The Process Pt. 04

He has to punish her, of course - even though, beyond the initial shock, he is more intrigued than annoyed. Immediately, he slaps her sharply in the face, once, then grabs her hair and pulls her up to her feet. Without a word, he presses a button on his desk, then drags her out of the library and down the corridor up to a door where two men are waiting. He opens the door and throws her into a dark room. When the light is turned on, she sees what is basically a minimalistic dungeon - chrome, dark glass, clean lines, a panoply of instruments which look like they wouldn't be out of place in a molecular cuisine restaurant. A Scandinavian designer's version of 50 Shades of Gray. And what looks like an Andrew cross at the back.

Her handler seizes her again by the back of the neck, and unceremoniously brings her up to the Andrew cross, where the two men immediately proceed to roughly take off her clothes (practically tearing them off) and fasten her to the cross, facing forward. She is left naked and exposed, her feet stood on what seem like stirrups, her limbs restrained by metal. The cross seems to swivel slightly, but one of the men places a block at its foot, and stabilises it.

Her handler takes a look at her: the slight sheen on her skin, her hard nipples, the juice running down her thighs. Her expression, terrified and painfully aroused. Ignoring his own arousal, he reaches for the crop which one of his assistants is already handing to him. He approaches Anna, then slides the crop between the folds of her vulva, brings it out sticky and glistening.

"I think it's time for you to realise what being a slave really entails, anna," he says, and she can hear perfectly how her name has suddenly lost its capital letter. Then he takes a step back and flogs her breasts, her belly, her cunt. Repeatedly and mercilessly.

The first strike winds her. The second one sets the skin on her entire body on fire. And the pain only grows and grows as the blows rain on her, the searing white heat like a thick mist fallen upon her mind, so that all she can feel and think is the pain.

He grabs her by the chin, squeezing her mouth. "I can smell you, slut. This is punishment. But you enjoy that, don't you?" He slaps her sharply in the mouth again, then forces her mouth open with his fingers. "You are a slave, anna. You are property. A thing. If I want to spit in your mouth, you will open it. Happy and docile. Like the piece of fuckmeat you are." And he spits into her, a large, disgusting gob, so that even in the midst of her pain her throat heaves involuntarily as his spit slides down. "Don't like it, do you? Well, let's see what else you don't like. Seven minutes. No respite" he tells his assistants, without taking her eyes off her. Then he leaves the room.

***

When he returns, she is hanging limply from the cross, apparently hardly conscious. He examines with satisfaction the crisscrossing welts on her white skin. Even though she marks easily, hers is the kind of skin which also recovers quickly, but the flogging has been sustained enough that the welts will last for at least a week. As will the pain.

He comes up to the cross again and caresses her face. "How are you feeling, anna?"

She can only mewl weakly. "Please..."

"We are not done yet, I'm afraid." He unblocks the cross with his foot, presses a switch so that her restraints are loosened, and swivels the frame briskly forward, so that she is thrown headlong onto the floor. Her entire body feels like a raw, open wound. She tries to stand up, but her legs give beneath her, and she collapses again on all fours.

"Like a dog," says her handler, reading her mind. "Like the bitch that you are, anna." He stands before her and stares down at her, monolithic and unmoving, and, through the pain, anna's stomach clenches into a knot of fear and shame and helplessness and burning arousal. Her dominant.

He walks around her and sticks the tip of his shoes between her legs, in her cunt, her arse, and she hears her own voice crying out in pain and lust, unrecognisable like an animal's. She hears a zipper being undone, and expects to feel her handler's cock, but suddenly one of the assistants steps into view, lifts her by her hair up to her knees and slams his cock into her mouth, so hard that she retches.

She feels someone grabbing her from behind, shoving rough fingers into her cunt and arse, and to her intense shame, she feels herself clench and juice around them. The assistant releases her head, and she sees her handler standing at a distance, coolly watching. She cums.

"Filthy," says a voice - she's no longer sure whose - but the hands continue their probing relentlessly. Someone slaps her again, and the hands drop her suddenly to the floor, and something hard is shoved up against her cunt so that she writhes on the hard wooden floor on the verge of cumming despite - or because of - the pain. "Filthy," repeats the voice, and she looks up to see her handler standing over her, and the hotness from the two men pours upon her, squirting endlessly, and she lies like a bitch in heat on the floor, in the welter of semen and her own sweat and cum, filthy, and cums and cums.

***

He watches as his assistants carry her out of the room, unconscious. They will hand her over to Astrid's capable hands, and she will probably spend the next 24 hours sleeping, recovering, then about a week performing mostly very low-impact tasks. The punishment has been quite brutal, but she needed a sharp shock, quite badly.

The question is, what now?

***

He has been summoned, in his own house. That would be irritating enough in itself, but he has it on good authority that he is being inspected at Finch's urging. He can well imagine that despicable little git's self-complacency, and when he walks into the room where Urquhart and Finch are waiting for him, Finch's expression is even smugger than he had expected. Which doesn't bode well for him. At all.

"Hello, Peter," Urquhart welcomes him. He's a man in his seventies, apparently warm, but always with a glint of steel to his smile. "It's been too long."

"Urquhart," he nods, ignoring Finch entirely. "How can I help you?"

"Well, we have received a report. Concerning one of your trainees. Number 476?"

"Yes. What about her?"

"We are concerned that her training is not being sufficiently... thorough. She has been her for more than two months now?"

"Yes."

"For any reason in particular?"

"Because I saw it fit."

Urquhart raises a brow. "How so?"

"Excuse me, but is my judgement being questioned? Because you might as well let me know straight away without resorting to these subterfuges."

"There is no need to be defensive, Peter. We are just concerned that you might have developed a... weak spot for this trainee. It happens." Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Firth smirk.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. "This trainee has... very specific needs. I believe that moving on to the next stage at this point would not be suitable. I have not yet managed to break her initial resistance."

"Yes, your famous personal approach," pipes up Firth, mockingly. "Putting the slave's needs first. You do know what we do here, don't you, Peter?"

"I know what I do, Finch," he says between clenched teeth. "You, however, seem to have taken your training methods straight from the conveyor belt. No wonder your trainees are like IKEA furniture - mass-produced, bland, and easy to break."

Firth's face becomes suddenly very red, and he's about to launch a tirade, but Urquhart holds up a hand. "Gentlemen, please. We are not here to squabble." He looks at Peter. "Two months is far too long. And from what I'm told, she seems to be pretty compliant already."

"It's too soon. She won't react well to the methods there. She'll be broken."

"Isn't that precisely the idea?"

"Not in the right way. She is hiding something. If you could only give me one more week..."

Urquhart stares at him, a steely gaze. "If she is hiding something, Dr Farris will find it. And crush it."

"This is not the...!" he cries out in frustration, then stops himself and looks at the carpet. "This is not the right way. She'll be hurt. Perhaps irreversibly."

Urquhart watches him in silence for a moment. Then he says softly: "Perhaps that is exactly what she needs, Peter." He gets up and moves towards the door, followed by Finch. "You need to get her out of your hands soon, Peter. For your own sake. The trainee will be sent on to Dr Farris on Monday. Have her ready by then."

***

He watches her as she scrubs a stain on the carpet with her usual thoroughness, almost obsessiveness, as if it were the most important task in the world. Since the flogging, she has reverted to her previous permanent compliance - this time, with no lapses, no reflexes, no involuntary recoiling. The perfect, docile, compliant slave - always willing, always ready, always obedient.

And yet.

"anna."

She looks up immediately, her body language fully denoting her slavishness: opening herself to him, torso, thighs, mouth. Perfectly attentive, perfectly ready, perfectly servile.

He wants to slap her very badly. To open her up and pry into her mind and violate her. Violate her ultimate privacy, her core, the place where she is keeping whatever she is keeping from him. "Deep sleep now, anna."

Instantly, she plunges into trance, and he watches as her body seems to sink as her mind does - the muscles relaxing while holding their position, the head drooping, lids falling. Watching her succumb, become so helpless at his command never ceases to make him instantly hard.

Yet he knows that, deep as she now is, she is now on a platform, so to speak - an oceanic shelf hanging over the abyss. And that is as deep as she will go, no matter what he does.

"anna, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir." Subdued, obedient. Aroused.

"Tomorrow you will be leaving this house." She stirs. Uneasy? "You will be sent elsewhere to continue your training. It will be... different from the way we do things here. I want to remember this. When things get hard, or when you suffer - and" he breathes in deeply "you will suffer - remember this." He steps towards he and holds her head. "Remember my words. Remember my touch." He undoes his zipper and brings out his cock, caressing it lightly over anna's face. "Recite."

"i am a slave. i am property. i am owned," recites anna as her handler's cock weaves patterns over her face, over her eyes, over her lips. "i have no thoughts. i have no will. i have no desires." Her voice grows more and more ragged with arousal as her hands droop helplessly to her sides and her hips start to buckle gently.

"Repeat," he commands, as his erection rages.

"no thoughts. no will. no desires. no thoughts. no will. no desires," anna repeats, over and over, as they inflame each other.

Finally, he can't hold it any longer and slides his cock into her mouth. "Cum, slave," he groans as he spills himself into her, and she buckles wildly against his feet and legs as he drops to his knees, spouting his semen all over her naked body.

They lie side by side for a few moments, spent, he almost as dazed as her. Then she opens her eyes and gazes at him, as naked as a newborn, and something in him stirs unbearably. Very gently he holds her head again and brings it down to his softening member, and she starts to lick meekly, like a deer. Then gradually her suction, and her breathing, become more regular, and she is sucking him as a baby would to feel warm and protected and safe.

"Remember this," he whispers, and strokes her dark head.