Rose in Training

She heard Master James talking with the Trainers, but her hysterical sobbing masked most of the words. Rose did hear one Trainer answer, "A number 6, Sir."

"Very good," Master James replied, "then an 8 should do nicely."

First there was the touch of the cold lubed end of the anal dilator, then an explosion of white pain as the plug was unceremoniously shoved full force into her. Even the severe gag couldn't stifle her shriek. A barnyard grunt followed her squeal as her body frantically tried to accommodate the huge plug. As the raw pain subsided somewhat, Rose began a keening wail. Her anus felt like it had been reamed by a fencepost, a burning fencepost, at that. Sensing her awareness, Master Karl informed her that in addition to the menthol lube, they had given the plug a spritz of vodka, "to keep you focused properly, slut."

Up to now, her anal training had been gradual and relatively gentle. But they had suddenly gone up two sizes in plugs, and the insertion had been brutal.

Now that she had been fully prepped, her fire torture began. First they applied a checkerboard of burns to her caned ass, then the tender patches of bare skin between stocking tops and girdle. Oh, it really did hurt, but Rose was a true pain-slut, and suffered as willingly as she could.

Whenever they decided she needed a booster, Mistress Elaine would give her crack a couple of sprays of the alcohol. The fresh stinging always had an immediate effect. She was 'focused,' all right. Her world centered on her burning anus until a cigar next supplied fresh agony.

Determined to plumb her depth of submission, they soon put away the cigars and cigarettes and began using candles. Instead of dripping hot wax like S and M neophytes, they used the direct flames to sear her most sensitive areas. Careful to apply only first degree burns to her stretched anus and labia, they didn't hesitate to raise blisters on her thighs and ravaged tits. No stench of burning hair assailed her nostrils. Through her agony and tears, Rose was grateful she was kept totally shaved below the neck.

They offered it as a reward for her endurance and submission. Several times, they mocked her torment by asking if she wanted to stop the session, 'just nod your head.' But each time, spraying tears with a violent shake of her head, she refused. No, she wasn't brain-dead. Her mind did receive the horrendous signals from her screaming nerves, but accepted the sensation of pain as her addiction, her reward, the proof and price of her submission.

Eventually, they snuffed the candles out on her nipples. The two men alternated between her mouth and lower orifices. Seated in an elevated armchair, Mistress Elaine took her turn enjoying Rose's willing tongue.

Sated at last, they refreshed their drinks and discussed the next phase of Rose's torment.

The trainers helped the devastated slut back to her room. Aching and well used, Rose was sticky and oozing at both ends. After she was fed, the Trainers applied ointment to sooth the burns. She would have traded her soul for the luxury of a hot bath, but was grateful enough when at last, the bed-chain was fastened to her collar and they left her alone. The ordeal had drained all her reserves, but not her courage or passion. When they came for her again, she would willingly submit to anything they required.

Shifting slightly, her welted thighs grazed the sheet. The sweet pain brought a smile to her engorged lips as she pondered the perennial question of who received the most pleasure: they to torture, or her to suffer?