Training

Author's Note: Okay, it's still a sadist and masochist story, but it's also romance and it's still predominantly M/f.

Devi

I stared at my notebook and fidgeted. I had been obediently writing, but then I had gotten distracted by the memory of him holding his whips, the thought of how his features were so stern when he stared down at me, the way his jawline looked when I was on my knees by his side.

I had drawn him instead, trying to work from memory as best I could, had stenciled out a side view of him, and to my amazement it had come out right. I was usually so terrible at drawing from memory, but my master was a model I had paid much attention to and I looked up celebrities for similarities. I tore the page loose when I was done - a bit sad that I would never be able to do him true justice - and set it in my closet, in a box that already contained a crocheted Blue Eyes Toon Dragon, an old copy of Paradise Lost, and a set of leather cuffs I thought he would like. I didn't know what my thinking was in keeping this little dragon hoard of gifts for my master, only knew that I wanted to give them to him but was too scared. What if he thought Milton was stupid and what if the cuffs weren't actually as good quality as I had thought? He knew these things better than I and after I got them, it had seemed stupid when my sadistic master took what he liked if he liked it. And then there was the fact that I was just too afraid to approach him for much in general.

Which was the overriding thought whenever I went to write about his marking me. The mere thought made my pulse jump in thrill, which only made me wildly horny and I would end up stroking my hands up to pinch my nipples, would lay back on my bed to clasp my pussy, which was still sore from his use. And that too only served to make me hotter when cum coated my swollen sex to soothe that soreness. I would go to write my thoughts and end up stretched like a mewling cat across my bed, heated and riled up. The thought of being tethered to a medical table while he branded me or set needles to my skin or pierced me, of being blinded and scared while he taunted me with his sharp cruelty was almost too much to bear. I fantasized about him wearing a slaver's mask and standing over me with hard condescension. "Now, now. You want a nice, clean brand, don't you? Stop struggling, little one, and accept your fate as my slave. It's not so bad and soon you'll enjoy the pain." My fate. Oh, yes, my fate as a permanently marked slave who would never be free again. But the key word in it all was "his". His pet, his fucktoy, his whore, his slave, his kneeling service maid. I wanted to crawl at his feet in whatever way he found most pleasing and I hoped that way was terrible.

For a while, I hesitated to write that bit because it was obsessive and I thought it might disturb my master. I worried about him sending me away from him, but then I made myself write it because I had sworn to him. He wanted to hear everything for his own personal reassurance and I couldn't deny him that. The thought of hurting my master's heart or conscience by withholding something only for him to find out later made me distraught to consider.

But I had to masturbate over and over again when I got too excited thinking of being under his modification expertise and I wrote that too, eagerly. And when ‪Monday morning‬ came, I woke to my alarm in a sense of nervous energy. My world felt surreal and strange when I stood in the shower and I showed my badge and slid my security card for Ballistics in a sense of dissociation, burning with excitement. Depending on if he found my thoughts acceptable to live with, I might be getting a mark of his to carry with me so that I'd never forget his mastery and commands.

He texted me when I was eating lunch and my heart leapt at the sight of his name in my phone.

Send me what you thought about, little Toy.

I thrilled to the commanding text. No greeting, no meaningless talking, no playing. My master was so serious and direct that it made me feel both afraid and warm.

Yes, Master.

I obediently sent him the note file, afraid of how it would make him feel. What if he thought me too infatuated and told me to stay away from him? But then, of course, the answer to that was obvious. If that was how he felt, then it was what would happen. He was exacting and demanding and, unlike light play doms, he did not ask or want me to bow of my own free will. No, he was far more the sadist and was perfectly content to force or just take as he wanted without needing my will at all.

I didn't bother him after I sent him my thoughts because he fell silent after that. And I was left to fearfully wonder what he was thinking, left to dread the results through my work. But that was good, in a way. It gave me an insight into myself. Because even though I was dangerously devoted to the man I considered a god and even though I was terrified of what he thought, it didn't detract from the focus that was my love of my work. It showed me that I had maintained some sense of reality and wouldn't insanely start foregoing sleep or forsaking other important aspects in my newfound craziness.

Still, I definitely dove for my private phone when it lit up with a text hours later, almost near time for me to leave.

Devi, if I asked you to stay away, would you do it?

I bit my lip and then stopped when I remembered that I wasn't supposed to.

If you commanded me to, then I couldn't disobey, master.

I sat on a razor's edge with him, for five minutes during the silence. I had grown used to reading my master without direct words and I knew this when he didn't immediately answer. And then my phone lit up again and I slowly read it, a wide grin crossing my face.

7. This address.

It was amazing how much happiness it gave me to see him try to give me freedom and then to have him not do it. My only unhappiness was that he might consider that a personal failure in his strict sense of control. My master would have his pride and I didn't want to hurt that.

It turned out, I should have been terrified of hurting that. It turned out that he wasn't going to let me get away with his failure. I went to the address he gave me, still wearing my work jeans, but I had taken off my polo shirt to wear the workout tank top underneath. His instructions fascinated me too because he apparently worked on a high floor of a skyscraper and I rode the elevator while marveling at the view out the glass window back. And when I got off, there was more glass to one side, so that I grinned happily while staring down over the world, enjoying my slight fear of heights with the mild thrill it gave me. And I found his set of offices easily enough because they took up a large section of that floor and the floor above it. He had given me specific instructions though and I went through a set of double doors and found his private office, a door with his name stenciled on it. Ezra Calloway. I mouthed his first name like a prayer I was too afraid to say out loud and finally knocked.

He opened the door, holding the heavy collar that frightened me, and I made an involuntary step towards him, missing his touch. And what was more, he was wearing a suit and the sight made me so aroused that it was pain. "Hello, Master," I said respectfully.

"Hello, little Toy." I lifted my head for him, standing still for him to place the band around my throat, thrilling when he adjusted it tightly. "From now on when I command you here, don't knock. Come in and come to the side of my chair and kneel there. I don't care if I'm on the phone. I don't care if I'm busy and you're waiting for hours. I don't care if I'm out of my office, understood?"

"Yes, Master. Thank you for being clear." He was planning on calling me there again! "You look wonderful, Master." The word wasn't adequate, not at all. He didn't just look wonderful. He looked downright awe inspiring, a picture I could wax poetry about.

He snorted, rolling his eyes at me. "I look pretentious, even more of an asshole than I already am. Strip naked, there's a good Toy. There's no one in these offices to see you besides me at the moment."

"Yes, sir." I lifted my shirt and bra, then my jeans and shoes and socks. He stopped me at my underwear though and I smiled, glad when he said something. I had been thinking of him when I wore them. They were slutty, tight black shorts style, except they shaped up the ass like a thong.

He turned me when he saw them, taking my arm in one hand to stop my undressing. He used the other hand to stroke my exposed asscheek and lifted it so that the flesh rippled beneath the tight underwear. "Did you buy these recently?"

I moaned when he lightly slapped my ass. "Yes, Master. Yesterday."

"Good girl. You chose well. It's always heartwarming to see a little slut in training dressing herself appropriately."

"Yes, Master. I thought of you while shopping."

He paused in his stroking, then sighed and curled over me, his body covering me so that I arched like a cat to be closer to him. My ass brushed against his erection and I gasped at the feel, at how goddamn hard he was. "You should leave," he said gently. "I'm not a very good person, Toy."

"I think you're wonderful," I answered. "And you're so graceful."

"Oh yes, so long as I'm graceful." His voice was laced with hard sarcasm, a kind of irritation there, and I knew why. I was so obviously biased and he was trying to get me to see reason, but I didn't want to. "If you insist on this, then I have to finish setting something up. Wait here and read this." He handed me his phone where it was already opened to a webpage and I fell to my knees at the place he'd given me by his desk, reading while he left.

And I knew instantly why he gave me the story he'd chosen to read. It wasn't to make me horny. It was to make me scared of the things he got off on. And it was true that I had played some dark fantasy games over needles and fear in my head. It was true that I knew a little bit of the darker side of things and was a little afraid at how easily I would get addicted to it. But I hadn't been to his side of the dark things.

It was the kind of porn that you had to read because it couldn't be made into video. It was the story of this girl who ended up coerced into this guy's dungeon, but once he started in on her, he didn't let her go like he initially promised. It was written from his perspective and he talked about how he loved the terror on her face when she realized her new life was his dungeon. He told her how he had all kinds of ranges of torture for her, but first he had to fix her.

And by fix her, he meant modify her. The author was really good about getting the horror across, too. Extreme breast augmentation, surgical genitalia altering and mutilation, piercings that were welded and riveted in place on the slave's body. Her mouth was filled with a resin so that she couldn't speak and when he wrapped her in latex, he used hard layers and forced breathing tubes into her nose so that the slave got the sensation of being buried alive.

There was so much cum in my slutty underwear that it made me mortified. It was terrifying to feel that aroused by torture porn, as dark and extreme as it was, but it also wasn't so unbelievable. I could see where the intense arousal came from in myself. It was a sensation and mental trip that held hands with how I got so sexually excited from my phobia of needles. Still, it definitely made me stupid. He was trying to give me one last chance, one last out, but here was the problem with that.

I was too close to him by then. I knew my master too well, from all those moments of insights and those silent conversations where I was forced to read him in other ways. And I knew he would chase some of those dark, terrible fantasies of his, but I also knew that he would do it safely and artfully. He wasn't charming enough to fake all of the conscience he displayed, not by a long shot, and he was prideful in things like the marks he left. He wouldn't be able to do something like weld ugly iron collars and he wouldn't be able to disfigure, only to decorate and emphasize. I knew these things about him so easily.

And that damned me. Because I knew things were going to get intense as fuck. I also knew I was as safe as I could be with him, while getting the max amount of terror and thrill ride I could get in the deep end of kink. I was as close to the darkest side as possible without going to a fucking serial killer. Serious play, with no games, and a guy whose needle and art fetish ran as extreme as mine. The only thing truly dangerous in the equation was me.

When you were a thrill seeker, with a dark side that was reckless, and you lacked any self preservation and then you got the chance to find the hard side of pain and madness in a way that was safe, were you supposed to run the other direction or did you take the chance and jump off a ledge? I know what the answer is supposed to be, but when you throw the word "reckless" into any equation, you never go the route that you're supposed to. And it gets a lot harder to think about it anyway when you're so fucking horny that you can't goddamn see straight.

I read through parts of the story again, my favorite parts, feeling in pain from it. I know that sometimes people talk about how they get aroused and it's painful, but this really was painful. I couldn't think of anything else after a certain point and I squirmed on my knees by his chair. It only got worse when I shifted enough to rub cum on my underwear, so that when I shifted back I could feel the wetness on my clit. And that felt like it was buzzing with the need to be touched.

I thought it couldn't be worse either, but when he came back, I looked up at him in desperate frenzy, loving how he looked in that suit, loving how he moved in general. And his eyes went menacingly wrathful when he saw whatever was on my face. He crossed to me with that dangerous grace and grabbed me by my hair, pulling me up with his form of loving pain. I thrilled to his roughness and whimpered when his lips were so close to mine, so close, but he held away just enough. "Enjoy yourself?"

I moaned and struggled in his grip. Not to get away like he had been trying to make me do, but to get closer. "Yes, Master. Please, I hurt so bad. It hurts. Please!"

He shushed me, a series of condescending noises, with that cruel smile that made my heart flutter wildly. "Let's see how much." I closed my eyes at that, whimpering in dread, because I knew it would be a horrible amount. His fingers stroked across my mound, shoving the fabric of my underwear to the side, and then penetrated deep so that I jolted in his arms, shockwaves pulsing through my body so that I quit thinking altogether and just reacted. I humped his finger, arching my body so that my tits were thrust out, lifting to try to find more friction, barely aware of the frantic gasps that escaped me.

As for his part, he hissed between his teeth, and it was shocked. "You filthy little fuck." I moaned all the louder when he manhandled me, lifting and turning me to force me to bend over his desk. He sat his phone in front of me and growled low in my ear. "Read it out loud then."

Humiliation flooded through me in a raw sensation even while I opened my mouth and started to read the part where I left off, right where the guy was starting to solder chains to the permanent hoops in his slave's labia. He cooed threats over his slave, wicked promises that this was only the beginning while she cried from the heat near her tender sex. He spoke adoringly, with twisted love over his little toy, making her scream with amorous torture. He made her look at herself in the mirror every morning and night to see every last change he made to her unwilling figure. I read it all out loud, my traitorous body soaking my master's fingertips at vulgar descriptions that I loved.

And there was no way for either of us to hide, which was the most twisted part of it. He made me say it, dragging it to the light instead of leaving the dragon in the shadows where all its horrific features could be shrouded and ignored. But I loved every last inch of that dragon, so I read the extreme story through shuddering breaths of ecstasy.

He pulled away before I could finish, leaving my sex feeling empty and swollen and heavy with need. My hips jerked in protest, trying to reach him so he would fill me up again and make me whole. But he slapped my ass in retaliation and took his phone away from me. "Since you're mine now, you'll earn those orgasms during training. Stand up straight for me."

He didn't bring up the fact that I had ignored every warning and refused to take any out he'd tried to give me, and I didn't either. I stood straight and bowed my head without fussing instead. I had begged for this, was dripping wet for it, so I felt a sense of calm surrender to whatever torment would please my sadistic god, terrible as he was.

To my pleasure and joy, he introduced me to heavy gear. I had known cuffs in my playtimes, had known chains, but before the head box from his friends I hadn't known any truly harder gear. He changed that and he started with a heavy leather blinder. I thrilled to the harder feel of it and closed my eyes happily. I had learned that, in the case of my master, it was often heightening in intensity for him to restrict my senses or forms of communication. His silence, for instance. Sitting at his knees, I was forced to try to read him by his touch and the feel of his palm stroking my hair back, was forced to pay attention to the way his hand might hesitate with his mood. Instead of being frustrating, these restrictions only served to make me more aware and aroused.

The gear straps were tightened over and around my head and he took obvious care to not clasp my hair. And of course he would do that. He pulled my hair all the time, but needless, uncaring pain? He wouldn't. My trust only grew from where it had taken such deep hold before when he had acted so careless but had been so near. When the straps were tight and secured, he fit my mouth with a gag that I now instantly recognized as inflatable. He secured it tight around my head, a leather circle covering my lips and presumably hiding the fact that inflation would hold my mouth so stuffed. And that was something that made my arousal even hotter from humiliation, the thought that my bondage wouldn't even be visible to him, that there was an internal side to hold me even more completely controlled. Instead of my frightened whimpers from the last time a gag had been inflated, I was moaning eagerly when he squeezed the bulb. It made me painfully aware of my predicament, how helpless I would soon be, with being blind and unable to make so much as a sound. And indeed the gag was pumped up to an almost painful degree, until I was restricted to the tiniest whimpers through my nose, but he left me those and I knew this was because my sounds of pain would please him. He wanted to hear it and I knew this because of how he had looked at the head box I had been locked in. He didn't like me completely restricted or hidden, wanted me able to make some display because, after all, reaction was a sadist's true drug.

But he wanted me heavily restricted and covered, too, because helplessness was a close second of a drug. Very much so, and I knew that drug aroused him from the story he had made me read. Indeed, there was much more restriction that I could definitely tell was part of his fantasies due to the influence of extreme stories like he'd shown me.

And he still wasn't done with those influences, which thrilled me. A half corset was next and he cinched me tightly, securing the leather so that my tits were heavy and emphasized over the garment, but I learned it had a greater purpose when he fixed me with leather arm covers much larger than cuffs and these were secured with straps, to each other and to the back of the corset so that my wrists were tightly bound at my lower back. More gear straps fitted from the corset top up between my breasts and around my neck and then crossed around to strap and tie the tops of my arms, tethering even that part tightly so that I couldn't move my arms at all.