Chapter 3.

 

 

It was pitch black in the warehouse loft.

Sitting naked in total darkness, Slave used his ears to monitor the progress of the elevator�s descent. Gradually it faded beyond hearing, and only a barely detectable thump announced the end of its trip. Slave strained to listen, but there was no confined roar of a motorcycle being fired up. Perhaps his Mistress trundled it outside before starting it. Or perhaps she was even now climbing into his Mercedes, admiring the soft leather interior and slotting his key into the ignition.

Surely he was too far away to hear the cultured rumble of that engine, and it was probably just as well. Hearing his hated tormentor smugly making off with his new car might have brought on another spate of disconsolate weeping. In his current situation, that was unadvisable.

Avoiding despair was paramount here. The dangers of dehydration aside, his fragile psyche couldn�t afford it. Already he�d been through bottomless fear, pain, horror, remorse, and especially abhorrence, both of himself and his tormentor. But eventually he�d found a thin determination at the bottom of all this, and he intended to cling to it.

Simple relief gave him armor against all those unwanted thoughts at first.

Just to have Mistress gone, and not constantly after him with her pliers and her questions, her hateful beauty and her smiling sadism, was relative bliss. His battered body still flamed with residual pain, but the surcease from active agony was so welcome that for an unknown time he just relaxed and reveled in it. Useless questions (like how he could have ever been so fucking stupid to have gotten himself into this situation in the first place, or whether or not Mistress would ever return before he died of hunger and thirst), faded away. In his extremity more primal concerns came forth.

His worst misgivings had proven true.

Wholeheartedly Slave rejected the contrary view, the justification his Mistress had put forth to him. He hadn�t come here seeking death, subconsciously or not.

Self-destructive his lust might be, but suicidal? No way, Jose. Deep in the base of his brain, Slave had been doing some cold calculations The incredible sexual release he�d sought (and, to be fair, finally obtained), extreme as it had truly been, might have been worth his three hundred dollars, but all of his worldly assets and even his life? No. Not even a chance. And how did he know? Because not even the worst of the extended agonizing pain earlier had seduced him into more than temporary thoughts of surcease.

Suddenly faced, for the very first time, with the prospect of his imminent end, Slave had found himself experiencing an autonomic scrabbling for any remaining existence, no matter how mean or miserable. To a nihilistic young man profoundly averse to the thought of death, even torment was better than extinction.

And torments he still had aplenty, even with his evil new Mistress gone. As time began to pass, and his initial relief at her departure faded, these began to reassert themselves. Of course, foremost among them was his aching ass.

Sitting on the bruises of his strapping was bad enough. But the chair Mistress had secured him into before she left was truly a fiendish piece of equipment. She�d called it the �dildo chair�, and naturally this name was excruciatingly apt.

Bolted to the floor to keep it from moving or toppling, this was a big, sturdy, straight-backed oaken armchair, the same one dripping with straps that he�d noticed upon entry. Its likeness to an electric chair had chilled him then, but what he hadn�t noticed was the four-inch tall hard plastic penis that had been super-glued upright to the rear of the seat. Now of course that painful spike was imbedded in his ass, with the weight of his head and torso bearing directly down on its impaling length.

Slave had at first tried desperately to squirm, seeking a more comfortable way to accommodate that insult, but even that patent futility was beyond him. Wide leather straps held him so tightly in place he might have been a quadriplegic.

There were two of these around each lower leg, ankle and knee, securing them to the chair�s own front legs. His wrists and elbows were likewise strapped to the heavy armrests, and even wider belts wrapped his shoulders, chest and upper arms, belly, waist, and thighs against the big chair�s seat and back. Aside from wriggling his fingers and toes, only his head and painfully swollen, abraded neck remained free to move.

Mistress had claimed the dildo chair a necessary part of his Slave training, and a safeguard against his shitting without supervision.

She wanted no odors or products of elimination contaminating her equipment. To that end, a condom catheter, drainage tube and collection bag had been taped to his penis, to carry away and contain any urine.

Certainly they would be needed. Unsettlingly, Mistress had forced him to drink over two liters of water before she left, in case circumstances prevented her from returning for a few days.

Slave could feel it bloating his belly even now, a minor discomfort, to be sure, compared with the burning thirst that would eventually be replacing it. And then there was the question of hunger. He was still too traumatized to want food now, but that couldn't last. Too nervous about his impending date for dinner, he hadn�t eaten anything at all since lunch, a relative eternity ago.

What, sixteen, eighteen hours? Perhaps. Slave had no idea how long it had really been. Other monumental distractions aside, time was impossible to measure inside the boarded-up building.

With all the lights off he couldn�t see anything: not the wrist where his stolen Rolex used to be, nor the progress of sun and stars around his slowly turning planet. The only way to measure time�s passage was by the beating of his heart, the slowly ebbing throb of his wounds and the steadily increasing discomfort of the spike up his ass. These were woefully inadequate. Soon enough, Slave began to experience the first creeping irrationalities of imprisonment.

Like fresh fish in a maximum-security cellblock, he was suddenly suffering all the mental pressures of environmental monotony and severely restricted movement. After all, this was taking solitary confinement to an extreme. Locked immobile in the featureless dark, Slave felt the sudden frantic urge to cry, scream, shake his head, struggle fruitlessly, even to seek refuge in insanity rather than continue to endure the unceasing mundanaity of his condition. And all this after what was surely no more than an hour alone.

Eventually these pressures would become overwhelming, he had no doubt of that. But for the time being, Slave fought bravely back, seeking to distract and strengthen himself by recalling all the specifics of the horrific interrogation just past.

 

 

Of course, even in the silent blackness, memory cues abounded. His entire crotch was still afire with the neural aftermath of what she�d done to him.

After their shared sex and beer, Mistress had begun to torture him in earnest, using her pliers first to pinch and twist his most tender flesh, then to methodically rip out all of his pubic hair, tuft by tuft.

She liked her slaves bare, she explained, and this method was so much more rewarding than shaving. Indeed. By the time she�d finished, Mistress had learned that her new Slave had told no one of their planned liaison, and that he had no girlfriend or other lover and lived completely alone.

Satisfied with the veracity of this, she had for the time being probed no further.

Clearly she assumed the address given on the identification taken from his wallet was the one where he lived (why shouldn�t she?), and that no doubt would be an early item of investigation for her. Only then would things begin to get truly interesting.

Despite her claim of fiscal need, Slave had a feeling that it wasn�t his money Mistress was really interested in. She needed information about his personal life to ensure her own safety, true, but even this was probably secondary. It was the game she craved, the constantly escalating contest of wills between them. If he was going to survive for more than a short time, he must learn to play it exceedingly well.

He must be Scheherazade, a strangely kinky version of that classic character, true, but the basic premise was the same. He needed to stretch out this process of sex, torture, and interrogation for a thousand and one nights, and then a thousand and one more.� And all the while he must seek to ingratiate himself, to try to erode her clearly stated determination to eventually kill him.

Calculating in the dark, Slave judged the secret of his true address to be his strongest card, and the manner of his employment the next.

He�d held onto both of these so far, but now he�d best use his time (of which he now had both way too much and far too little) by plotting ways to keep them. His life quite literally depended on it.

 

 

It was just before dawn when Ondahlie got home.

Humming an old childhood lullaby, she piloted the sleek Mercedes up her long, twisting driveway.

Overhanging evergreens made a tunnel of the drive in the dark, and bright headlights carved away the gloom before her. Still marveling at her new car�s exquisite handling, she followed the curving tarmac until the huge ancient conifers that gave the estate its name fell away, and Towering Hemlocks came into view.

Multiple gables, skylights, and four chimneys interrupted the slate roof, as well as a large parabolic satellite dish. Throughout the structure hewn granite and hardwoods were used in beautiful counterpoint, and as usual Ondahlie drove past the grand front entrance to the rear. There a wide manicured lawn opened up, and on the other side she was greeted by a beautifully appointed patio.

Beyond this was the chain mesh length of the dog run, and lastly the big six-car garage. Ondahlie used the remote from her purse to disarm the alarm and open the middle door, and she pulled the sweet red convertible indoors next to her own black Audi. Gathering up the other stuff she�d taken off Slave, she left the car, stretched her big frame luxuriously, and walked for the open door.

Besides the two cars, the garage was empty, and her spike-heeled boots clacked and echoed. The sound pleased her, and she smiled vaguely as she stepped outside.

The stars had faded away, and the pre-dawn stillness was filled with the smell of fresh evergreen. She breathed deeply, savoring it as exquisitely as she had ten years ago, when Mortimer Harwood had first brought her here. Then a series of familiar sounds greeted her from the dog run, and she turned in that direction.

Her babies had noticed her arrival, and come out to celebrate. With a last touch or two of the remote she closed up the garage and moved to oblige them.

Ares and Athena had left their kennel and crowded up to the external gate in the long fence. Big mated Rotweillers, they pressed their noses to the mesh and yelped and whined an eager greeting.

She thrust her fingers through the gaps, letting them sniff and lick the scent of Slave�s fear and desperation from her hands.

By now they knew what this meant, and instantly they began to leap about with excitement.

Ondahlie laughed in sympathy, and spent a few moments cooing and interacting with them through the fence. But then dawn began to brighten the sky, and a cavernous yawn surprised her. She moved off along the walk, the dogs pacing her the length of their run, until the wall of the house took over and she was forced to leave them behind.

Crossing the big patio came next. Enamored with mirrors, she watched as she almost always did the way her reflection followed and then turned to greet her as she passed the four big sliding glass doors to reach the main rear entrance just beyond them.

She entered, then locked up and reset the alarm behind her.

No visitors were due until the maid came later this week, but it never hurt to be careful. She removed her overcoat and stripped off the gauntlets. Then, naked except for the body harness and boots, she strode through the spacious lower floor until she reached the kitchen. There she raided the fridge, and after wolfing a quick snack standing up, she once again stretched her tired muscles and then headed directly upstairs.

The entire enormous house was empty except for her and her pets, and she intended to sleep the first half of the new day away in solitary splendor. But on the way to her sumptuous bedroom, she stopped first for a peek into the top floor�s airy, central library.

Great skylights opened in the roof here. Beneath them, the first nourishing light of day was falling on her favorite additions to this already wondrous place.

All the tables in here had been pushed together, and upon them lay beds of lush green plants.

Most of these were mature Venus Flytraps, plus a few other varieties of carnivorous swamp flora. In lieu of more decorative angiosperms, Ondahlie was also cultivating a couple of dozen skillfully pruned, highly refined hybrids of her most preferred of all the flowering plants: cannabis indica.

These spiky green bushes were still small and immature, so she concentrated her attention on the flytraps, talking to them as her florist had encouraged her to.

As with the dogs, she shared the great news that tender man-flesh was once again in the pen and on its way. On the spur of the moment, she made a promise to their hungry fringed jaws to eventually dice up that wonderfully elegant penis, and share it out equally among them. Perhaps she�d save the testicles for Mo�

As ever, Mo was awaiting her in the master bedroom. His greeting was just as enthusiastic as the dogs� had been. Twisting sinuously, he sloshed and frothed the water in his four hundred-gallon aquarium.

This big glass tank was as beautiful as it was large. Filled with cleverly constructed caves and its own abundant plant life, it dominated one whole wall of the room. Across from the sunken waterbed, inset above the bar, it had to be large, in order to comfortably accommodate its inhabitant. Mo was a meter-long red line snakehead, Channa micropeltes, a Southeast Asian predator fish as big around as her upper arm.

Mo was short for Mosasaurus maximus, an extinct sea lizard whose body design was eerily similar to that of the modern fish.

Both had powerful, eel-like bodies propelled by a long, muscular tail, and like modern snakes both were equipped with expandable jaws and gullets � ideal for swallowing huge chunks of meat. And like the ancient, forty-foot Cretaceous marine reptile, the snakehead had rows of formidable teeth not just around the jaws, but also on the roof of the mouth and leading down the gullet as well.

Both beasts were supreme killing machines, apex predators in their respective environments, and Mo did his prehistoric namesake proud. He�d developed a special taste for eyeballs, which Ondahlie always made a point of saving for him.

This morning he�d have to settle for promises, however, which she repeated as she tossed Slave�s wallet and such on the bar. Then, grinning at Mo�s yawning display of teeth, she poured and tossed off a couple of nightcaps.�

Then, with top shelf bourbon warming her belly, she at last doffed her boots and harness and collapsed into the giant rectangular waterbed.

Her naked reflection looked back at her from the matching ceiling mirror, and perfectly at peace with herself, Ondahlie smiled into her sleepy green eyes. She slipped between the perfumed silk sheets, snuggled down amongst the feather pillows, and let the heated mattress gently float her off.

 

 

��������� Slave found his rest considerably harder to come by.

As he�d feared, the pressures of imprisonment grew steadily worse.� Thanks to the water he�d consumed, his thirst, although stirring, remained largely at bay. His swollen throat ached for ailment, and every breath scraped through his pipes like sandpaper, but his body still remained reasonably hydrated. Unfortunately, once the water had left his belly to lubricate the rest of his tissues, it left a cramping emptiness behind that Slave was ill accustomed to dealing with.

Hunger had never been a problem in his privileged life. Now it suddenly had teeth that bit, striking over and over again at the pit of his stomach.

Like his nascent thirst, this was a problem that would surely only get steadily worse. Still, had he been rational enough to rank his miseries, Slave would have nevertheless rated that twisting emptiness far down on what was truly an extensive list. Much more pressing (double-entendre definitely intended) was the matter of the rock-hard cock-spike he was still sitting upon.

Those four inches of plastic got longer, harder, and more unbearable the longer they were was lodged within him.

Despite its lesser size, this prick was much more painful than the one that had performed his raping earlier.

That invasion had at least been intermittent and in a hot, questionably sexual context. This torment was a cold constant, cumulative and unceasing. Metaphors involving lightening rods and flagpoles flitted constantly through his spinning head. Despite his earlier determination, Slave felt his impaled body constantly, fruitlessly trying to squirm within its straps.

His bondage was as complete and implacable as ever, however. And without question, it was the mental pressures this created that tormented him the most. After a while they made his many bodily pains, serious as they were, pale by comparison.

Deprived of almost any external stimuli, his eyes and ears played constant tricks on him. The impenetrable blackness and silence combined with his wracked immobility to drive him either clear out of his head or deep inside himself.

Phantom lights and sounds plagued him, and the occasional real creaking of the building took on alternately sinister and insanely hopeful connotations. Often he wasn�t sure whether he was sleeping or waking, and soon the extreme sensory deprivation had his state of consciousness fluctuating wildly.

Sleeping-waking-dreaming-hallucinating in the total blackness, he began to slip in and out of psychotic fugues similar to the terrible acid flashbacks that had plagued him for weeks after his one ill-fated teenage experiment with LSD.

Until he�d met Mistress, that nightmarish six hours of insanity eight years ago had been the worst experience of his life. He just couldn�t handle being that fucked-up, so completely out of control of his own head. Now all that syrupy terror and bone-deep disorientation returned. The dildo chair turned into an imprisoning rollercoaster, a magic carpet ride swooping him helplessly up and down and all around, through terrifyingly phantasmagoric inner landscapes of the most baroque inspiration.

Invented and remembered demons capered and swarmed all around him, his sense-desperate brain inventing endless mad fantasies to explain the all too real pains wracking his suffering body. His new Mistress was foremost among these of course, prominent with her big cock and pliers, but eventually Jean and even his asshole parents made their leering appearances.

Sometimes the lunatic fancies that gripped him were desperately erotic, products of the sexual obsession that had brought him here. Then, despite his welts, burns and bruises, despite the tightly taped condom crimping him off, Diplodocus raised his rubber-covered head in the dark, stubbornly seeking even more ruination. But generally the visions that assailed him were truly horrific, and tortured by his own traitorous brain, Slave cried and wailed and screamed and shrieked and struggled desperately within his rock-solid bonds.

His teeth gnashed, and his head shook violently. His hands gripped and clawed at the heavy oak armrests, and his toes curled and uncurled spasmodically. Tears streamed unacknowledged down his face, and snot crusted his upper lip. But fortunately for Slave, such total panic was much too energy expensive for his weakened system to indefinitely maintain.

The body has all the adrenaline it can handle, and then it either self-destructs or it shuts itself down for rest and repair. Finally Slave�s brain decided on the latter. At last, completely drained, he passed into a deeper, dreamless, and hopefully healing sleep.

 

 

Ondahlie stirred at 2pm, rolled over and located her remote.

A couple touches woke the CD player, and Bach flooded the room. A couple more pointed toward the bathroom, and hot water began flooding the Jacuzzi. For half an hour then she took a leisurely bath.

At last she rose, robed, and headed down for breakfast. The Lady O (as she for business purposes fancied herself) had long ago pared down the domestic staff to a bare minimum.

She could do her own damn cooking, thank you very much, and even load and unload a dishwasher. Enjoying the creative process, she concocted a delightful Southwest omlet: four eggs filled with sausage, sweet red and jalapeno peppers, onions, and cheese.

Grapefruit juice and buttered toast rounded out the meal, and as always Ondahlie blessed her hot-fired metabolism. Not that a lot of work didn�t go in to keeping her trim, but it was nice to be pushing thirty and still be able to eat whatever she wanted.

After breakfast she freshened up and dressed. Mindful of this afternoon�s business, she chose a simple knitted dress of black, easy to slip in and out of, and elegant sandals that were likewise simple.

By three-fifteen she was in her Audi and on the road, and by quarter of four she�d reached her recently expanded store. She pulled into her parking space (RESERVED FOR THE LADY O), grabbed her purse and headed for the employee�s entrance in the rear.

�

 

�Hey Simone.�

The door bashed into a pile of boxes, and the woman addressed looked up.

She was an attractive latina, petite and lively, and recognizing the boss her face lit up immediately.

�Hey, Lady O! Here, let me move these.� She bounced to feet, and right away began shoving packages aside. The storeroom door was uncomfortably (and yet conveniently) close to the entrance, and Simone had been sorting and storing a recent delivery of inventory. Now she shoved everything through the storeroom door and followed, creating space for the Mistress to get by.

Like the rest of the female employees, Simone was costumed as a dominatrix, in thigh-high boots, spiked collar, a tight leather mini and a minimalist half-shirt of coarse black mesh.

The blatant eros of this and similar outfits had gotten them into court trouble once or twice, but the Lady O knew the notoriety generated only increased her business.

Besides, prospective patrons somehow found it harder to say no to a woman dressed in leather whose nipples were showing. Imagine that. Regardless, Simone and all her other salesladies had just the right mix of brazenness and cajolery for their delicate role. She�d developed attachments to most of them � unlike the few show males she generally used as floor models.

These were mere animate mannequins, volunteers who waited in line for the chance to be chosen for display. Inside the storeroom, one of them was struggling to fit himself into the tight leather thong he�d soon be modeling. Ondahlie noticed the cause of his troubles and lashed out at him.

�Hey, boy! Pay attention to what you�re doing! These girls� bodies are for the paying customers to get a hard-on over, not the mannequins. Simone, I want this one to model a blindfold and ball gag, too. We�ll see how pert he is after squatting cuffed and shackled like that under a spotlight for the next four hours.�

�You got it boss!� Despite being barely five feet tall, Simone had big hair, big breasts, big eyes and a big smile. She flashed this last out brilliantly.

�I�ll find something especially appropriate! By the way, today�s the day the photo people are coming, right, for the new ad campaign? What are you going to wear? Have you decided?�

�I�ve got an inkling or two,� Ondahlie intimated. �How do I look so far?�

�Effortlessly gorgeous, as always. Say what you want, prop-boy here didn�t pop a stiffy until you walked in. You�re going to knock �em dead, girl.�

�Let�s hope so.� The Lady O moved on, leaving her employee to her work. She popped into her office, reviewed the day�s business and kept one eye on the clock. Then, just at four, she heard Jamie, another of her floor girls, call back to Simone.

�Hey, sugar, is the Lady O here yet?�

�I�m here!�

�The folks from Alabaster Image are here.�

�Coming!� Ondahlie felt a delicious thrill. The opportunity to live out some of those thwarted teenage dreams had just arrived.

Not that she didn�t do that daily. But like organized sports, modeling was a profession she�d once seriously considered. Things hadn�t worked out and the world had moved on, taking her to far more exciting fields of interest. But that old spark had never completely died. Now, as a (hopefully) profitable fancy, she could for one afternoon at least fan it back into a flame.

She closed the ledger she�d been perusing, left the office and headed for the front of the store. Down a hallway, past more storage rooms, rest rooms, employee cubicles and the time clock, she at last emerged through a beaded curtain into the store proper.

Jamie was at the register, ringing up purchases for a trio of heavily pierced and tattooed teenaged girls. Beyond them, by the display stages, dressing rooms, mirrors, and among the many, many shelves, racks, cases, tables and islands of merchandise, a considerable salting of other customers was also scattered around. One whole side room was devoted to boots and shoes alone, but by checking the omnipresent mirrors, Ondahlie could see that most of the action, as usual, was concentrated in the main �dungeon�.

Here shoppers and browsers giggled and gawked, marveling over the show males, the floor girls, the flashy d�cor and of course the outrageous assortment of merchandise. The constant contrast between medieval and modern somehow worked perfectly, right down to the stodgy-looking elderly couple sorting through her vast selection of strap-on dildos. The people from Alabaster, recognizable by their cameras and equipment, were smiling at the sight covertly.

Speaking to his two assistants, the guy clearly in charge remarked wryly.

�There�s something you don�t see every day.�

Ondahlie interposed by way of greeting.

�Oh, I think you�d be surprised. People are getting more open-minded all the time. Perhaps he�s having trouble maintaining erections. It happens to everyone eventually, and Viagra can be dangerous. I�m the Lady O.�

�Of course, of course, it�s a real pleasure to meet you.� All three of them turned to her at once, and the lead guy, the only one who didn�t have his hands full, reached out eagerly to shake.

He was lanky, taller even than she was, and he had the long, dexterous fingers of a musician or a surgeon. His hair was collar-length and side-parted in a fashion out of the seventies, and both he and his assistants were uniformed casually in tight jeans and open-throated paisley shirts. He was charming and personable as he made his introductions.

�I�m Jeremy LeSaint, we spoke on the phone. This is Wes Rogers and Mike Brezewski, technicians of mine.� He quirked a smile then back at the elderly couple, and something in his manner confirmed her earlier suspicion that he was gay. Ondahlie gave an inner sigh of relief. So much the better.

Many distractions were thereby eliminated. She released his hand, and was preparing a bit more introductory small talk when Simone suddenly spared her the necessity.

�Excuse me, Mistress. Can we get through?� The Lady O still stood partially blocking the junction between the showrooms and the back, and the bubbly latina had work to do.

�Sure, honey, I�m sorry.� Ondahlie stepped aside, smirking with satisfaction.

�Simone had their show male on a leash, properly outfitted for an evening of modeling. In addition to the skimpy leather crotch thong, he wore only restraints: shiny steel handcuffs, temporarily loosened ankle shackles, and an elaborate head harness.

Thin, tight leather straps framed nose, eyes, mouth and ears. Buckling in back, these provided purchase for snap on earplugs and eye covers (all four in place), as well as the traditional ball-gag. Yet instead of a ball, this gag featured a purple plastic dildo, a life-sized cock that completely filled the oral cavity and even entered the throat.

Simone�s leash attached to a ring in the protruding base, and leading him proudly by the teeth she paraded him past the boss, her associates and customers, and out to the one small unoccupied circular stage. Once there, she forced him into a squat on a tiny stool. The ankle shackles were secured, and then both these and the handcuffs were locked to a ring beneath his feet on the stage.

LeSaint and his technicians marveled over this process, shaking their heads in wonder as the small spotlights were turned on and the show male was left there hunched uncomfortably over for the duration of his shift.

�Unbelievable,� said LeSaint. �How long does he have to stay like that?�

�Four hours,� responded the Lady O. �His shift ends at eight, and someone else will come on at twelve.�

LeSaint cast a glance at the other two males currently on display, then shot a warning look at one of his technicians. The man had been leering noticeably at Simone. Professional disciple enforced, he turned back to the Lady O and the subject at hand.

�Good lord, that can�t be very comfortable. Where do you find all these guys to model like this, and what do you have to pay �em?�

�Nothing at all. It�s a hundred-percent voluntary. I�ve got application flyers at all the kink clubs for a two hundred-mile radius, and ads on the Internet. There�s loads of guys out there so driven to seek submission or humiliation that they compete to be my mannequins. These are just the best ones.�

�No kidding. And they do it just for the perverse thrill, huh?�

�Yep. Either that, or they�re true sworn Slaves, and their Masters or Mistresses have commanded them to serve me like this. We exchange a lot of such favors within the local kink community. Either way, they�re ultimately here of their own free will. And I wouldn�t exactly characterize it as perverse. A lot of people have a healthy streak of exhibitionism somewhere inside. Good thing, too, or you photographers would be out of business.�

�How true,� laughed the photog, shifting the multiple camera straps draped around his neck. �Pardon me, I didn�t mean to denigrate my own profession. Or yours, for that matter. We�ll be posing the Lady O herself today, will we not? Taking some shots of the Mistress modeling her latest wares?�

�Yes indeed. So do your job well, and perhaps you�ll be seeing your work � and my half-naked body � on a monstrous billboard somewhere soon.�

�That should cause some car crashes,� put in one of the helpers, and all three men chuckled, as well as Simone, on her way back to the storeroom. She threw the boss a wink, and Ondahlie smiled back. Then she returned her regard to LeSaint.

�Where do think we should do this? Any suggestions?�

�Well, how dynamic do you want the shots to be? I love these living mannequins of yours. Can we incorporate them in some way?�

�Great idea!� Ondahlie gleamed. She cast her glance around, and quickly focused on one particular show male over by the west wall.

This one, Toyboy by name, was hanging by his arms from the ceiling, his wrists caught in padded leather cuffs.

Stretched out between the two chains depending him and the small semicircular stage beneath, he wore the absolute minimum allowed by state decency laws. Besides the spreader bar locking wide his ankles (toes suspended just an inch above the platform), and his dog collar and ball-gag, he modeled only a small chastity device that barely covered his genitals. Made of soft leather hooped with hard chrome, this locked about the base of the groin, keeping penis and testicles both tightly contained within. In the interest of ducking precisely written laws (and out of simple aesthetic preference), this slave�s body hair had been completely shaved away. Only that small, black and silver sack interrupted the stretch of beautifully clean, white flesh between ankles and neck.

Only that, and the tiny silver release key, hung tauntingly around his neck on a fine chain. Ondahlie pointed him out.

�Over here. This is perfect. This boy belongs to a friend of mine who owes me big-time. We won�t have to worry about asking permission or offering payment. And he�s right next to that row of dressing rooms. I can pop in and out of there to change.�

�Super! Okay, let�s do it.�

 

 

While LeSaint and his two techs shifted aside racks of various leather goods, clearing space to set up lights and shoot, Ondahlie strode quickly around the big show room, gathering her favorite items in appropriate size.

Next to the simulated stone block wall where Toyboy hung was the first of a row of half a dozen changing cubicles. She ducked inside, dropped her choices on the bench and quickly doffed both dress and sandals. As she began to dress, she felt the same sexy thrill that always came with donning kink attire.

At last, a justifiable opportunity to let her true persona shine publicly forth! Naked, she started with a silver-studded neck collar, over an inch wide and bristling with spikes. Spiked and studded as well were the black fingerless gloves, and the black leather breast harness. Basically a cupless bra, this pushed up and thrust out her big oval boobs, displaying them to their best advantage. Then, because she didn�t want to give too much away, she pulled on a skimpy loose half-shirt formed of shiny chain mesh. Each interlocked, stainless steel ring was about the size of a silver dollar, and eyes that could pierce that dazzle would find themselves well rewarded.

Satisfied up top, Ondahlie drew on a pair of skin-tight black rubber hot pants: painted on short-shorts that clung closer than spandex and also sported a built-in balls-and-dildo vibrator. This was her current favorite piece of equipment (for various reasons), and she couldn�t bear to forgo it. A pity she couldn�t really put it to work here. She�d have to save that for Slave later. Meanwhile, after properly settling the inner probes and pulling tight the waist belt came thigh-high, shiny black stiletto-heeled boots. Then, with a last critical check in the mirror, the sexy and statuesque, beautiful and dynamic Mistress Ondahlie winked at herself. She pushed back through the bat wing doors to amazed gasps and even an enthusiastic whistle or two.

Customers and employees alike stopped what they were doing, and Jeremy LeSaint beamed at her enthusiastically. Both technicians� jaws had dropped, and both belatedly turned back to finishing their preparations. Their boss already had a loaded camera in his hand, and his zeal to start shooting was obvious.

�Jumping jiminy, what a model! All right, let�s get those lights on! C�mon, Mike, time is money. You don�t want to piss off this client!�

�No sir!� There was general laughter at this, and riding it Ondahlie turned to one of the displaced racks, where she picked through a variety of crops and whips. Choosing a steel-tipped cat o� nine-tails, she accessorized appropriately. Then she moved eagerly into the pool of light now flooding the simulated dungeon wall where Mistress Shoshanna�s pet Toyboy hung.

Ondahlie liked this boy�s eyes, so she always had him displayed without a blindfold. Big and round, a limpid brown, it was their perpetual meek, cowed, doe-eyed look of devoted submission that she found most appealing. So honest, open, and vulnerable� Shosha had a real find here.

By now it was past the midpoint of Toyboy�s shift, and more than a hint of delicious misery had also crept into those soulful orbs� always-eloquent expression.

Up close, she could hear whimpers of strain escaping around the big ball gagging him, and uncontrollable tremors shuddered through his flesh. She prodded Shosha�s boy a bit with the eighteen-inch handle of the whip, saw his eyes flinch and his nostrils flare in response, and straightaway she decided to dispense with the legalities.

�I�m doing a photo-shoot, Toyboy, and guess what? It�s your lucky day. Thanks to the benevolence of both your Mistress and employer, you�re going to be included. Can I assume your permission to be featured in this pictorial? And that you hereby waive any and all rights to financial compensation?�

Toyboy�s lovely eyes were fastened on her like she was meat and he was starving. Pathetically eager to please her, he nodded vigorously.

�Fine,� the Lady O declared. �I�ll have a contract ready for you to sign at the end of your shift. In the meantime, I want you look desperate, pained, terrified and above all else, aroused for these shots. That shouldn�t be too hard, should it? Just imagine it�s your Mistress about to go to work on you. Or hell, imagine it�s me, deigning to lower myself. Shosha told me all about your sick little fantasies, you see.�

�Already the tight chastity device was twitching rhythmically. Toyboy�s confined genitals within were trying (surely painfully) to swell, and failing. Ondahlie nudged the hard ball of chrome-encircled leather and flesh with the equally hard round ball on the butt of her whip grinned at the groan that resulted. No problems here. She turned back to LeSaint dismissively,

�Are we ready?�

�Yes ma�am. You pose and I�ll shoot. And you can bet I�ll keep the stage directions to a minimum.�

There was a ripple of laughter among the gathering onlookers, and the Lady O flashed her most devilish smile. Then she moved seamlessly into a series of poses, at first just modeling the outfit she�d chosen.

Using her hands and the whip she displayed each body part in turn; hefting and caressing, draping and prodding, accenting and emphasizing for the clicking of the camera. After five or ten minutes of this, she finished her tour at the motor-equipped simulated organ that sprouted from her groin.

She gripped it menacingly, stroked its length, called attention to it in a great number of highly erotic ways. Then, though it would presumably make no difference to the viewer of a photo, Ondahlie reached underneath the simulated balls and switched on the big dildo�s vibrator.

The sound of its hum drew a gasp from those in the crowd, but she hadn�t engaged it for their benefit. That motor also ran the built-in clit-stimulator, a delightful inner probe as much an integral part of the tight short-shorts as that attached eight-inch penis sprouting up in front. The minute it went to work on her innards Ondahlie gasped, then launched herself headlong into a new series of ever more aggressive postures.

�She began to get dynamic, turning on Toyboy and pretending to inflict all kinds of teasing and torture on his helpless body. As demanded, he hung there and responded to her in a fashion far too convincing to have been even the least bit faked. The throbbing of his tight cock-pouch alone paid testament to his obvious agony and arousal, and after a while Ondahlie�s libido began to get the better of her prudence.

Between the motor working on her clitoris, the thrilling constant clicking and winding of the shutter, the growing crowd gasping over her performance and her own limitless love of torture, the mere simulation of the act grew quickly insufficient.

The whip began to strike for real, bringing more gasps from the crowd and a pathetic writhing from her suspended boy. Although it wasn�t really her place to torture another Mistress� pet, the Lady O knew Shosha wouldn�t mind. She danced around the little circular half-stage, striking again and again while the camera clicked and the gathering of customers and employees began to cheer and egg her on.

Toyboy twisted in his chains like a marionette, tears streaming down his cheeks, and secret orgasms came and went, signaled only by uncontainable cries and especially vicious strokes. Only when the whip�s livid welts had criss-crossed Toyboy�s entire front side, completely covering that stretch of clean white flesh with her own arcane calligraphy, did the Lady O at last catch hold of her runaway inner engine.

Remembering a bit of caution, she reached down and switched off the vibrator. Breathing deeply, she proudly surveyed the crowd that had gathered, at once both basking in their cheers and reassuring herself that she hadn�t revealed too much of her true self to the wrong person here.

The only guy present who wasn�t currently showering her with adulation was a rather rumpled-looking man in his mid forties.

Considering his bloodshot eyes and drinker�s nose, he was probably still nursing yesterday�s hangover. Reason enough for anyone to be contrary or morose. She dismissed him, turning to her photographer, who�d begun to clap his hands in appreciation.

The applause quickly swelled, and Ondahlie took a little bow, returning Simone�s beaming smile. Then she put the whip aside to be cleaned, and turned to confer with the enthusiastic LeSaint. Reluctant to disperse after the unexpected show, most of the crowd stayed around, buzzing with excitement. Their exchanges were clearly overhead.

�Fabulous! Absolutely fantastic!�

�Thank you.�

�I don�t think my camera will ever recover! I can�t wait to get to the dark room. I�ve just padded my portfolio with pure gold. You should take this up professionally, Lady O. Penthouse would pay big time for shots like these.�

�When can I see the proofs, or at least a contact sheet?�

LeSaint paused a second to calculate. �Noon, or two p.m. tomorrow at the latest. I need at least this night alone with them first.� He gave her an impish gleam; then returned to his original script.

�No kidding, you could make a lot of money modeling. I could show these around, get you loads of opportunities instantly. You�ve got the face, the body, and above all the passion for this kind of work. That kind of inner energy makes the film come alive, Lady O. I haven�t even seen the pictures yet, and I know that for a fact.�

The Lady O smiled at this flattery, but shook her head.

�No.

�I will not be an object, a purposeless ornament for anonymous men to drool over. Let someone with less self-respect do that fucking job.� But then she relented a bit, regretting her scorn.

�I considered becoming a model once, as a teenager, but except for rare occasions like this, the prospect no longer interests me.� She sighed.

�That kind of life might be okay for some, and it is truly a necessary and indeed profitable line of work. But it�s far too passive and limited for me. I need more active ways of expressing myself.�

A few lascivious murmurs and snickers came from those still crowded about, and one impulsive twit called out, �How�s that, Mistress?�

Before she could stop herself, the Lady O gave a rich, relishing laugh, casting an incendiary gleam in the shouter�s general direction.

�Oh boy, wouldn�t you like to know!�

 

 

Of course, Slave knew. He knew all about it. After what he judged to be a week (margin of error, fifty percent) of his enslavement, he could have written a goddamned college treatise on the subject. Perhaps a doctoral dissertation.

At least every other day (as far as he could judge, in his timeless limbo) Mistress came to her secret warehouse loft, barged in on her personal captive male and spent uncountable hours interrogating, torturing, and above all sexually using and abusing him.

Whatever it was that drove this private obsession, its pursuit was absolute. Only for a brief period of re-acquaintance after each long absence would Mistress show her imprisoned Slave the least bit of latitude.

Then expediency would require her to free him from whatever restraints he�d been left in so that he could perform, under gunpoint, the rudimentary requirements of hygiene. Cheerful yet stern, excited by the prospect of the session ahead, Mistress would supervise this process critically. Then, back in the shackles, she would finally provide food and drink, usually for both of them.

During the meal she would describe the events of her day, recounting its triumphs and vexations, and the effect these incidents were likely have on her impending treatment of him. (The first such occasion, the evening after her photo shoot, had been memorable indeed. Had he not come three times before she�d finished?) But as soon as such simpler biological (and psychological) needs had been attended to, Mistress would revert immediately to her chosen, impassioned role. Like it or not, after dinner Slave would be dragged back to the Equipment Island, and their next session together would commence.

Torture, sex, interrogation: singly, in pairs, all three of them at once or in endless successive combinations and permutations, Slave would endure a physical and emotional onslaught that hammered away not just at his flesh and mental defenses, but also and with equal relentlessness at his core self-conceptions.

As he�d suspected earlier, this latter was obviously Mistress� ultimate goal: to break his spirit, to win over control of his deepest inner self through the domination and subjugation of his body and psyche. The constant questions about money and friends, important as they were by themselves, were ultimately superficial: just a means to an end. In the final analysis, it wasn�t his body or even belongings she was truly after. Ridiculously melodramatic as it sounded, she wanted his very soul.

She had some odd ideas about the afterlife. But metaphysical speculation aside, what she really wanted was for him to admit complicity in his impending murder, and thereby absolve her guilt. That was an encouraging sign of scruple, a gleam of conscience and humanity not often found in serial murderers.

The fact the she was extorting such confessions under extreme duress was apparently irrelevant, true. Yet thin hopes were better than none, and the ethical tenor of this pursuit strengthened Slave�s determination to exploit this chink, and resist. Thus, as harrowing and draining as these endless orgies of female domination, torture and interrogation were, more progress toward Mistress� ultimate goal was actually made during the empty interludes between sessions.

Then all the pressures of solitary confinement went back to work on him. Strapped into the terrible dildo chair (or, just lately, locked into the tiny cage), he then had long unmeasured hours of extreme boredom, extreme discomfort to deal with.

Sensory deprivation tormented him in the dark, his mind constantly slipping into altered states to escape the horrors of reality. Prey to phantom sights, sounds, even smells, only his skin sent messages that could be trusted, and these were always bad. His body was covered with a lattice of new and old whip wounds, and the maddening itch of healing ones was often worse than the throbbing pain of those still open. Always naked, thirsty and hungry, strapped immobile or trapped into an uncomfortable ball or crouch, he was wracked by horrible muscle cramps and all the other results of constant bondage: Doing Mistress� business while she was absent, these more passive tortures all whittled continually away at his will to resist. Yet the most deadly encroachment on his remaining mental-temporal territory came from his complete and total isolation.

Humans are gregarious, social creatures, needing the interaction of others to maintain a healthy mental life.

The mind by itself is too malleable, the nature of reality too subjective. Without the validation of other viewpoints, our confidence in our perceptions can become either eroded or irrationally overweening. In Slave�s case, waiting, waiting, waiting alone, suffering constantly and all the while both dreading and needing to hear the elevator coming, the former effect began to creep relentlessly in.

Knowing it meant food, water, light, life, no matter how torturous or demeaning, he began to pathologically crave Mistress� appearances. Despite his fear and hate of her, he needed her, and not just for physical sustenance. In his strange social nullity, any kind of interaction at all had become increasing precious to him.

Naturally this made him subject to extreme suggestibility, during the interrogation sessions themselves but also and even more so during the long lonely hours afterwards. It was then, in the desperate interludes when sleep and all other distractions had been exhausted, that Slave would begin to seriously entertain some of the bizarre notions his Mistress had so skillfully planted.

Yet despite this gradual weakening, and despite all the other hell he was continually forced to endure, he still had no trouble holding on to his essential rejection of Mistress� central argument. He did not now and never had wished for death. Not consciously, not unconsciously or subconsciously, not before, during, or after his fateful acquaintance with Mistress. That idea was anathema.

When it came right down to it, Slave was essentially an atheist, almost a nihilist. He believed in nothing that he could not sense, test, or reliably substantiate, certainly not the improbable existence of God. Gods and goddesses, with their concomitant fairy-tale visions of some blissful eternal afterlife, belonged in the same realm of speculation as astrology and mythology. Such comic book tripe was a crutch for weaker individuals, unable to accept an unfortunate harsh reality.

For all her supremely confident dominance, even Mistress had fancies of immortality, betraying her own susceptibility to this almost universal human failing. For Slave however, able to look about himself with a critical eye and mind, it seemed the simplest, most likely assessment was also the most obvious: humans were fascinating biological organisms, but ultimately no different from a giant dinosaur or a tiny flea. It was all the same recombinant DNA, caught up in the same mysterious cosmic process.

Each of us has our brief, tiny part to play in the limitless life of the universe and then we�re gone. To waste the ephemeral, incomprehensible treasure of our existence in a pointless and pathetic search for some shallow understanding, or in a cracked attempt to achieve immortality, was to him downright stupid. To cast this irreplaceable gift away like a careless drunk or a melodramatic teenager was insanity.

Each of has one precious life, no more, and when it�s over, it�s over. Nothing passes forward but our genes, and only if they�re worthy. Now this �Mistress� individual meant to steal his tiny bit of time and space unjustly, was in the process of doing that exact thing every passing moment. Slave was limitlessly appalled by the prospect. No amount of torture and argument was going to convince him otherwise.

Thus the horror and injustice of his condition (along with his philosophical position) sustained Slave�s will to resist his captor�s plans for him. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with strategies of delay, ingratiation, even escape. But so far the latter option appeared hopeless.

Most of the time he was constantly kept in bondage of the most implacable sort. And whenever he was even temporarily released, either for hygienic reasons or while being transferred from one piece of torture equipment to another, he was almost always kept hooded, handcuffed and/or hobbled by prison-style leg irons. Not only that, but Mistress was almost always conspicuously armed.

Besides the whip and taser, she habitually wore a pair of low-slung crisscrossing hip belts. In the right-hand sheathe rested a keen, double-edged stiletto, six inches long, pointed, balanced and weighted for throwing. On the left was holstered a sleek, flat, 9mm automatic. Both these weapons showed a patina of regular use, and she handled them with extreme familiarity.

Anyway, even unarmed Mistress was clearly more than a match for him. This was something she demonstrated regularly, during interrogation, torture/foreplay and especially throughout their endless bouts of brutal kinky sex. Though he continued to keep an eye open, looking for an opportunity to perhaps seize one of these weapons for himself, it appeared that for the time being he would be better served to concentrate on skillfully playing his strange version of Scheherezade.

Fortunately, so far Mistress still seemed more interested in coming her brains out than seriously extorting information or philosophical compliance. Much of the time she would press these major issues only to the point of orgasm. Then, in her follow up, she would often concentrate on more benign inquiries. Strangely, she was interested in his thoughts on many subjects: current social and political issues, physicality and personality preferences in both sexes, even former hobbies, favorite movies and the like.

It was almost as though she wanted to get to know him for his own sake, like any caring lover. Nevertheless, Slave wasn�t deceived. Mistress probably just wanted to learn somewhat about his overall personality (including any weak points, of course) before really going to work on him.

In accordance with his plans then, Slave did his best to be as personally ingratiating and intellectually challenging as possible in these exchanges. And as far as he could tell it seemed to be working.

So far Mistress seemed to be both pleased and charmed by what she beheld in him. And while her active tortures and brutal sexual use were as pitiless and uncompromising as ever, she�d lately begun to show him increasing bits of kindness. After their latest session together, he�d actually been put in the cage without cuffs and shackles for the first time. Not only that, but the chastity belt she�d forced him into had no ass strap or butt-plug. He�d actually been given a gallon jug of drinking water, and a covered bucket for elimination.

This, perhaps, constituted a sign of trust. Mistress claimed to hate the smell of shit.

Briefly Slave had contemplated betraying that trust, but discarded the idea.

Later perhaps, if Mistress was drawing close to the information mother lode, and he needed a big distraction, he could consider overturning the bucket. But for now it was far more important to continue ingratiating himself, work on expanding that chink of humanity his captor had exposed.

After all, over time even the cruelest of us can get attached to our pets. So thinking, Slave shifted uncomfortably in the tiny cage, whimpering at his body�s prolonged contortion. For the three-thousandth time, he wished for the appearance of his Mistress, and the opportunity to once again put his earnest charm to work.

Not to mention stretch his spine and legs, trust his eyes and ears and eat something. But then it seemed the three-thousandth time was the charm. Suddenly down below, a phantom rumble took on reality, clarifying itself as the sound of Mistress� motorcycle entering the building.

It reverberated in the narrow entrance hallway, then cut out.

By now Slave had the time it took her to close and lock the door, switch on the electricity, walk to the elevator and ride it up timed to the heartbeat. Sure enough, he soon heard the clanking, grinding progress of the car up the shaft, and his cardiac rhythm responded accordingly. His pulse was racing as the elevator at last arrived.

Once again, into the fray.

 

 

####################