A Slut's Education Ch. 02-04

"And your busty blonde girl-crush roommate, hmm? Deanna, right? How are you going to disguise your steel-enforced submission from someone you share a bathroom with? Or if not, how to explain it? ... Your problem, slut, not mine ..."

The Serb, finally satisfied with his adjustments to the entire belt, snaps the front panel into the clasp just under your navel. I wave the key in front of your face one last time, and then put it away in the breast pocket of my blazer.

"Slave," I say seriously, "from now on, you will piss through the wire grate in front of your chastity-belt, and you will shit through the ring fitted between your ass-cheeks. You'll wear this belt at all times, except when, at my pleasure --" I pat my pocket "-- I choose to take it off. That way, your pleasure is permanently under my control ..."

You can't help it, you gasp huskily.

"... And every time your slutty, undisciplined mind strays into your own selfish desires ... well, that metal will be there to remind you who owns them."

You sag a little bit in your posture, and I see it is sinking in ... how the metal that is fastened and inescapably locked around your nether love-treasures ... changes everything.

I say to the Serb, "And the chains?"

He brightens up. "Yes!" he says, before turning to go back into the stock room.

While he's gone, I continue, "It will take some getting used to, Kelli, pissing and shitting in your chastity-belt. And it'll require extra work hygiene-wise. That's on you, keeping your hardware clean." I move closer. "And your software, hmmm?"

Vladic returns and hands me a cluster of thin steel chains. "Wanna do the honors?"

I step up next to you and let the chains drop in my hand, holding them by the device at the hub of the five chain-strands. I see where the device fits, in the socket just below the locking-clasp in the front of your belt, and I click it gently in place.

"Hands," I instruct you.

You present them in front of you, palms up. I take one strand of chain and clip it onto the small ring of the manacle on your right wrist, the one buried among the crowd of bangles. There's no padlock involved here, but the catch of the clip will require a highly specialized jeweler's screwdriver to unfasten ... which is another thing I keep on my keychain, by the way. I clip another chain to your left-hand manacle, then I take the two other lengths down between your legs and clip these to your ankles.

Vladic speaks up, "In case you didn't notice, the chain socket has its own separate lock --- though opens with the same key. You can attach the chains or not, however you want. Or else -- look, there's this hook in back of the belt here, you can gather up the chains and tuck them away when the slave isn't wearing them -- you know, keep 'em handy? But I mean, the bitch has to wear loose shirts or whatever not to have that noticed --"

"I understand, please stop talking," I tell the Serb.

I look at your dutifully impassive face. You are blushing a hot red. I take the end of the last chain, reach up and clip it into your collar-ring.

I love the sound of the *clink* as the tiny steel hook snaps home.

You are not only collared, as you have been for a week, you are collared and chained.

And now, locked.

I instruct you with a snap of my fingers: Down.

You settle into At-Ease. Relaxed, back on your haunches, hands loose on your thighs, head bowed.

You and I have gotten further in your Training, to the point where I have substituted non-verbal commands for verbal. The word "Down" has been replaced with a single snap of my fingers, the word "Up" has been replaced with a quick double-snap. Over time and with grueling repetition, you have learned to respond to these, Pavlov-ishly, as swiftly and as surely as when I speak words. This time, in the basement of the tattoo parlor on 25th Street, you don't disappoint me -- or fail to impress the Serb, who gives a little grunt at the sight of your perfect, submissive posture.

I command my slave, "Mouth."

Your chin lifts up, high and proud. Mouth open wide. Tongue out. Beautifully obeyed, slut. I haven't yet introduced the non-verbal for the "mouth-command," but I will.

I take hold of the end of your tongue between my thumb and forefinger, and draw it out as far as it will go. You are squirming with anticipation, but at the same time, doing an admirable job of maintaining posture. Your eyes look straight ahead.

But I don't think that prevents you from seeing, in your peripheral vision, the Serb approaching from your left: Holding a metal device that looks like a hole-puncher, an alcohol swab in a sealed packet, and a silver metal stud.

**slut**

I am shaking inside. Why can't I say or do something about this? This is what it means to be a slave ... to be unable to resist, to allow someone to do things to you without your permission. Up to this moment, it has been a joyful romp of fun and daring. A game. I love games. I am fearless in games, a terror on the court. I challenge bigger and more athletic players and drive past them to the hoop.

But this? This is no game.

"NNGH-nngghhhh," I whimper, timid in my protest. I do not think Master understands my word. He continues to smile at his obedient slave, as his minion closes in to further violate me.

I look into Master's eyes and I fearfully shake my head.

Master's reaction is immediate. His smile vanishes. I purposefully tug against his grasp on my tongue and Master loses his grip. My slippery tongue darts into my mouth and I can speak clearly: "No."

It is not spoken with strength nor with confidence, but I have drawn my first shaky line that he may not cross.

"No?"

"No more." I suddenly have my voice back. He is a much bigger opponent, but I will not back down. "I won't let you. You can't do this. I have done everything you asked, but not this."

His pussy cat is suddenly filling with tiger-like energy. I break posture, and when Master does not respond, I struggle to my feet. The metal-worker has become a bystander in our drama, no doubt certain of his customer's victory. I wonder how defiant I really look, with the chains that have trapped my wrists and ankles.

"Let me go," my voice now normal, the fear is gone.

Master has stepped back and from his pocket he has removed my phone. He is ignoring me as he scrolls my address book, which makes me angrier, then I realize his plan. Mom! Dad! Your daughter has failed you, but she cannot fail herself. She has let him violate and control her body, but no more ...

"Save yourself the effort. Speed dial 2: 'Mom." It couldn't be simpler. And you will have destroyed me. Is that what you want? A shell? A pet with no teeth? A slut with a body, but no soul? Three holes? Is that all you want -- three holes?"

I am yelling now and he has paused. Dare I push him further, dare I? Am I winning or losing? ... Is this even about winning or losing?

"Your slut has a temper," the metal-worker observes to Master.

Master does not say a word. He has become silent, but he raises his eyebrows and cocks his head as if to say, It would seem so.

He still holds my phone in his hand. We stand at three corners of a triangle and no one moves. I am breathing deeply, ready to fight, but my claws have been cut by these damn chains.

Master shows no emotion. His face is void of expression. I have said all I need to say. The next move is his.

He purses his lips, looks at his assistant, then back at me.

I hold his gaze; my heartbeat is nearly normal.

He sets my phone on a table and turns to walk away!

"Wait! Where are you going?" I shout.

He ignores me and continue towards the stairs.

"Wait, you can't leave me like this!" My voice takes on an edge of panic. He stops again and reaches into his pocket, removing his key chain. I watch as he removes a small screwdriver and sets it on the arm of a chair near the stairwell.

"Wait, what about, about --?"

But he has left the room and the sound of his footsteps up the stairs indicate he is not slowing, leaving me behind, alone ...

... and suddenly empty.

CHAPTER 4

Part Three: THE PUNISHING

**MASTER**

The judge called a mid-afternoon break on the summary judgment motion I am arguing, and I use the time in the Superior Court hallway to send you my second, and I think maybe last, text:

>> I can mail u the C-belt key. I don't know ur address tho.

The first text, written Sunday afternoon after our Saturday dust-up in the tattoo parlor, was an instruction to come to me immediately, which went unanswered.

Since I left you the jeweler's screwdriver, I know you'd been able to remove the chains from your collar and cuffs. But without the master key, currently on my key ring, the chain plug-in is inextricable from the front of the belt, so I assume you are wearing the sirik chains gathered up and tucked away in the hook in back.

I can only imagine what you are experiencing in your C-belt. How it must pain you to wear loose shirts or skirts, knowing how much you like to dress in tight clothes to show off your sexy, slender curves.

The funny thing is, last Saturday when I taunted you in the basement with those many notions of how the C-belt will change your life, it was really just that -- taunts. A mind-fuck. Meant to get a rise out of you and torment you a little. I enjoyed it at the time. But in reality, I always intended that I would let you out of it pretty liberally -- for basketball, beach outings, so on. In reality --- a place where we both live, I grant -- you'd be free of the belt far more often than not.

Mostly, what I had wanted was your reaction simply to having it installed, teasing you with my control over your pleasure ...

... And oh boy, did I get that, or what?

But now, three days later, you are stuck with it, with the limitations to your wardrobe it imposes and to your lifestyle and recreational options. And most of all, with the fact that you cannot satisfy yourself.

Well, your orgasms are still under my control, even if no other part of you is ...

... Ahhh, for all I know, you've already been to Ace Hardware, purchased a heavy-duty bolt-cutter, and snipped the thing off.

I almost regret my last text. It was snarky, a passive-aggressive sort of goodbye. Plus, decidedly un-dominant. If I know my worth as I think I do, I should have every confidence you will return to me in time. So why don't I?

My phone chirps, and I see I have a new text. From you:

>> this slut is headstrong and stubborn

I smile at that. Then wonder, is this an apology? Or a fuck-you? I wait for more. You like to compose your texts a sentence at a time and send them in strings. But a minute passes, then another, and another, and there is nothing more.

Then, the clerk emerges from the courtroom to summon the lawyers back to resume the motion hearing. I have to shut off my phone ...

... An hour and a half later, the hearing is done. Judge Barker took my motion under submission, but I like my odds. I exit the courthouse, summon an Uber and stand on the curb waiting for it. Phone in hand, I see more texts from you await me:

>> It was too much for this slut, perhaps if we'd stopped at the chains that day

And:

>> this slut knows tho she reacted with anger, iono why, she really was afraid

And:

>> slut is superafraid too of the punishment slut knows she deserves

>> slut knows Master will make it something she hates

And then ...

>> but slut wants to come back if Master will take her

>> except slut will have 2 conditions

What conditions? The string ends there. Will you wait until I see you to tell me? That won't work. I'll make no concessions to you unconditionally.

But soon, I have my answer. A new string:

>> slut will take the tongue-stud

>> But only if it is Cal colors navy blue and gold

>> Go Bears!

And then, this:

>> second

>> show this slut no mercy

I grin. Easily done, my slave. I reply immediately:

>> Saturday 3pm. In front of the tattoo parlor.

And six minutes later, her reply:

>> no

>> mercy

**slut**

>> no

>> mercy

Did I really mean it? I wanted to say it to him, because it sends shivers of excitement down to my aching, wanting, denied clit. It juices my pussy lips, trapped under the unyielding love-shield of the C-belt. My thoughts can reach my imprisoned cunt in ways my fingers are denied.

I am sitting on the lawn in Memorial Glade, staring at my phone and the unanswered texts I just left. I enjoy the waning moments of sunlight and warmth. I love this time, when the lights around campus begin to flicker on, no doubt elsewhere some students are engaged in research. The sun is drifting toward the horizon, shimmering its dying breath. The end of another day of classes, and practice. Hours of reading and study lie ahead, but first I want to sit and think.

My friends wanted me to go out with them to a bar after classes, but I just wanted to be alone. I am sorry this frustrates them. Once again, I have refused the company of my peers, denying myself companionship and the aimless, laughing, drunken fun a normal college frosh would be jumping at.

"Denying myself."

Denial. That is the word that has defined and conquered me since six days ago in the metal-worker's basement. The last time I saw Master. His metal C-belt enfolds my pussy, denying access to all. Even me. Especially me.

And "normal?" What is that? Is it something I want? I know part of me does. For the first time in my life, after my regimented upbringing In Santa Rosa, under the stern eyes of my demanding parents, I am free. Away from home, an adult with open horizons, I should be exploring all that, reveling in it.

Instead, in the first weeks of my freedom, I found myself in a world that was the exact opposite of that ...

Master enslaved me.

He did it against my will, breaking down my reluctance with blackmail, edging my non-consent toward a place called submission. A place where, to my own shock, I found I belonged. So, after that, was it a choice? Yes, I think so -- I allowed him to enslave me, because I need him, I need him within me, my holes are his.

I cannot totally understand this need. Maybe it is my body reacting to years of deprivation. I am sure most of my girlfriends in high school explored their sexuality with a guy or girl long before graduation. I had not. I was the virgin, the untouchable one, and now I know what I missed.

Master gave me what "normal" people would call a "sexual awakening." But it was far from "normal," the way he gave it to me. Yesterday, Wednesday night, would have been the mid-week part of my unbreakable slave-training schedule. For the first time in weeks, the night was empty. I felt that emptiness in my aching, chained belly. I have no one to tell my secrets to. I feel alone, denied, abandoned ... and empty.

I try. I really try. I try, but I cannot forget. My locked pussy is a constant reminder of him. I have tried various sizes of cucumber to simulate his cock in my "face-hole" but there is no substitute.

Realizing my anus is still available in the back of the C-belt, I searched online and found a colorful and cute set of ass plugs. After being assured by the company that the purchase would not show anything revealing on my credit card statement, I ordered them on Monday and they arrived Wednesday. The plugs of various sizes, cold glass, and the outer tips are different colors of the rainbow.

I smiled with delight, taking the red one, imagining it is strawberry, sucking it deeply and then squatting, pushing it easily into my -- I mean His -- "back-hole." It was the smallest of the plugs, it slid in easily, filled me satisfactorily, and brought back delicious memories.

I remembered Master told me he was training that hole for the day he would finally take it ... and "own" me.

"Own" me.

My pussy gushed at the thought of it while I worked the plugs in and out, but my cunt and clit were unreachable. There was no satisfaction, no matter how hard I tried.

I considered buying a lock cutter at Home Depot, releasing my pussy, and setting myself free. But I did not. And I knew why. Because I knew I had to go back to Master. And I knew, juicing at the the thought, it would have to be on HIS terms.

>> no

>> mercy

Did I really mean it? And what would that really be like? I do not know, but I am sure Master does. I get no answer from my phone, because more than an hour has passed since I texted those two frightening words, and there is nothing more from him.

There is only one way to find out what "no mercy" means. I will have to find out in person.

In the flesh.

**MASTER**

This time, there will be no acting out.

You are free from your C-belt for the moment, yes, but naked, spread, bound and gagged, strictly secured in Vladic's barber chair-like workstation, which is tipped slightly back as he works over you.

Your hands are restrained behind the chair by a loop of chain linking your wrist-cuffs. Your ankle-cuffs are locked to a spreader-bar that holds your thighs out wide as they'll go, exposing your pussy obscenely, and your legs are lifted up by a rope attached to a pulley overhead.

A strap fixed over your forehead secures you to the padded headrest.

But that does not prevent you from seeing most of what is happening in front of you.

Your mouth is held wide open by a dental-spreader. Your tongue is stretched from your mouth in the grip Vladic's rubber-padded pliers.

No wriggling that squirmy pink thing free this time.

A minute ago, your ear-piercings were modified to take my sturdier steel rings -- the "face-fuck handles," as Vladic put it.

And now --

-- *Thnnk* --

-- your tongue is studded. Cal blue and gold: Go Bears, rah rah.

But we're not done. That was simply the unfinished business of last week. I mean to take every advantage of your contrition, to say nothing of your physical helplessness, to add more of the body-mods I had originally planned to ease you into over time.

This is why the skinhead artist from upstairs has joined us, and is now working between your legs ... inking the tender flesh low on your pelvis, just above your smooth, shaved cunt.

You murmur and moan unintelligibly through the spreader-gag, your head bound to the headrest, eyes searching helplessly. I know it tortures you wondering what mark I am giving you, and I can hardly wait to show you. It's simple black, about two inches wide, and it is a barcode with your slavenumber above it:

478-427-283

It is the number you were assigned on the slave-registry website, along with the slavename kellislut. The number is a unique identity, to be sure, but it objectifies you too. As I'm sure you'll appreciate once you see it.

It doesn't take the artist long to finish, and then he leaves.

With that space vacated, Vladic moves between your legs. He punches six small silver rings into your labia, three on each pussy-lip, then one more on your clit-hood. At each sensation, especially the seventh, you give a sharp little squeal.

After the alcohol swabbing is done, I say to Vladic, "Please leave us."

As he climbs the steps, I reach for my brief case, open it and take out my favorite single-tail whip. Because I'm not done marking you, slave.