Eternal Slave Ch. 03 - A Cup of Tea

"Imagine a flower."

"What kind of flower?"

"A flower that means something to you."

"All right." I guess I just had to go with red roses. I wasn't very interested in flowers, but I knew that red roses could eventually lead to sex. That meant they meant something to me.

"Imagine now, that you pick this flower. Can you do that?"

"Yes..." I said. "What are the vines doing? It feels like they're growing?"

"Don't open your eyes!" Her voice was sharp. "They're measuring your pulse and your temperature, so they swell up. One wrong movement, and they snap. You need to focus, or it fails!"

"All right," I said.

"Did you pick the flower?"

"Uh..."

"Imagine that you pick the flower, please."

"All right. And then?"

"And then nothing, you filthy swine."

"Huh?" I let the flower go and opened my eyes.

The look Sprite gave me was full of disgust.

I tried to move my arms. They wouldn't move.

I tried to fight free. I couldn't.

My wrists were now tied to the brass rings by thick, powerful vines.

Sprite began smiling, a very evil, nasty smile. Then she cackled, just like every good evil witch does. "That was all too easy. Welcome, 'Mister' Sam, to a life of slavery."

She stood above me for a few minutes wile I did everything in my power to break free. Her laugh was wicked, evil, gloating.

I was terrified. This was no joke. This was serious, this was real. The Lady Desire had been affectionate, Midnight Glow was kindhearted. Sprite was neither. Sprite wasn't capturing me to have mind-blowing sex, she was capturing me to hurt and abuse me.

The thing that frustrated me the most was that I constantly thought I had a chance of breaking free. Yes, my arms were caught by her demon weed, but by legs, my ass, my back, my shoulder and my head were all free. I could sit up. I could roll around. I could yank at the bronze rings. I could even try to topple the table, see if I could get it to break somehow.

In the end I had to accept defeat. The table was too heavy, the bronze rings embedded too deep, and the gymnastics amounted to absolutely nothing. Even the screaming for help didn't seem to produce any running feet and frantic banging on the door.

In fact, the only thing that worked was cursing myself for being so utterly stupid. I did an excellent job with that. I was ashamed, I was truly and deeply disgusted with myself.

"Finished with making an idiot of yourself?" Sprite asked.

"Not by a long shot," I returned.

"You're not breaking free. You're not the first man, and not the strongest, who has tried that. Some of them kept on cursing me, some tried to make deals, some broke down and cried for their wives or mothers to save them. The only thing they all had in common?" She smiled. "They ended up serving my purpose with every fiber of their bodies."

"Fuck you, bitch!" I said.

She shrugged and went over to her stove, putting on a kettle. "Do you like tea, 'Mister' Sam?"

"With sugar and a slice of fuck you, bitch," I replied.

"You're a fighter? I like that." She got some leaves out of a jar and watched the fire. "There is a reason I moved here to Slave Fountain Island thirty years ago. It's a horrible, sad, little dump, but it has one advantage. The supply of gift slaves. A least once a year I used to be able to track one of them down before some of the other bumbling fools got to them, and once a year I examined them, exploited them for what they got and, unless they were particularly useful to me, sold them in Moon Bay after wiping their minds. Usually I put them on the table after I drug them, but I wanted you to experience how stupid and worthless you are. I like you less than I like most, 'Mister' Sam. You're arrogant and conceited. Just watching your stupid grim as you were stimulated by the fool Viola, just knowing I was forced to give you pleasure to get my specimen. Hah! You seem to think being a gift slave is all about fucking every beautiful woman that throws herself at you. But it's not. I own you now, and you'll learn that this is not about sex or pleasure. It's about power. About me owning your power." She removed the kettle and put the leaves in. Added some sugar. Stirred.

"My power is killing women!" I said. "You can't have sex with me. No-one can! I'll never have sex again."

"Wrong," she said. "You'll have sex again in a little while. And you'll have sex every time I demand it of you."

"Never! I'll not be your assassin! I'd rather die."

"And I'd rather you died so I don't get to experience any more melodrama," she said, "but you're too valuable to me. Maybe I'll just cut off your tongue."

She found a pair of cups and saucers, unpainted but otherwise looking like they came straight out of the cupboard of some British Earl. These she placed on the table just below my tied-up hands so that I could not reach them. She poured tea, green bordering on yellow, into the cups, smelling as sweet as a flowering Chinese plum tree. Not that I had any idea how they smelled.

"I refuse," I said. "I'll never obey you."

"Why," she said and sipped her tea, little finger extended and eyes half-closed in delight and all, "by coincidence that's just what I'm about to teach you. That you will obey me, I mean. You see, 'Mister' Sam, you've probably never experienced someone being mean to you before. You've fought and you've argued and you've been thrown to the ground or kicked in the balls and cried yourself to sleep from your pride hurting. But you've never been in the power of someone who doesn't have any internal limits, someone who will not do whatever it takes to get what they want, someone who enjoys causing you pain and discomfort. Like me."

She sipped her tea again. "You haven't got anything else to say?"

Had I? Was this the time to stop being brave and start crying for mercy, begging to be allowed to serve before the horror started? No, this was the time to think about Midnight Glow who might be dying just now. Glow had it worse than me. Much worse.

"Fuck you, bitch!" I said.

"Why, thank you," she said. "How about some tea?"

She picked up the other cup. My cup. My smoking cup of hot tea. Raised it high above my body.

I began to struggle, sat up, wriggled, kicked with my legs.

"It's not going to work," she said and looked at me with her burning eyes. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time now. To hear you scream."

***

I screamed all right. The libation splashed all over my belly, and my frantic fighting was all pure, animal instinct. As soon as I calmed down and began cursing her, tears in my eyes, she did it again, this time tossing some onto my back.

When I stopped shouting at last, and just sat there, helpless, my wrists raw, blisters forming on my body, she looked down into the china.

"Why, 'Mister' Sam," she said. "It seems that you've only drunk about half your cup. And there's still a whole pot left." She put the kettle back on the stove. "I'll tell you what. Either you start listening to me, or we stay here and chat until you've finished all of your tea. How does that sound?"

I shook my head.

"I thought so. Ready to do as I tell you?"

I nodded.

"First, we'll have no more of your 'Mister' Sam. He was just an illusion, created by the soft, weak-willed women of the village. I'll just call you 31. I like to give my slaves numbers. Makes it easier for me. How about it?"

I nodded.

She sighed, shook her head, and flung a little of the tea left in the cup at me.

It was not as hot now, but I still flinched so bad that the table rattled. Then I looked at the kettle. It was boiling.

"From now on, it's 'Yes, Ma'am' whenever I speak to you or ask you a question. Got it, 31?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I said.

"Now we're going to conduct a little experiment," she said. "This means fastening you a little better. So, 31? Are you going to let me tie you so tight that you'll be even more helpless, or are you going to resist?"

"I'll obey, Ma'am," I said.

"Really?" she said. "Well, that was a disappointment. With 26 I had to pour boiling oil into his... Let's not go into it. Do not move a muscle now."

"No, Ma'am," I said.

She sipped her own tea, then pulled at my pants. I might have tried to kick her, but she kept out of range until the pants were down around my ankles. Soon they were off, and I was all naked.

"Place one foot there," she pointed to one side of the table, "and one over here."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Now I want you to lie still again and-"

There was a knock at the door.

I opened my mouth to scream, but then I caught sight of Sprite's eyes. They were even more intense than usual, a vicious hunger on her face. She wanted me to yell, wanted me to disobey so that she could punish me, teach me. And she was not afraid that I would be heard and rescued. I was absolutely sure of that.

After a few moments, she shrugged. "Clever boy," she said and went over to the door. Looked out, waited, looked out some more, untied the knot, then tore the door open, pulled in a small basket made of huge, dark green leaves, and shut it, fixing up the knot again.

There, I guessed, had gone the single three seconds when people would have been able to hear me. And now they were lost.

"Where were we?" she said after she'd sniffed the delicious scent of cooked, spicy fish emerging from the basket. "Ah, yes. Lie still again, 31."

I did, and she went over to the devil vine and broke off two more twigs. She placed one on each of my ankles.

They began to move. As Sprite sat down on a chair to eat the food, I had to keep still and watch myself being shackled utterly to the table as the vines grew, circled my feet, and sought out the brass rings before they swelled up into mighty ropes. The pot she'd used did not enter into it.

"All right," she said, wiped her hands, had some more tea, and rose. "Now, let's see what happens."

She walked over towards the far side of the hut and pulled away a thick, dusty rug to reveal a trapdoor. When she opened it there came the sound of frantic scuffling from below. She descended and returned after a few minutes with a man in tow.

***

The man was naked and about forty years old. He was wearing a collar made of devil vine and had his wrists tied to the collar by the same plant. His legs were shackled by even more vine, and she pulled him along by a leash ending in light, green leaves. I got that Pulp Fiction gimp feeling, and I liked it not a bit.

What freaked me out even more was that he looked East Asian, Japanese or Chinese or Korean. And he had Chinese characters tattooed on his left arm. He was from Earth! And, he had scars all over his body. Old scars, new scars. Cut scars, tear scars, burn scars.

I screamed out my name and nationality to him, but got no reply. Then he opened his mouth and I saw that he had no tongue.

"I just hate men who won't stop chattering," Sprite said, as if that justified what she'd done to the Asian. "13 here had to learn it the hard way."

13? Well, he sure hadn't drawn the longest straw in the game of life. I realized I would probably never learn neither his name nor his ethnicity.

"13 is the only slave I decided to keep for myself. His powers over plants are so useful to me. I detest him, though, so I keep him locked up."

"What? For how long?"

"Fifteen years?" She shrugged. "I tend to forget. It's like having to think of just how long you've had rats in your house."

The Asian's eyes were dull and disinterested. I could only imagine that, after being introduced to 14, 15, 16, and all the other numbers, a new slave and that new slave's impotent sympathy meant nothing to him and his shattered mind.

Sprite's fingers closed around an end of the vines binding his left hand and pulled it down towards the rings at the foot end of the table.

"That's... a long time. Ma'am." I said.

"I know." She leered at me as she touched the vine to one of the rings. "But things are going to get better for him now. He's getting a new friend that's going to keep him company for the next fifteen years. At least."

I didn't reply.

She moved over to the man's other hand, plucked another vine, and fastened it to a ring on the other side. "Now, 31, we've got an audience."

"For what, Ma'am?"

"For my least favorite part of the daily routine. Making love to a man. Without forcing him. The gift needs to be given willingly, didn't you know that?"

The vines seemed to be pulling the Asian's hands down from his collar towards the rings.

I shook my head. My eyes said, "Never."

"I know what you're thinking," Sprite said. "And it annoys me. You think I'm despicable. That having sex with me is the last thing you would do. Do you know how I feel, having to subject myself to a moment of intimacy, of five long minutes of intimacy, with a worm like you? You're nothing!"

"I see, Ma'am," I said with as much defiance as I dared.

She made sure that the Asian was properly fastened, then turned to me again. "I'll make it simple for you. You're a gift slave, you're created to respond to dominance by women."

She put a hand on my inner thigh, just two inches from where my scrunched up balls waited. "I just fooled you into getting your hands tied up. Didn't you like that? Haven't you fantasized about such things? Meeting some strange and mysterious woman, who takes you home, who puts shackles on you, who bends over you like this and tells you that your opinion doesn't matter anymore?"

I shook my head. Of course, such fantasies had never, ever popped into my head as I was jerking off in my sad, dark, lonely room late at night. That was preposterous even to suggest.

"Have you never fantasized about just being used? As a tool? An object? A chair to be sat on while women drink tea and chat? A riding beast with a full harness and a whip slapping against your butt?" She slapped me, but it was not my butt that she hit.

I started, but shook my head again.

"Never to be something which just exists to do its task? Who's being conditioned into responding to certain signals? Sit, stand, kneel? Like a well trained dog? Oh, yes, I bet you have. I know you have. Based on what many other men have told me, I can be rather sure that's a big thing wit you. Want to see what I can do to 13?"

I refused to look at either of them. Refused to miss her caress as her hand left my thigh and she positioned herself next to the helpless Asian. Refused to see her hand moving in on his soft cock and balls.

"Up!" she commanded and flicked at the balls with a finger.

It rose. I refused to look at it, but with just one word and one, painful movement, the man's cock filled up with blood and became rigid.

"Down!"

The cock instantly became flaccid.

"Up!"

Once again, he got a huge erection.

"How about that, 31? Would you like to be taught how to do that?"

I shook my head.

"You want to, and you will. Can you believe how many men I have trained on this table? It's more than thirty-one, if you're wondering. And they all shared the same secret with me. They yearn for this. Deep inside their thick skulls, they are desperate. Look at 13? Look at the way he squirms. He wants to take your place. He knows the only thing in his life that gives him any pleasure is for me to touch his cock and give him his two minutes of daily ecstasy. Doesn't that resonate with you, 31?"

I shook my head again.

"If not," she said and came over, "then what's that?"

I closed my eyes. I was betrayed. My thoughts... I just hadn't been able to deny the truth she had been showing me. The ugly truth. The need to lose control of myself, to actually be in a woman's power. For real.

"When I gave you tea, you obeyed me," she said and began slapping my cock. Not playfully, but neither with excessive force. Just enough to show me that a woman didn't need to be gentle with me to get me going. "You were scared and angry. Yet deep down, you felt something. Something that scared you even more. Do you know what that was?"

The slapping had turned from shameful to... well, to not giving a damn about shame or self-respect. It was rhythmical and persistent, stimulating me more than Viola's lazy handshake had. Now and then she missed a little and gave my balls a good wallop which made me toss about on the table despite myself. Even just dreading those foul balls helped bringing me higher.

"If I offered to stop, on your word, would you say it?"

She looked at me. Her eyes were full of fever now, the regular intensity augmented by sadistic heat. The hand slapping my cock was relentless.

I didn't move a muscle. Well, I did, but only in the groin region.

"Say it?"

I didn't say it.

"No?"

I didn't speak.

"So..." She cackled. "I think you're ready for this. One of you slaves is getting fucked right now, and one of you has to watch. Which one will it be, 31? Which one?"

She placed herself between 13 and me, using her left hand to slap him the same way.

The Asian began writhing, fighting his bonds, stood up on his toes, leaning forward against the table, pushing his cock closer to Sprite. That cock was ready for her. Dripping.

He made moaning sounds, awkward, pathetic sounds that would have formed words if he still had his tongue. Despite what she had done to him, had put him through, despite how much he hated her, he was still a slave to the things only she could give him.

"Do you want me to stop slapping this thing that enslaves you, 31? Want me to leave it standing up, then get between his tied-up arms, and let him slam his meat into me for as long as he has to while his maimed mouth begs for more and more? And meanwhile you're lying there getting nothing, listening him moaning and groaning in your place?"

"Don't stop!" I begged, screaming out the words. "I'll do anything you want, just don't stop!"

She cackled. "Well, then, 31. You're willing to sacrifice his needs for yours. Fantastic. It seems you've just taken your first, stumbling steps down the path of real enslavement. Let's lead you a little while longer..." She stopped slapping 13's cock.

After listening to his pitiful wailing for a few moments, I almost wanted to prove her wrong, to ask her to take him instead. Almost.

Sprite noticed, then climbed up on the table, her eyes full of glee and disgust at my weakness. Then she got on top of me and spread her legs. Sat right down on my crotch, facing 13, her back to me. I noticed something very different from when I had been with Midnight Glow. The woman with the angelic face had been ready for me, horny as hell. She'd been wet all the way down her thigh, warm and eager to receive me and start bonding.

Sprite's groin was dry and cold, the head of my cock rubbing over her skin like a piece of machinery that hadn't been oiled properly. There was no way I was going to be able to just fit in there.

"What do you think, you miserable shit?" she said to the struggling Asian. "Are you envious?"

From what I could see, he was. He made a futile effort to jerk his hands free from the vines that bound them, but no such luck.

"Too bad, slave," she said and laughed, her voice full of scorn. "This is going to be your future from now on. Every day I'm going to bring you out, and every day I am going to chain you up like that, and every day I am going make you hard and needy, and every day I am going to fuck 31 in front of you. I hate you, 13. I hate you and all of your whining and your begging and your attempts to break free. And I hate the way you just won't respond to my punishments anymore. You've grown insolent and moody, defiant, rebellious. But that's all going to change now. Because now I have a new premier slave."

As she spoke, she rubbed her butt and crotch over my rock hard cock. I could feel her warming up, growing moist. Her hair fell down to slide over my belly, and her fingers pinched my thighs where she held on to them, both things making me moan and respond to her. Instead of, say, feeling sympathy with 13.