The Bonding

Anya

I had the dream again last night. It's been so long since the last time, that I'd forgotten how utterly real, how devastating, it is. I awoke in tears, as I always do, though the dream itself is invariably happy. The place, the events, the people, are always different; but it is still the same dream.

This time I was on a beach, somewhere on the Mediterranean I think, and judging by my attire, I'd guess it was the mid nineteen-fifties. There was a group of us, five or six teenagers, and we were drinking beer and talking of taking a sailboat out later in the day. A handsome boy put his hand on my thigh and I laughingly slapped it away. He grinned and shrugged and opened another beer. I continued talking to a red haired girl sitting close by.

After a time, the sun grew very hot and I waded out into the ocean for a swim. I swam, I laughed, I talked with friends. I joined an impromptu game of volleyball. I woke up crying.

He has never asked why some mornings, when I wake him with my mouth wrapped gently around his cock, there are tears falling from my eyes. Perhaps he knows about the dream. Perhaps he knows that sometimes, when I sleep, I taste the freedom I have never known in life. More likely, he simply doesn't care why I cry.

He awoke this morning to my gentle ministration, as he always does. And when he noted the tears, he moaned with joy. His cock lurched and swelled in my mouth, and he held my face tightly to him, forcing open my throat.

After all this time his lust for my tears has not dimmed in the slightest, but then neither has it grown out of control. It is a constant wonder to me that his darker needs haven't destroyed us both by now. A side effect of the bonding, I suspect.

I have lived a very long time, and I have seen true evil. I have been witness to atrocities that have left me haunted. My Master is not evil. But he lives in its shadow. Only the magic of the bonding keeps him sane.

But just as it keeps his sadism in check, it also keeps me from ever becoming accustomed to his games. Each blow is always as sharp as the first, each humiliation is just as cruel. Within hours my body can heal almost any injury, thus every time is the first time. Every rape is the first rape. For two hundred and thirty-six years, I have begun each day as an eighteen year old virgin.

I was not born what I am, but close enough. I was taken at birth, my body and mind trained for the bonding. I have been a slave all my life, taught to protect and please the one who would take my bond. I'm 5 feet tall, I weigh 104 lbs, and I can kill an armed soldier as easily as he could kill a child. I have long dark hair, light brown skin and large black eyes. I have been told I am stunningly beautiful. Of course I must be, it is part of my dual purpose...to protect and to please.

At eighteen I was deemed by my trainers ready to bond. They were taking me to my new owner when our caravan was attacked by British mercenaries. We were not a military target, just an opportunity for sport.

I remember thinking how easy it would be to kill the man who drug me from my palanquin. He was huge and fierce, but he was no match for me. I wanted to kill him. I was not yet bonded, so I suppose I could have fought him. But I had been a slave since birth. Defiance was not in my nature. I cowered from him. I begged for mercy. He laughed. When he ripped away my sari, I cried. When he tugged down his trousers, I screamed.

His manhood was enormous, as long and thick as my forearm. He fell on me and shoved that monster at my virginity. I was tiny then as I am now and dry as I have not been since. But he was determined. He spit on his hand and rubbed himself for moisture and heaved and grunted and shoved. The pain was overwhelming. Finally, he was inside me. I felt my virginity tear away. Then I felt the bond erupt inside my mind.

I knew immediately that nothing mattered more in the world than this man's pleasure. Suddenly I could sense his delight in hurting me. He loved that he was so much bigger than me. He loved that he was making me scream with his cock. The power he had over me had him utterly intoxicated.

My terror grew as the horror of what was happening to me was coupled with a desperate need to ensure his continued sense of bliss. I felt as if I were feeding on his bliss. It was life itself, sweet and pure and more wonderful than anything I had ever imagined. It was not that I shared his delight; I was certainly in no less pain. His emotions were separate from me. They in no way diminished my own terror, but I couldn't get enough, couldn't ever do enough, give enough...

I don't remember being aware of my surroundings, of the fighting, the screams of the dying. My own plight was far to immediate to me. But then I saw one of my trainers. It was a man I'd known since infancy, the one who'd taught me to read, the one who'd taught me all the names of the god. He was struggling to his feet, one arm hanging useless at his side, the other hand clutching a short spear.

He saw me then, and the man on top of me. His eyes flew wide. I don't know if he believed that the bonding was not complete, or if he was simply in shock. I knew he was not a fool, and yet he drew back the spear, as if to kill my rapist.

In a heartbeat I was out from under the man, my torn womanhood screaming at the sudden emptiness. In another heartbeat I had batted away the spear; another and my hand was flying at my trainer's throat. And then he was dead. Before his body had even hit the ground I was turning back to my Master, but the pain was faster.

I gave one horrific scream as every muscle in my body cramped in spasm. I fell to the ground, unable to move, barely able to breath. I had interrupted his pleasure and this was the price. It didn't matter that it had been to save his life, or that I'd had no choice. It was the cost the magic demanded for denying my Master.

The convulsions seemed to go on forever, but when I was able to stop screaming, my Master was just coming to his feet, his cock still engorged, shock painted across his face. I fought my way to my knees, and bowed my face in the dirt.

"What the bloody hell just happened?" He grabbed my hair in a fist and jerked my head back. "Answer me, girl, what the fuck did you do?"

"I stopped him from killing you, Master."

He nodded slowly. "But it hurt you."

"Yes, Master."

"You're still in terrible pain. Your cunt, your entire body. And you grieve for the man you killed."

"Yes, Master."

"You desire to please me, but you're afraid of me, and very, very ashamed. Why do I know so much about you?"

"Magic, Master. I belong to you now."

He nodded again, unable to deny the simple truth of the bond. "You belong to me. Take me in your mouth while your pain is still great."

I obeyed immediately of course. I could do nothing else. He shoved his cock into my throat. I tried to scream as he choked me and again as he grabbed my nipple between his fingers and twisted. I could sense his lust responding to my pain.

I sucked on the massive head of his manhood, making him moan and twist my nipple harder. I worked to give him pleasure and he responded by giving me more pain. I wanted this torment to stop, I wanted his pleasure to go on forever.

Soon enough he pulled back to come in my mouth rather than down my throat, and stroked my face gently as I swallowed his seed then licked him clean. I felt my heart would burst with love for him in that moment.

I killed two more men that day, both men of his company who thought to take me for themselves. My master is well over six feet tall and powerfully built. I have no doubt he could have defended his property himself, but it seemed to amuse him to watch me fight.

I sucked the members of those men who asked to use me, and killed those who tried to take me by force. All at his command.

After that day, he left his company of mercenaries and we traveled the world together. I have slept naked beside his bed every night since. I have killed and fucked at his command. He gives me pain or pleasure at his whim.

I wake him each morning with my mouth on his cock. I spend every moment of the day thereafter intent on serving his every desire. I am his slave, and I worship him. But sometimes at night I dream of beaches and friends and innocence, and I wake up crying.

Michael

I awoke as usual to the delicious feel of her tight mouth on my cock. I'd never in all my long years had anyone suck me as well as she did. She'd been crying already, which forced a delighted moan from me. It didn't happen often, this early morning gift of her pain, but when it did I found it intoxicating.

I could feel her deep sadness, her hopelessness, her shame, though I couldn't discern the cause. I liked to imagine that she'd tried to escape in the night, that despite the magic tying us together, she'd made a desperate bid for freedom. Would she have made it to the door before the pain crippled her? Would she have even made it off the floor where she slept? It seemed unlikely. But the thought of it made my cock instantly hard.

I shoved myself into her tiny throat, cutting off her breath when I was less than a third of the way inside her. I never got tired of the sight of my huge rod sliding in and out of that tiny face.

I held her head tightly, feeling her throat convulsing around the head of my cock, so tight it was almost painful. One of her hands cupped my balls, massaging me lovingly as I forced myself deeper. I held her tightly to me until just before she passed out, then I used her hair to pull her all the way off my cock.

I slapped her face hard with my other hand. "Do better!" I commanded, and then I lay back and laced my hands under my head as she went to work.

I could sense how desperately she was trying to please me, and the intensity of the shame it caused her. She truly did love and worship me as her god, but she hated the bond, and she hated herself for being unable to break free of it.

In her own land, she would have been a prized concubine to a king, perhaps even made a queen in time. She would have been respected as a protector and pampered as an unequaled lover. She may have been a slave all of her live, but there was a deep, unbreakable pride at the core of her. It was this pride that made her humiliations so very sweet.

As she expertly fucked me with her mouth, I glanced at the clock and groaned. We had an appointment across town in less than two hours. As much as I wanted this to last, I needed to get the day started.

I took up the willow switch I kept on the nightstand and brought it down sharply across her ass. A tiny cry of pain escaped around my cock as a bright red line formed on her perfect skin. I began a constant whipping with the switch, but she never paused her service.

"Damn you, Anya, can't you even make me cum? Worthless cunt!"

She began throat fucking me, faster and harder. I could feel her desperation growing, and her pain. She was really crying now. I kept up the whipping, watching her ass and back become a crisscross pattern of pencil thin welts.

"Make me cum, whore! Now! Make me cum now, you worthless piece of shit! Now, bitch, now."

Ahhhh... there it was... the pain of the magic. I had demanded to cum NOW, and every moment I didn't her agony grew.

She tried to scream, but my cock was in her throat. Every muscle in her body began to cramp. She was unable to move, unable to breath, unable to do anything but suffer indescribably.

Lucky for me these convulsions always left her jaw locked opened rather than closed. Believe me, I had tested that countless times before calling the magic with my cock in her mouth. The total contrast between what she was feeling and the utter bliss I felt finally sent me over the edge. I was in absolute heaven as I shot stream after stream of hot spunk into her belly.

The moment I was done, I shoved her away. I had no time to savor anything this morning, dammit. "Get a move on, pet. Don't want to be late do we?"

As I tried to catch my breath, I watched my slave crawl to the bathroom, the pain still too great for her to walk. I sighed, thinking I should have had her wake me earlier.

After all these years serving me, she was incredibly efficient. She could bathe, shave, and dress me much faster than I could do it myself. Still, some days it was nice to linger over the little pleasures. Ah well.

I climbed out of the bed and stretched as I made my way into the connecting bathroom. A warm mist from the shower had the room steaming already.

Anya was kneeling beside the toilet, and as I stepped up, she opened the lid and took my cock in her hand. I smiled and stroked her hair as she aimed my cock at the bowl. There's nothing quite like a girl holding your cock while you piss. It's just so sweet and intimate. When I finished she licked the last drops from the tip, and closed the lid as I stepped into the warm shower.

I sat on a shower stool as she washed my hair and shaved my face, then stood to allow her to wash my body. When I was dried and dressed, my hair dried and combed, I went into my study to check out the morning news on the computer.

Five minutes later, Anya brought my breakfast to me. I don't typically eat a large breakfast and we were in a bit of a hurry this morning, so she'd simply sliced some fresh strawberries over a bowl of cereal, with fresh squeezed orange juice and a cup of coffee. As I ate, she left to get herself ready.

As a slave, Anya wasn't allowed the use of the master bathroom. Instead she used the small room connected to the laundry. I saw no point in wasting hot water on a slave, but she did have a tiny shower stall, a sink and a toilet, even a medicine cabinet for all her make-up and such.

An old-fashioned wardrobe in the corner of the laundry held the few pieces of clothing I allowed her for wear in public, as well as a much wider assortment of costumes and apparatus for my amusement. The one drawer in the bottom held her lingerie and stockings. In one side of the wardrobe was a shoe rack, with one pair of sneakers, and several pairs of 5, and even 6 inch heels, shoes as well as boots.

Tucked deep into a corner of the wardrobe was an old cigar box. Inside the box was a worn blue silk ribbon, a feather from some type of red bird, a couple of sea shells, and a small murti of Krishna. I had no idea where she'd come by the box or its contents, but I occasionally enjoyed having her kneel on the floor as I rifled through her pathetic collection of treasures.

She had no jewelry, unless you counted clamps and chains or the dog collar and leash hanging by the back door.

Aside from the contents of the wardrobe and tiny bath, there was no evidence in the house anywhere that I didn't live alone. This made it convenient for dating, which I did occasionally. Whenever a woman came by, or even spent the night, I'd simply shut Anya in the laundry or leash her to a tree in the back yard.

After I'd eaten I left the dishes for my slave to take care of later and went out to the garage. Anya was already there. She was dressed in jeans and a snug t-shirt, and her sneakers. She was wearing a bra that actually flattened her modest sized tits, and her hair was in two long braids. She was not wearing any make up. In short, she looked like a very young teenager, beautiful and innocent.

Today we were going to upset some very bad men. Across town, in less than an hour, a meeting was taking place between the head of a sex trafficking ring and a major drug supplier for this region. There wouldn't be any drugs or girls there, but there would be lots of money, and lots of guns.

Fortunately my little Anya was more than a match for any hired muscle. Her innocent looks would provide enough distraction to give us an edge we didn't really need. We would take the money and leave behind a few dead bodies and enough evidence for the police to make a nice dent in both operations.

We'd done this a hundred times, and it never got old. It was a great way to make a living. I had it all: money, sex and adventure. I was two hundred and seventy-five years old and my life was perfect.