6 comments/ 14933 views/ 6 favorites Beyond Law, Beyond Morality Pt. 01 By: MistressTrinityJones When I was in eighth grade, I started flirting with the Goth scene; after a few years, I realized I didn't like the music, or the black lipstick, or the general sense of trying to fit in somewhere by not fitting in. But I liked the clothes, or, more specifically, the more fetish-inspired elements -- corsetry in particular. I began to gravitate toward a more high-fashion style toward the end of my high school years, working into my wardrobe whenever I could things like corsets, fancy hosiery, ridiculous heels, patent leather, and other vaguely (or not so vaguely) kinky pieces. For my troubles, I developed a reputation as a major slut, despite the fact that I was still a virgin. But my style (among other things) imbued me with a certain level of confidence lacking in most of my peers that the gossip I knew was going on behind my back did little to undermine. That, and I was the valedictorian of my graduating class. So fuck them. I went to Columbia. New York was a revelation to me. I wasn't from a small town, exactly, but it wasn't New York. There, my outfits turned heads in all the right ways. Being an expensive place to live, despite my ample scholarships, I found myself doing some modeling for extra pocket money. Student stuff at first, helping out friends taking photography classes, but eventually I began to catch the eyes of certain professionals. They paid well, especially whenever I was willing to show my naughty bits, which, being as I like to think of myself as blessedly free of the constraints of America's Puritan morality, was rather often. Best of all, for me, I gained access to a steady array of increasingly elaborate fetish costumes -- latex, full-body leather catsuits, bustiers, boots of every imaginable variety. I reveled in it, and, as I collected more and more in wages from the shoots, I began to amass my own collection. I began to feel more and more powerful, more and more sexualized, as I went deeper into this world. Soon, I was doing shoots with other models. Real posed stuff, all simulated sex, but definitely porn now, if there had ever been any doubt about it up to that point. I found myself looking forward with increasing excitement to upcoming shoots, until I was masturbating two or three times in the hours leading up to them. Despite all this, I'd been holding on to my virginity for whatever reason; I really can't think of a good one that I had all those years ago, but it seemed important at the time. Finally, at a shoot in which I was posing as a dominatrix opposite a very cute little blonde, I got a little carried away. She didn't seem to mind. Neither did the photographer. Before it was all over, I'd come three times. Or, really, I'd made her make me come three times. The feeling of power was a big part of it. The outfits were instrumental to it all for me, but to actually exert the power I felt they gave me pushed me into a new world. Within a few months, I'd dropped out of school. I was doing movies by then, working almost every day, doing lez and hetero scenes, groups, whatever I was offered. My only stipulation was that I was in charge. I was the domme. I came to take greater and greater levels of pleasure from inflicting pain, and the more I inflicted, the hornier I got, and the bigger the orgasms became. I delved into more serious stuff as the months went on. Not the kind of stuff you see on mainstream sites, but real dark, sinister scenes in which I was inflicting very real pain, pushing my co-stars to and beyond their limits, leaving marks both physical and emotional. I stayed away from anything involving feces, but not much else. By the time I was 22, I was the darling of the hardcore BDSM scene, and I loved every second of it. And then I disappeared. I had gone to sleep like any other night, along, well-satisfied from my day's work, looking forward to the next day. When I awoke, I was still alone, but that was the only part that was the same. I was in an unfamiliar room, paneled in rich, dark wood, with the sort of elaborate ceiling you generally find only in fancy buildings of a certain age. I couldn't see much else, as I couldn't move my head. A thick leather binding sat rather too tightly across my throat; I could still breath, but not quite effortlessly. My arms and legs were similarly immobilized, with as best I could tell three straps around each, and three more went around my hips and above and below my breasts. I was in a spread-eagle position, and was wearing nothing but the rings in my nipples. Despite my inability to move, I was quite comfortable. The surface below me was of a fine plush leather with just the right amount of padding underneath it. A few minutes after I woke, I heard a woman's voice. It was not in the room; it was coming through a speaker. It conveyed an odd mix of menace and comfort. "Good, you're awake." "Where am I?" I said, the tremble in my voice betraying the very real fear I was feeling. "You are safe, more or less." "I don't feel safe." "That's understandable. And expected. No lasting harm will come to you; I give you my assurance on that point." "That leaves short-term harm a distinct possibility," I said. "Indeed it does." At that moment, I heard a soft whirring noise, and a second later, I was penetrated by what felt like a fairly large object; distinctly larger than anything else by which I'd ever been penetrated. At least it had been well-lubed; that, or I was wet despite myself. It was painful to accommodate it, but it wasn't a sharp pain, and after maybe fifteen or twenty strokes, it started to feel alright. "Who are you?" I asked. "I am a bestower of gifts. To you, I am giving an opportunity." "What sort of opportunity?" "The life-changing sort." "I'm actually quite happy with my life, thanks." "Yes, you appear to have a deep enjoyment for your work. It is that fact that first brought you to my attention." So she was familiar with me, at least on that level. "You have me at a disadvantage, then," I said. "Quite. I have everyone at a disadvantage. I find it to be the best way to get what I want." "And what is that?" I asked. "From you, right now, information." "Well, ask away. I'm pretty easy to talk to, despite my public persona." "It's not the sort of information you can simply tell me, my dear." The dildo sped up a bit. "How does that feel?" came the voice over the loudspeaker. "It feels like a big, fat dildo." "Insolence is not becoming." I felt a soft buzzing then on my clit, which quickly ramped up over the next few seconds and culminated in a strong electric shock which, had I not been so competently restrained, would have made me lurch violently off the table. I thought then that I was onto her game. "Shall I call you Mistress?" I asked, trying to sound meek and demure. "That is a courtesy you demand, is it not?" "I do." "Do you find the affirmation of your position such a title implies...arousing?" "I suppose I do." "I need no such affirmation, for my power over you is absolute. You may address me by name, if and when you come to learn it. For now, there is no need for you to address me at all." Again, the dildo sped up to something like a medium pace now. The buzzing on my clit began anew, but stayed at a nice, low hum, just about what you'd get from a quality vibe. This went on for a few minutes in silence. I figured I'd just lay there and enjoy it. Whatever was going on, I wasn't going anywhere on my own. I knew that much. Eventually, she came back on over the speaker. "Now, how does that feel?" "It's pleasurable." "Good." It sped up again, a good solid pace now, and the intensity of the vibe on my clit rose along with it. Minutes went by. Suddenly I felt a hand brush across my stomach. I opened my eyes, which I had not realized had been closed. She was dressed entirely in black leather that hugged her body like the proverbial glove. It was, to all appearances, a very nice body. Her head was covered in a hood, out of which stuck a long, blonde ponytail. Her lips were done up in bright red lipstick, her eyes deeply shadowed, lashes mascaraed, dark blue pupils exhibiting the same mix of aggression and tenderness her voice evinced. She said nothing; her hands soon found my breasts, and she began to rub my nipples and tug lightly at the rings. It wasn't long before she was providing the same ministrations with her mouth. The intensity of both the dildo and the vibe gradually increased. She was extremely talented at pushing pleasure down into me through my nipples, and I could feel an orgasm building, wanting to escape. My body was primed, but my mind was not there. It wasn't fear anymore. She began to nibble on my ear, whispering into it, "I want you to come, Caitlin. Come for me now, and we are done. You will never see me again." I didn't stop to think too much about how she knew my real name, which was not something I used publicly. Her hot breath on my ear was delightful, the earnestness in her words compelling, the now-fevered pace of the fucking machine exquisite. But still I could not come. She went back to the nipples, sucking them by turns deep into her mouth, rolling them around her tongue, biting just the right amount. I began to moan deeply, thinking maybe I could draw out my orgasm by sort of kick-starting it, pretending it was happening. But still it didn't. Finally it became too much. The pleasure began to turn to discomfort. She felt my body give up and let my breast fall from her mouth. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't." She smiled, to my surprise. "I had hoped that was the case. Tell me why." "I'm not...I need to be in charge. I need to..." "You need to hurt someone to come." "Yes," I said, suddenly feeling ashamed of that fact. The vibe and dildo stopped. The restraints were loosed by some mechanism under the table. One by one the women pulled them out, and helped me to sit up. "I am the same way. I felt you may be, given the intensity you display in your body of work. I needed to find out for sure." "Well...good, I guess? I'm free to go now?" "No. Had you come, you'd be free to go. I told you that. Now, I ask that you indulge me a bit further." "How much further?" "Remain here as my guest for...the rest of the day?" It was one of the few times I would ever hear the hint of a suggestion rather than a command in her voice. "Well, if I'm not free to go, I suppose I accept." "I told you I was giving you an opportunity. I still need to make it clear to you of what exactly that opportunity consists. The rest of your stay will provide you with such clarity. There will be no further travails to endure, I assure you. For the moment I will leave you; I have other matters to which I must attend. One of my...assistants will be in shortly. Please shower and dress; you'll have an ample wardrobe from which to choose. I'm sure you're hungry. It's almost nine; I apologize for the lateness of the hour. We'll breakfast together at ten. Until then." With that she was gone; as she swept out of the room, a pale brunette replaced her. She was entirely naked, except for a chastity belt that ran around her waist and between her legs, and a collar around her neck. She stood just inside the door to one side, feet together, hands at her sides, posture perfect. She did not make eye contact or say anything. Eventually I stopped waiting for her to. "I guess you're the assistant," I said, hopping off the table that was the only piece of furniture in the room. "Lead the way." She turned, still silent, and headed out the door. I followed a few feet behind. "Do you talk?" "If you wish me to," she said. "What's your name?" "You may call me Marguerite, if it pleases you." "Been here long?" "Some time." A nice, meaningless answer. "Are you here by choice?" "I would not wish to leave." Would not or do not, I didn't ask. We continued down a long, windowless hallway, past numerous closed doors, and eventually reached a small elevator that we used to go up what I took to be two floors. It opened onto a large bedroom with an attached bath. This room had windows; they looked out onto an enormous expanse of grass of a rich green the likes of which I could not remember seeing. Beyond were dense woods, a mix of conifer and deciduous trees, a darker green curtain extending to the horizon it obscured. A solid cast of grey cloud hung over all, suggesting imminent rain. Marguerite motioned to the bathroom. "You will find soaps, shampoos, towels, lotions, and cosmetics -- anything you might need." A massive mahogany wardrobe loomed in the corner. She swung open its doors, revealing a broad array of clothing, most of it, at a glance, falling somewhere between casual and elegant. The inside of the doors held, on racks, maybe thirty pairs of shoes. "The drawers at the base," Marguerite went on, "contain undergarments, socks, and the like. You'll find everything to be of the appropriate size. Please be ready by ten o' clock. Breakfast will be served in the alcove. Proceed out the door. You'll see a staircase directly opposite; go up one floor, turn left and through the double doors. Miranda will be waiting." "Is that her name?" She didn't respond, but receded back into the elevator, closing the outer doors and disappearing. There was no button for the elevator; it was operated by a key that was not present. I shrugged and went into the bathroom, which was large by any standard, and well-appointed in marble, brass, and wood. I let the shower run for a few minutes and stood looking at myself in the mirror until steam erased my view, and then I got in and gave myself a thorough cleaning. Once dry, I did the quick and dirty version of my hair and makeup, selected the least sexualized outfit I could, and followed Marguerite's instructions to the alcove. It was a vaguely round room, surrounded almost entirely by windows laced by intricate metalwork and overlooking the grounds. We were on what appeared to be the third floor of four, although this particular room protruded from the main body of the house and had nothing above it, as could be deduced from the glass ceiling. The house stretched quite a ways in either direction. House, in fact, didn't do it justice. Mansion didn't either. I took all that in with a glance while my host greeted me with a warm smile. "Please, come in. I hope the amenities were to your satisfaction. I must say you chose clothes rather outside my expectations." "I thought something sensible and comfortable would be good idea," I said. She herself was wearing an electric blue dress, vaguely Victorian but without the bustles and intricate finery. She had a pleasant face, now that I could see it all; a bit rounder than it had appeared with the leather hood on, with soft cheekbones and a delicate curve to her jawline. She was a bit older than I expected, perhaps in her early forties, although what delicate lines did etch her face were not those of worry or care or hard living. They gave only an air of experience and character. Her hair seemed not so brilliantly blonde now, but slightly faded, on the road to grey but with still a long way to go. A small, round table with two chairs sat near the window furthest from the door. "Please, sit," she motioned, doing so herself. "I know you don't drink coffee, so I've had tea prepared. Please help yourself. The food will be up shortly." "So...Miranda," I said, pouring myself a cup from a fine silver pot. I left it at that; despite many things I wanted to say, I decided to let her lead the conversation. "You're doing a very good job fighting back your urge to be insolent," she said. It wasn't an insult. "You seem to know an awful lot about me," I said, acknowledging my smart-ass streak. "As you will about me, I hope, in time." Just then a cute, small-breasted redhead entered bearing a tray. She was attired exactly as Marguerite had been, naked but for collar and chastity belt. She moved effortlessly, setting the tray down on the table without the slightest noise from it or anything on it, and proceeded to serve scrambled eggs, two slices of bacon, toast, and fresh fruit. Like Marguerite, she refused, or failed perhaps, to make eye contact. "Thank you, Lindsey," Miranda said. "Please wait just outside." With silent footfalls, she was gone. I was already tucking into my eggs. I didn't know exactly what was going on, and while I didn't feel overly threatened at the moment, I had no idea when I'd get the chance to eat again. Miranda ate more slowly, exhibiting far more refined manners than my own. This made me feel self-conscious, and I found myself slowing down to match her. The food wasn't going anywhere, I supposed. Either was the conversation, apparently. "So, this is your home?" I asked. "It is. One of them, anyway." "And you're offering me, what, an opportunity to be one of your naked servant girls?" "Slaves," she said matter-of-factly. "I've had better offers." "No doubt. But you have not yet heard mine. You've already proven yourself not to be slave material. Although the challenge of breaking you is compelling..." With a little half-leer she watched me chew. "But no. It's relatively easy to turn someone into a slave. But people like you—like us—are born, not made." "People like us?" "Yes. You and I." "And what are we like?" "True sadists. I've seen much of your work, and you excel. The pleasure you take from inflicting pain is palpable. Surely you don't deny this?" I gave sort of a noncommittal shrug. "And yet the scenes you enact, the roles you play, are only those, scenes and roles. As real as the pleasure is for you, the entire thing is one step removed from reality. Staged. There are conventions, limits, rules. The profit motive intervenes, both for yourself and for those that employ you. There are others around, not participating, and in whose presence your true nature must be...restrained." She paused, waiting perhaps for a response which I did not offer. "Please feel free to correct me should I say anything with which you disagree. I trust so far that I have not done so?" I shook my head and mouthed "No." "What is it, ultimately, from which you derive your pleasure? It's not merely the pain you inflict, is it?" It wasn't. "Power. The sense of control." Again I felt suddenly ashamed. "Yes," she said. "But, your partners, they undertake their roles willingly, do they not? To satisfy their own masochism, with the added incentive of a paycheck. Your power over them is, at root, something which they give to you. And which they could, conceivably, revoke. And thus your power is really an illusion, is it not?" "I suppose from a logical approach, yes, but it's an effective illusion and it serves my ends admirably." "No doubt. But it is all you have known. Can you begin to imagine the power you feel being stripped of its illusory nature, becoming a concrete reality, an absolute? Think on that for a moment, and if you're not already feeling a very heightened sense of arousal, then I have misjudged you, and will return you to your home immediately." She knew me too well. I was already, almost unconsciously, squeezing my thighs together in an effort to exert a bit of pressure on my clit. I hadn't really thought about the limits consensuality placed on power, but now that she had brought it up, I couldn't not see it. I only had to think back to my own recent situation that morning, how helpless I had been, how utterly at her mercy, and then to put myself in her shoes, imagining what she must have felt. My God. She could see it all on my face already. She smiled. "This is what I offer to you. You have, since coming to New York, sunk deeper and deeper into the world of sadism. I offer you the ultimate expression of that world. I offer you the chance to embrace your gifts beyond any limits. But be warned; this is a world from which there is no return. It is a world beyond law, beyond morality. There is no right or wrong in this world. It is bounded only by your imagination and your pleasure. It is a world, I assure you, that will provide you with sensations almost inconceivably exquisite. You will wallow in your desires, and there will be nothing, nothing, to hold you back." Beyond Law, Beyond Morality Pt. 01 Her eyes were aglow with a fiery passion that let me know there was nothing but truth behind her words. I heard a faint buzzing in my ears, and realized my heart was pounding, my breathing rapid. My pussy was on fire. "Bring in the girl," I heard myself say. Lindsey appeared before me. I slapped her hard across the face. She made no sound. "Look at me, cunt," I said. She did. Pain and fear mingled in her eyes. I slapped her again, harder still. A whimper this time. I began to strip off my clothes. "Do you have the key to this, Miranda?" I asked, motioning at chastity belt Lindsey wore. Miranda smiled. "I do." "Please remove it," I said. When it was off, I yanked the redhead roughly to the ground by her hair. "Spread your legs," I said. "If I feel like they're even beginning to close at any point, I'm going to torture you in ways you can't even imagine." With that, I formed a fist and shoved it straight up inside of her, with no lube, giving her no time to stretch to accommodate me. The sounds of her screaming were music to my ears, or to my clit, really, which I could feel pulsating. To her credit, her legs remained spread. As her screams were gradually replaced by an anguished moaning, I started to move my fist back and forth, never taking it all the way out, but instead to just where it was stretching her the most before I rammed it back home. I always had gotten off on fisting my partners, but Miranda was right; the freedom of not caring at all about how much I was hurting someone was a revelation. It drove me over the edge. I had to come as soon as possible, but, caught up in the moment, I continued to thrust into her. Much to my surprise, she began to come, crying out in a violent mixture of agony and pleasure. I could feel the walls of her cunt spasm around my hand. As her orgasm subsided and I pulled out my hand, our eyes caught for a split second, and a flicker of a smile danced across her lips. "You little fucking whore," I said, swinging myself around and planting my pussy firmly over her mouth and nose. I placed my hands on the back of her head and pushed her into me. "You'd better make me come before you run out of air." Her tongue arced into my cunt as I ground my clit onto the bridge of her nose. I'd never felt more powerful. I held her life in my hands. She was not going to breathe until I came, I knew that much, and the thought excited me almost beyond belief. So much so, in fact, that I was coming in mere seconds, more violently than ever before. It wasn't just my clit coming; it was my mind coming. I was engulfed in waves of pleasure; it was as if electricity was coursing through every inch of my body, but bringing the exact opposite of pain. When the feeling finally subsided I found myself lying on the floor next to her; she was still breathing, which came as a bit of a relief to me now that the moment had passed. I heard Miranda say, "Thank you, Lindsey. You may return to your room." Then I felt her hands helping me up from the floor. Our eyes locked first, then our lips, and finally our tongues. When the kiss broke after a minute or so, she whispered in my ear. "Welcome, sister, to your new world." Beyond Law, Beyond Morality Pt. 02 We spent the rest of the day touring the grounds. The estate sat on several thousand acres in the Hudson River valley, most of which were heavily forested. "My family was obscenely wealthy," Miranda said as we walked under the canopy of green. "I say 'was' because I'm the last one left alive. So it's not really a family anymore. Obviously the money remains. We were in railroads, shipping, finance, steel -- just about any pie you could have fingers in after the Civil War. So none of it earned especially honestly. Shady backroom deals, political manipulation, all that. Shrewd investments over the years only made us richer. We never seemed very happy, though. My mother killed herself when I was six. I spent far more time with my governess anyway, so it didn't seem such a great loss. My father was an alcoholic asshole who died of a heart attack in a whorehouse when I was twenty. I was at Yale at the time. My gift was already well-developed, and so I left school and took up residence here. Ever since, I have devoted myself to...pursuing my own sexual gratification. A course that I have never regretted. Anyway, the money I have at my disposal is effectively unlimited. With that I have been able to procure a steady stream of...well, let's not mince words, victims. There are at any time here between twenty and forty female slaves, perhaps half that number of males. I do prefer the female form, and their tenderness is so...heartwarming. But men have their uses as well, don't you agree?" "I do." "They are in various states of training. Some advance to become my...assistants, I suppose would be the word. Others prove less...useful. Most wind up quite compliant and docile, eventually. More importantly, as you saw earlier, they become extremely responsive sexually. Sort of a sexual Stockholm Syndrome. In fact, I'm quite proud of my ability to mold them to my own ends. I look forward to sharing my techniques with you. I think you'll find them very...enjoyable." "Where do you...acquire them?" "Oh, here and there. All in good time, my dear Caitlin. All in good time. First, the task at hand." We'd come to a little concrete abutment that jutted out of the ground. Miranda unlocked a heavy steel door to reveal a staircase going down. "Watch your step," she said, disappearing into the darkness. "Please close the door firmly behind you." By the time I was able to do so she had reached the bottom of the steps and turned on a light, although not an especially bright one. From there we went through another locked door, down another two flights, and finally through a third door. Miranda turned on the light to reveal a round concrete room with a high ceiling. Around it sat various articles of sexually useful furniture, as well as a gynecological exam table, a few cages of different sizes, and several racks of various whips, paddles, floggers, and other implements. There was also a girl. She was bound with her wrists tied and her arms stretched out behind her. These were connected tautly to tackle on the ceiling. Her ankles were shackled to the floor, allowing no movement, and she was straddled over a sawhorse-like apparatus that came to a point along its upper edge. It was precisely high enough to press firmly into her crotch. She squinted as the light came on, and it took her several seconds to adjust. When she was able to see, she fixed a look of equal parts terror and hatred on Miranda; her glances in my direction seemed if anything more scared. Probably because I was the unknown quantity in her current equation. "How are we this morning, Elizabeth?" Miranda asked. The girl made no response. "This one is just about a lost cause," Miranda said to me as she turned a wheel to lower the girl's arms. At that Elizabeth fell forward, her head hanging over the edge of the horse. A few quick exertions with a key and Miranda had her ankles unshackled, at which point she dragged Elizabeth forward by her hair until she crumpled to the floor in a heap. "Come now, my little pet, it's only been twelve hours. It can't have taken that much out of you. I want you to meet someone." Elizabeth began to sob. "Come," Miranda motioned to me. I approached the girl and knelt down a few feet from her. Miranda forced her to look at me. Her face was miserable; her eyes pleaded "Why?" through their tears. But there was still a certain fire of defiance in them. Her brown hair was ratty and disheveled, her skin pale and purplish. "Elizabeth, this is my protégé, Caitlin. She'll be taking over your training. Perhaps you will respond more appropriately to her. And if not, well, I'm afraid we'll have no more use for you." "Hello, Elizabeth," I said, trying hard to keep my face as neutral as possible. I felt pity for her, but did not want to show any in front of Miranda. At the same time, being presented with a slave like this, I could feel my sex stirring once again. "Elizabeth has been with us for three months now. She's undergone the usual training, and proved...less than receptive. She even attacked one of my male slaves." At that Elizabeth offered a hint of a smirk, and said something that rattled around in her throat, unintelligible. "What was that, my dear?" Miranda said. "I bit his dick off," she said with great effort and equal satisfaction. "Yes, quite," said Miranda. "We had to retire poor William. I hope you won't meet the same fate, Elizabeth." Then, to me, "In recent weeks I've had to resort to more extreme measures with this one. That's what this room is for; I find the isolation quite effective at breaking their spirit when the usual methods fail. Anyway, she's yours for the rest of the day. If she's not making progress by dinner, I don't want to see her again." She handed me a small ring of keys and retreated to the door. As she opened it, two well-muscled men, naked but for leather harnesses around their chests and collars around their necks, entered. They stood on either side of the door, feet spread slightly, hands folded across their chests. "This is Tom and Jerry," Miranda said, indicating first the one on the right, then the other. "Two of my more...reliable assistants. They will comply immediately with any request from you, should you need help with, say, any heavy lifting. And if you're as dissatisfied with this worthless little cunt as I am, they will dispose of her; simply leave them here with her when you are finished, should that be the case." And then she was gone. I looked back and forth at the two men; neither would make eye contact with me. Then I turned back to Elizabeth. I undid the ropes that were still around her wrists. They had dug into the flesh, not quite enough to break the skin, but had left deep red impressions nonetheless. Her hands were quite cold. I took them between mine and began to massage them gently. "Elizabeth. Is that your real name?" She nodded. "Where are you from?" "Louisville." "Do you want to go home?" "Yes." I continued to massage her hands; they were beginning to warm up. "You realize that's never going to happen, right? I don't say that to scare you or upset you, I just need you to understand that going home is no longer an option." She nodded. "It's really not. No one is coming to save you. They don't even know where to look. Miranda's been doing this for a long time." She started to sob again. "I need you to tell me, Elizabeth." Through her crying she managed to get it out. "I'm never going home." But saying it only made her cry harder. "Ok, there you go. Let it out," I said, wrapping my arms around her. She clung tight to me and sobbed uncontrollably into the curve of my neck. After a few minutes her crying subsided. She sat up. Snot, saliva, and tears coated her face. "Towel," I said to the men by the door. Jerry moved to a small cabinet and brought over a plush hand towel, and then returned to his post. I gently wiped off Elizabeth's face. When I was finished I took her hands in mine again and looked at her tenderly. "Elizabeth, if going home is not a possibility, what are the possibilities?" "I don't know. I don't know who you people are. I don't know what I'm doing here." "I think you do know what you're doing here." "She...she wants me to be some sort of sex slave or something." "Not or something. Exactly that." She started to tear up again. "I don't want to be a sex slave." "I know you don't," I said gently. "But let's take that to be one of our possibilities. What is the other possibility? And be assured there is only one other." "She'll kill me." "Well, I think they'll kill you," I said, nodding my head toward Tom and Jerry. "I don't want that to happen. Do you?" "No." "Ok, good. Now we're making progress. Given the very real and inflexible situation in which you find yourself, can we agree that becoming her...becoming our slave is the best available outcome?" "Why are you doing this?" "There is no why, Elizabeth. Things just happen. We can't control them, for the most part. Not the big things." "You can. You can let me go." "I wouldn't know how to begin to do that." "Tell her. She'll listen to you." "I'm not sure she would. In any case, I don't want you to go. I want you to stay. I want you to stay here, and be happy, and let us take care of you." "That's not what happens here." "It can be, if you let it. Tom, Jerry!" I got up and moved over toward the cages on one side of the room. "Get in," I said to the men, motioning to two cages that weren't much bigger than gibbets. True to Miranda's word, they squeezed in without complaint or protest. The doors of each cage locked with a satisfying clank. Returning to Elizabeth, I held out my hands for her, helping her up after she took them. I brushed her hair back from her face and then leant in and kissed her softly. If she didn't really kiss back, at least she didn't pull away. I took that as a good sign. I led her over to the gyno exam chair and sat her down. "I promise I'm not going to hurt you, Elizabeth. But I am going to restrain you, ok?" She nodded assent. I took each leg in turn, gently massaging her feet as I did so, and placed them in the stirrups. Thick leather straps dangled from the apparatus at ankle, calf, and thigh, all of which I tightened down. Two straps across her torso came next, and finally her arms were bound down along the sides of the chair. Although almost totally immobilized, there was no strain on her joints. She should have been quite comfortable. I asked if she was. "Yes," she whispered. "Good. I'm not restraining you to punish you. You'll find it will greatly enhance the orgasm I'm going to give you." I stripped off my clothes until I was as naked as she. "What do you think?" I said, half-joking. "You're very pretty," she said. "So are you." I knelt down between her legs and began to lick up and down the outside of her labia, gradually working my way inward. Gently I ran the tip of my tongue around her hole, then pressed it flat and worked my way up to her clit, pressing on it only for a second before moving back down. Now I could begin to taste a hint of her wetness. I began to push my tongue deeper inside her. Finally something like a sigh escaped her lips. Now her slick juices were beginning to mingle with my saliva. I plunged my tongue in and out for another minute or so, and then worked my way back up to her clit, which I sucked into my mouth, nibbling gently at its base while flipping the tip of my tongue back and forth across it. She was starting to moan now; she gasped as I slid two fingers inside of her, and I could feel her press her hips up into me as much as she could manage, which wasn't much. I curled my fingers forward, pressing on the front wall of her cunt and making a little circular motion as I continued to work on her clit, alternating between sucking on it and mashing it with my tongue. Two or three minutes of this, and her body suddenly tensed up. A long, low cry began deep in her throat and then came out through her mouth in one steady, unbroken tone. The walls of her pussy pulsating against my fingers, and I could feel the whole area grow noticeably warmer. As her body slumped back into the chair, I got up and leaned over her until our lips met, and this time she parted them and invited my tongue inside. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" I said. "No. She was never like that with me. She only hurt me." "Well," I said, undoing her restraints, "there's a method to her...madness, if you want to call it that, which I don't. Just an apt phrase. A good slave is docile, submissive, unquestioning. But to reach that state, you need to be broken down. It's not a one-size-fit-all approach, though, and whatever she was doing, in your case, didn't work. I thought I'd try a different angle. Not that you're there yet, but I think we made some progress, don't you?" "I...I hope so." "Miranda and I do have one thing very much in common, though. Our ability to orgasm hinges upon our ability to inflict pain, preferably on someone as helpless as possible. That's the underlying reason for this whole thing. And I find myself, at this moment, quite aroused, and quite in need of an orgasm. What do you suggest we do about that?" "How about," she said, with a glimmer in her eye that hit me right in my heart and my cunt at the same time, "we hurt one of them?" "I like the way you think, Elizabeth. There might be hope for you yet."