ACT THREE
CONTENT WARNING & DISCLAIMER
This is the third of five Acts of a novella that is not as romantic as its title might suggest. This particular Act contains descriptions of bodily functions and unpleasant foods. If such fetishes are not 'your thing', please scroll straight down to the part labelled 'Section Two' near the bottom of this page.
ACT III: CONFLICT
DAY FIVE
Jane lay in the darkness trying to sleep. She listened to her Master's gentle snoring. She was lying on a narrow mattress at the foot of his double bed. She had massaged him – toe to head, back to front - for a full hour and a half before he told her to switch off the lamps so he could sleep. She could see the digital bedside clock. It was now 02:53.
Her hunger pangs were agony. She had never fasted before. She'd half-heartedly tried numerous diets in the past ten years; every New Year and most summers, trying to shift a few pounds to get into shape. It wasn't that she lacked the willpower so much as life got in the way. There was always some reason to bend the new diet's rules; a glass of wine here, a helping of pasta there, or start again tomorrow.
But this was brutal. Nothing got in the way here. And there was nothing to take her mind off her hunger either. No cigarette or cup of coffee, no finger-induced climax. Not even Chris to talk to.
She pushed her hand down between her thighs and felt the smooth ridges of steel. She touched the padlock and shivered. Why hadn't she been born with an easier kink? She pressed the tip of her little finger in between the rings and felt nothing but tenderness and frustration. Her stomach rumbled and she had to bite her lip not to make a noise as another hunger cramp gutted her.
To try and distract herself, she thought back on how she had reached this point in her life. She'd always thought of herself as a pretty normal girl, really. She started masturbating young, although she didn't climax. She just knew it felt pleasurable between her thighs when she rode along the rim of the wet bathtub at bedtime. When her breasts started budding, she liked the feel of her nipples. She associated sex with 'nice feelings' rather than with 'nice boys'.
She was fourteen when the fantasies started. She would touch her clit and torment herself by not allowing herself to reach a climax. The boys she desired at school were all the evil ones, the nasty kids who treated their girlfriends badly. She imagined the humiliation of fucking them and then being dumped, publicly ridiculed. She learned one-by-one about sordid sex acts and fetishes that secretly aroused her.
When she did finally have a boyfriend, he was a nice guy, of course. He was called Cliff. They were both virgins. Their sex was just as you'd expect. Nice. She tried to piece together the girl she'd been at 18 with the woman now lying at the foot of a dominant strangers's bed. How on earth had that happened?
She saw the last twelve years as a journey, a meandering road, via three ex-boyfriends and one white wedding to this, her story so far. Yes, her Master was old. No, he didn't love her. Yes, he had shared her. No, he didn't permit her sexual release. Yes, he had imprisoned her husband. No, she certainly didn't want anybody she knew to discover where she was.
Yes, it was a long journey and, no, she had no idea how it would end.
*** *** ***
"Coffee!"
I like interrupting Jane with random requests, right when she's in the middle of a chore. She was down on her hands and knees carefully scrubbing the kitchen tiles with a toothbrush, and I barked out my expresso order, even though I was nearer the Nespresso machine than she was.
We'd made good progress in the first few days. It was Tuesday morning, April 3rd. She was dressed in her housemaid's outfit. It was shiny and black; stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, short skirt, tight blouse and a little white apron. Under her skirt, she wore expensive French underwear, what's called an 'ouvert'.
Meaning literally 'open', an ouvert has all the visually erotic advantages of sexy black lace, whilst offering easy access to a woman's orifices without any garments needing to be taken off. It is basically a pair of frilly knickers with a generous slit in the gusset. French mistresses used to wear them for hurried fucking assignations with lovers if their cuckold husbands might be nearby.
When Jane bent over to work, her skirt rode up and her ouvert was visible, flashing me a nice glimpse of the steel within. It would take weeks, a couple of months, before she was fully healed but the operation had gone perfectly. In the meantime, her mouth had been working overtime. I'm a blowjob man at heart. But, today, I planned to say goodbye to her anal virginity.
She brought me a cup of coffee on a tray and placed it within easy reach.
Yesterday she'd done her first full workday; fourteen long hours of domestic chores, from 8 in the morning until 10 at night, interspersed only with short supervised breaks; washing, scrubbing, sweeping, polishing, ironing, cooking, everything. I knew that she'd soon find the drudgery of household tasks harder than the endorphin rush of sex.
I didn't ever say 'thank you' for anything. She placed the coffee down and hurried back to work. I ignored her. I was sat at the kitchen desk, in front of my laptop, corresponding with new friends, developing a whole new social circle.
Jane didn't know it yet, but I was arranging a hectic schedule for her.
On the credenza beside my desk, was a smaller monitor screen that beamed live coverage of Chris standing to attention in his cell. He was staring straight into the lens, his eyes level, back straight, arms down by his sides. He was naked except for the chastity tube encasing his penis. Motion sensor technology sounded a little ping on the screen if he moved much more than just breathing.
Like his wife, Chris was finding the reality of boredom hard to cope with. He had spent three days like this, thinking his own thoughts, silent, motionless, until his exhausted limbs screamed. There was a lining of steel pins inside his new Dictator chastity tube that punished the merest hint of stiffening in his penis, forcing him to ponder only the most mundane topics, hour after hour.
I smiled at Jane working on her knees, furiously scrubbing the tiles. I could see she was uncomfortable. An hour earlier she'd requested a toilet break. I said no. I believe subs should learn to go only at their owner's convenience, restricted to a few opportunities a day.
Half an hour later, I could tell she was right on the edge. She had her head in the under-counter cupboards, removing every pan, cleaning it and restacking them. Her hips twitched occasionally with the effort of controlling her bladder.
"Okay." I sighed. "Go fetch your tray."
She got up, scuttled outside to the shed, and came back with her kitty litter tray. It had already been used, with clumps formed by dried piss, and two dessicated droppings remaining from yesterday.
She spread old newspaper out and then placed the plastic tray in the centre of it.
I came and sat down in a chair opposite her, holding the video camera.
"Remove the ouvert. We don't want to make a mess."
She lowered her pretty underwear and pulled it over her heels, laying the black silk neatly over the corner of a chair.
"Assume the position."
She laced her fingers behind her head and slowly bent her knees, lowering her hips slowly until she was hunkering over the filthy tray. I could see her nakedness framed by her short skirt and fishnet stockings.
"What do you need to do?"
"Both, Sir."
"Both, what?"
"Pee-pee, Sir. And poo-poo."
I nodded condescendingly.
"Okay. You can piss first. But only part of it for now. Stop when you're half way through."
It's hard enough relaxing only your bladder when your bowels are bursting. But stopping her urine mid-flow as well would present an interesting new test. Part of my enjoyment was inventing fresh challenges for her every day.
My interest isn't scatological. I'd reassured Jane of that right from the start. It's about power. There is nothing more fundamental than controlling what goes in one end of somebody's system, and when it comes out the other.
"Hurry up."
Jane frowned in concentration, bending her knees so she was crouching even closer to the tray. I opened the camera's viewing screen and pressed record. A red light glowed.
"Now!"
A fountain of urine gushed through the shutter of steel rings locking her cunt. It sprayed all over the newspaper and some made it into the tray. She adjusted her angle so she was directing the stream downwards as best she could.
I had started her on a brutal 350-calorie a day fasting plan; for fluids, she drank a pint glass of green antioxidant juice in the morning to cleanse and sustain her. The rest of the day she sipped apple-skin tea (a tisane made with old apple cores and boiled water) and plenty of plain tap water.
For lunch each day, I allowed her a bowl containing a heaped mound of lettuce leaves. I teased her that she fucked like a rabbit, so she should eat like one! I used the blandest kind of droopy salad leaf, unseasoned, served with neither dressing nor mayo, salt nor pepper. Just straight, boring leaves. They contain only 40 calories for a filling 200g serving.
Then, at the end of her working day, I treated her to a large bowl of 'waste-broth'. This is a healthy consommé made using kitchen leftovers such as fish skin and chicken carcass and vegetable scraps that are boiled for hours then strained, leaving a watery, low-cal, low-cost supper.
I am a qualified dietician. I planned to increase Jane's intake quickly to a thousand calories, and eventually 1,500 or more. I'd keep her at the perfect weight. But for the first few weeks I was putting her on a savage de-tox regime for her own good.
And to continue her bowel cleansing, for breakfast that morning I'd treated her to an extra 250-calories, in a mash designed to flush any remaining impurities from her system. It contained un-sugared bran, prunes, lentils, castor oil and a branded supplement called Colon Cleanse, all blitzed together in a blender.
Poor thing was so famished she wolfed it all down despite its appearance and taste.
"Look at me."
She was still struggling with the lack of privacy. The indignity of being watched and filmed doing her toilette was still very new. Making her call it pee-pee and poo-poo like a child added to her intense humiliation. She blinked and stared into the lens as she urinated messily.
"What's your name?"
She whimpered in a gasp of humiliation and relief. The pressure on her bladder was starting to subside.
"Jane McKenzie." She replied to the camera, eyes blinking with shame.
Her thighs clenched and she grimaced with concentration. She held her breath. Somehow she managed to turn off her urine tap mid-flow. She hunkered low, slowly getting her breathing under control, awaiting my next command. I waited until there were no more drips.
Then I got up and walked leisurely round my kitchen, opening the fridge to pour myself a glass of grapefruit juice. I took my time, looking out the window at the lawn. It was a dry but grey day, with patches of blue sky breaking through the ominous cloud.
"Hold steady." I called back over to her.
A few days ago she'd have begged, whimpering 'please'. But she was learning that silent obedience is her only acceptable course of action.
I took a few grapes out of the fruit bowl and ate them one by one, studying her.
