A Slut's Education Ch. 06

Authors' Note : If you've made it this far, Dear Reader, and didn't turn back at Chapter 5, you appreciate the dark turn into abduction, psychodrama and torture the Authors have taken. It gets worse.... If it helps the reticent reader, try and read the horror of Kelli's ordeal as the darkest place her fantasies can go, even deeper than she herself understands... and Master's torments as a carefully controlled exploration of that place.

Or not. Either way, this is *FANTASY!*

DISCLAIMERS : The bondage situations depicted in this and other chapters are unsafe, especially when leaving the sub unattended, and should be read only as fantasy and fiction. Sleep-deprivation is dangerous and should never be used in BDSM play. All unsafe BDSM practices depicted herein are to be read in the context of a purely fictional fantasy of non-consensual erotic adventure.

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Part Five: THE BREAKING

THANKSGIVING, MENDOCINO COAST.

**slut**

Disoriented... Deprived... So dizzy.

Nothing makes sense...

... But I am not terrified, at least I don't think I am, because all indications point to Master. Yes, I see his cuffs have returned to my wrists and ankles, and his chains as well. I am uncomfortable, every movement I try to make is restricted and pulls on my sensitive pussy, or on my nose --

-- Has he pierced my septum?!

I am chained in some elaborate way -- a sirik, but more -- and my hands are useless, covered and tied in some way that I cannot understand, cannot unfasten even the simple clip that chains my nose to a post in front of me.

I begin to think more clearly, the haze is lifting. I have something over my face. My restricted hand paw at it, useless, I am silenced in leather. What kind of gag is this?...

I am woozy ... Thanksgiving meal... A drive up the Coast road... images that do not connect.

... Deanna?... I thought... Wait, yes, I was coming to meet Deanna! Could I be wrong? I shake my head to clear my thoughts.... Yes. That's right, I was to meet Deanna and her friends. I was looking forward to it, especially after the unpleasant confrontation I had with mom about the tongue-stud. There was no hiding it. I imagine she could have accepted the hoop earrings as a mild form of rebellion, but the tongue piercing resulted in a very frustrating conversation. Not really a conversation. It was all one-way. There was nothing I could say to calm her down. I was glad to leave right after the Thanksgiving meal...

Glad? For this?

... My thought processes are crazy... It makes no sense.

... I can't stand up! I try, but before I have risen above a low squat, chains leading from my ankle-cuffs to my wrists, threaded though my pussy-rings, tug painfully on my labia. I return to the floor, staying on my knees.

Why am I alone? I call for Master, but there is no response. I examine my world, no place I recognize, now only leather and chains and a post... and newspaper! Am I to be chained here for so long a time that I will have to pee on the paper, like a pet bitch? Am I a bitch, nothing more than a beast?...

My senses begin to gather information. I hear the wind howling outside and smell the salt in the air. The sounds outside make me shiver, but there is warmth from some source.

Except for leather and metal, I am naked. I try to twist my body, to take in more information and then I feel the dread, a thrill of fear runs through my body. I see a cage, the door open, beckoning to me...

I grunt in protest and increase my struggles, trying to find a way to free myself. I twist and suddenly I notice a piece of paper, not part of the newspaper that I am shredding as I struggle. In the low light, I have to squirm to avoid my own shadow, and now I can read it:

* WELCOME TO OBEDIENCE SCHOOL *

My pussy lips swell, beyond my control...

... More questions than answers, but the combination of chains and cuffs, of steel and leather, of cold and warmth have made my situation clear.

Master, oh Master, you have taken your slut captive!!

I call again, try to make myself clear, a rubber bit tight in my mouth, stretching my lips. "MMH-muhhr! MMMMMGH -muhrrr!"

And then I hear movement for the first time, hard high heels clacking downstairs and across concrete, nearing me. It is a struggle for me to move my body to tip up my head and see who is coming, and what I see first is a black silhouette against dim wall lights, but as the shape moves closer...

I see it is a woman. A tall beautiful woman, dressed in tall leather boots that lace up tight from ankles to over the knees, skin-tight black leather pants... a bare, toned midriff and a studded black leather bra. She holds a riding crop in one leather-gloved hand, and a cellphone in the other, holding it to her ear.

"So, this is -- what, '478-427-283'?" she says into the mic. "Really, you've outdone yourself with this slave. I mean, if it's trainable..."

She holds out the phone and, too quickly for me to turn away, takes a picture. The flash washes over me. I am praying the muzzle over my face will protect my identity... but I doubt it.

The woman wears a mask across her eyes, black and feathered, like things you see at Mardi Gras. Blonde hair up in a bun behind her head. Dark Goth eye-shadow, blood-red lipstick to go with a bloodless grin.

The clothes and makeup are unfamiliar, and the mask confuses me for less than a second, but I know who it is... that voice... Does she think she is fooling me?

Deanna.

** MASTER**

I watch this.

I watch from behind the shroud, seeing your eyes widen like saucers, your head shaking from side to side in disbelief. I watch as Deanna steps closer, unhooks the chain from the post and gives it a little flick, to make you acutely aware that it is attached to your septum. And it is your leash.

She leads you along behind her, nose-tethered, for a spin around the basement floor...

... And I wonder if you are reevaluating your opinion that Master is behind this predicament? I wonder if your mind is spinning and churning with the crazy notion that it is Deanna's doing and hers alone.

I like the mind-fuck of that!... But then, I designed all of it for that, as a Grand Mind-Fuck Weekend for my kellislut chink-whore lying-cunt captive-slave...

Your nose-leash "walkies" force you to confront what your initial testing of the restraints suggested: You are unable to rise off your hand and knees, so this how you must move, crawling on all fours.

And, thanks to the careful adjustments of the wrist and ankle chains, it is an awkwardly restricted crawling: Your paw-sheathed hands are prevented from moving more than about a foot and a half apart from one another, as are your cuffed feet, by the chains threaded through and tugging at your pussy-rings. Deanna leads you to the far end of the basement, her pace steady and patient, allowing you to acclimate to the impairments that are new to your body. Before, coming back, she quickens the pace.

She quickens with each turn, leading you round and round in circles in the middle of the floor, occasionally tugging and flicking at the leash-chain, tormenting your tender septum with the clamp-ring under the muzzle.

You give a series of sharp, loud squeals through your gag at the torment that the quicker pace, the leash and the chains, are causing your nose and pussy-lips. Your yelps are squeals at first, then gradually sink into a low, inhuman pleading sound.

Deanna giggles into her cellphone, "Looks like our little '283 doesn't understand yet what's what." Still carrying on her conversation with no one, actually meant for the slave-bitch's ears. "It seems to think the dog-muzzle on its face means permission to whine like a little bitch!"

With that, she yanks upward on the chain, lifting up your face and taking a photo point-blank.

She is following our script to a tee. I wonder if it is becoming clear to our captive, how "it" is not addressed, but only referred to. This is the purpose of the imaginary person on the other end of the cellphone: to orient the slave without directly addressing or instructing it.

I have to admit, my impression of Deanna from our first phone conversation, that she was some sort of blonde bimbo-airhead, was entirely mistaken; my fear that she wasn't bright enough to do the simple job of setting up Kelli for her kidnapping was misplaced. She proved herself an apt pupil, as well as a devious and creative collaborator for my "event planning." And with only a fair amount of training in my craft, she assumed the mantle of Domme-Deanna more or less like a natural.... I am impressed and, I admit it, a little aroused by her performance.

Not taking the hint, the slave-bitch's squeals and moaning pleas go on.

"What's that?" Deanna says into the phone. "You hear it too --?"

She stops and drops the slack in the middle of the leash-chain to the floor, steps over it with her stiletto heel. "-- No worries, I'll handle it."

She yanks up on the chain, dragging it under the arch of the boot's instep and forcing her captive's nose-ringed face down to the floor, until the slut's muzzle rests on the toe of Deanna's boot.

At the same time, slut, your ass heaves up high like the other end of a seesaw. Shocked, you grunt, sob, and wiggle your hips helplessly in the air.

*THWIK!* The striker of Deanna's riding crop lands hard on your left buttock.

"NNGH!!" Still not taking the hint.

*THWIK!* "NNGH!!"

*THWIK!* *THWIK!* *THWIK!* "NNGH-MMMMGGHHH!!!"

This is a test, slave, of your prior training as well as your general intelligence. The louder you are, the harder the whipping. That's what you get for your protests. What you will not get, however, is a direct, verbal command, an instruction, to be silent.

*THWAK!!*

Then... silence.

A series of rapid, softer swats of the striker to your hips, then two more hard wallops, both buttocks...

... More silence.

Good slave-bitch. Without being ordered, you have obeyed.

*********

That was Phase One of your Captive-Slave-Orientation.

Are you beginning to understand what Obedience School means? Perhaps yes, beginning... but you have so much more to learn.

Now, the captive rests on knees and forearms atop the vinyl punishment-bench in the far corner of the room. Still chatting away with the phone in her left hand, with her right, Deanna unclips the collar-chain from the two strands of the wrist-cuff chains and pulls it back between your knees.

"That's right, I'm preparing the captive for you now. Come see it when you can." She hangs up and sets the phone aside. She uses a small carabiner to clip together the small D-rings at the ends of your bondage mittens, joining them... then clipping them directly to your collar.

... Your backside is to me now, so I can't see your face. I wish I could. Is it still confused, disoriented and alarmed? Pained and tearful? Or resigned? Which of your slave-guises, I wonder, of the many I've come to know and savor from past training, does your face now betray?

Or is it something I've never seen before?...

Behind and above the rear of the punishment-bench, a slack, sturdy chain dangles from a ratchet-pulley set into the joist beam, down to an eyebolt in the back panel of the bench. Deanna takes that chain up from the eyebolt, drags it over the edge of the bench and connects it to the chain from your slave-collar.

Standing up, she reaches and takes hold of the back end of the pulley chain, drawing it down. As she does, you feel the tension on your collar forcing you first to flatten your muzzled face down onto the cold vinyl of the bench, second, to squeeze your upper body down and inch your knees forward... and third, to raise your ass high.

"Mmmgh?"

Then, with a shudder of alarm that I can see wracking your hips, you recognize what you must do as the tension increases: you must spread out your knees, wider and wider, the more your collar is winched toward the back of the bench...

... Until Deanna stops. She yanks back on the chain above to engage the pulley's ratchet... and leaves you to wiggle uselessly in your ramped-up restraint. I smile to see my slut testing the narrow bounds of "give" that your bondage has left you... knees and elbows close together, torso bent in and down, knees out open and wide... ass deliciously high and exposed. Just about the only "give," really, is to wiggle that luscious ass for me.

Her work done, Deanna smiles wickedly and takes a few cellphone shots. Different angles and distances. A close-up of your anguished face, now tipped to the side and pressed tight against the vinyl of the punishment-bench.

"Punishment" bench. Hold that thought, bitch.

What I like about this bondage, your legs are outspread without the need to restrain your knees or ankles. I like that it's your collar, kellislut -- the first external badge of my domination that you ever received from me -- not any cuffs, ropes or straps, that tells you how to spread out and expose yourself to your captors' inspection.

And inspect you, that's what I mean to do now.

I step out from the blind and approach you from behind. "So, is Slave '283 is ready for me?" I call out ahead of me.

You jump a little, kellislut, but you're unable to look around and see. Since my hiding place was beside the foot of the stairs, for all you know, I've just arrived, silently descending from the floor above.

"Almost, sir," Deanna replies, as she slides open the utility drawer in the front end of the punishment-bench. "Just a couple more ornaments."

I come alongside my captive, standing at a slightly distant, three-quarter view of you. I see you are panting and sweating, still settling into the competing stresses of your restraint. I say, "A fine display."

"Thank you, sir."

You haven't yet looked up to see me, but I know you recognized my voice before... so you know Master is here for you at last.

... I see you tremble. Your head is turned, eyes squeezed shut, perhaps in concentration, perhaps contrition, perhaps -- But no, I recognize this, I know what it is.

You are processing desperately, your training unsettled and conflicted, unsure what is expected of you. See, you are trained to begin each discipline session in a prescribed attitude and position. But in this case, you have received no such guidance. So you switch to default: you still your body, remain silent and anonymous, and wait to be told what to do.

But you'll see, my captive-cunt, that instruction won't be coming any time soon...

********

"It's filthy," I sneer.

"Comes from crawling face-down on a filthy dungeon floor." Deanna lifts a steel object from the punishment-bench utility drawer -- your C-belt, you recognize, but just the waist-band segment. "Plus, I saw to it the bitch worked up a sweat."

"And it stinks," I agree. "Has it eliminated its wastes?"

Here, I catch your eyes flickering up, briefly, scanning me from bottom to top, before retreating again into anonymity. What you saw was a tall man in black: motorcycle boots, leather pants, loose black tanktop and short, tight gloves. And a mask: just a leather band around my head with a pair of eyeholes, a disguise not meant to fool you any more than Deanna's, but to instill a small sense of menace. Much smaller, though, than the sense of menace you received from your glimpse of the array of punishment tools hanging from my low-slung utility belt.

"No. I checked the newspaper." Deanna moves from your front to your side as she fits the steel belt around your waist.

"Needs grooming too," I say.

With amusement, I notice your eyes flicker open with alarm. You remember: Back when you thought you were going to have a cheerful little slumber-orgy with the girls, Deanna teasingly suggested you give up your daily shaving routine for a week before Thanksgiving -- the evidence of that now plain on your legs and especially, over your fuzz-covered pussy mound -- so that she could "take care of you" up in the beach house this weekend.

I bet the thought of that tickled your clit, didn't it? Well, it's still going to happen, my lying, cheating, captive-slut... just not the way you pictured it.

Deanna moves behind you to slide the other side of the belt around your right hip, carefully easing the cool steel over your flesh. She says, "I'll handle all the Grooming & Maintenance after I fish the captive out of its cage tomorrow morning."

With Deanna behind you, I step into the gap and move in front of you, scrutinizing your restraints, and your responses to them... your eyes closed, as if you are processing, or you don't want to believe its me behind this anguish and torment... I am close enough to reach out and touch you.

Which I do: Taking hold of your nipple in one hand and two of the pussy-rings in another, I give both a vicious twist.

"NNGHH!" you squeal, eyes like saucers glistening and staring attentively into my mine.

You see, without commanding you, I got what I wanted: your wide-eyed and undivided attention.

I say, "Welcome to your new life as a slave, Number 478-427-283."

Phase Two of your Slave-Orientation: Finally, you have been directly addressed. But still, given no order.

Reaching from behind you, Deanna snaps closed the front latch of the chastity belt, the lock engaging with a sharp click.

"You are no longer the free woman you think you are," I go on. "You are a number, a thing -- a piece of meat -- Property."

"Stolen property," Deanna chimes in, giggling, her hands still resting on your hips.

"My property," I add.

As I speak, I unclip from my belt and lay out on the bench, first, the short-tailed flogger-cat, and second, the heavy wooden paddle. "Mine to keep bound and caged, to use or abuse whenever I wish... as long and as hard as I wish... to serve my needs, pleasures and whims, or those of anyone I choose to give you to."

"Yessss..." Deanna whispers behind you, involuntarily, a lapse. She slides her hands up your sides, caressing you flesh even as my words taunt and torment your mind.

Third, the broad beating strap.

I go on, as if speaking sideways to Deanna, "Oh, I see the light of willfulness and resistance still burning in its eyes. It thinks it's still a human being, with a name, with an identity, free will and rights."

Fourth, the single-tail whip, which I think you know.

"It's not. It's an owned slave. A naked body kept solely for use and abuse... no better than an animal."

Deanna's hands fall away from your sides, leaving you now uncomforted.

Fifth, the thin rattan cane, which you have never tasted.

"No choices. No hands to grasp with, no feet able to hold it upright..." I stroke the side of your dog-muzzle. "No voice."

And sixth, I hold up the tiny padlocks which you know quite well should be somewhere other than where they are, in my hand.

Your eyes widen in recognition and terror.

You know. You know what I know.

You know what you did... and you know what you deserve.

At that moment, Deanna's hands snake past your face and slip the blindfold-panel over your eyes. She quickly snaps and straps the panel into place, a black leather piece that matches the muzzle below and accomplishes the elimination of the upper half of your face. Your world plunges into darkness.