Christy Ann was a good girl. At 22 years old, she went to an all-girl college, studying literature; she took mission trips in the summers, and one day planned to marry a good man who she would give her virginity to in exchange for good children. He would travel to uncharted territories with her and help her bring the word of God to the heathens.
But Christy Ann had a secret. Sometimes, she had wanton thoughts, filthy thoughts! Thoughts so offensive, she would go to the campus chapel and pray for Jesus' forgiveness until she lost feeling in her knees. Sometimes, the thoughts were so bad, she wished she could wash her mind out with soap. When this happened, she doubled her hours at the shelter, took an extra Bible study, and essentially kept herself too busy to think.
You see, she wasn't like the other girls in her dormitory who talked about boys and sex, and even compared notes. She was a good girl. The girls had once coaxed her into saying the word 'pussy,' and she had blushed so fiercely, they had laughed at her. She didn't like hanging out with those girls. They were whores and temptresses. But, she wondered if they ever got turned on reading "The Scarlet Letter" when Reverend Dimmsdale beat himself in his closet. And she bet they didn't wish they were Aslan being laid bare and humiliated for everyone to see in "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe."
It was this last particularly offensive thought that had sent Christy Ann to the chapel that day. She had been wet between the legs, imagining someone cutting her hair and exposing her in front of strangers.
After three hours of prayer, she felt nearly cleansed enough to walk the four blocks to the food pantry to help prepare care packages for the rest of the afternoon. It was as she was crossing the street in front of the pantry that the bus hit her.
_________________________
When Christy Ann awoke, she ached all over. Her hands felt cold and numb. Her shoulders, back, and knees felt like, well, like she had been hit by a bus. When she opened her eyes, however, panic boiled into her mouth, effectively cutting off any scream she may have had. She was standing, not lying down, and she wasn't in a hospital, that was for sure. It had to be a torture chamber of some kind. Everywhere, her eyes fell on chains, racks, ropes, whips—all things she'd imagined existed, but actually seeing them terrified her. There was even what looked like a leather-clad saw horse, a wide basin big enough to hold a body, and a drain in the floor. She could only guess what those were needed for.
She clasped her hands before her to pray, and that's when she saw the cuffs. Large, metal ones with a short, thick chain running between them. Around her ankles were similar ones attached to a long chain that ran to an eye-hook in the floor. And she was naked as the day God made her. Having no way to cover herself, she blushed hard even though she was the only one in the room.
No sooner had she had the thought, than she heard a door open behind her. Someone, or something, came into the room, but she didn't dare turn to look behind her. Whatever it was, it was heavy and walked on two feet. She could hear its feet clacking on the ground like hooves. Christy Ann dropped to her knees and clenched her eyes shut, asking Jesus not to let her see the thing.
She heard the thing walk around her, standing in front of her, now. She felt its breath on her face like a warm breeze. She could smell it, a scent like rain in July but with an animal smell, like fur and musk. It wasn't so unpleasant; she was tempted to open her eyes to peek at the thing, but then it snorted at her and seemed to raise taller, casting a shadow over her.
"Christy Ann," it spoke with a voice like a water fall. "Look at me."
She reluctantly opened her eyes and saw its feet first. Hooves, cloven ones. She felt silent, hot tears begin running down her cheeks. Somehow, she had failed Jesus, and He had seen fit to cast her down when the bus hit her. She was in the presence of a daemon.
Her eyes moved slowly, fearing each inch of the beast they took in. Its legs were a blue-gray color and covered in shaggy fur. The knees bent backward instead of forward, and a ragged loin cloth covered its hips and groin. Above the cloth rose an impossibly wide and muscled torso in the same dusty shade of blue as its legs but the hair shortened and dwindled the higher up she looked. Equally wide and muscular arms crossed over its chest. Startling gray eyes with rectangular-shaped pupils stared sternly at her from a face that looked roughly hewn from stone as if the sculptor had gotten the shape of a man's face then walked away, never smoothing it out. A shock of hair a few shades darker than its skin hung heavily over its brow, accentuating rather than obscuring the pair of great gray horns that swept up and back over its pointed ears. It stood over her, at least nine feet tall.
"Do you know where you are?"
Christy Ann could only nod mutely.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Satan?" She managed to squeak.
He chuckled then, a sound like boulders rolling around inside his chest. "No, some call me Cephas, but you must call me Master." His words were forceful but not necessarily unkind. Christy Ann found herself relaxing minutely but caught herself. Daemons were only meant for one thing, and it wasn't to be trusted. This could only end poorly for her.
As if in confirmation to her thoughts, she heard a whip crack. She jumped but felt no bite, nor did she see the great monster move. He had nothing in his hands, which were still crossed, one on each gigantic bicep. Then, she felt it, a brush against her side, like a cat. She looked down to see a dark blue tuft of fur like that on the end of a lion's tail. He had a tail, a long, whip-thin, prehensile one at that. It wrapped around her leg and pulled suddenly, roughly yanking her knees apart, causing them to scrape on the floor and, worse, bare her sex wide open to Cephas' eyes.
"Your first rule as my slave is to never look me in the eye, do you understand?"
"Yes, Master." A flood of embarrassment flowed over her as she realized she liked hearing herself say that.
"I don't think you do. Look at me!"
Not thinking, only obeying, she looked at him. In a split second, she realized what she had done in her confusion. He laughed, and his tail came down fast on her inner thigh, stinging. She yelped, startled more than injured. A split second after that, she was shocked to find her inner folds were growing damp, and she was considering glancing up at him again for another slap.
"I knew you didn't understand, but you will. Rule number two, you are not allowed clothes, and you will always present yourself thus," he gestured to her current position. "Legs apart, on the floor. Your hands will always be at the back of your head. Do that now." She placed her hands at the back of her head and laced her fingers, effectively presenting her round, smooth breasts.
"Good, I like to be able to always see, and access, what's mine." His tail tickled the thick, curling hairs of her triangle then rose to his nose. He took a long, relishing whiff as her cheeks burned red. "You're wet, my little slut. What would Jesus think?"
That was it! She could take the humiliation and degradation, but she wasn't going to stand by and let this daemon mock her in the name of The Savior! She rose to her feet and pointed a finger at his expanse of a chest. "Don't you dare talk that way! He may have been forced to turn his back on me, but he still loves me! He loves all of us, even you, probably! You just wait and see!" Her own chest heaved, and her eyes burned. Shackled and naked as she was, she stood her ground against the four-hundred pound monster.
"You need to learn your place, Slave." Cephas didn't yell. In fact, Christy Ann would have been less terrified if he had. Instead, he whispered, and a darkness came over his eyes. He retrieved a large wooden box and set it in front of her. She tried to shrink away, but he grabbed her roughly by the back of the neck and pushed her down over it. He clipped her cuffs to a karabiner on the side of it before stalking away.
Christy Ann turned her head to watch Cephas stride over to the wall of whips and stare quietly at his choices. He lovingly touched a few then chose a long, black leather skein. It unraveled and slithered to the floor. Its handle was of brightly polished cherry with leather wrapped around it for a grip. It was longer than Cephas was tall, putting at over ten feet. The last foot was separated into a half dozen smaller whips, each tipped with a silver bead.
Christy Ann's mouth watered just watching him shake it out and test its heft in his massive hand. The thought of what it would feel like to have him fuck her with that cherry handle slipped into her mind, and she cursed herself silently. He saw the color flood her cheeks and grinned.
Flicking his wrist expertly, the little beads snapped resoundingly, centimeters from her face. He laughed that deep rumble again then coiled it up and placed it back on the wall.
"No," he whispered. "I want to be close for your first punishment. It's more personal that way." He moved down the wall to a series of smaller whips, floggers, straps, and paddles. He repeated his process of touching a few and testing others.
Christy Ann wished he would pick one already. The fear and anticipation were getting to be too much. She was terrified out of her mind. 'I have to be out of my mind,' she thought to herself. "Why else would my body be hijacking my reason like this?' Her upper lip was beading with sweat and she unconsciously coiled her tongue over it to lick it away. Her limbs felt tingly, but she didn't think it had anything to do with cold or fatigue.
She concentrated on a bead of wetness that was slipping down her crack, tickling her sensitive skin. 'It could be sweat,' she thought, 'but it's probably pussy juice.' Pussy. She thought about it and decided if there ever was a time to start using words like pussy, or fuck, now would be it. It clearly didn't matter anymore. She chuckled softly into her upraised arm. The movement caused that little liquid bead to tantalize her further, and she shivered.
Cephas caught her small movements, and his hand stopped over a small flogger. "Hmm, this one?" He seemed to be asking her.
She looked at it and a moan caught in her throat. It was simple, a blonde wood and rawhide affair not much more than a foot long. Its handle was worn smooth as if by years of loving use. The rawhide was also rather smooth with use, the ends of the strips slightly umber with blood-stains. It was exactly like the one she imagined Reverend Dimmsdale used on himself!
Cephas took it down and slapped his palm with it a couple times, experimentally. With a satisfied grunt, he nodded his head. He brought it to her face, holding it under her nose. "Answer me truthfully, Slave, and I might make your punishment lighter. Do you like this one?"
