Fiona
"It's not just you I'm breaking."
I can hear the words, but they don't register immediately. I'm having trouble following. I'm having trouble getting my bearings.
I'm having... trouble...
Lene's fingers are wrapped around my wrists, drawing them above my head to fasten them securely to the bedpost. That hardly seems necessary. I'm hardly going to fight her. I was submissive before, but now I'm a broken reed of a girl.
Sleep-deprived, somewhat dehydrated, feverish from constant denial... weak, and docile, and pliant. She doesn't need to restrain me, I'm bound by something stronger than leather or rope -- I'm bound by the sheer force of her will.
It's crushing me into her coils.
The room swims in and out of focus in my blurry vision. My body is tenser than a violin string, I feel like a bundle of raw nerves all culminating in one place -- my overstimulated clit. I'm my own cunt's set of nerve endings, and nothing more.
It's been... hours? Fewer? More? No. I'm not sure. We've been at it for so long. Naturally, we haven't been disturbed. The mansion, the maw, is way too precise and hierarchical for that. Lene must have left instructions not to be disturbed.
I know there's a buzzer the overseer can use to gently remind her mistress of urgent appointments. I've heard it buzz a few times, now, unanswered. Is Lene neglecting the upkeep of her estate, as she has fun with me?
As she seeks the thrill of utterly breaking me?
I don't know. I can barely think straight, in this state. Reflexively, my hips hump the empty air, seeking a release that's not going to be provided any time soon.
Vibrator, egg, her fingers -- the method shifts, but the result is the same. The trigger stops me from coming, like a fucking hypnotic muzzle on my dog brain, because that's really what I ultimately am, isn't it? A dog for better women.
I'm coming apart at the seams. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, and Lene is the one who pushed me to this edge, and yet she's also the only one preventing me from falling into it.
She wants me awake, I think. Barely so, but awake.
I shiver at a sudden touch, Lene tilting my chin up with a single index finger. "You really are exquisite like this," she purrs, tracing the line of my jaw. "So helpless and vulnerable, at my mercy in every way. But did you understand what I just said?"
I can't answer verbally. Not just because my lips are trembling and my wits are fading, but because the doggie trigger prevents it. I can't speak, or stand upright. All I can do is shake my head no, whimpering like a bitch in heat.
"I thought so. You may now speak. Count," she says, and even if I don't see the crop, I know it's there. What else would I be counting? I arch my back, eyes glazing over as I stare upward like a fish, and I part my lips to carry out Lene's order.
"One," I gasp out as the crop strikes me. A sting, more than a bite, but a familiar one by now. Lene likes to vary intensity unpredictably, to keep her victim guessing, never knowing if the next strike will be gentle and teasing, or harsh and cruel.
The second is the latter.
"T-two," I say with a yelp. Even counting is difficult when you can't just follow into a rhythm. Five follows four right away, but six takes forever. Eleven and twelve come joined, separated just by a heartbeat. The only true symmetry in Lene's handiwork is how she's striking my exposed belly and legs in neat, parallel lines.
I've endured my fair share of this sort of punishment, and yet I'm drained and exhausted from my ordeal. By the time I call the twentieth strike, I'm panting, my mind struggling to keep track of the numbers. If I lose count, I'll earn extra punishment. I need to focus.
At thirty-one, a broken sob leaves my throat.
Somewhere in the forties, the strikes begin to blur together into a continuous blaze of pain. My voice is raw, my body quivering and slick with sweat. Just when I think I can't take any more, Lene stops, trailing the crop lightly over my welted skin.
"Enough counting," she says, softly but not gently. "Doggie."
A chill revelation dawns upon me. I have spent so much time chafing under Mistress' particular brand of cruelty, of molding, of domination, because it became familiar over time, almost predictable. I could afford to focus on how unjustly robbed I've felt, deluding myself that I could ever aspire to be more, to deserve more.
And never once did I pay attention and notice that Mistress, while an apex predator to the bone, while utterly determined to dehumanise us, has never been like...
This.
Under her rule, there was a perverse form of devotion. She always behaved as if the mere act of owning us heightened her own standings. Prized possessions, ornaments, signifiers of status.
Lene does not see me like that. I am disposable in her eyes, a mere plaything for her amusement with no inherent worth of my own. The thing she loves the most about dominating me, is the thought of taking me away from Mistress. There's nothing personal in it.
No amount of submission on my part will change that.
"I'll need to rephrase that trigger, once I properly break you in," Lene muses. "It sounds so silly, phrased like that."
Now, I feel absurdly protective of that trigger's wording. Yes, I am Mistress' own loyal doggie, and Maggie's, too. It's... part of who I am, now. And suddenly, I don't want to give it up.
"Stay," Lene says, stepping away from the bed. It's a mirthless joke - I'm not going anywhere, and not just because of the restraints. I'm not allowed to stand up, and I probably lack the strength to even crawl properly, right now.
Even in her absence, I feel the ghostly imprint of Lene's control. I feel it in my mind, hemmed in like cattle to the pen. I feel it on my skin, marked by her nails and by her crop and by her lips. I feel it in my cunt -- there, most of all.
Lene does believe it's the part of my body that should be doing all my thinking for me, after all.
Her heels clack against the floor. She's moving around the room, outside my field of view. "You once thought yourself so high and mighty, didn't you, Fiona? You thought you could outsmart the system. Go far in the world. Onwards and upwards, rags to riches, all of that."
I hear the clink of metal and the subtle snap of a lock.
"A little too romantic, don't you think?"
She steps back into sight. She looks so towering, seen from down here.
"Still. You prized yourself on your intellect so much, on being a bright student, so... try to do better for me, dog. Don't tell me a little sexual overstimulation is all it takes to make your brain crash completely. I said, it's not just you I'm breaking. What do I mean by that? It's a simple question."
She's bearing a pair of gleaming cuffs, each linked to a thin chain. My breath catches as she secures them around my ankles, spreading me open, exposed and vulnerable before her inscrutable gaze.
"You can't answer with your words," she says, "but there's no need for that. I can spot understanding in your eyes, if it's there. Let me look."
Her eyes descend on mine.
She's so close that our lips are almost touching. I lose myself in the deep blue of those eyes. They're clever, cold, dissecting.
She drags her fingernails down my throat, sending shivers down my spine. I bite my lip to muffle a moan, hating myself for the way my body still responds to her touch. Lene chuckles.
"You don't understand, after all. Beautiful," Lene says, sounding almost mesmerised, as she begins to climb over the bed, straddling me, slithering above me like a crouching tigress.
Her eyes over mine, her body over mine, her mind over mine, her will over mine, it gives her the edge.
"Ignorant creature. It's Elizabeth's control over you that I'm truly breaking. Snapping the collar in half, so I can place my own around your neck. Now, open for me."
She means both my body and my mind.
Her fingers pry me open, and so do her eyes. Her touch is tender but firm, exacting, as she teases my clit and my pussy lips like a musical instrument. I gasp and arch my back as she slides two fingers inside me. I'm ready for her, hungry for the intrusion. My cunt clamps down greedily on the intrusion, slick with arousal I can't control.
"Relax into it," she says, and it's just not possible, I've been on the edge for too long, I'm mindlessly humping her hand, panting like an animal.
"Respond only to my touch," Lene says, and I draw in breath sharply as she enters me with a third finger. The wet, rhythmic sound is so hot to listen to, it's lodged in my brain like an arousal bullet, it's the sound of conquest, of methodically being hollowed out and mind-broken and brain-fucked by this living goddess.
Her fingers trail a path of fire across my skin. I'm not just being fingered, I'm being sculpted by Lene's deft hands. There is no room for pride or ambition here; there is only the unfolding of my being beneath her touch.
And then she stops, withdrawing her fingers and leaving me empty and aching. A needy whine escapes my throat before I can bite it back. Lene smiles, feline and predatory.
