Prologue

Clive asked me to sit down and write-out my take on the events that got me to where I am today. Ha! “Asked!” I guess “asked” is accurate, but there’s nothing he can ask that I can refuse. I mean, I’m sitting naked in a dark, windowless cell, not because he forced me in here, but because he said go, and I went. At least he gave me a laptop to do the writing on, instead of paper and pencil. The laptop puts out some light to drive back the darkness. The batteries should last for a few hours, maybe five or six if I’m careful, and when they die, I’ll be left in the dark. Who knows for how long? I keep turning the brightness down to make them last longer. That gives me as much as six hours to write something that will make him happy. The one thing I never want Clive to be is unhappy.

Where to start though? The beginning might be good, but where is that exactly? My childhood? No. That would just send me down the road of justifying myself. I’ll start with the day I almost sacked Clive. That seems like a good place to begin. He’ll like that.

One

“DPK is not happy with your performance Mr. Walsh,” I said from behind my desk. I’ve always liked that desk. I feel safe sitting behind its big mahogany expanse. It’s like a fortress to me, and its battlements have always kept the invaders at bay. Invaders like him.

Walsh was young. Much too young for the kind of position he held and the pay that he demanded. Supposedly he’d been in Intelligence over in Afghanistan or something. I’ve always hated consultants. They live in some gray-area where you really never know how to treat them. They aren’t subordinates that you can dominate, and they aren’t senior management that you have to kiss up to either. He looked nervous. I wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t know. Doyle / Price / Kelly had hired him to do a very important and specific job, and he hadn’t been able to do it. I’d seen to that. I wanted … no … I needed him to fail, because if he didn’t fail, I’d be going to prison.

When they brought him in, I’d seen to it that I was put in the loop. That way I could feed him disinformation and get him on the wrong tracks while I covered my own tracks. He’d wanted to do the investigation in the open, but I’d persuaded Mr. Price that it should be done on the Q.T., and he’d made Walsh agree. There were three key people who knew too much and that needed to be gotten rid of. Not that they knew that they knew, but if Walsh could get those three people together in the same room, he’d learn everything. He couldn’t prove any of it, but it could still be trouble for me. The leads I fed him distracted him just long enough for me to do what I needed to do.

That dyke, Lou Grey, was the most straight forward one to deal with; not that she was easy, mind you. She wasn’t out, of course. She couldn’t be and still work at DPK. The official policy was that we didn’t care about gender preference, but the reality was really quite different. I followed her to that bar. It wasn’t hard for me to blend in. I let them buy me drinks. Danced with them. I even let them put their hands on me and kiss me. That’s how desperate I was to get rid of her. I had to be subtle when I asked questions about her. When I wasn’t subtle, the woman I was talking with invariably made some excuse to be somewhere else without telling me anything. Eventually, one of the women let slip that Lou was “packing.” I didn’t know what that meant at the time, of course, but when I did find out, I knew I had my way to get rid of her. I approached her and, as I hoped, she didn’t recognize me. We didn’t really mingle at work, so it wasn’t that surprising. Besides, I was wearing a black wig, too much make-up, and clothes that still made me shudder to think about. Not my usual look.

“Oooo, that’s big!” I put my hand on the bulge in her jeans. She looked up at me. I’m a good deal taller than average, and she was a little under average, and stocky, where I was slender; I only had about ten pounds on her even with the half-foot difference in height.

“I … I could show you,” she offered. “My place is nearby.” It was easy to see that she thought she’d gotten very lucky.

“Maybe.” I’d rather not go to her place if I could avoid it. “Buy me a drink or two and tell me about yourself.” It was that easy to get her to talk, but as she talked, she also put her hands on me. I’d started it, so I couldn’t very well object too strenuously. She started on my breasts and thigh, and kept dropping lower or creeping higher. I defended my cunt … uh … love-box as best I could while still keeping her interested. Eventually, I put my hand back on the bulge and said, “Show it to me. If I like it, we’ll go to your place.”

“What, here?”

“How about the restroom?” I suggested.

“Okay,” she agreed.

When we got into the restroom, there were a couple of other women at the mirror doing their faces. “Wait in there,” I whispered and shoved her toward a stall. She went in and I heard her unbuckle her belt and take down her jeans to sit. I fixed my over-done face, and when the women left, I said, “When you come out, I want to see your cock in all its glory, sweetie, so make an entrance for me.” Lou stood and started to pull up her jeans. “Leave them down,” I ordered.

She pulled the door open and shuffled out with her jeans around her boot-clad ankles. The harness was red leather, and the dildo was eight inches of hefty, flesh-colored silicone. That she unbuttoned her shirt and removed her bra to bare her rather heavy breasts was just a bonus.

“Smile, sweetie!” I depressed the button on my Nikon camera and the shutter clicked like an automatic rifle. I got six shots, starting with her intending to impress and arcing toward utter dismay. I dropped the camera in my purse, blew her a kiss, and was gone before she could even react.

She got the photos anonymously by inter-office mail with the one-word, laser-printed note that read, Resign! She was gone the same day. She’d actually carried the package of information out of the building and dropped it in the post. Now that she was gone, there was no one who knew that it existed.

Getting rid of Carl Simmons was easy by comparison. I knew he was screwing his secretary, Rita, which wouldn’t have been nearly so bad if he wasn’t married with three kids and an Elder at his church, no less. It was one of those things you learn and file away against some serious need. I’d followed her to the corporate apartment DPK keeps downtown. It was stupid for them to meet there. The security footage showed the two of them coming and going, one after the other, on too many occasions for it to be anything but a rendezvous. I got a copy of the security footage and burned a disk of him, her … her, him, day after day. Another memo got him out the door the same day as Lou. I heard that his marriage imploded a week later anyway. The rumor was that he tried to break it off with Rita, and she contacted Carl’s wife. That didn’t matter; I needed him gone. He was the source of the leak, indirectly. He was sloppy. Often left classified documents on his desk when he went to the restroom. The short story is: he stepped out, Rita went on break, and I slipped into his office. He caught me just as I was leaving with the photographs I’d taken. I covered well, but as things unfolded, I knew he would be increasingly suspicious.

Anna Fletcher was the most difficult. She was squeaky clean; she had to be. As a security guard, she held a secret clearance like most of the people who worked inside the secure-zone. She was responsible for doing searches for technology that wasn’t supposed to cross in and out. In this case, the memory card that contained the pictures of the plans and documents that I was selling. I’d cultivated her as a friend and she’d become lax when searching me. I’d managed to get a card by her once or twice in dry-runs before doing it for real. If Simmons could identify the day, Fletcher could identify me as someone who went into and out of the zone often that might not have been searched thoroughly, and Grey might remember me having her carry a package out of the building. Fletcher was the final problem.

I wracked my brains trying to figure out some way to get rid of her. I’d just about decided that a hit might be necessary when I thought of a better way. If 10,000 dollars shows up in your bank account, red flags go up. If that money gets routed through a bank in the Bahamas, it looks damn suspicious. If you can’t give a really good explanation, your clearance gets lifted. DPK policy says we can put someone in that position on administrative leave, but we don’t have to. I dropped a word into the security chief’s ear, and Fletcher was out on the streets.

With the three of them gone, I prayed that Walsh couldn’t fit the pieces together. The security consultant shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other and then back. I stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

“I know,” he said, finally. “It’s been really difficult figuring out if the leak really came from here or some other source. I’ve got a meeting tonight with a couple of people who might be able to shed some light on that.”

I gave up on the idea of sacking him. If he was meeting with Grey, Simmons, or Fletcher, then I needed to be there. “Where’s this meeting going to take place?”

Two

He didn’t tell me, of course. That would have been too easy. I had to follow him. The neighborhood was dangerous, and I was very glad to be armed. There was already a light on in the second story when he entered the building. I waited to see if any more came on, and when they didn’t, I decided that must be the meeting place.

I went in and up the stairs, As I approached, I heard raised voices.

“What the fuck are we going to do, Clive?” It was Simmons.

“I think we should take what we have to the authorities,” he said. “She’s got too much power at DPK, and I’m sure I’ll be gone soon.”

“It was worth a shot.” A female voice, but deep and husky. Grey no doubt. Simmons and Grey makes two. At least he doesn’t have Fletcher, I thought. Still, if they go to the F.B.I., I’m screwed.

I pushed the door open and leveled the Smith and Wesson .38 in their direction as they turned toward me. Clive smiled. That should have tipped me off. I had two bullets for each of them, and the gun was acquired off the street with no connection to me. It might be best if I just left it behind. I’d worn Nitrile gloves when I cleaned and loaded it, even wiping down each bullet as I put it into the chamber. I was still trying to decide if there was anything I wanted to say, or if I should just open fire, when a hand reached from behind the door and pulled my arm out of line with Clive. A micro-second later, every muscle in my body seized. I couldn’t move and then I was falling. Clive jumped forward and eased me onto the floor. My brain wasn’t working, and I’m not sure I heard everything that was discussed.

“You were right,” Simmons said. “I thought for sure she’d negotiate, but you said she’d just come to clean up the loose ends. But murder? I never expected that.”

“When you said ‘terminate with extreme prejudice,’ I thought you were being melodramatic.” The speaker rolled me onto my back and I could see that it was Fletcher. She’d been with them after all.

“Look, I’m not sure about this,” Grey said. “Torture? Can we really do it?”

“It’s either that, or just let her get away with it,” Clive replied. “You’ve seen the lengths she’s willing to go to.” He knelt next to me and slipped a clear-plastic re-breather mask over my face. There was a hiss of some kind of odorless gas. “Besides, you three won’t have to do much, except help me get her down to her car.…”

Three

The blast of cold water woke me. I hugged my arms around my body while it went on and on coming from all sides at once. It was probably only ten seconds, but it felt like forever. Once it stopped, I was able to assess my condition. My head was full of cotton and my body ached horribly. It was pitch black and I was naked. My long, wet hair hung down in strings and was plastered to my face. I got it pulled back and combed out with my fingers as best I could, then I twisted it and put a knot in it at the back of my head to keep it out of the way.

I explored the tiny space and found that my new universe consisted of just this: a box forty inches in all three directions. The walls were thick steel mesh and the openings in that mesh were squares about two inches on a side. I counted twenty squares across each side and up from the floor to the top. That’s how I came up with forty inches. The roof and floor were a much finer mesh with little diamond shaped openings that you could maybe squeeze a finger through. A circular hole in one corner was obviously a toilet. The flush lever for that was through a small opening in the wall behind the hole. A tube near one of the upper corners would yield a little water if I sucked on it. Next to it was a shallow vertical slot backed by metal. It was eight or nine inches high, two wide and about two deep. When I felt inside, my fingers met something soft and sticky. I held them to my nose and smelled chocolate. I got the candy bar out of the slot and ate it, took a sip of water, and tried to get my pitter-pattering heart to slow down. When it had, I resumed my examination of my cage.

I dinged my head against something sticking down near the top center of the box. When I put my hands to it, I found a handle set into the roof-mesh there. Next to it was another circular hole about a foot in diameter. Using the handle to steady myself, I reached up carefully through the hole. The handle gave slightly, and a buzzer sounded once, scaring me witless. I took a few moments for my heart to settle down before continuing. I left the handle alone this time, gripped the edge of the hole to steady myself, and reached up through. I felt empty space for as high up and to the sides as I could reach, but on one side, close to the hole, there was a small lever. When I depressed it, the buzzer sounded again. I pulled my arm back into the box, continued my examination, and found another handle on the opposite side of the hole from the first. By the way the handles were placed, it seemed the idea was to pull one’s head up through the hole. Something I had no desire to do. The second handle also activated the buzzer when I pulled down on it, but I had no idea what the handles and lever were for.

I tried kicking my feet against the side of the cage even though it felt completely solid. As soon as I did, I got a powerful electric shock everywhere I was touching the floor or walls. After I recovered from the jolt of several seconds, I thought, Must be on a trembler switch. I won’t be doing that again.

The narrative above sounds very clinical. The one thing it does not capture is the sense of utter panic I felt. That heart pounding, breath rasping, claustrophobic, trapped-animal feeling of being locked in that box is not an easy thing to convey. And yet, nothing overtly bad happened, and slowly I began to achieve a less panicked state. I sat, and time passed, at least, I thought it passed. I tried different positions. Sitting cross-legged. Laying on my back. Curled in a fetal position. None were comfortable.

Another candy bar thunked into the slot. I ate it and sipped a little more water from the tube. I heard another different rattling sound. I checked the slot and found nothing, but hanging nearby was a tooth brush on a thin metal cable. If I crouched next to it, I could brush. I had no tooth-paste but it was better than nothing.

I’d just finished brushing my teeth, and I got very scared. It occurred to me that my situation was dire. I had food, water, bathroom facilities, even a toothbrush. All the necessities for a long stay. “This is really bad,” I said aloud to myself, but I had no idea how bad.

I got bored and tried to sleep. Just as I nodded off, the current in the floor came back on. It might not have been as strong as when I kicked the side, but it sure woke me up. Someone must have been listening to know that I’d fallen asleep.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

The only answer was silence.

Later, jets of cold water blasted in through the sides for about thirty seconds.

“Thanks,” I said, shivering when it stopped. “I really needed a shower.” I was trying to keep my spirits up, but I knew that no one can actually withstand torture. Everyone breaks eventually. I didn’t even have a cause, god, flag, or party, to keep me going. I was screwed.

The buzzer woke me up, and I saw three bright red points on the ceiling above me. One from each of the handles and one from up in the hole. The buzzer continued to sound on and off, at about one second intervals and the red lights winked on and off in time with it. Then the current came on in the floor, just a tickle at first, but building as time went by. I reached up and pulled down on one of the handles. The next buzzer sound was replaced by a ding! and the light on the handle went out, then two more buzzers and another ding! I pulled the second handle, and now there were two dings followed by one buzz, and only one light left up in the hole . Stick my head up through the hole and depress the lever with my chin? I thought. No way! A little later, the current was getting so strong that I couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed both handles, and raised myself up on my knees to get my head up through the hole. When I pressed the lever with my chin, two things happened. The minor and expected one was that the last buzz became a ding! The other, more major thing, was that the semi-circular edges of the hole closed in around my neck. I let up on the lever and handles, but nothing changed. My head was still stuck. “Oh, no!” I groaned.

The current was off, and the buzzing and dinging had stopped. Now there was a banging and clanging sound from behind me, then there were hands on my backside, and I flailed my arms back to clear them off of me. First one wrist was grabbed and fastened to the side of the cage, then the other. I felt an odd cold sensation on my thigh and I smelled alcohol. Then there was a stinging jab and the unmistakable sensation of an injection. “Oh, god, what was that?” I cried, my voice echoing weirdly like I had my head stuck in a bucket.

The hands snaked around my chest and stroked across my breasts, then grabbed my nipples. After a little tweak, they let go and slid down my sides around to my cheeks and began heading between my thighs. I clamped them tightly together, but then the hands rained a series of slaps onto each side of my behind until I was sore, stinging, and about ready to open my legs again. Before I got to that though, they withdrew. My hands were released. The sounds I heard next, must have been the side of the box being closed again. The plates imprisoning my head up out of the box parted, and I slumped back down into it.

I lay there shivering in a mixture of fright and the aftereffects of the spanking I’d received. Suddenly, I got feverish and my head swam. Must be whatever they injected me with, I thought. Drugs, sensory- and sleep-deprivation, who is this guy, Clive? And when can I answer his questions and get the hell out of here?

Time passed, and I wanted to sleep even more, but the jittering in my body made that difficult. I guessed that at least part of the drug cocktail they’d shot me up with was an upper. Later, I nodded off anyway and got shocked awake. I ate another candy bar and brushed my teeth, then I got treated to another cold shower. I nodded off several times in what seemed like quick succession, each time the electrical current got me up again. Then the buzzer started again, and the current came on in the floor, ramping up quickly this time. The slow pace of the first time was just to give me a chance to figure out what I had to do. I really tried to resist, but it was useless. Eventually, I pinned my own head in the attic again. This time, I didn’t resist the hands, and they didn’t bother to restrain mine. I got swabbed, injected, and caressed, but not spanked. I knelt there with my fingers clawing the air while the hands fondled me. The hands stroked between my thighs, nudged them a little further apart and a couple of well-lubricated fingers stroked into me, then out and over my clitoris. Back again, then in, out, and over. I gripped the mesh at the sides of the box while the sequence was repeated several times, and my body betrayed me and began to respond. By the time they were finished with me and I was released, I was gasping and panting on the edge of an orgasm in spite of the fear, discomfort, sleep deprivation, and the fever of the drugs. I lay there and my fingers found their way between my legs, unbidden and began stroking.

A new sound penetrated the haze. Soft footsteps and a couple of clicks. Someone was outside the box. Watching? But it’s dark. Unless … night-vision goggles? I didn’t know anything about them, except they allowed one to see in the dark. I’d gotten to feeling that I was safe from watching eyes until just then. “Enjoying the show, Clive?” I asked and turned to face the direction of the sound. He didn’t answer. I began searching that side of the box and found it, low and to the center: a soft protuberance sticking out through the mesh an inch or more. I could feel the clamps that held its cylindrical container in place on the outside of the box. The tip of it was rounded and fleshy, a bit too cool to be actual flesh. I pulled on it, and it yielded with a soft squish and it came forward. A dildo, I realized. The long, thick shaft was slippery with vanilla-scented lubricant. There was no base-flange on the thing, just a cable at the base that pulled back against me gently. Somehow, I felt that it must be bright cherry-red. I let it go and heard it retract back into place with another squish. “No thanks, Clive. I’m not in the mood anymore,” I growled. It was true. My arousal was gone.

I sat leaning against the far side from it and tried not to think about it, which proved to be impossible. I could feel it, like it was watching me and saying, come play with me! More to the point, my labia and clitoris felt hot, engorged, and a little itchy. I rubbed myself softly and as covertly as possible to soothe the feeling, but that only made it worse. What’s happening to me? I wondered, but then I realized that the water and food, the injections, even the lube he’d used could contain anything. I refused to yield to it though and tried to sit back, relax, and leave my love-parts alone.

I awoke with the buzzer going on and off again. The three lights were blinking above me, too, but over on the wall was a fourth where the dildo was. The current ramped up fast. I was getting less and less time to think, or maybe I was just less able to. I didn’t know what to do about the fourth light, but I pinned my head in the attic and was getting no dings! but still one buzz and the current was strong on my calves. I reached out and pulled the dildo out of its container and the current cut off and the buzzing stopped. I knew what Clive wanted me to do, and I could have just done it, but I wanted to see how he would force me. I let the thing go and it retracted back into its home. The buzzer came back on and the current began building up rapidly again. I took it back out and it stopped. Then it hit me how simple this was. Until I complied with his twisted desires, I wasn’t getting my head back. The position I was in wasn’t very comfortable. The box was just tall enough that I couldn’t sit back on my heels with my head in the attic, I had to raise myself a few inches using my thigh muscles. I could support some of the weight on one arm with the handle, but I needed the other to hold the dildo and keep the current off. I wouldn’t be able to take this position for very long. I hadn’t realized how stressful it was before, I’d been paying more attention to how I was being touched. I brought the slippery thing between my legs and spread the lube out onto the tip. I tucked it up inside me, and it filled me up, pulling a low growl from my throat. I thought I heard a low chuckle, but I could have been imagining it. I eased it in and out a few times and my head was released. I dropped back onto the floor. When I let the thing go, the cable slowly pulled it out of me and back up into the wall. I was almost sorry to feel it go.

Sometimes when I fell asleep, the buzzer got me up, and sometimes it was the electricity. Sometimes the buzzer signaled a session with the dildo, and sometimes it didn’t. Each of those sessions was getting longer, and it was getting harder and harder to stop when my head was free. Eventually, I didn’t. I lay there sliding the thing in and out of me and stroking myself with my other hand until I came. I just didn’t care who was watching anymore. The orgasm helped to calm me and, at the same time, it stimulated my sense-starved brain. After that first orgasm, I didn’t even try to stop again.

After the next injection and grope session, the fire in my body and between my legs was so intense that I went to the dildo without being forced by the buzzer. I pulled on the tip but it wouldn’t come out. “You prick!” I shouted into the darkness. I lay back and did myself to orgasm without it.

A long time later, I couldn’t remember if I’d just had my thirteenth or fourteenth candy bar, my eighth or ninth shower, or fourth or fifth injection and grope. I’d pissed down the hole more times than I could count and relieved my bowels twice. Or was it three times? I couldn’t be sure. I had lost track of the orgasms, a dozen at least. I was getting shocked every so often and I couldn’t tell if the intervals were random or not. At first it seemed to happen whether I was nodding off or not, but now I was always nodding off. I was hallucinating from lack of sleep. That takes three or four days. I’d read that somewhere. I’d lost track of everything else, but I held onto the idea that I knew I’d been in there for three or four days.

Some time later, I caught myself babbling while I stroked my love-bud:

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

For want of a shoe the horse was lost.

For want of a horse the rider was lost.

For want of a rider the battle was lost.

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

 

Someone was in the box with me. A man. Smaller than me. Clive? I was leaning up against his body, and he put his hands on me. Sliding them across my skin, up across my stomach and onto my breasts. It felt so nice that I didn’t mind. Then he grabbed both nipples and twisted them so hard that I screamed. I came back awake, with the shocks coursing through my back and feet where they pressed up against the side. They ended and left me sobbing.

“Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “No more, please.” There was no reply.

Still later, I’d been climbing at Rock’s Wall, the climbing gym. I was thirty feet up when I discovered that I was naked and I didn’t have my harness on. I was shaking, my hands were slick with the vanilla scented lube from the dildo, and I was slipping. It was a long way to the floor. Thirty feet could be fatal. I fell through the air, screaming, hit the ground, and found myself in agony getting shocked by the floor of the cage. Nightmare or reality, both were just plain bad.

I realized there wasn’t a lot left of me. My brain had shut down except for brief periods of hallucination that were almost dreamlike and always ended with the shocks. Masturbation was beginning to be less helpful. I was slipping away. I couldn’t take much more.

There was a prolonged series of shocks, without the lights or the buzzer, and then the banging and clanging sound that meant the door was being opened for the first time without me being in the attic. I felt hands grab me and I was pulled out of the box. My body hardly worked at all, and I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to. I didn’t care to, so I just let myself get put in a chair and wheeled along. They?, he?, moved me into a different sort of chair. A soft pad ran behind my knees and two across my back, one high and one low. That left my behind dangling in the air and my head resting on a padded donut. Still, the comfort was heavenly compared to the box, and even when they strapped me down, with my ankles held apart to another rail and my arms behind my back, with more straps around my stomach, chest and thighs, I still didn’t mind. They began strapping my head down, too, but before they finished, I was asleep.

Four

I must have slept for about ten seconds. I woke with my breasts on fire. The light was so bright that I couldn’t see who it was, but someone was whipping me.

“Wake up, Gillian!” Clive screamed at me, and slashed me several more times across both breasts.

“I’m awake,” I groaned. “Please stop torturing me!”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I haven’t even started torturing you yet. The cage was just the tenderizer, and the whip was just your wake-up call.”

“I did it,” I admitted. “Now, just let me sleep.”

He laughed again and the sound of it filled me up completely, and.…

I woke up screaming in agony from an intense pain right on my love-bud. Slowly the pain moved down, ran inside of me, diminishing in intensity, but spreading out over that tender, interior surface. I screamed again and the sensation changed, intensifying as it came toward the opening of my love-box. Then spread out and slid up my stomach, getting smaller and stronger, and then reached my breast and spread out again. I couldn’t look down, the straps on my head wouldn’t permit it. The sensations began to concentrate again around one of my nipples, drawing inward and getting stronger until it was just the nipple that was a center of intense pain. Then it stopped, suddenly, leaving me gasping and sobbing.

“Open your eyes, Gillian.” I did. He held his gloved hand in front of my face. A pair of wires ran from the glove and out of my sight. “Electrodes in the fingers,” he explained.

My need for sleep was the most intense craving that I’d ever experienced. More than any hunger or thirst that I’d ever felt. “What do I have to tell you so that you will let me sleep?” I asked desperately.

“You got paid for the information you stole?” I nodded. “Where’s the money?”

“Falcon Bank in the Bahamas.”

“What’s the account number?”

My brain was barely ticking over at all. It slowly seeped into my awareness that there was a way to get him to let me sleep. All I had to do was tell him something. The account number. 189 … or was it 198? 628 … 956 … ? I nodded off in the middle of seeking it.

I woke with my nipple on fire once more. “Account number!” he demanded.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I barked, anger breaking through the fog. “I barely remember my own name.”

“No sleep for you then.” He took my nipple in his electric grip again.

“Stop!” I cried. “I’ll try to remember.” He stopped.

I came to a second later, and this time it was my tongue that was on fire. That sensitive organ was gripped between his finger and thumb. Something was holding my teeth apart or I would have bitten him. I screamed inarticulately and he held me until I was alert. He withdrew his fingers and slipped a black, rubber ring from my mouth, releasing my jaws.

“This won’t do. You do not get to sleep until I say you do. Let’s see if this will keep you awake.” He held up a square patch with rounded corners. One side was white and the other was black. On the white side, a wire was attached that ran out of sight.

“No,” I groaned, guessing what it was. He slapped the sticky electrode high on the inside of my thigh right next to my love-box and then another on the other side. Immediately there was a strong tingling that seeped into my being, it began to fade out and took me down to sleep with it, but suddenly there was a strong, stinging jolt that brought me wide awake. Two more jolts, in quick succession, and then the tingle again. It hurt, but it wasn’t enough to make me scream. It did make my thighs dance though. They jerked around in the most disturbing way, and nothing I did could get them under control. I tried to find the pattern to it. I knew that if I could, I’d be able to sleep through it, but there wasn’t one. I’d drift thinking I could anticipate what came next, but be jolted awake as soon as I was shown to be wrong.

He was holding something else in front of my eyes for me to look at. It was a wire that terminated in a little, black-rubber noose with a tiny clip that served to close it. He lowered it out of sight and I felt him slip it over my erect nipple and tighten it around the little bud. He pressed a pad on the side of my breast and I got several sharp jolts in that nipple. The sensations in my thighs were not in time with these new ones. My sleep-starved brain kept trying to make them go together, but they mostly wouldn’t. Actually, when they did merge together, that lulled my brain and I thought I might fall asleep, but when they drifted out of sync, I felt like I was being torn apart inside my head and violently. “Please, Clive. Please! I’ll go insane!”

His face hovered just inches above my own. His expression was triumphant, jubilant, and aroused. “Yes, Gillian,” he whispered, “you’ll go insane. If you want to come away with anything left of your sanity, tell me the account number.”

“762 … 397 … 877 … 555 … 421 … ABJ … 672,” I said, making it up at random, except that the last part, the letters and the last set of digits, was correct. I hadn’t intended it, but it had come out anyway. If I could have remembered the whole number, I’d have given it to him.

“Is there a pass phrase?”

“Yes. ‘Lambs to the slaughter.’”

“How appropriate. Now open wide.” Instinctively, I pinched my lips and teeth shut. “Very well,” he said and slapped his hand over my mouth and pinched my nose closed. My first thought was, Good. I’ll finally be unconscious. A short while later, I was desperate for oxygen. I’d thought there was nothing that would matter more to me than sleep, but I was wrong. Blackness was seeping inward from the edges of my vision, closing in around his face. He let me go and I sucked air, gasping for breath. Before my head cleared entirely, the ring was back in place behind my teeth. He seized my tongue with some forceps and pulled it out of my mouth a ways. Then something clamped it top and bottom. Even slippery as it was, my tongue couldn’t get out. In fact it hurt a great deal to try as if the thing were barbed, which it probably was. Then the shocks began. “That should keep you awake while I check on the account.”

The sounds that came out of my mouth surprised even me; an anguished wail, filled with inarticulate gargling. I inhaled some saliva and began to choke.

“That won’t do.” He did something with the chair and I began to turn in space, head over heels, until I was face down, hanging from the wide straps. He slapped my back hard while I coughed to clear my airway. On every cough, it felt like my tongue was being ripped out by it’s roots. Finally, I was breathing freely, and sobbing.

“Back in a jiffy, Gillian. Don’t go anywhere.”

Five

The whipping I got when he returned was bad, leaving my back, behind, and thighs on fire, but when he got done with that, things got worse.

“Guess where this is going.” He held a piece of silver metal in front of my eyes. It was about five inches in length, had a rounded tip, flared conically for several inches to just over an inch in diameter, then pinched down to a half inch shaft. At the end of the short shaft, it widened into a flat plate from which a pair of wires dangled. The head and body of this thing dripped lubricant. I didn’t have to guess, and he knew it. I pinched my eyes shut, the tears flowing freely. I howled, trying to beg, but it was useless with my jaws held open by the ring. I felt the tip probe against my anus, then it was spreading me open, growing, until it felt like I was going to split in two. Finally the pressure diminished and I felt the thing pull inside me. Shortly, a new set of sensations in that most intimate of places joined those from my thighs, nipple, and tongue. “And now this one.” It was a flat piece of plastic with four large, gold beads on it, two close to each other on each side. The plastic was clear, and I could see where the wires fed through the base and connected to each of the beads. He squeezed the thing and the beads compressed together. “For easy insertion,” he explained. Then he was pushing it inside me and now I was getting shocked inside my love-box, too. If not for the desperate need to sleep, I might have found the whole process sexually stimulating, but in my current state, it was just torture. He rubbed my thigh roughly and I smelled alcohol, then he injected me with something. The fever feeling returned to my brain and body, and with it the jitter in all my muscles, like I’d had far too much caffeine. Suddenly, the intensity of the sensations doubled one by one. “That should do. Have fun. See you tomorrow.”

“No!” I tried to scream, but all that came out was a wail. He shut the light off and paused at the door. The light from the hall cast a rectangle on the floor below my face and his shadow fell framed inside it. Don’t go! Please, don’t leave me like this! I thought and willed him to read my mind.

He stepped behind me, and ran a fingernail down my bare foot on both sides. My toes curled and flexed at the sensation. It was impossible to control them. It tickled, but compared to the rest, it was a rather pleasant sensation. He took his hands away, a second later, there was a resounding double-slap, as he brought them down onto my backside. That also felt good rather than bad. He slipped a finger between my legs and brushed across my love-bud. I spasmed against the wide straps involuntarily. I had no control left over myself. If I’d been free, he could have ordered me to do anything and I would have, if I could have stayed awake long enough. I knew then that I was completely hosed. I would never recover. I would always be different after this.

He stopped, stepped away, and the door closed, leaving me in darkness and desperation. The need for sleep was uppermost in my being, but right behind that was the need for his touch and his approval. He’s broken me like an unruly mare! I realized.

Six

This was worse than being in the box. There I could move at least. There the sensations were not on and in my sexual parts. There the stimulation wasn’t constant. I drifted, hallucinated, but never quite slept.

He was rubbing my love-button again, the room was dark except for the light from the hall. I didn’t notice when he’d come in. I heard myself making a sound I didn’t intend. A long, drawn-out moaning filled with anguish and, at the same time, filled with longing and lust. The current pulsing in my body died suddenly and left a void that the sensations of his finger filled completely, higher and higher, until I thought I’d burst from it. His hand slapped down on my backside hard, disrupting the building orgasm, and yet it seemed to make it regroup, heading for a higher peak. He spanked me again with similar result. Please, don’t stop! I begged in my fevered brain. He didn’t, and soon the orgasm tore through me. I seized and lurched against the straps binding my body, and the sounds that came out from between my spread jaws and past my clamped tongue were inhuman barks and grunts. It went on and on, impossibly long until, just when I felt I couldn’t take any more, it subsided and left me wanting more somehow. I hung there gasping and sobbing with tears streaming down my face.

He turned the chair until I was sitting upright and removed the tongue clamp. That organ felt raw and abused, but also dry from exposure to the air. A cold stream of liquid hit me in the forehead between my eyes, ran down my face, and dripped onto my chest. Instantly, I was as alert as my sleep-deprived brain would allow. My eyes snapped open. The lights were on in the room. I hadn’t noticed when he’d done that. He displayed the orange plastic squirt-gun, then aimed it between my aching, spread jaws. “Be ready,” he warned, then a stream of cool water played over my dry tongue and down my parched throat. He let me breathe for a moment, and then another warning and another squirt.

“I’m going to remove the ring, and when I do you are going to tell me the account number.” He pulled the thing from behind my teeth.

“It’s sewn into the lining of my purse,” I croaked. I’d forgotten that I’d done that. It was just in case I couldn’t remember it when I needed it, which is exactly what had happened.

He left me and I was asleep instantly. Later, when he pulled the electrode out of my back-door, I woke up. Then again when he moved me into the wheeled office chair, and again when he pushed me out of the chair, onto the low bed, and tucked the blanket around me. Always, sleep was never far away. Now that he wasn’t stopping it, it was having its way with me.

I awoke in the dark with a start. At first I thought I was back in the box, but then I realized the surface was too soft and too long. Just the ability to stretch out fully was wonderful. Then there was the blanket and pillow.

My bladder was full to bursting and I was dying of thirst. I swung my legs out of bed and tried to stand, staggered and sat down again hard. I eased myself onto the cold, concrete floor and groped the darkness. The room was tiny and I found the sink and toilet immediately. I lifted the seat, sat down, and gratefully relieved myself. After, I turned on the tap and let the water run across my cupped palm, I bent and sucked water from that until I was sated. I staggered back across the narrow gap, back into the bed and into blessed sleep again.

I awoke to the sound of something scraping across the floor. There was light from the end of the room, and I could make out a door with a portal and a slot at the bottom. The sound must have been made when the tray sitting there was pushed in. The light in the hall outside went out and it was completely dark once more. My bladder was making its demands again, so I satisfied those first. I had another drink of water before investigating the tray. I placed it on the bed. I smelled sugar and fat, the unmistakable odor of pastry. My stomach growled at the mere thought of it. I had no idea how long it had been since the last candy bar in the box. I devoured the sticky, sweet thing in three bites and went for another drink to wash it down. I washed the stickiness from my fingers, dried my hands on the blanket, and returned to the tray. The rest was just a comb and a hair band. The comb I understood. He must have seen what a mess I was when he brought me in here. But the hair band? That was just …thoughtful. I carefully began working the tangles out of my hair. It desperately needed a good shampooing, but I did the best I could, then put it up in a tail.

Now that I was finally awake and fed, I began to worry about my fate. What’s going to happen to me? I started at the extreme. Could I be killed? But then I realized that he’d have done that already. More likely, I’ll be handed over to the authorities, I thought. No. Clive could be charged with kidnapping and torture, so he won’t do that.

The light came on in the hall and the slot in the bottom of the door opened. “Tray,” he demanded. I slid the tray out. It came back a moment later and in the light from the slot, I could see the five black, leather-and-metal implements on it. “Put them on.”

“No!” I shook my head even though he couldn’t see it.

“Don’t make me come in there, Gillian. I’ve got a cattle prod.”

That was chilling. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me, first.”

The tray pulled back, the slot shut, and the lights went out in the hall.

“Wait! Don’t go! Please don’t go,” I sobbed. Sometime later, I crawled back into bed and cried myself to sleep.

Seven

It wasn’t as bad as being in the box or the chair, but I was getting hungry. I paced, stretched, drank, used the toilet, and, most of all, I slept.

The slot opened and the tray came back. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want him to leave me again. I took one of the ankle-cuffs first, fitted it around my leg and buckled the strap. It got easier after that, and I did the other ankle and both wrists. When it came to the collar, that was hard for some reason. Collared like some sort of animal, I thought. I tried to think of some way out, but he could just leave me until I was too weak to resist or there was always the cattle-prod. I put the collar around my throat and buckled it. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it would be, but it was far more disturbing than I expected.

“Okay, I’ve got them on.”

“Put your hands through the slot.” To do that, I had to get on all fours in front of the door and extend my hands out in front of me. I felt him tighten the straps a little and then do something I couldn’t quite understand. “Now your feet.” I pulled my hands back in and I could just make out the little padlocks he’d put on the cuffs. They ran through a little hole on the buckle’s tongue and made it impossible for me to unbuckle them again. The slot was just big enough for me to put my feet through. I considered refusing, but it was hopeless. I put them out, and he tightened the straps and locked them. He pushed back on my feet and I pulled them back inside to find that he’d locked a short chain between my ankles. My last thoughts of resistance died right then.

The door opened outward and he stood there looking down at me. It wasn’t a cattle prod he was holding. It looked more like something designed for handling inmates in a prison. A black handle with a molded hand grip and a short business end with two prongs. “Stand.” When I did, he took my wrists behind my back and locked them together, then put a lock and leash on my collar. He pulled me out of the cell, and I followed behind him, naked, helpless, scared.

We went past an open door and there was the room with the chair and the electrical torture gear. Further down the hall was the room with the box. I didn’t recognize it at first. I was used to thinking about it from the inside. From the outside, I could see the plumbing for the water jets and the wiring for shocks and buzzers. The entry panel was still off and the space called to me in a chilling way. I froze and stopped walking. The leash jerked tight, and he looked back at me, chuckling. “Not today.” That was reassuring and disturbing. I could end up back in there on some other day.

We continued on and came to some stairs going up. He choked up on the leash so that his hand was right at my throat and pulled me forward. With the chain on, I couldn’t manage to get one foot up to the first step. There just wasn’t enough slack for that. “Hop, bunny, hop.” One step at a time, with him steadying me by the leash after each jump, I carefully negotiated the stairs. By the time I reached the top, my legs were very tired.

We came through a heavy door into a hall filled with daylight. He rounded a corner, and I followed him into a den with a TV, stereo, books, and CDs. He sat on the couch and pulled me forward by the leash. “Kneel.”

I felt defiant and it must have showed on my face. Before I could say anything, he laughed. “You better get comfortable with kneeling, Gillian. You’ll be doing it a lot. Consider your position.” I did and dropped to my knees. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. “Let me clarify it for you. I transferred $10,000 from the account in the Bahamas into your personal checking account, before I took the rest for myself. Then I withdrew the maximum every day over the last five days using your ATM card in different places around the city, making sure to block the camera. I took your car and had it quietly scrapped. I told DPK that I strongly suspected you were the leak. When you didn’t show up at work on the following days, and no one could raise you, that confirmed it. By now, the F.B.I. thinks you’re on the run, they’ve searched your house, seized your assets, and they have a nationwide lookout on you.”

“But, I never told you my ATM pin number.”

Clive laughed. “You told me everything I asked, and a lot more. You even told me about Susie Rickson, though I suspect that story is embellished or even entirely fabricated. That’s the problem with torture, you usually get a lot of information that’s just crap. You have to be able to verify everything you learn somehow, or it’s useless. The ATM number, the account number, and the pass phrase were all easy to validate, they worked.”

I hadn’t thought about Susie Rickson in ages. It was not my finest hour and I really didn’t like thinking about what I’d unwittingly caused to happen to her. It bothered me that I didn’t know exactly what I’d told him. On the other hand, it didn’t seem like he really cared. “So what happens to me now?” I asked.

“I could just turn you loose. You’d be caught in days, maybe even hours, depending on what you did. You could tell people that I tortured you, but there’s no proof of that, and it would seem like a bizarre story intended to smear the guy who found you out. I don’t think anyone would believe it. You would do hard time. I don’t think you’d ever get out. It might even be worse than that, if they decided you know things they wanted to know about your employers, whoever they are. That wouldn’t be much worse than the last week was for you, but it would go on for a lot longer.”

I had to admit that all sounded plausible.

“The other alternative is for you to disappear completely. One way that could happen is for me to simply kill you and dispose of your body.”

I was really scared now. I searched his face for some sign that he might be joking, but there wasn’t any. “What’s the other way?” I asked, trying to keep the panic growing inside me in check.

“I get you set up with a new clean identity.”

This sounded too good to be true so I was skeptical. “Why would you do that?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t.” He shook his head and smiled. “Not for free anyway. The favors I’d have to call in would be massive.”

“You took my money, so I can’t pay you.” I hoped he’d see that as payment enough. There had been almost 10 million in that account. This had not been the first time I’d sold information.

“You can pay me by becoming my slave.”

“Sex-slave,” I tried the title on to see how it fit. It made my chest tight, but there was also a tingle between my thighs. “For how long?”

“Let’s say, five years.”

“Two,” I said, thinking we’d settle somewhere around three and a half.

“Done,” he agreed, unexpectedly. “After two years, I don’t think you’ll want to leave me anyway.”

“We’ll see about that.” I didn’t believe I could ever fall that far. “How do we start?”

It was surprising how quickly I’d come to accept my fate, and I’d become strangely calm, but then he said, “I think we’ll start by shaving your head …”

Eight

The 10% low battery warning came on, and I dismissed it. Time was running out. I stroked my hand across the unfamiliar surface of my bare skull. The stubble was already coming in, and I need another shave soon, unless he’d let me grow it out again. This next series of events was going to be very hard to write. It made my chest tight just to think about it, but, perversely, it made me wet as well. I resumed typing:

The trial period, as he called it, lasted a week. It was supposed to determine if I could behave the way he wanted me to. As time went by, I decided that it was a sham. He didn’t leave me any choice but to act the way he wanted. On the few occasions where there was any choice, he didn’t care which alternative I picked. It occurs to me now that he was making it seem like I had options in order to make me feel at ease, though I wasn’t sure why.

He started by shaving my head. He didn’t simply sit me down in a chair and run the clippers through it. Instead, he put me in a wooden box. It had a bottom, two sides and a back. There was a cross-brace that connected the two front corners, but the top and front were open. Inside was a seat with a height adjustment. “Get in.” I stepped over the cross-brace and sat on the seat. I didn’t see where this was going, so I was scared, but not as scared as I was about to be. He adjusted the height of the padded seat to the lowest position and I was sitting just a few inches off the floor. Then he applied the knee-straps that held my thighs apart and locked my wrist-cuffs to straps that held them to the sides of the box and away from my body. He took the front panel and fastened it on. I was now sitting in an open-topped box with my head sticking out just above the top. I was trying to work out the why of this and the only thing I could come up with was that the box would contain the hair when he clipped it off. I knew he was going to shave me. The electric clippers, scissors, razor, shave cream, water and towels were ready on the table, but I still didn’t get it. “It’s on this next part where people begin to panic.” I had to wonder if I would have if he hadn’t said anything. He took a panel with a semi-circular cut out on the edge and settled it onto the lip that ran around the inside of the rim of the box behind my head. There were some retaining pins that he slipped through the sides and into the top to hold it in place. The back of my neck rested within the padded semi-circle. Then he took another panel with another cut-out and I could see what was coming.

“No!” I thrashed my head and lunged forward, trying to stand. The straps on my legs wouldn’t let me though. He pushed my head down and back into the cut-out, then slipped the front panel in place and applied the retaining pins. It was like the attic in the box, only in reverse. I was now nothing more than a disembodied head resting on a table top! I’d been restrained and at his mercy before, but nothing made me feel as vulnerable as this. It was as if the presence of the rest of my body diluted his attentions on me and spread them out, but now he had taken my body away from me, and locked it in a box. Now, all of his attention would be tightly focused on my face and head, the part of me that I felt was essentially me. I looked across the small expanse of the table in front of me and up at Clive, and he grinned evilly. He crouched down and put his chin on the box so that we were both heads face-to-face. His hands finger-stalked across the surface.

“No,” I whispered, closing my eyes.

He slapped my face. “Open your fucking eyes, Gillian,” he growled softly. “Don’t you dare hide from me.” I understood exactly what he meant. I had tried to turn inward and away from what was happening, but he wasn’t having any of it. “Time to stop playing around. First some pictures for your scrapbook.” He took several. One directly into my face, another from the corner and then a profile shot. He finished with one straight down from the top and another with me looking up into the camera.

He set the camera aside, took the scissors and, unceremoniously, lopped off my long ponytail between the hairband and my scalp. “I wonder what kind of a whip this would make?” He lashed me across the face with the eighteen inches of hair and it stung a good bit. The fact that it was my hair made it all the more disturbing. “Yeah, just needs a handle. Should be ideal for use on your face and maybe your cunt, too.” He set it aside and put a circular make-up mirror on the table in front of me, then took the clippers and stood behind me. He adjusted the mirror so that I could see his face and he could see mine. The clippers snapped on, and he ran a strip from the base of my neck all the way to my forehead. The hairs rained down around my face. The expression he wore was one of complete domination and control over me, and mirrored some opposite of my own expression of total submission and the reality of being owned by him. He tilted the mirror down so that I was looking right into my own face. “Watch.” I couldn’t take my eyes off of the spectacle. Three more passes with the clippers on each side and a little touch-up at the back and I was looking at myself with a buzz-cut. It brought to mind images of Sinead O’Connor or Natalie Portman, but I wasn’t sure I looked as good as they did.

He took a brush and whisked the hair off my face and head, then off the table and onto the floor. “You’ll clean that up later.” He finished brushing away the hair. “More shots for the scrap-book.” He repeated the same set of shots he’d taken before, then he soaked a towel in hot water and draped it over my skull. “I’m going to permit you to play with yourself during the shaving.” There was a click and the straps holding my wrists gave way, giving me enough length to reach my nipples and between my legs. “You really should take advantage of my largess.” I wasn’t sure I was really in the mood, but I knew better than to disregard anything Clive wanted. I pinched both nipples and though they were already hard, they stiffened even more. I let one hand slide down my body and between my legs to find myself dripping wet. “Tell me what you’re doing in there.”

“I’m pinching my nipple and I’ve got the other hand between my thighs.”

“Just between?” he asked, running his fingers around my ears.

“No. I’m … uh … stroking my … uh love-box,” I finished, knowing it wouldn’t make him happy.

“Don’t say love-box, say cunt. ”

“I’m stroking my … uh … cunt.” It was just a word, but not one I ever used.

“Are you wet?” he asked, stroking my lips, now.

“Yes, very wet.”

“Good. I want you to jam as much of your hand into your cunt as you can manage while you pinch your nipples hard.”

At first I thought being able to touch myself would help dispel the disembodied feeling, but this was making it worse. His attention was on my head while he made me punish my own body. He teased open my lips and slid two fingers in and across my tongue, then out again slowly, fucking my mouth with his hand. He wrangled a one-handed shot of that with the camera. At the same time, I got two, then three, and finally all four fingers into my cunt. It was hard to do at that angle, but I really tried. I wasn’t sure why, except I really didn’t want him to punish me anymore. I pushed my fingers in until it hurt and twisted my nipples until tears came into my eyes.

“Good girl.” He read the expression on my face. He clicked off a shot of that, too. “Now, you can ease up and just do what feels good.” I began stroking myself in a much more pleasurable way, actually feeling grateful for his mercy. He removed the towel, lathered my head, took another pair of photos, and began scraping off the short hair with the razor. By the time he was finished, I was close to orgasm. He repeated the full-face, half-profile, profile and downward shots again, adjusting the angle of my head to his liking, then set the camera down. “Enough.” I felt my wrists pulled back to the side of the box and away from my body.

“Now we’re going to make you really beautiful.” He laughed and, by the sound of it, I knew I was in for a rough time. He documented everything as he did it in photos for the scrap-book. “Nose hooks.” He showed me a small device made of thick steel wire. It was U-shaped, but the ends of the U folded over into a hook and each was tipped with a small steel ball. At the base of the U, a short piece of stretchy cord was tied. He fitted the balls into my nostrils and pulled the cord up across my forehead, down the back of my bare head, and tied it to the ring at the back of my collar. This pulled my nose up, giving it a very piggy expression and the black cord running up over my bare scalp bisected my skull in a disturbing way.

“Now, the ring gag.” He fitted the ring behind my teeth, and now I was looking into my wide open mouth. He took the ponytail and beat me across the face with it again while taking a picture. I could see then that he’d had an idea. He fed the base of the ponytail-whip into my mouth through the ring, and the bulk of it filled my mouth. “Think dry thoughts. That better not be too soggy when I pull it back out.” My image in the mirror was quite bizarre. The tail looked like a really odd sort of tongue that lolled out of my mouth and stretched for a foot across the surface of the tabletop. He clicked a few pictures of that and then pulled it out. He felt the base of the tail and looked at me as if deciding if I had got it soggy enough to deserve some punishment. I looked at him pleading with my eyes to be excused. Finally he set the tail-whip aside again.

“This last piece, the inflatable gag, is what’s going to make you really beautiful.” It was a black, rubber balloon on the end of a short hose. On the other end was an inflation squeeze-pump and a little silver screw-valve. He fitted the balloon into my mouth and made me watch while he pumped it up. It expanded inside my mouth, filling it and pressing the ring back into my teeth. At the end, my whole face was bulging out grotesquely. “I think you can take one more. Don’t you?” I shook my head no as best I could, but it did no good, slowly he squeezed one more pump of air into my bloated face. “Okay. That’s lunch!”

As he stood up to go, I shook my head frantically, squealing to get his attention. Tears were streaming down my face and filling up my nose, making it hard to breathe. He came back and put his face right in front of mine. He gazed into my eyes and I silently begged him not to leave me. “Better get it under control,” he whispered. “I’d hate to come back and find you’d suffocated. Maybe this will help,” he unlocked my hands. “Play with yourself while I’m gone. It’s not a suggestion,” he added needlessly. When I put my hand between my legs, I was surprised to find myself even wetter than before. I couldn’t understand how he’d drawn these masochistic tendencies out of me that I hadn’t even suspected were there. Or … had he somehow put them into me while I was in his bitch breaking box? I wondered. I slid two fingers up and down over my G-spot while rubbing my clit with a finger from the other hand. Very shortly I was groaning. I felt a stinging blow across my bloated face, and my eyes snapped open. “Never close your eyes when I’ve given you something to look at, Gillian.” He menaced me with my ponytail once again. “It’s beautiful. Don’t you think so?”

I looked at him gazing at me over the top of the mirror that reflected my grotesque image back at me. He does think it’s beautiful, I realized. My humiliation is beauty to him.

“Now, slow down. Make it last.” I did as he asked, and looked at myself while I slowly built up the pleasure. Even with my face so distorted, I could still see the obvious signs of my arousal, discomfort, and my utter humiliation. I didn’t dare to shut my eyes to block out the terrible image. I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still watching me.

I thought he was going to leave me there for hours, but it was just a few minutes later that he was back with a plate of sandwiches. He sat down and ate while he watched me bring myself to orgasm, taking pictures occasionally. When the orgasm did come, it tore through me as powerfully as some from the box or the chair, where there was even more prolonged stimulation. I couldn’t explain it. I’d closed my eyes again, and he beat me repeatedly with the ponytail across the face, eliciting a little squealing scream for each. I knew what I’d done wrong, and he didn’t bother to correct me again. At last, he deflated my face, removed the balloon, the gag, and the hooks, soothed my tears, then fed me lunch while he ate more of his own.

Nine

There was only 1% battery power left, and I tried to get some kind of an ending tacked onto the story before it ran out.

There was a lot more that happened during the trial period, but I just don’t have time to get it all down.

At the end of the week, he said, “Take the laptop, go to your cell, and write an account of your experiences. I’ll use that to help me decide what I’m going to do with you. There’s a pill bottle on the sink in there. That’s a cyanide capsule. In case you want to take that way out.”

I threw myself at his feet, preparing to beg him to keep me.

“Shhh.” He placed a finger over my lips. He locked my wrists behind my back and took out the ponytail whip on its new handle that he’d made me put on it. I could see that his cock was growing hard through his open robe. He lifted my chin and dealt me a stinging blow across the face with the whip, then another one, softer, and the last one was just a light brush. He pulled me down onto his now fully erect cock, wrapped his hands around the sides and back of my bald head, and fucked me slowly. Shortly, he pulled out, grabbed his member, and milked his come onto my face. It hit my upper lip and began to slide off. I caught it with my tongue and brought it home into my mouth. The next jet, flew through the air, and I caught it on my tongue. He put himself back inside me, and I finished him well and properly as he’d taught me to do. When he was finished, he bent down and kissed me full on the lips and again on the top of my bare skull, then he unlocked my wrists and pushed me toward the door.

I took the laptop, went to my cell, and locked myself in to write …

The laptop clicked and powered off, its batteries spent.

Epilogue

I closed the laptop and slid it through the slot in the door. I stood, tears filling my eyes, and I found my way to the sink. I took the poison capsule out of it bottle, turned on the sink, and filled my mouth with water. I put the capsule to my lips. My heart was hammering in my chest as the seconds ticked by. Memory plagued me, flowed over and through me. His hands and lips on me: tits, nipples, cunt, ass, head, and face; caressing, kissing, spanking, stroking, and pinching. His cock filling me in every place. His face in transports of pleasure over seeing my humiliation, pain, and pleasure. I hesitated, then dropped the capsule into the toilet, and flushed that option away forever. I’ll be his slave, I decided. If he’ll have me. I lay back on the bed and waited in darkness for his decision.