to wriggle, and removed a long, thin U-shaped metal strip from the package. This was formed to follow the same curve as the shield. He slid this very carefully from back to front through all the rings, three on each side of the U, pressing the shield down as he went and coaxing the rings up. Then he pressed the base of the U over the clasp at the rear of the shield, and pushed down until he heard a click.
‘Stand up.’ He heard her shaky intake of breath as she got to her feet.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Strange. May I – touch it?’
‘Please do.’ He watched her explore the metal between her legs, and glance at the full length mirror.
‘Is this for – ?’ She touched a long slit down the middle.
‘Peeing through, yes. Liquid can get out, but the mesh will make sure that objects can’t get in.’
Her hand went deeper, back to the clasp. ‘This is the lock?’
‘Yes. Walk, see what it’s like. She walked back and forth a little, gingerly, then with more confidence. ‘How do the rings feel?’ he asked.
‘The pressure’s spread out. It’s quite light, really. I hardly feel the weight. It just feels – strange.’ Her hands were trembling slightly. She turned to the mirror again. Anders stood behind her and touched a swollen nipple. Instantly her breathing accelerated.
‘Strange as in arousing, evidently,’ he said, amused. But breathing a little fast himself. She gave a small groan. ‘Yes, the rings and – just being locked up – you know – .’
He reached round her and put a proprietary hand over her metal-covered pussy. ‘Tell me more about that.’ He saw her sideways glance, the whites of her eyes a brief flash.
‘I – the fact that you’d lock me in a – device – no choice, you know –
my own body isn’t mine, and that – that –’
‘Excites you no end. Uh-huh. Go on.’
She took a deep breath. ‘The rings and all this – hardware – make me feel like a – a thing, an appliance. Just part of your – your equipment.’
‘Well, you are. A very rare and useful part, mind you. Not available at Home Depot.’
A soundless laugh, her eyes meeting his in the mirror, then she took another breath. ‘And this new – thing – ‘
‘Chastity shield, let’s call it.’
‘This chastity shield, it seems like it’s supposed to be – part of my body.’ She leaned her head back into the crook of his neck. ‘You keep owning me more. I keep thinking that I’m completely yours, and then you find a way to own me more.’
‘What a tribute. It’s nice to be appreciated, even by property.’ His erection nudged her rear. ‘Let’s test this out a little. Lie on your back; let’s see if you can get your fingers under it.’ She tried, at his direction, from every angle, and in a couple of different positions, but the rings held the metal firmly to her flesh, allowing almost no leeway. She was afraid she might tear the piercings, so he told her to stop.
‘Press it toward you. Any contact with your clit?’ She obeyed, and shook her head. He let her shake and pull at the shield, even try to twist it.
After several minutes of this she was whimpering, her fingers growing frantic. Her skin was flushed; she was starting to urge her hips despite herself.
‘I need – master – I can’t – ‘
‘No, you can’t, can you?’ His voice had gone low and husky; his cock felt ready to burst. He grabbed her up by the wrists and folded her down over the footboard, lubricated her ass and plunged, visualizing her soft, swollen pussy locked to its hard carapace. The image had him thrusting almost convulsively. His hands squeezed and twisted his slave’s sensitive tits, pushing her arousal, listening to the sound of moans like heartbreak. His cock took what it wanted, free and arrogant, thrusting itself toward a spectacular climax, making her frustrated flesh languish and weep.
***
Our ardent, secluded world shifted from one pattern to another. Though it was really the same pattern from a different angle.
He was letting me talk again, at least sometimes, and that felt like a sea change. Hell, after so much silence even ‘Yes, master’ felt loquacious. But in fact we were having a lot of actual conversations, making up for lost time.
But I was no longer coming. Routine lock-up had moved from my mouth to my vagina. My punishment was over; the nightly inflicted orgasms stopped. And although the ordeals had been the hardest things he had ever put me through, it wasn’t long before I caught myself thinking of them almost wistfully. Given what came after.
Right from the start he made me wear the shield to bed; no more bad dog tricks for me. During the day, over the course of the first weekend it was on and off a lot, as Anders checked me and made minor adjustments. A shallower curve here, a slightly wider slot for a ring there. He wouldn’t leave it on for long at first, or let me exercise or even walk far when I was wearing it. But gradually he upped the time and the level of activity. A couple of days he drove me to work and picked me up, just to reduce any potential irritation. Then he’d supervise my lunch and go back to work.
After about a week of caution, the day came when my master left the shield on, right into the evening, even through aerobics. And from then on it was on more or less all the time. There was a lot of learning that went with the new hardware. Sitting down had to be done just so. Hygiene was a bit tricky and time-consuming; I took to keeping a small spray bottle of water at work for quick bathroom clean-ups. One little practical problem after another. I thought he might relent for my period, but instead he let me wear underwear (first time in months, felt very odd) with a wide pad, and also let me spray myself off in the shower when I got home. Messy, but doable.
Easy to deal with compared to the psychological side, which was strange, strange, strange. My cunt had become the core, the focal point around which the rest of me revolved. This soft, swollen, throbbing region that I spent every morning trying not to think about, every afternoon trying to ignore, now seemed to be taking on an insistent personality of its own. The Cunt in the Iron Mask, peering out moist and disconsolate through the slits. The shield made itself known a lot in a subtle kind of way. Tugging at my labia as I walked, drawing my notice to the thing I couldn’t have. Like a hungry, penniless urchin with her nose pressed to the bakery window.
I felt the shield, too, as a humiliating statement about how trustworthy I was not. In order to keep me from taking liberties with something that didn’t belong to me, my master had actually incorporated metal into my guilty flesh. I felt that guilt each time he went through the process of locking or unlocking me. It was fiddly, it took time, and I felt like a very bad girl.
There were the sensations of rings tugging, of metal pressing, and the slow slide of that long double locking bar, which touched and scraped and tickled bits of me as it slid beneath the rings. Before long, the lust from these sensations became inextricably bound up with shame. The whole package was as powerful a mindfuck as anything he had ever perpetrated on me.
Just as I had with the corset and harness, I tested out escape routes in my mind. (All right, yes, I was that bad.) Was it real? I needed to know. The lock certainly worked; that catch didn’t release without the key. I couldn’t open the rings to get the thing off; even if I’d had the nerve, the fixed beads were all inside the shield, and were wider than the narrow slots through which the rings passed; they couldn’t be turned to where they could be reached. It was real, all right. The odd thing was that with my lust suppressed, I no longer had to be in charge of its suppression. All the feelings I had curbed and contained and crammed into the smallest possible space, now burst out into that limitless haven of helplessness. I had no control to exert. Arousal expanded exponentially.
One night I followed my leash, corseted tightly – he’d got me down an extra centimetre – into the kitchen, where he cleared the kitchen table and lay me down there on my back, knees up.
‘This is making me nostalgic,’ he said.
I hadn’t been on that table – at least not in that position – since his late night meal between my legs, months ago. I smiled, and shook my head.
‘Eons ago. Some other life.’ He ran one finger down the inside of my thigh.
‘You were delectable. My guacamole girl.’ He leaned over and licked my nipples, one after the other. ‘But remember? I didn’t even tie you up back then. Amazing.’ He fastened me down firmly by wrist and ankle cuffs, both to the table legs near my head, so that my legs were flexed. ‘That was even fun for a while. But this is much better.’ My fixed limbs pulled against their cuffs, my insides surged; I couldn’t help agreeing with him.
He unlocked and removed the shield, pressing my knees back toward my chest to get the bar clear. I groaned. Then I felt him gently inspecting the piercings.
‘Good.’ Anders stood up straight and looked at me consideringly. ‘I seem to have a bit more control of you now, my bad little hunhund.’ Gently he rubbed my belly. ‘Time for me to have a bit of fun.’ Oh, lord. Belly trembling, I watched him pull something from his pocket. A blindfold.
In the sudden dark, one nipple, then the other, felt the pinch of clamps just past the point of pain. Then something was threaded through the labia rings on each side, tied tightly to each thigh so that my lips were spread wide. I could feel the air on my inner flesh, and swallowed a whimper of fear at being that exposed.
‘Not a vegetable night, I think,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll just see where the mood takes me.’ A finger ran down the line of my wet inner flesh, and I twitched involuntarily, feeling the pull of the labia rings as I did so.
A soft flutter on one inner thigh, and then a sting. A flogger; I knew it well. Six blows there, six more on the other side, making thigh muscles flinch, making labia rings pull and pull again. Six more on that soft and delicate skin, closer and closer to my crotch, back and forth. I was panting now, my arms pulling at their cuffs. The corset caught and prevented every deep breath; ribs rebounded back to their small compass. The flogger stopped, and I felt something go round my thighs just above each knee. At the next blow I knew they were connected to the nipple clamps. I had learned to keep still, and for the next few blows I did just that. But he wasn’t going to let me get away with that. My ankles were released and then linked together.
‘Spread your legs, girl.’ Gingerly I relaxed my thighs, until I felt the nipple clamps’ painful pull.
‘More.’ I moaned, and let them fall another inch or two. I could feel my nipples stretch; they were aching fiercely.
‘Hold that.’
‘Yes, master.’
The flogger fell again, harder now. The inside of my thighs were throbbing with pain and heat, and were trembling with the effort of holding the position. Each blow seemed to force them down; I couldn’t pull them up without disobeying. Tears began dampening the blindfold. I could feel the arousal spreading, blow after blow painting my skin with it.
Then the whipping stopped, and I felt the tails brushing my exposed cunt flesh. Threatening up and down, back and forth.
‘No. Please, master,’ I whimpered, very scared now. ‘Please….’
The leather brushed my clit, dragged along soaked flesh. Inner thighs sent flaming licks; my back tried to arch toward the frightening sensation. A little flick sent me retreating again. Then a warm tongue against the same taut nerves. A moment later, another, more painful flick. I writhed and took the consequences in burning nipples, pulled labia. Tongue again. Whip again. Tongue again. I was beside myself. The yanks and pulls, yes, they were incendiary now, oh yes, friction sparking…. Past and future nonexistent, hard-learned lessons forgotten, only the moment, this moment.
Now. Now, his tongue, staying in place, sweet; so, so sweet; there were hands hard on my thighs, thumbs chafing sore flesh. My breath caught, my back arched and I began to howl. And then he stopped.
Through all my tears and cries and begging his hands were there, gently stroking my thighs – the outer, unmarked regions. When at last I quieted down, I heard the laughter in his voice.
‘Just relax, sweetheart.’ He removed the nipple clamps, and loosened the labia rings. ‘I’ll be back later, and we’ll do it again.’
***
And we did, or rather he did. Again and again. Day in and day out.
Something that had been for him a serious hobby now seemed to be transformed into a skilled and dedicated vocation.
Right to the edge, a hairsbreadth from the precipice. Tying me into fanciful positions, using elaborate hardware, or very little but his own body and canny, sadistic will. Like the times he chained me to the bed and made love to me, carefully, carefully, his timing and technique improving daily, until the margin between his orgasm and mine became that of a scalpel’s edge, finely honed.
He didn’t trust me an inch, not a millimetre. The decision was never left to me. If straps didn’t tie me down, his body did. And if I wasn’t absolutely helpless he watched me like a hawk. He’d wait a little, till I was no longer hovering, and then he’d hang me out over the edge again. Each subsequent session brought me quicker to the verge. I’d shake, and strain, and whine if he let me, and beg if I wasn’t gagged. I couldn’t know; he might relent, and anyway the words just seemed to tumble out of me, like a cascade of stuffed toys bouncing ludicrously down a rocky hill, amusing and futile. When it was time to take him into my mouth, whimpers and moans bubbled up around his cock. My lips and tongue felt soft and engorged; my throat opened eagerly, as if I could take him all the way down, all the way down, and at last be satisfied.
‘Please?’ I whispered on one occasion, as he slumped back on the couch, his thigh muscles relaxed beneath my cheek, his maddening body radiating fulfilment. ‘Please, master, please?’ One lazy hand toyed with a lock of my hair. I kissed his wrist and thigh with trembling lips, my hands writhing behind my back. ‘Please?’ I murmured, a little louder.
‘No.’
My neglected cunt throbbed harder, like a swollen heartbeat. ‘Please, why…why not?’ I wailed suddenly, then stopped my mouth against his thigh, frightened.
But he laughed, deep in his chest, and didn’t smack me for my impudence. ‘We’ve been over that, little girl. Because I enjoy you more this way. Deprivation improves you – taste, texture, smell. A much juicier product.’
A sound spilled from me.
‘Enhanced audio, also.’
I bit my lip and silenced myself. The sulkiest attempt at revenge. The lazy smile on his lips just got wider. And then he was running a finger around the rim of my ear and singing blues again. Damn it! The infuriating man sang blues when he was happy. And what made him happiest was turning my body to an agonized, needy jelly, and my life into something harder than the hardest luck song.
And the song was, of course, ‘Beggin’ Woman.’ One of his favourites.
He leaned down and kissed my eyes and the bridge of my nose, still smiling.
A typical evening would wind down with me crouched at his feet on knees and chest, hands fastened behind me, my whole urgent body throbbing, supporting the weight of his long legs, those comfortable limbs pressing heavy and relaxed against my ass. Somehow without moving, my body was straining forward, trying to find the spot or place in my world that would bring me to climax, seeking contact, my eager flesh encountering nothing but teasing air currents. When he’d finished his chapter or watched the news, when he’d judged that I’d cooled down enough to be touched, he’d fit the shield back over my simmering cunt, lock me up again, kiss away the fresh flow of tears, and put me to bed.
