A Slut's Education

Note: We take a much darker turn here, into abduction, psychodrama and non-consensual sexual torment. The Authors advise that we went there *together in our creative collaboration, and it is *FANTASY.*

Those Dear Readers whose BDSM tastes run more tame as welcome to move on. Thanks for checking in :)

DISCLAIMER: The discussion of chloroform is pure fiction and should read as such. CHLOROFORM IS SERIOUSLY DANGEROUS AND SHOULD NEVER BE USED IN BDSM PLAY!!

All that said, if you're sticking around, kajkelli and I thank you again for your support.

***************

Part Four: THE TAKING

THANKSGIVING WEEKEND, MENDOCINO COAST.

**MASTER**

Finally, I have my willful, lying brat just where I want her.

She lies naked and awash in dim, cool overhead light from the basement wall lamps, unmoving, still sleeping it off and still unaware of what she has become, of the steel-and-leather contours of the bondage that enfold her... and of the fate that awaits her.

I watch her from behind the cloth shroud, in the dark, where she could not see me if she were awake.

It is Thanksgiving night, and I am thankful to have transformed my willing

kellislut

into my unwilling captive.

I own her now as never before.

SEVEN WEEKS EARLIER.

**slut**

"

Pleasth,

" so timid is my pitiful plea, subdued by both his clear ownership of my body and my inability to speak clearly with my swollen and abused tongue.

It is the second Wednesday of my weekly slave-training schedule since Master took my ass, enslaved his willful slut all over again, and re-established his control. This time around, I have been seeing a lot more of the "torture dungeon" he keeps in the basement of his home than I did before. I have been introduced to stricter, more challenging bondages -- rope, chains leather, even wire -- and more strenuous and degrading positions. New punishment tools like paddle, crop and cane, and the electrical gadgetry called "TENS." More humiliating postures and commands, insults and psychological abuse. Rougher uses of all three holes.

It isn't that he is continuing to punish me for my rebellion last month. "

This is settled between us now, slut,

" he told me during the car ride home after my re-enslavement in the metal-worker's basement. "

We move forward."

More recently, when I asked him if I was truly forgiven for my disobedience back then, he just laughed and waved a hand and said, "Ancient history."

But if it isn't punishment, why does it always

hurt so much

? Master tells me he is training me to ramp up my pain tolerance and endurance. (I hear something similar from the strength and conditioning coach on the team, but I'm pretty sure she has something different in mind.) He says it like it's something he does for my own good, my "education," he keeps calling it... when he isn't calling it "corporal discipline."

But then he is quick to point out, "Mostly, I do it because I enjoy inflicting pain on my slave, it gets me off. I mean, I could whip a post, a chair, but where's the fun in that? I need to torture a living, naked, tied-up slut's body -- and yours is the only one I own at the moment."

It's part of my training, in fact, that I am supposed to take satisfaction, even pleasure, in being that body for him, that "paintoy," providing him that outlet.

And the truth is.... I do.

What have I become?

Tonight, Master showed something diabolically new.

After leading me leashed and crawling on all fours down into the dungeon -- naked and chained, but free of the C-belt -- he put on my knees in front of a short wooden post, cuffed my hands behind my back and locked my collar to a ring on the post, forcing my chin to rest there on the rough wood.

Next, he looped a thin leather thong around my tongue-stud, which he used to drag my tongue out of my mouth, then tied off the thong on another ring of the post. Then he inserted a pair of steel hooks in my nostrils and pulled them on a string up to a ring in the ceiling, adjusting the tension until my mouth was wide open.

I whimpered something that made no sense with my mouth immobilized and my tongue bondaged, drawn out and exposed... "

Nnggahh'suhhh...?

"

... Then he took his favorite riding crop and used it to whip my tongue!...

... "

Pleasth.

"

My corporal-training finished for the night, I stand now with my head bowed in the hallway facing the garage door, waiting to be taken home. Tomorrow, classes. I am dressed in an unbecoming dress that loosely covers the signs of my submission -- C-belt,

sirik

chains gathered in the hooks behind the belt, whip marks -- long sleeves and socks concealing the metal cuffs.

The collar cannot be hidden, but I really do not want to hide it. The collar speaks volumes, even though others might interpret it as a somewhat large, thick necklace or choker. I know it cannot be removed, except with the combination that only my Master knows.

Master is gathering his keys and wallet to take his slave back to her apartment. It is well past midnight, and my body feels the exhaustion of many tortures, bondages, uses and orgasms. He has taught to cum from ass-fucking, thought there's usually some clit-stim involved, I think. I have grown used to it, now that the last vestige of my virginity is long gone... Only a few short weeks ago I was a flower. Now every last petal has been plucked.

Behind me, my Master senses my misgivings. "What is it you want, slave?"

I turn from the door, facing Master, though my head is still bowed. "Pleasth, Mas'ther, pleasth remove this belt around your owned

sluth's

pussy and the chains -- and, um, tomorrow --"

"You have spoken correctly, slave. I do own this pussy."

"But tomorrow, your slut has practice. Slut cannot skip it, and she cannot play in sweats. Slut accepts your cuffs and your ownership, but unless you order her to quit the team, she cannot participate like this."

I lifted my skirt to show the metal locking my pussy.

"Then quit the team," he says.

"But --"

"Listen, slave, things are not the same as they were a week ago. I have taken ownership of all three of your holes, and your mind and body belong to me. I have no interest in your silly sports games. The only game I care about is the one we are playing now, for real: Please, Serve & Obey."

His use of my body, the piercings and metal bondage, have been both thrilling and crushing. I have become addicted to his ownership. The fire in my belly for competitive athletics and to be a dutiful and obedient daughter has been replaced by the fire in my belly for his masterful control. Sated at the moment with all that Master had done to me, the flickering light of my life outside of his ownership is still aglow, beckoning from the school week ahead, and I do not want it extinguished. There has to be a place for both in my life.

"I can't --"

"I?"

"Yes."

My courage suddenly aflame, knowing there was nothing to lose. I raise my eyes to look him straight in the eyes. I feel empowered.

"Yes, I. *

I*

have given you permission to enslave me, mark me, bind me, pierce me, but at no point have I given you

me

."

I pause, my nostrils flaring, our eyes locked. When you give me your wry smile, I know I have a chance of winning. I know what kind of slave I am. But I am certain you do not want three holes with no mind and no spirit.

"Then offer an idea for how we can make this work, slave."

I have thought about this, but just to seem compliant, I pause before I stammer out the words, "I have to be able to hide some of these things when not with you. I have to have two lives, so barring the possibility of you kidnapping and enslaving me against my will, which I don't really think you plan, then you have to help me reach a compromise."

"'Have to?'" he says, the smile never leaving his face. "Go on."

"The pussy belt has to be removed when I am not with you, as do the chains you call

sirik

. These cannot be hidden. I have already worn the metal cuffs and collar for weeks, so I want to keep them to remind me of us." I look down, nodding, and I know I am blushing... as my Master likes. "The tongue stud is cool, I can show it off with the Cal colors. The tat, well, that is in a place not likely to be seen by anyone else but you."

"No," he counters. "I need your slut-pussy locked precisely when we are

not

together. That is the whole point"

I hesitate. An idea has come to me ad lib: "Then lock it. You must have small locks lying around. So lock the rings you have pierced into your pussy.... I am not sure, but we can try."

He says nothing. The moment it is out of my mouth, I am thinking,

This is no way to negotiate

. I should have countered,

Just to trust me

. But I know, just as Master does, I cannot be trusted not to play with my --

his

-- pussy.

Master raises his eyebrows, pondering my suggestion. Then walks away. It gives me a moment to calm my racing heart and to take some deep breaths. In a moment he returns with his hands full of metal. Without being asked and seizing the moment, I lift my dress over my head and toss it aside, nude now but for socks and sandals.

I assume First Posture, arms folded up behind my back, legs straight and slightly spread, eyes straight ahead. By now, I am totally comfortable naked before my Master, admitting his ownership of my body.

In moments, the belt and

sirik

have been removed and set aside. Master crouches at my spread legs. He pauses to wipe his fingers along my slit, and looks up at me with an even wider grin. He holds his wet fingers up to my face, and I do not hesitate to take them in my mouth and suck my juices. My tongue feels swollen from the lashing and abuse, but the stud feels right. I push the thoughts of my mom's displeasure out of my mind.

I feel at ease, knowing that our relationship does not always need words, knowing that I can sexually respond. That in his ownership of my body, I am somehow free.

I need this.

I need Master, yes, but I also need me, and my parents and my schooling. The other half of my life.

Master pulls on my labia, tugging on the rings, apparently experimenting with different positions. His touch and manipulations arouse me deeply.

Why can't I control this?

I try to think of other things, of running full court, of driving through McDonalds, of --

"This will work."

*CLICK.*

The sound of one padlock snapping shut almost makes me cum.

*CLICK*

My knees buckle with the second lock, then with the third, I have to break position and support myself on Master's shoulders.

*CLICK.*

Master snaps his fingers once and I drop to Second Posture,

At-Attention

-- Kneeling up off my haunches, hands clasped rigidly behind my neck, hips and breasts thrust forward, pussy exposed. Eyes forward, mouth open, tongue out.

"Try to get inside these locks, slut." My Master commands.

Instructed, I I reach between my legs, feeling my way as much as looking, and discover he has crisscrossed my pussy with the seven rings and three locks, intricately interlocked. I try to penetrate an opening, but even my pinky cannot get past the first knuckle. My clit is imprisoned.

I look up to confirm what Master already knows.

He nods. "What time is practice, slave?"

"Ten in the morning, Master."

"Until?"

"Noon."

"Hmm."

*SNAP*

Down. I lower to Third Posture, back on my haunches, knees together, hands relaxed on my thighs, head bowed.

As I wait, attentive, Master takes my shoulder bag from the hallway and fills it with his metal.

"You will take the C-belt and chains with you, along with a couple of additional locks. The moment practice is over, you will find a place to relock it on your body. And then call me."

I ponder this for a moment, thinking it is probably his best offer.

'Sold!'

I say to myself, smiling inwardly...

... But I show him a bratty little pout when I respond: "Yes, Master."

**MASTER**

A lot has changed in the past weeks.

If I have to pinpoint when and where it began, for me at least, it is the moment last week when I was in the law library at my office, researching case law to support my motion to quash a deposition subpoena served on my client.

But I am distracted. What really preoccupies me is my need to quash something else: My brat-slut's quiet, brave and persistent little rebellions.

My current slavemaster agenda is to escalate her enslavement threefold: to expand my control over her daily life as far as practical, including and especially deployment of the steel restraints, which are intended to tame her passions as well as express my power over her from afar; to ramp up the intensity of her corporal discipline; and to own her ass as often as I can.

I am encountering speed bumps on each of these paths. My brat-slut is obstructing me at every turn.

As for control over her daily life, each move I make meets with excuses, negotiation,

whining

-- and then, on my part, compromise. First of all, my ironclad training schedule of regular Wednesday nights, Friday-night sleepovers and Saturday all-day sessions (with a flex option for Monday evenings), has been disrupted by basketball practice, and by the study dates she has made with classmates for midterms.

And I have

always

been the one to accommodate her stupid needs.

With NCAA games soon to begin, I realize my slut is going to disrupt our training regimen even more with her intensified practice schedule and games. Two preseason games in late October and early November at Haas Pavilion, hosting Westmont and St. Martins; then, official opening night at home v. Sac State. For whatever it's worth to me, the first road game isn't until the middle of the month, at UC-San Diego... and so on.

... Now, I admit there's part of me that selfishly approves of the basketball, to the extent it keep my slut's yummy bod fit, toned and limber. Emphasis on

limber,

given the increasingly tough bondage contortions I've been devising for her...

But that's beside the point. I see my slut's practice/game/travel schedule is not only going to require me to rearrange our training days, but also occasionally cost me valuable training days out of certain weeks. That, and negotiation over her need to remove my metal -- cuffs, collar and earrings -- for practice and games, which has become so incessant that I have given her, grudgingly, her own jeweler's screwdriver to do it herself.

... Although I do force her to bargain with me for release, exacting promises of discipline and sex-use for each plea she makes and each restraint she removes...

I should have followed my first instinct and made the bitch quit the team. But it's too late now, so I won't. It is complicated, owning a bitch if you don't actually flat-out OWN her.

... Maybe I should do that?...

*Sigh*

But I am committed to her education...

More troubling, if she were to have her way, my slut would wear her C-belt only when we are together for training. I counter that the restraint exists

precisely

to enforce my ownership and control when I am

not

present.

She counters: basketball, beach, distraction during exams,

blah blah blah...

...

.. "But Master, Sunday's supposed to beautiful and hot. And you know there's not much weather like this left."

A plea for release from her belt for a beach outing at the San Pablo Dam Reservoir with her girlfriends. "Winter is coomin'," I allowed.

"Master, pleee-ease..."

I raised my hand to stifle her shrill pleas. "That's fine, go with my blessing," I replied. "I believe the blue sundress I bought you is perfect for the occasion."

She pouted "So is the white bikini you bought me! You know -- a bikini, like all the other girls will be wearing?"

The sarcasm was duly noted, along with a mental memo for the punishment that would follow at the end of this tiresome parlay.

"I will consider," I said after a pause, "dropping you off at the beach myself, removing your C-belt in the car, then placing it back on at the end of your outing to make sure my pussy is locked back up before I return you to your apartment."

The brat grumbled and stewed over the offer. Without actually accepting it, she upped her demands. "And the ankle cuffs will stand out when I'm barefoot in my swimsuit. I can live with the wrists and collar, but --"

I grimaced. However this turned out, I was SOOO going to punish her sassy mouth for this...

...

... But the fact is, I do sympathize, even if for selfish reasons: I want my slave fit, tanned, educated, and able to live her own half of her life freely... so that in the other half, she can focus solely and squarely on serving her Master. So we are at a quandary here, one I share blame for creating. For now, the best I can do with this dilemma is to balance my expectations with her needs, negotiate... and compromise.

As for intensifying her discipline, our problem is that, in session, she has been letting me know increasingly, with her bodily responses, facial expressions and occasional words, what she doesn't like. Now, it's dicey for a Top to try and counter a Bottom's resistance to punishment with more punishment, so all I can do -- again, a matter of "balancing" -- is try and be assertive while bringing her along at a careful pace.

And as for the sodomy... Well, this is probably where the whole recent tailspin in our relationship began.

I knew even before I took her ass, that with her narrow hips and small round girlish cheeks, my petite Asian slut would have a tight, delicate anal bud to go with them. And I knew as I took my pleasure in it for the first time, even as deeply satisfying it was for me, it was brutal on her. Perhaps "devastating" is the word. I think the ass-rape "broke" the girl in some fashion -- and not in the "good" sense as we often use the term in BDSM -- and left her, paradoxically, both timid and petulant at the same time, ever since. And I think, in fact, that this "breaking" was the precipitating event of every other resistance and rebellion since then...

... But, my slave, since I have every intention of continuing to own your ass... AND to intensify your pain-discipline, AND to humiliate and degrade you, AND to bind you in steel to control you from far away... I just need to find a way to bring you back to heel, Kelli-slut...

My Dominance and your submission are no longer the brand-new, thrilling-in-its-perversity, shocking-to-your-innocence thing -- in which you so eagerly and passionately participated -- as it was at the start, are they, Kelli? Of course not, it never is; the grand adventure of the new fades, by definition, as the newness recedes in time. A Master-slave relationship must evolve, like any relationship, through the whirlwind-courtship phase into the more mature stages that sink deeper roots into the things that will sustain it over the long run... respect, honesty, mutual support

...

... *Ugh.*

I feel like Dr. Phil here all of a sudden.

I sigh, looking down at my notepad, realizing I have been scrawling doodles over the page, not digesting case law and outlining my motion. I need to do one or the other -- solve my brat-problem, or do my job -- and stop vacillating between the two. Things were so much easier back when I owned you

against your will,

and you secretly loved the thrill of that coercion. But those days are gone...

... Or are they?

The plan slowly forms in my head as I walk back to my office, and shut the door. At my laptop, I open Facebook, sign into Kelli's account and browse her friends until I spot the pretty, blonde-topped face I recognize as her roommate Deanna. Luckily, since Kelli is a Friend, the girl's email address is displayed, and I write her a message from my personal Gmail account: