Thanks to everyone for your votes and comments on part one! I have ch. 3 outlined, but I have to confess at this point I'm not sure how this dark saga is going to end.
As always, all characters are over the age of 18.
*****
PHYLLIS had called it right. When she woke up, she was back in her dark little cell.
She couldn't remember how the night had ended, or how or when she had been taken down from the pony. She guessed she had finally fainted from the pain and exhaustion.
She started to sit up and groaned loudly. She realized she was living out the old cliche' aching from head to toe.
Every part of her body hurt, from her scalp where he had pulled her hair, to the soles of her cruelly paddled feet. Even in the dim light of her cell, she could see the marks and welts on her breasts. Her wrists and shoulders were stiff and sore, her butt was an island of pain, and there was a slow, agonizing fire burning between her legs.
She glanced around and realized there was an addition in her cell-a small wooden stool. Sitting on it was a bottle of water, a couple of pills, and a small tube of some kind of cream or salve.
She took a grateful drink of water, then another to swallow the pills, assuming they were either painkillers or antibiotics. Then she squeezed outsome of the cream and gingerly rubbed it into her sorest spots, wincing as her fingers touched tender, raw flesh.
With nothing else to do, she curled back up on the narrow cot and silently cried until she mercifully fell back to sleep.
For the next three days, they mostly left her alone. She saw no one but the silent Barry. Three times a day, he pushed a bowl of gruel and bottles of water into her cell. Once a day, he took her to a small, spartan bathroom so she could shower and brush her teeth.
She tried to eat, but had almost no appetite. With no utensils provided, she had to eat with her fingers. The mush wasn't bad tasting-usually it was totally bland, but sometimes she could taste either fish or fruit mixed into the...whatever it was. She'd dip her fingers in once or twice and bring them to her mouth, but then her stomach would churn and she'd push the bowl away and curl back up on the cot.
Finally on the fourth day, when the outer bank-vault door opened, it wasn't just Barry. He was there too. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed deeply, her stomach clenching with a mixture of hatred and fear.
Neither man spoke. Alexander rolled the second, barred door to the side and Barry hauled her out into the hallway. They had brought a low, padded bench with cuffs for her ankles.
Barry bent her over the bench, and Alexander held her wrists while he locked her wildly kicking feet into the cuffs. Then they switched, Barry holding her arms in his vise-like grip while Alexander whacked her ass with a cane...a dozen strokes that left her howling and sobbing.
She was uncuffed, shoved back into her cell, and left again.
Two more 'meals', and the duo were back. Again, not a word was said. She was dragged out, bound and beaten...this time it was the crop on the back of her thighs...and shoved back in her cell to whimper and cry in the near-darkness.
It became a pattern. After two bowls of gruel, an hour or two would pass (it was hard to judge time alone in her cell), and they would silently drag her out to the bench and punish her. Whip strokes across her back, the paddle or cane to her ass, and a couple times Barry held her upright, her wrists yanked painfully behind her back and her chest thrust out, while Alexander lashed her breasts with a flogger or thin, whippy cane.
That was her life. Darkness, boredom, pain and suffering.
She knew it was a strategy to break her. Put someone in a position with absolutely nothing to do...no physical or mental stimulation of any kind...and they will begin to look forward to any break in the monotony, even a beating. Fortunately, she understood what they were trying to do and was able to avoid the trap.
After a dozen or so 'session,' the pattern finally broke. Alexander came to her cell alone.
He stood outside the bars with his arms crossed, smirking at the girl quivering on her tiny cot, while she wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to avoid his gaze.
'Do you know why you're being punished?' he finally asked.
There was a long pause as she slowly raised her eyes. He could see contempt and hatred there, but most importantly and most deliciously, fear.
'Because you're a vicious asshole,' she answered at last.
He chuckled. 'Vicious yes. An asshole maybe. But that's not why you're being punished.'
He let her stare a moment longer.
'You're being punished for disobeying me. You were told the very first night what to do when you see your Master.'
'Shut up,' she said dismissively, and looked away.
He ignored her. Taking a step forward, he put a hand through the bars and pointed at the floor.
'Cat!' he barked.
The volume of what she assumed was supposed to be a command made her jerk her head up.
'What the fuck is that supposed to mean?'
He shook his head in mock anger, his eyes glittering with amusement.
'If you had read, instead of tearing up your rules, you would know...and could spare yourself a lot of pain.'
'Now, Dove,' he said sternly, 'hand and knees, palms flat, arms straight, head up, back arched. That's the Cat position-the position you take when I come to your room.'
Her lip curled in disgust, and she didn't even bother to answer. She turned away again and showed him her middle finger.
He made a small gesture, and Barry was there, and soon she was being held over the bench again, the cane biting into her ass.
And the cycle began anew.
They added one twist. The next time they came for her, Barry bent her backwards, holding her arms with one massive arm, the other wrapped around her body just above her breasts. Her feet were cuffed wide enough apart for Alexander to use a riding crop on her pussy, smacking her most sensitive spot until she thought she would pass out from the pain.
She tried to keep her mind occupied during the endless hours alone. She thought up stories, daydreamed about happy moments from her childhood, made up endless top ten lists of her favorite movies, songs, bands and food...but her gaze kept drifting to the cell door, wondering how much longer she had before another beating.
Worse, to her horror and shame, she began to wonder if it wouldn't be worth it just to adopt the humiliating pose.
Hell, if that had been the only thing she had to do to stop the whippings, she would have. But she knew it wouldn't be the end...just the beginning of his demands.
Another dozen sessions went by, and he was alone again. Well, she knew he wasn't truly alone...Barry was just standing out of sight.
No smirk this time. He wore a genuine frown.
'I'm growing frustrated Dove,' he began. 'Frustrated and impatient. I'm close to giving up on you.'
'Good,' she replied. 'Then let me go.'
He snorted softly. 'That will never happen. Understand that, if you understand nothing else. Your life as a free person ended when you opened the door to my men.'
'And you understand this,' she shot back. 'I may be a prisoner, but I will never be your slave.'
'We shall see,' he said, and sure enough there was Barry. This time, however, they didn't pull her out of the cell.
Instead, they held her down and forced something on her.
First, a thick leather collar went around her neck. She could feel little cold spots, like metal, all around on the inside.
