As She's Told (31 page)

"Shh. Quiet, girl!" he demanded. "Quiet! Look at me. Pay attention. The plug in your ass is on a painful setting. There's a mike by your mouth that triggers it."

I gasped and held my breath as the stimulation started again, let it out as gently as I could. If the feelings couldn't get some release through sound or movement, if it all had to be contained, I was going to implode. My lungs caught each breath and held it. I can't I can't I can't…. Hands and arms were flexing, head turning from side to side. Without hope I drew my arms and pelvis up tight, trying somehow to fend off the inevitable. And then the first spasms hit, my legs flew out, and a gasp escaped me. The shock stopped the orgasm dead. Tears sprang from my eyes. I turned to my master, saw his smile, and shut my eyes tight.

The stimulation continued inexorably. I squirmed and arched in vain attempts to pull back, winced at the resultant inadvertent pull to a nipple, already painful from the last debacle. The vibrator clung and buzzed. The 192

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thrusting sensation spread arousal wide, wider; so sweet and so terrifying.

My hands clenched into fists above their cuffs. Here it came again – oh, god

– and again at the first contraction that shocking blow; I thought I'd suppressed all noise but I could hear it ringing in my ears a moment later.

Again the orgasm stopped in its tracks. I wanted to scream, long and loud.

My master still watched, his smile oddly gentle, though there were lights dancing in those grey eyes. I put everything I had into silent pleading, staring at him. He stroked my arm.

"You're going to learn, girl, like it or not. Stop fighting it."

Stop fighting it? Was he mad? How?

All right, I thought. I breathed light and fast, and gently I spread my knees as wide as they could go, trying to relax into the sensations. At the same time I attempted to block all motor and vocal responses. I almost made it that time. I got halfway into the orgasm before the pull, the pain and the shock hit me.

"Better, girl." He stroked my hair back from my sweating face. "Getting there."

I didn't do as well the next time, or the next, and sanity began to slip.

Echoing around inside my skull was every variety of curse and whine and desperate appeal. I shut my eyes so tight my tears turned back and ran down my throat. How could he do this to me? How could he turn my own body against me like this?

But at last the orgasm came and the shock did not. I opened my eyes wide and stared at the ceiling, hanging on, just barely, through one shuddering wave after another. My legs escaped my control once or twice, painfully, but my voice did not; I got through it without making a sound.

The vibrator and the pulsing stopped. My gratitude was immeasurable, because if it had gone on into the unbearable aftermath there was no way I could have contained myself. He leaned over me, one hand gentle on my heaving chest. "That's my good girl," he said. "Next time you'll be quicker."

***

Over the next couple of weeks, I was subjected to many variations on the theme: extensive teasing, and then punishing orgasms that exhausted my libido until I was teased again. Every other day he went back to the simple, excruciating repetition that he'd subjected me to on the first day. He said he didn't want me to get conditioned out of moving and making noise all the 193

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time, just when he chose. I made plenty of noise through the bridle on those evenings, back on the living room floor, spread-eagle and sweating. That part of the punishment continued more or less the same.

The predicaments, on the other hand, got more stringent as the days passed; my head and arms and toes were tied to my nipple rings as well, so that I had to learn to keep my whole body still.

The toes were the hardest. Like trying to sneeze without closing your eyes. I hadn't known that I flexed my toes when I came; who thought about feet at a time like that? Well, maybe some people do; not me. But now I had to think about my feet, and the rest of my limbs, and especially my voice, all while being taken over by devastatingly thorough enforced orgasms. Mind you, a little pull on the rings wasn't bad; it was even good if I could keep it under control. But my devious master made sure that was never, ever easy.

His mercy with the off button didn't last long. As soon as I was managing to keep still through the first orgasm, he left the vibrator on, and made me go through the intolerable aftermath as well. And I had to learn to tolerate it without a single cry.

He upped the ante by adding sticky electrode pads to various sensitive spots for additional punishment – my buttocks, for instance, and my breasts (with carefully alternating current – he discoursed to my silent, trussed form the risks of electricity above the waist). The smaller the pad, the more painful the shock, so of course the pads got smaller. He also experimented with pleasurable electrostim, but always in the context of driving me crazy and watching me try not to writhe.

I had thought that our life was intense before, but this nightly torment was a whole new level. Each time he released me I clung to him, dazed and exhausted; he spent a lot of aftercare time holding and cuddling. I'd calm down, recover some kind of equilibrium, and remember arousal as if it was a distant cousin who'd stopped visiting years ago and moved out of town. And the next evening I'd be compelled back to the ordeal by leash and whip, hot, wet and terrified.

Pleading of any kind would have been futile, so it was probably just as well that I was bridled almost constantly during that period. In fact, as soon as my bowl was licked clean each lunchtime, I had to make my way back to the bench and get into the bridle myself. The closure was a ratcheting lock arrangement, so once I was in, that was it until my master got home. The gag 194

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could be released separately, but only with one of his friend's clever little keys. And that happened only briefly when he fed me. For sucking his cock he inserted other gag arrangements – big ring gags, or dental gags to force my mouth open. Humiliation upon humiliation. When he took me off the table and soothed me he held my bridled head to his chest, and kissed my hair through the straps.

During that period, practically the only time I spoke at home was for a few minutes that second night, in whispers after we went to bed. My master snuggled up behind me, ran one warm hand from my chained arm down to my side and then onto my thigh. I leaned back against him. Something was missing. Usually the touch of his long body got me going like nothing else; in some ways that was the hardest tease of all. But it was all used up, it seemed. Until next time. "How are you holding up, girl?" he murmured.

"Tell me."

Carefully, I considered this question. I was getting what I wanted – an utterly controlling, imaginative dom, who loved me into the bargain. He used and cared for me as the property I was, and for that I was profoundly grateful. He was taking care of his property now, checking for damage, hidden stress or strains. I understood that by now. The property had no right to hold back. How was I holding up anyway?

"I'm scared, master," I whispered. "So scared…. But I'm okay.”

“Scared of what?”

“The next time. It's hard…. I'm so sorry I messed up.”

“When?"

"When I – when I came – the other night. So bad at controlling myself, I'm sorry; I'll try…."

He squeezed me gently, put a hand on my lips. "Shh. I know. What else besides guilty and scared?"

"Happy. My god…. More than that. No words…." I thought some more.

"Secure. Safe. Frustrated. Sometimes panicky. I don't know," I sighed. "I've got all these contradictory feelings. Angry? I get – I get mad sometimes, you know, when it really hurts, or – or when you really push me – I can't help it."

"Of course." I could hear the smile in his voice. "That's part of the fun.

If you never got mad I'd be worried." He squeezed me tighter. "As long as it's not building up. That or the anxiety."

"It never lasts long."

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"Good."

"Master?"

"Mm?"

"How long – how long is it going –"

"Until the piercings are ready. Then I've got some alternatives for keeping your libidinous impulses in check. Until then I'll just have to keep your cunt so overused and done over that you aren't capable."

I suppressed a whimper. The piercings seemed perfectly healed, but the last estimate I'd heard as to when they could be used was ten days away.

"Of course I prefer you to keep you in a state of frustration, so enjoy this while you can." Enjoy? A groan escaped me.

He made an indeterminate sound in the back of his throat which on consideration I decided was a snicker. Then he firmly hushed me, and settled down to sleep.

The next night there was no more check-in with the property. I lay there chained to the bed but finally free of the bridle, which I'd worn almost continuously since early afternoon. Teeth brushed, face washed. Mouth my own. Hoping for a little comforting conversation. Then Anders walked in with leather in his hand, turned my head toward him and enclosed my lower jaw in a no-nonsense muzzle. Straps on either cheek joined at the bridge of my nose and carried on over my head. He pulled this and the neck strap snug. Carefully he drew my hair out from under the leather, pulled the closure a couple of notches tighter, and clicked the lock. "You should be able to breathe through your mouth if you have to; try it," he said. My lips could open a little under their padded band; just barely, but enough. I sucked some air through what had to be a small hole for the purpose. Not much use for noisemaking, but adequate for respiration. He pinched my nose lightly, and made me try again; still okay.

My jaws strained against leather, testing, and then gave up in defeat. I found myself making 'mm' noises and rolling and twisting my head to try the limits of this new confinement. It was more comfortable than the bridle, but I looked up at him in some distress at the thought of sleeping this way.

Still, I was his own thing. His own silent thing, if he chose. And bad girls had to take the consequences. He smiled down at me, put a finger to his lips, and turned out the light.

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Chapter Fourteen
Not at Home Depot

>This is a high level of cruelty to maintain for so long. I am
impressed.

>It's been very effective training. I'd take her out of the beginners'

class now. A much finer level of response and obedience.

>Enforced silence, too, is interesting. I have tried this to good effect
with Inge in the last weekend party, and by the end she was crawling deeper
into subspace than I have ever seen.

>If two days had that effect (and that is still a fantasy level, say what
you will), imagine what two weeks has done. I can see the difference. Each
day she moves and holds herself more like a slave. By which I mean a body
calibrated to someone else's purposes and not its own.

>next summer?

>You are looking well ahead. It is only a very short time she is with
you. But yes, the idea is a fine one.

>I'll look into it. As to whether she will still be with me, it may seem
like a short time to you. I think even in that time she's beyond the point
where she could conceive of leaving of her own volition. Even if she wanted
to. And there's no sign at all that she wants to; quite the opposite. We are
only going deeper.

>I think only public pressure, or perhaps legal, will take your
governments from their deadlock, or is it apathy? What happened to that
coalition of yours; is it still active?

>Yes, they're still at it. I give them money, I consult. I can't manage
the meetings. The pace is unbearable, frankly, and the pointless
bureaucratic crap drives me mad. I can cope with bureaucracy when I can
see an end point, or when I have some hope of steering round it, but this….

So I focus on what I can do. Energy-efficient buildings are being funded
more now, at least, so I can specialize there.

>hypothesize a relationship between sleep patterns and social
isolation. Sleep loss relates to mood, shiftwork interferes with relationships
and so on. As research topics go it has advantages, as I can use data
already existing from many disparate areas and pull them together into
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something new. The area is not well studied and has some good practical
applications. So as a career move it could be worse.

>Sleep patterns. Well, well. Given your late-night jaunts, an
intriguing choice on your part. I hope your supervisor turns out to be more
congenial in person. Perhaps he has a sleep disorder. Or maybe it was just
the heat; did you know it was 39 degrees that day in Chicago? Have fun
there in August.

***

The only thing to be said for the southbound Don Valley Parkway during Friday afternoon rush hour was that it wasn't as bad as the other direction. But northbound was bumper to bumper, so that wasn't saying much. Mind you, the DVP was capable of congesting itself for no reason whatsoever, in either direction, at any time of the day or night. Happily Anders no longer needed to summon up patience when he had to use it to get home. The longer he was delayed, the longer his slave had to wait. And the longer he got to enjoy her waiting. It made every trip home a covert sexual experience.

He knew exactly where she was. The click on the webcam audio as she locked herself down resided comfortably at the back of his mind. He was securely in possession.

He braked, geared down and sang a rousing verse from an old, convivial feasting song. It was all going so well. Fatalism gave him a sour glance, reminding him that life couldn't possibly stay this good. It had only been a few months. Anything could happen. Would it all still work a year from now? Ten years from now?