My only name is The Bard and my story will begin on March 22. An arbitrary date, a day like any other. Except that I am telling this tale. I spend so much time telling Her story, I might as well tell mine, such as it is. I am in the Throne Room, a massive circular chamber, constructed with large, dark blocks of stone. The chamber is scantly lit by torches along the wall. The center of the chamber is occupied by a tall dais crowned by an ornate gold throne with thick red cushions. I'm chained to a wall by my wrists and ankles two feet above the floor. I'm nude except for a leather collar with a metal hoop hanging below my Adam's apple and a leather cock ring keeping me permanently erect. Just like every other day for the past three years. I turned twenty two weeks ago.
I hang there alone for hours before She enters. She doesn't look at me. She doesn't appear to look at anything as she strides proudly to Her throne. She is tall and very slender with pale skin and nearly black hair that falls to the middle of her back. She throws a black fur coat to the floor as She begins to mount the stairs to Her throne. Beneath this coat, she wears thigh high red leather boots over tight red leather pants and a halter top and gloves, both also made from dark red leather. Red leather is a theme with Her. She wears it for the same reason that butchers wear red aprons. How many times, I wonder, has my blood been spilt on her leather? How many stars adorn the night sky? She is not a kind master, but She is not cruel either. She is what the War made Her.
She lounges on Her throne for some time, one firm leg throne over an arm of the throne, slouching so that her D cup breasts stand out proudly. There are very few who would not consider her gorgeous. I wait nervously for a command to drop from her crimson lips. She can be unpredictable. It is as likely that She will spend the day torturing me as it is that She will make love to me gently and each of these possibilities is no more likely than that She will ignore me entirely. It is also possible that She has official business from the Brotherhood and is just relaxing here for a few minutes before returning to work. The Brotherhood is a branch of the British Secret Service. She was trained by them to be a questioner, an interrogator. Quite often, however, those sent to her have no useful information, but are just criminals or enemies of the state that have been sentenced to be punished. Petty thieves would spend a day or two with Her and be sent back home. More serious criminals and political enemies were often sent back out of Her manor in coffins.
Today, She watches me hungrily before finally saying, "Speak, Bard. Tell Me a story."
"Where should I begin, Mistress?"
"Begin at the very beginning. Tell Me of the day that I was taken."
And so I begin:
You were a florist before the War. When you were taken, you were in your garden. There was a slight drizzle of rain. You were alone, cutting roses, but when you looked up from a white rose bush, you weren't alone anymore. A limousine was parked by the curb and three large men had stepped out. They were dressed in black suits and their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. All three had black hair slicked back. They could have been triplets. They walked towards you slowly, unafraid that you would flee. There was no escape once the state had chosen you. You did think about running, but you knew as well as they that it was hopeless. Soon, the three men stood before you and one said calmly, "Lindsey Hawke?"
You were shaking, tears were pouring from your eyes. You knew your life as you had known it was over. Silently, you cursed these men, the War, the British government, yet all you said aloud was a weak, "Yes."
"Good," the man said. "I'm glad you chose not to lie. You would've paid if you had. Miss Hawke, you graduated from Churchill College, Cambridge at the top of your class, you had stellar marks at all mandated preselection military skill assessments, and your personality evals suggest just the type of person we can use. We represent the Brotherhood. There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. England is under siege and it will be information that wins this fight. From this moment forward, you will be trained to get information from those who are unwilling to cooperate."
You had begun sobbing, but managed to say, "Please . . . no . . ."
But it was too late for you. One of the men grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled you roughly towards him. You cried out at the sudden pain. He pulled your head down and put you in a headlock that left your cheek pressed firmly against his ass and, as a result, your own ass was forced high in the air. A second man grabbed both of your wrists and handcuffed them together. There was a six inch chain between the cuffs. Then, he and the third man walked over to the rose bush you had been trimming and began cutting all of the roses from the bush. They cut at least a dozen of them, making sure the stems were quite long. Your face was hot with crying and it was hard to breathe with a man's arm wrapped tightly around your neck. As the two men cut roses, the man holding you said, "To learn to cause pain, you must first experience pain for yourself. We will show you all the ways the body can be made to hurt, all the tools, all the tricks, all the most tender places on your body. And while we train you, we will own you. When we hurt you, you will thank us. You will not speak unless we tell you to speak. If you disobey this or any other order you will be punished. Although you can't speak, you will tell us what you think of your torture with your screams and groans. We will own your body and use it how we please. You will be our slave and our slut. If you can learn to take the pain we give you, we will one day allow you to serve England in our time of need. If you are disobedient or inept, you will serve the Brotherhood as a slave slut until you're old and used up and we throw your sorry ass out on the street. By the way, my name is Alpha. My associates are Beta and Gamma. We left our old names behind when we began to serve the Brotherhood, just like you have. Your name from now on is Slave. Lindsey Hawke is dead."
While Alpha spoke, Beta and Gamma took positions behind you. Alpha said, "You may begin," and almost immediately you felt your skirt being slipped off, followed by your panties. You step out of your clothing without being told, fearing what these men were going to do to you. Then, you felt something like needles being pressed against your naked ass. You realized they were going to whip you with your own prize roses! The men worked like clockwork. One hit you with the long stem of one of your white roses. Pinpricks of blood rose on the smooth white skin of your ass where the rose's thorns had connected. You cried out and began begging the men to stop. They didn't listen. As soon as one man had hit you and began to rear back for another strike, the other would hit you. They kept up a steady rhythm, barely a second between beats, oblivious to your pleas. "Please!" you shouted. "Please, I'll do anything! O god please please stop!!"
You could barely catch your breath between crying and screaming and Alpha's arm still choking you. You kept hoping that the men whipping you would pause long enough for you to take a deep breath, but they never did. You were dizzy from your head being forced down and the constant pain. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! A steady drumbeat on your ass. You flailed your hands, but they were useless, handcuffed as they wree. You could actually feel blood running slowly down the back of your legs in thin rivulets.
You have no idea how long this torture went on, but finally Beta and Gamma stopped whipping you and Alpha released his hold on your neck. You fell face first into the soft earth of your garden. Mud stuck to your face where it had been stained by tears. You cried and resumed your begging. The men just watched you, faces expressionless, though they were sweating and panting from their exertions.
