5 comments/ 33149 views/ 8 favorites No More Words By: JukeboxEMCSA "Take off your clothes." I'm watching her eyes as I give the command. They're filled with confusion, like she knows that there might be a good reason not to take off her clothes, might even be a reason why she doesn't have to. But it's fighting with a strong instinct, an instinct to do whatever she's told. She might fight it, but she wants to be a good girl now, and she knows that good girls obey. I remember the strong-willed woman that she once was. There was a time when she never would have given in. That time's gone now. Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's taken me months of work to get to this point. She's resisted this a lot more than I thought she would. But I think all my work is finally bearing fruit. I try to control my excitement as her fingers twitch towards the buttons of her blouse, then go still. I don't want to push too hard now, not when I've come so far. It might take months more to finish the job. But I've got time. ***** Candace Hildegard looked incredulously at her old boss. "What the fuck do you mean, 'She quit'?" she asked. Well, more 'exclaimed' than 'asked'. She could tell by the stares she got from people around her that she'd probably asked the question a lot louder than she intended to. But she didn't care. Most of the people in the station, she still knew from her time on the force or her visits to Pat's office. The few that she didn't know, she also didn't care about pissing off. "I mean she quit. Came in about three days ago, handed in her badge, told us that she had urgent personal business and wouldn't be able to work anymore." Jake shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't know already." Candace shook her head. "I haven't seen Pat in about five days. I thought maybe she was on a case, didn't have time to check in, but she...she cleaned out the joint account." Jake looked a little surprised to hear the hitch in her voice. Candace knew why. She'd gotten a rep during her time on the force, around the same time she'd picked up her nickname. 'Triple M'. Stood for 'More Macho than Macho.' Some women would have been insulted, but Candace knew that coming from the men on the SWAT team, it was the highest of compliments. They knew nothing would break her. She could stand with the best of them. Jake probably never imagined that anything could get under her skin. "Sorry," he said. He had a sympathetic expression on his face. "I wish I knew what to tell you. But it happens sometimes." "Bullshit," Candace said fiercely. "It doesn't happen to Patricia Mulholland, and we both know it. That woman eats, sleeps, and breathes police work. You ever hear her talk about her family? There's been a Mulholland on the force since 1822. She's been waiting to get onto the force since she was a fetus, Jake. A woman like that does not just walk in one day and turn in her badge." Jake went to pat her on the shoulder, saw the expression on her face, and thought better of it. "People change, Candace," he said. "She got a boyfriend, and her priorities changed with it. There's nothing unusual about that." Candace was so surprised that she almost forgot to be angry. "Nothing unusual? Nothing unusual?" She was getting more stares now. She was probably shouting pretty loud, then. Fuck it. "Jesus, Jake, Pat's as gay as Easter Sunday! She and I have been an item since I was still on the force. Hell, everyone used to give us shit about it." Candace's mind briefly flashed back to what seemed like a lifetime ago, when catcalls and cracks about 'the Dyke Squad' slowly turned from cruel and homophobic assaults to inside jokes among friends who would (and had) taken bullets for each other. "Remember the whole 'mandatory sensitivity training' BS we had to go through when the Chief found out about it?" It really did feel like a lifetime ago now. That had been the Candace Hildegard who was still a policewoman. Now she was the Candace Hildegard who went to the cops because her girlfriend had gone missing. Five seconds and a hundred feet, but they made a hell of a difference. Jake looked confused. "Well, yeah, I mean...I remember, but...she had her boyfriend with her when she quit. I...boy...boy...boyfriend..." The distant expression on his face told Candace he probably hadn't said that last bit out loud. "So wait. She comes in with her boyfriend, says, 'I'm done,' and that's it? You don't question her at all, ask her why she's doing this, talk to her about her pension, ask where she wants her last paycheck sent, any of that?" Jake blinked a few times. "Her boyfriend...he explained it all. Pat's fine. We don't need to worry about her." He turned back towards his desk, and Candace missed what he said next. Furious, she spun his chair back around to face her. "Hey!" she snapped. "Look at me when you're talking to me!" Jake's face became a picture of contrition. "Sorry," he said, looking natural again for the first time in the last few minutes. He knew how much she hated to even have to ask that. "But there's really nothing more to say. Pat's fine, we don't need to worry about her. I'm sorry it didn't work out between you two, but she's happy, right? That's what's important." Candace slammed her fist down on the desk in frustration. "Goddamnit, Jake, you're a motherfucking detective! You know something's not right here, why the hell aren't you doing something about it?" "Because..." Jake's face took on that confused, slightly distant look again. "Because we don't need to worry about it. Pat's fine." "Stop fucking saying that!" Candace shouted. She knew she'd shouted that one. She'd meant to. "Did Pat tell you where she wanted her last paycheck sent to?" she asked, a bit more calmly. "Yes, I have the address right here." Jake had started to turn towards his desk again while saying that, but he'd stopped and made sure to finish his sentence before rummaging around through his papers. He finally found one, then turned back to her. "I really shouldn't be giving it to you, though. Confidentiality, and all." Candace put her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of friendly conviviality. "Jake, we've been friends for years. We're used to doing favors for each other. Consider this one more exchange of favors, just part of the currency of friendship. You give me that address, and I'll forget that I expected you to be taking care of Pat and you just let her walk out of here." Her smile hardened into a snarl. "Deal?" Jake had a worried expression on his face. Not because he was frightened of her, of course; Jake Cabbot heard worse threats than that every day on the job, from people far more likely to try to cut his balls off and send them to him by parcel post. No, Candace could tell he was worried for her. "Look," he said, "if I give you this paper, you're not going to fly off the handle, are you? Because you're not on the force anymore. I don't want to give you this and find out you've gone and beat the shit out of Pat's new boyfriend." Candace raised her right hand. "Scout's honor, Jake. I just want to find out what's going on with Pat, why she broke up with me, why she didn't stop by to pick up her stuff, why she's straight all of a sudden. I have no intention of doing anything violent." Which wasn't strictly true, but then again, she'd never been a Girl Scout. Although when she was a teenager, she'd done a few things with some Girl Scouts that she knew they never gave out merit badges for. Jake seemed to be fighting some internal impulse. "I'm telling you, you don't need to worry," he said. "Pat's fine." That was the fourth time he'd said that. It was starting to worry her. "All right," he said at last. "Here you go." He handed her the sheet of paper. "Thanks, Jake. I owe ya." She started to turn to leave, then turned back. A thought had struck her. "You reassigned Pat's cases, right?" "Well, sure," Jake said. "I had to." "Who'd know what she was working on right before she quit?" ***** "Take off your clothes," I say again, my tone soft but firm. I don't let my face betray any emotion. I know she wants to please me. I don't want to add any additional stimuli to her internal struggles. I don't want her thinking too hard about what I want her to do. I want to let her come to this understanding on her own. I probably shouldn't even have repeated the command, but I'm impatient. I've worked so long on her mind, now. I'm finally starting to see results. It's thrilling. It really is thrilling, to see the dawning awareness on her face. She's really thinking about the command, trying to process it through a mind that was once razor-sharp and is now sluggish, obedient, docile. Some part of her just wants to do what she's told. Some part of her just wants to please me. Her hands twitch again, her mouth hangs open in confusion. I try to hide the anticipation, the excitement that runs through me as her mouth starts to move. ***** Candace hated dealing with apartment buildings. Even with people she knew, it was a humiliating ordeal to walk up to the little speaker grille, hold down the button and ask to be let in, trying to guess whether or not they'd actually pushed the little button or whether they were going to be pricks about it. None of her friends had ever decided to be pricks about it, but the worry lingered in the back of her mind. That was why she'd gotten good at jimmying door locks. She popped open the security door and headed up to the Braun family apartment. Tim Braun, Cyndi Braun, and Patti Mulholland, that's what it said on the register. 'Patti'. Just seeing that made hot, red anger flash behind Candace's eyes. Pat hated women who put an 'i' at the end of their name. Said it was an affront to their basic dignity. It was all Candace needed to see to know that all her suspicions were true. She'd read the Braun file, the file that Frank Westbrook had stamped 'CLOSED' without a second thought. And why wouldn't he? Sounded like the sort of thing that a Homicide detective didn't have the time or resources to investigate. A crazy woman walked into Pat Mulholland's office, complaining that her husband was trying to kill her by brainwashing her. Bellevue examined her, wrote the whole thing off as 'hysteria', and released her back into the custody of her husband. Said crazy woman recanted her statement and apologized. Frank probably just read the report and had a good laugh. But Pat must have seen the woman. She must have looked into her eyes when Cynthia Braun talked about her husband brainwashing her. She must have wondered about what was going on, just a little. Candace didn't know what had happened next. But a few days later, Detective Patricia Mulholland had quit the force, moved in with Timothy Braun and his wife, and started calling herself 'Patti'. Candace had some ideas. She didn't like them. So she was going to go have a quiet chat with 'Patti'. And 'Cyndi'. And possibly with Tim. She knocked on the door to the apartment. It didn't take long before Pat answered. But she didn't look like Pat, not anymore. She'd gotten a perm, turned her look from the straight dark hair that she wore back in a bun or a ponytail into a soft mass of fluffy curls. She was wearing a halter-top and a skirt; Candace had never seen Pat in a skirt, not in the entire six years they'd been a couple. She'd gone to the Policeman's Ball in jeans. She was wearing make-up. But none of that was why she didn't look like Pat anymore. She didn't look like Pat anymore because her eyes were different. She didn't have that sharp, cynical, wary look in her eyes, that look that never quite melted even when she was getting finger-fucked by her girlfriend. She didn't have 'cop eyes' anymore. She looked like she'd believe anything you told her. She looked...fuck it. Call it what it was. She looked brainwashed. The second Candace looked at her, she believed everything. "Candace!" she said excitedly. "Oh, gosh, it's so good to see you! Oh, I have got to tell Tim about this! He'll be so glad to meet you!" It took everything Candace had not to just grab Pat's arm and drag her out of the apartment. But she needed to find out if she could get 'her' Pat back. That meant a little risk. "You told Tim about me? About us?" "Well, no," Pat said, a little sheepishly. "I didn't want Tim to know I was, well...you know." She leaned in a little closer. "Lesbian," she said at last. Candace figured she was trying to keep her voice down. "He's got views about gay people." And now you do too, Candace thought. Fucking hell, Pat Mulholland marched in Gay Pride parades, now she has to whisper to use the word 'lesbian'? "Pat..." she said, almost not sure what to say. "Patti," she corrected. "Pat," Candace said, more firmly. "I want you to think very hard about this. You can remember being a lesbian, right?" Pat nodded. "And now you're sleeping with Tim Braun, right?" "Yes," Pat said, her face relaxing into a dreamy smile. Candace wanted to be sick. "Don't you think anything is...odd about that? Don't you wonder why you changed so suddenly?" "No," Pat said, her eyes filled with a mindless certainty. "Tim explained it all to me. It makes perfect sense." She paused for a moment, turning her head slightly. "Oh, Tim!" she said. She stepped aside, and Candace saw Timothy Braun for the first time. "I'd like you to meet Candace!" "Hello, Candace," Timothy said. "I'm sure you won't mind if I call you Candi." He was very wrong about that, but something about the way he was looking straight at her seemed menacing, despite his slight build, glasses, and thinning red hair. It was almost as though the very un-menacing nature of Tim was what made him so unnerving to Candace; he was this tiny little guy, but he didn't seem afraid of her at all. She had probably thirty pounds of solid muscle on him, six inches of height, but he just stared at her like she was...like she was prey. Candace was reminded of the time her dog had gone after a bear, out on a camping trip when they were kids. The bear was huge, the dog was just this little terrier, but the bear had run like fuck. Because the dog wasn't afraid of him. The bear had figured it knew something he didn't. Candace felt like running now, deep in her hindbrain where the adrenaline came from. But she was Triple M. She didn't back down from King Fuck of Shit Mountain, she sure as hell wasn't going to back down from this runt. "Hi," she said, putting some steel into her voice. "I'm an old friend of Pat's. From the force." "I'm sure you're mistaken," Tim said. "Patti was never on the police force. You don't know her at all. You're thinking of a different woman." "No, I'm definitely thinking of Pat." Candace could tell by the look on his face that something had changed, just by her saying that. Suddenly, Tim didn't look so predatory. He looked a little worried. "You..." He paused. "You should come in and sit down," he said at last. "We need to talk." "You're right about that," Candace said, walking into the apartment and over to the couch. He seemed to relax a little when she sat down, for some reason. Maybe he got nervous around women taller than he was. "See, I've been doing a little light reading. About you, and Pat, and your wife...where is she, by the way?" She kept a close eye on Tim, waiting for his response. "She's in the bedroom," he said. "She's not important. What is important is that you need to sit there and listen to me carefully. I'm going to explain some things to you." Candace fixed him with her best 'cop eyes'. She'd been off the force a while, but she still knew how to give the look when she needed to. Some things you never forgot. "You've been doing a lot of explaining lately, haven't you, Tim?" she said. "You've been explaining things to your wife, to Pat, to some of the guys at the station...and now you want to explain things to me. Seems like there's a lot that needs explaining. A lot of mysteries." She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "Cops don't like mysteries, Tim." She'd already decided not to tell him she'd been pensioned out. It gave her an advantage. "There's nothing unusual about any of this," he said. "Patti's living here with me. That's perfectly normal to you. You don't find anything strange about that." "Except for the fact that a week ago, she was a dyke? Or that she was on the police force? Or that she was living with me? Yeah, nothing strange at all." Once again, Candace saw that same strange look on his face. He seemed worried, in a way that was totally out of proportion to her sarcasm. He looked like an actor who was suddenly dealing with someone who didn't know their lines. He looked guilty and scared and angry, all at once. "You need to listen to me," he said. "You need to listen to me very carefully, to relax and stop trying to think so hard about what I'm saying. I know you like Patti a lot. I'll make sure that the two of you can be together, if you just keep listening to my voice." Fucker. He didn't know, but that just made it worse. The fucker was sitting there, after turning her girlfriend into some brain-dead breeder bimbo, trying to pretend it was all right, and then the fucker had the nerve to tell her to fucking 'listen to his voice'? Candace pulled out her gun. "I got a better way to make sure that Patti and I can be together," she snarled. "You're going to undo whatever the fuck you did to her fucking head, and you're going to do it right fucking now." Tim fixed her with a calm gaze, but she could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. He'd lost control of the situation, and he didn't know why. But Candace did. She figured it all out right there, exactly what was going on, exactly what he must have done to Pat. Poor bastard never had a chance. "You...you don't know how to use that gun," he said. She shot him in the kneecap. He screamed and clutched at his leg. "Wanna fucking bet?" she said, standing up. "Now, I am officially done fucking around here, Tim." She stomped over to him, grabbed his thinning hair and pulled his head up to face hers. "The thing you do with your voice. You're going to do it to Pat. Right fucking now. You're going to fix her. Then you're going to go into the bedroom, and you're going to fix your wife." "Then what?" Tim gasped through the pain. He had more stones than she gave him credit for. "You're going to fucking kill me? Fuck...fuck that," he said through his tears. Candace pulled back on his hair a little more. "That depends on you, Tim. I'm not gonna lie to you, you are not coming out of this the same way you came in." She holstered her gun, and pulled out a hunting knife from her coat. "You're going to lose your larynx. And yeah, I'm not a doctor, so it's probably gonna be messy. But you know what? Take it from me, because I know. You can learn to live with a disability. You can't learn to live with dead." His eyes got all shifty for a moment. "Kill me and your girlfriend's never getting fixed." "Oh, Tim," Candace said sympathetically. She let go of his hair, patted him on the shoulder. Then she brought her foot up and stomped on his wounded knee, hard. "You do not have the fucking balls to play that game with me, and in a few minutes, I'm going to mean that literally. You understand, Tim? You seem like the kind of guy who likes to use the phrase 'ball-busting bitch' to describe a woman like me, and I gotta tell you, that's a turn of phrase I'm about to make very, very real to you." She grabbed his hair again, pulled his head up to look at her again. He was crying. She was pretty sure he was screaming, too. "This is not a situation where you negotiate, Tim. You do what I say, and you'll live. You don't, and I will kill you slowly and painfully. Are we clear?" Tim took a deep breath. She could see him try to calm himself down. "Stop...hurting me," he said at last. "Only if you fix my girl, Tim." No More Words "There," Master says. I tug experimentally on the cuff she has just locked around my ankle, and that feeling of helplessness and trust washes over me like a warm, gentle wave. She looks at me appraisingly. "You know what happens next, slut." I nod, not speaking. She has taken my words for this scene. I am not allowed words, only grunts, moans and whimpers - and of course, screams - to show her what I am feeling and what her touch is doing to me. This is up to me to remember - she is not going to grace me with a gag. If I fail, I know I will regret it. I am on my belly, spread-eagled across her bed, legs and arms bound down tightly so that I am unable to draw them together. If I try, I could turn my knees inward, but she's taking care of that as she binds the spreader bar cuffs around my splayed thighs, ensuring that I'll never be able to close my legs - or my knees. A firm pillow under my upper chest and neck keeps my head up from the bed so that I can breathe. Another one under my hips lifts my ass in the air and forces my cock and balls to hang in the air, not touching anything at all. She has tied me tightly today. There is no give in the bonds - I am truly helpless. Oh, I can squirm, but my hands and feet will not be moving away from their assigned points on the bed. I can buck - and I know I will, especially if she orders me to do so, she has me trained to that word - and I can thrash, but my movement is limited. "What happens next" is a blindfold. She slips it over my head, making sure that the padded leather ovals cover my eyes completely and taking my sight away. Sometimes she likes to see my eyes open and staring; other times she loves to blind me, making me turn my head this way and that trying to figure out where she is and what she plans to do to me. I rarely predict it correctly, which delights her to no end as I cry out or gasp in surprise at whatever it is she actually does to me. Her hand caresses my exposed balls, and I moan with my lips pressed tightly shut. She chuckles in approval, and suddenly her hand closes on my balls with fingernails digging in. I yelp, going rigid under her hands, and grit my teeth together, breathing hard as she pulls, and pulls, and pulls until I think surely she must rip them off. But that's not her intent, I realize, as the pressure eases and I feel her beginning to add clamps - just basic clothespins - all over my sack. I keep count as best I can, because she sometimes asks me how many she's put on me, and what happens next would depend on whether I get the answer right or not. Seven... eight... I think she's put on a total of twelve, but it might be thirteen. I wince, as the pressure from the clothespins starts a throbbing in my balls that both hurts and feels good. She chuckles deep in her throat and then without warning, her hand cracks against my ass, and I jump. Her hand falls hard, again. Then, again. Quickly enough I realize that I'm being spanked for her pleasure, because she finds it amusing to see me jump and writhe, and then conscious thought drifts away as the spanking intensifies from moderate to a level that will leave welts when she's through. I find myself whimpering and writhing despite my resolve to keep from moving and from vocalizing if at all possible, and realize she's already broken my will, not six minutes into the scene. I am sobbing hoarsely by the time her hand retreats, having left me reddened from the tops of my buttocks down to the bottoms of my thighs, except where the spreader cuffs are covering my legs, and the blindfold is soaked with my tears. I almost miss her next question. "How many clips, slut?" I turn my head, questioning with my eyebrows. How does she expect me to answer a question that requires words, when I am not allowed to speak? "I suppose I'll have to give you a way to answer, slut." Her tone is thoughtful. "I know!" she says gleefully. "I'll hit you with my crop. When I've hit you enough times to answer the question, you will scream. Until then, you will remain completely silent. If you make a noise, at all, I will take that as your indication that we've reached the correct number. And, of course, if you are wrong - I'll just have to punish you for not paying attention well enough." I'm already trying to quiet my still-sobbing voice as she finishes speaking. When Master says "completely silent," she means it. Not a gasp, not a word, not a cry, not even so much as a sniffle. And god, I hate the crop! But it is her wish and her will, and that's what I submit to every time I lie down and spread-eagle myself for her. "Do you understand, slut? Nod once for yes, shake your head twice for no." I nod, one quick jerk of my head up and down. Before I even finish moving, the crop has already cracked across my ass as Master intones "One." I bite back a cry with effort, counting, hoping that she's only put twelve clips on me because the pain of the crop is almost unbearable. Two - three - oh god, four - five! Six... I am biting my tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood when I realize that we've reached stroke eleven, and on the next stroke, as she says flatly, "Twelve," I scream, loudly, trying so hard to expel all the pain of the past fifteen minutes into that one cry that I begin coughing at the end of it. The strokes pause. "What a shame. You must have counted wrong, slut," Master tells me, moving the crop to my balls and tapping the tip of it against one of the clips. "Of course, you don't get to know how far off you were. I'll be back with your punishment for getting it wrong shortly." She leaves the room. I hang outstretched in the bonds, and find myself weeping. The fire in my ass is so painful that I cannot think straight. My cock, traitor that it is, is so hard that its tip is brushing the sheet below me. My balls are throbbing and I can feel all the places on my body that she could torture if she took a mind to do so. I struggle to get myself back under control even as my heart races faster from the images my tortured mind conjures up, and the door opens again. "What should I do with a slave who can't seem to count a simple number?" she muses as she circles the bed. "I suppose I shall have to train him better, to learn how to count better. But how ever shall I do this in a way that will be effective?" Even knowing why she does this, I am caught up in dread, my heart thumping in my ears. I can think of far too many ways that she could enforce her requirement to count correctly. "I suppose, since it was about the number of clamps and you couldn't keep track of them, I'll have to reapply them until you are quite able to count them. As many times as it takes. Oh, and just to keep it fun, I'll give you one other way to figure it out, if you can." As she speaks, she is quickly, but not gently, removing the clamps from my balls, which throb even worse with returning circulation. "Here's the other way to figure it out, slut." The crop swats rapidly against my swollen, fiery ass six times. "The number of clamps you had on you was a multiple of one factor of that number, plus four. You have twenty seconds starting now to figure it out before we try my way of teaching you. Hoot once when you think you have the answer." And she begins to count. A multiple of six? No, a multiple of one factor of six. How am I supposed to do math in my head in this state? I think of the factors of six - two times three and one times six, so any of them could be it. I cross my fingers. Six times itself is way more than I had on me, and two times itself isn't enough. Three times itself is nine, plus four is thirteen. So it must have been thirteen. Who knew I'd need basic math in order to survive a scene with Master? Ironically, I hoot as she reaches "Six," and she sounds almost disappointed as she stops and says "Well, slut? How far off were you from the actual number?" I realize that I can hold up one finger. I hope I was one off. It was thirteen, not twelve. I hope. She sighs, the kind of sigh I've come to associate with tolerant amusement. "That's a good slut. You're correct. Now for your punishment for getting it wrong in the first place." I hear the lube bottle squirt and tense, knowing what's coming next. I think. I hope. She begins to massage lube into my anus, spreading me with her fingertips, and I concentrate on relaxing for whatever she's going to fuck me with this time. I have gotten somewhat better at it as she continues my anal training, but I'm always afraid that she might try to fuck me with something impossibly thick. I feel something much bigger than her usual cock enter me. It's not a plug, because it doesn't widen much. But my anus is completely stretched around it and I'm filled so deep that I half expect the tip to come out of my mouth. I whimper despite trying not to, and she chuckles as she begins to fuck me with this impossibly huge dildo. Then I feel her press it deep into me, and feel her hands fumbling with something in its base. A thin strap of some kind goes around my hips and I realize she's belting the dildo into me so that I can't push it out. She clips the belt together and I feel it press against the base of the dildo as she tightens it down. "There. Now for your punishment." She clamps clothespins to my balls again, far more than she had on me before, and I lose count at around twenty-five. She also applies clamps down the insides of my thighs, which hurts me almost as much, outlining the cuffs around my thighs with more and more clothespins. Then she pauses, leaving me alone on the bed, tied down tightly and terrified of what's going to happen to me. CRACK! I can't help it. I scream as the buggy whip - a thinner crop, one I hate just as much - cracks across my ass, exactly connecting with the base of the huge dildo and driving it into me just a little bit. CRACK! Again, this time jolting it a little deeper. Master is pausing for a second or so between each stroke, to let the dildo slip back out into position before she hits it again. I cry out each time the buggy whip connects with my ass, feeling welts laid upon welts and struggling more and more. And yet my dick is hard as stone, and I find myself pushing back at the whip for the next stroke, and the next, and the next, almost hoping that she will somehow miss and hit my dick instead, because I'm so close that I might cum if she does, even from that amount of pain. When I lose track of the strokes, when I'm sobbing hoarsely between the screams, and when she's worn out her arm - for that is how it feels - she stops, leaving my ass thoroughly welted. I hang my head over the pillow, knowing I have shamed her, and reminding myself this is all for her, all for her, and I should thank her for it. But I can't. She's taken away my right to speak. I can't speak to her with my eyes, either. How can I tell her that I accept this even as I lie here crying in her bonds? And then she speaks, softly, in my ear. "Slut, I'm going to remove the clamps now. One at a time. And I'm going to use you for target practice to do it. When I'm done, I might even let you cum. But I'll also give you something to take your mind off the clamp removal. Remember, you do not have permission to cum." And with that, the enormous cock in my ass begins to vibrate. I moan as I feel her snap the tip of the crop against the first of the clothespins, knocking it off my body. God, how many did she put on me? I have no idea. If this was meant to teach me to count, it's having the opposite effect - No, wait - One. That was one clamp she knocked off. I *can* tell when they come off, because a bright pinprick of fire blooms where they were. I will count those... and somehow ignore the vibration in my ass, which is making my cock jerk and dance with the stimulation. And somehow, I will not cum, because she does not wish me to. It's even more difficult than it sounds. By the time I have counted fifteen pinpricks of fire, my cock is jerking so hard that if I had had my hand on it, I would have cum already. By twenty-five, I'm screaming with my jaws locked shut against the pleasure/pain she's inflicting on me. By thirty-one, I am thrashing my head back and forth, my tears sealing the blindfold to my skin, my cock jerking painfully, my balls throbbing as she knocks off another clamp - thirty-two! - and my hips begin bucking desperately before a sharp crack against my ass and a stern command hold me still again, my cock dancing as my ass and balls throb in hellish sympathy with one another... When the pinpricks of fire stop (forty-three!), so does the vibration. The cock still fills me to the hilt, painfully, my ass throbbing around it, but the vibration has stopped, and I have not cum. I know I have not, because everything still hurts and nothing feels better, and my cock is still as hard as marble. She lifts my head with her hand under my chin. I am sobbing and gasping harshly, but I am hers, and she has made it very clear. "How many, slut? You may speak." I cough and clear my throat before whispering, "Forty-three, Master. And thank you, Master." She releases my head and I let it hang between my shoulders, coughing again, licking dry lips, feeling my ass throb in too many places to count. "Good slut. Cum for me now," she says, and turns the vibrator back on, much higher than before. She hasn't even touched me. I am hanging here, my cock hanging in air, with a vibrating dildo in my ass... and I cum at her command. I cum helplessly, writhing in my bonds, my ass and legs and balls throbbing, still in pain... and my cry of "Oh god thank you Master!" as my cock spends itself on the sheet below me is all for her, for her pleasure. All for her. When it is over, I hang limp in my bonds as she opens the belt holding the cock in my ass and slides it out of me. Then she takes my semi-hard, spent cock and pulls it down, and I know I must pay for my orgasm. "Silence, slut," she says, and without any further warning, begins to slap my cock as hard as she slapped my ass a little while ago. I bite down on the insides of my lips, fighting the cry that I must make, have to make, need to make, as she punishes my cock for cumming at all, even with permission. It is part of what I accepted when I accepted her collar - every orgasm comes with a punishment. There was a time I fought that, but it is all for her, and I will do what she orders me, no matter what I want. Because what I want should only be what she wants. What I want should always be for her. I do not need words to know that. And even the punishment stops and she strokes my cock back to its required hardness to finish the scene, I know that this silence is just one more way that it is all for her. No More Words "Goddamnit," he cried out in frustration, "why doesn't it fucking work?" Candace didn't answer. She didn't get a chance to. Tim suddenly got a look of relief on his face. He was looking over her shoulder, and that was enough to make Candace very suddenly decide to let go of his hair and flatten to the floor. She rolled as she did so, and saw the man in the doorway with the gun. One of Tim's friends, she figured. She'd seen something about that in the report, something about 'men's rights' groups he'd joined. They sounded like the kind of guys who would like their firearms. One of them must have been in the building and heard the gunshot. And instead of calling the cops like a good citizen, he'd decided to come in guns blazing. The gun blazed a bit more. Candace rolled away, and the bullets dug furrows into the hardwood floor. She threw the knife on the move, knowing that it probably wouldn't hit him, but also knowing that it'd give her time to get out her gun. Almost absently, she noticed that Pat was still standing in the doorway, watching the whole situation unfold with an almost detached dismay. Probably outside of her role as 'good wife' to try to figure out what to do when gunfire was being exchanged. The old Pat would have the guy in handcuffs in thirty seconds. Now she just watched, mouthing incoherent words. Candace brought up her gun, and it was all over with two bullets. Dumbfuck didn't realize she was going for her piece, didn't even know enough to find proper cover. Candace got back up, turned back towards Tim. "So where were--" She stopped. That first bullet, the one she'd ducked out of the way of. She knew now where it had wound up. Tim had a hole in his forehead and a startled expression on his face. Shit. Candace didn't take long weighing her options. What with her friends on the force, she'd probably be able to argue self-defense pretty convincingly. After all, ballistics would show that the other guy had shot Tim in the head, and she'd be able to pass off the bullet in his knee as a ricochet. It'd be a shaky case, but ex-cops got the benefit of the doubt. Then again, self-defense still meant going through the legal system, maybe even doing some hard time. That meant it could be years before she got out to see Pat...and the way Pat was now, Candace didn't think she could survive a week on her own. No, it was time for Plan B. Candace was suddenly very glad she hadn't put much into the joint account. Plan B required ready money. "Patti," she said soothingly, trying hard not to hate herself for using that name, "I need you to go get Cyndi and then come with me. We're going for a little trip." Pat just kept staring at Tim for a long moment. Bastard had made himself the center of her world, then gone and gotten himself killed. She was probably in shock. "Patti, do as you're told." Candace abandoned the soothing tones, put some force into it. She hated freely now, hated Tim for doing this to her, hated herself for treating Pat like Tim had treated her, hated Pat for springing to life when she heard the tone of command in someone's voice. "Yes, ma'am," Pat said, heading for the bedroom to go get Cyndi. ***** "Take off your clothes," I say one last time. "No," Pat says. Her eyes are alight with understanding. She realizes that she can actually refuse, now, and her eyes are wet with tears. "No," she repeats. I don't actually hear the words. I haven't heard anything for almost five years now, not since the day the explosion blew out my eardrums. That was two lifetimes ago now. That was the end of Candace Hildegard's life on the force, ended by an explosion I ran from just a little too slowly, wound up just a little too close to. Five seconds and a hundred feet, and I couldn't be a cop anymore. It seemed like the worst thing I could imagine, back then. But if I hadn't been deaf, I wouldn't have saved Pat. I wouldn't be here now, with her and Cyndi, slowly helping them regain their minds and wills. Cyndi's a bit further behind than Pat, but she's coming along. I'm hoping she'll be refusing to follow orders by the time the baby comes. I watch Pat, and she's crying and laughing and suddenly I'm crying and laughing too, and then we're kissing each other, two crazy gringo women down in Mexico where the law's not looking. It's a new life down here, and it's one that's looking better and better every second. "No!" she shouts, and although I'll never hear it, it's the most beautiful sound in the world. THE END