Training a slave- part two

And that was that.
Her first lesson was over. She had learnt the penalty for disobedience first hand, and seemed only too willing to strive to please in future.
We began to establish a routine. I would lead her up stairs by her chain every morning and allow her to use the bathroom. While using the toilet she was allowed to close the door, but not lock it. Not that I allowed her this privilege for her benefit, its just that I don’t find anything attractive about that sort of thing.
Initially I would then take her back to the cellar, and after locking her in her cell, turn the power hose upon her, paying special attention to her pierced areas, watching her breasts flatten under the stream of water, pushing her back against the bars at the back of her prison. I would then leave her, shivering with cold, her hair hanging in damp tresses over her face, dripping onto her breasts and running into the pools that turned the cold concrete black.

Occasionally I would watch her on my surveillance equipment, where I would see her curled up by the door to her cell, patiently awaiting my return.
During the evening I would usually take down the remnants of my dinner, a few gravy soaked chicken bones, the virtually empty silver foil trays of a takeaway, or a few mouthfuls of apple pie.
I would scoop all these things into a bowl, regardless of the combination, and tip them onto the floor of her cell. She would eat with enthusiasm, leaving the concrete bare and clean the following morning.
Occasionally I would give her ‘maintenance’ whippings. Although I never had cause to beat as severely or as copiously as I had the first few times, I would give her half a dozen vicious lashes with the deadly switch in rapid succession to serve as a short, if intensely painful reminder of her inferiority.
She would walk to the rings unaided for these, raising her hands above her head willingly for me to secure, and although she would still emit piercing screams as her body was racked with the now familiar agonising pain, she would remember to thank me at the end of each punishment, before stumbling sobbing back to her cell.
She had dropped the petulant display of false modesty she had insisted on for the first few days, and as one week turned into two, she would get to her feet the moment she heard my feet on the stairs, making no attempt to hide her body from my eyes.
At least every other day I would demand she stood with her legs apart and her hands on her head while I inspected her piercings. She would make no attempt to pull away as she had previously and stood stock-still and unashamed as I parted her labia with my fingers to evaluate her clitoris and its eyelet.
The swelling had now disappeared completely from her breasts and the two rings were only just visible, only the presence of the padlock and the puckered skin behind her nipple belied the fact that anything was embedded there. Occasionally they would catch in the dim light hanging overhead, twinkling like diamonds in the gloom of the cellar.
The ring in her clit had taken considerably longer to heal, although she assiduously applied cream to it every day. I enjoyed watching these sessions and I would watch with interest as she sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, her back against the stones of the wall, gently massaging her sex, enjoying the sensations and then reddening with shame under my gaze.
Despite her tribulations, she still had a shred of her former dignity, which I allowed her to keep, as I found it quite amusing.
Slowly she would work her fingers into the flesh, curiously feeling the alien, cold, steel object that now resided there, enjoying the unaccustomed pleasure as her finger traced a circular motion around its circumference.
After a few moments I would see her hips begin to tremble and her stomach muscles begin to tense and I would command her to stop, depriving her of the orgasm she had almost achieved. After three or four frustrated attempts to climax under my supervision, I discovered her on camera attempting to finish the job after I had left her and gone back upstairs.
Needless to say, I immediately dragged her from her cell and shackled her to the now familiar ring, its shiny surface dulled and scored from the scraping motion of her handcuffs during her struggles.
She received twelve of the hardest strokes I could muster for that offence, although I reminded her as she swung before me, both her behind and her sex burning for different reasons, that had she managed to finish the job, her fate would have been much worse.
To be on the safe side, after returning her to her cell. I cuffed her wrists together, and looped the hasps of her nipple padlocks through the short adjoining chain.
For the week she spent chained like this, her wrists held against her chest, it completely prevented her from touching herself, and also required her to eat her evening scraps from the floor like an overgrown squirrel. This I found to be hilarious viewing and recorded lengthy amounts of this behaviour on the video upstairs.

Every other day I would require her to satisfy me orally, and she would do this with a new found enthusiasm, eager to oblige, plunging my length as far back into her throat as was possible, cradling my balls with her free hand, fervently sucking each drop from its end as I came, running her pinched forefinger and thumb along its length so as to extricate ever last drop of warm, salty semen.
After eagerly swallowing the warm, gluey mess, a look of intense satisfaction upon her face, she would feather the head with delicate laps of her tongue, ensuring that every last drop of my seed had been licked from its length before replacing it gently back within the confines of my trousers, carefully zipping them up and lowering her eyes back to the floor, surreptitiously licking the last drops from her chin and lips with sly darts of her tongue and awaiting further instruction.
By now I had begun to allow her to shower upstairs occasionally, for although the hose had been fun to use, its cold stream did not remove as much grime as the hot stream of water in the shower did, and her hair had begun to suffer. It also gave her an opportunity to thoroughly shave herself, an important task, as an unsightly fuzz of hair had begun to grow back on her pubic mound.
I would watch her as she soaped herself from head to foot in my bathroom, covering every inch of her body in a thick lather of soap before allowing the powerful hot jet to rinse the foaming suds from her body. She would step out when instructed and stand dripping and steaming before me, her skin shining with wetness, the perfect smooth contours of her lithe body shimmering under the light.
It was at moments like this that I truly appreciated my position.
In spite of the time and hard work I had invested in her, like an art dealer stood before his greatest and most expensive purchase, or a stamp collector gazing at his penny black, I would survey my property with pride, appreciating her fine lines and delightful subservient expression.
I began to explore her practical use around the house, and during the day, I would chain her in a different room, supply her with the necessary utensils and leave her to complete given tasks.
Some days I would loop the chain around the toilet bowl, and leave her to clean and polish the bathroom until it sparkled as if new. On other occasions I would leave her chained in her cold cell, and leave her with the removable racks and hob from the cooker, whereupon she would spend the day ardently scrubbing with a piece of wire wool. Bringing them back to a pristine shine. If I were able to detect the slightest piece of dirt at the end of the day, she would receive the inevitable switch.
Before long my house was literally shining from top to bottom, something the greatest cleaner in the world could not have achieved, and as a small reward I would allow her to sit on the floor by my feet during the evening while I relaxed in front of the television. She would place her head lovingly on my lap and I would stroke her hair, much in the same way someone would caress a pet.

Apart from the orgasm she had achieved the first night of her captivity, I was sure she had not managed to repeat the experience, and by now nearly two months had passed. The tension had begun to show, and as I delivered her ‘maintenance’ whippings, a thin trickle fluid would often be seen at the top of her thighs, the burning of the switch only magnifying the flaming need that had taken up residence between her thighs.
I would watch her fingers linger around her sex as she soaped herself in the shower, before using every ounce of her will power to prevent herself from violently rubbing at the sensitive flesh and releasing her body from its state of enforced stress.
It was her testament to her obedience that she never again tried to satiate this desire however, but I had no plans to allow her the privilege.
I intended to carry on the forced deprivation, eager to see its outcome

In the meantime, I felt that the time had come to further test the level of her obedience and had several ideas, which I was keen to try out.