training a slave part three

It was almost six weeks since this girl had walked through my door, offering her
completed slave contract to me with her tiny hand, eager to embark on what she must
have thought would be an exciting sexual adventure.

I watched her now as she lay sleeping on the concrete floor of her cell in the cellar.
One of two, it was more of a cage than a cell, measuring only six feet square, its two ends
barred, ands its sides made of heavy stone.

The dim light in the gloomy cellar glinted gently against the bars, picking out the patch of
white concrete in one corner of her prison, the place where her food was tipped at
mealtimes, the area licked clean, presume ably in an attempt to please me.

She had begun to look unnaturally comfortable on the hard, cold stone floor. I had
watched her for the first few days, twisting and turning against the unyielding surface,
scraping her shoulders and hips mercilessly.

Gradually, the power of sleep had got the better of her discomfort, and exhausted by the
liberal beatings she had received, she'd slept soundly, only occasionally waking to survey
her surroundings with horrified disbelief, as if she was convinced that they must be part
of particularly bad dream she was having.

Her eyes half open, she would gaze at the steel ring in the ceiling that had been the site of
so much unbelievable agony, tears pricking her eyes, trying to rationalise her new reality.
Shivering and white with cold she would fall back into her doze, her hips occasionally
jerking forward, as she re-lived the horror of the whippings she had received in her
dreams.

Now she presented an altogether different picture, curled up in what looked like a
comfortable ball. Her hands placed palm to palm, on under her head, a half smile playing
across her lips.

Her spine and buttocks created a perfect arc, her knees drawn tight up into her body,
forcing her labia from between her milky thighs, smooth and hairless, the glint of the
padlock that passed through the stem of her clitoris glittering ominously behind.

She truly was beautiful, I reflected, shivering slightly at my inactivity, wondering how on
earth she managed to sleep so soundly in the chill.

She wore no make-up, her soft brown hair falling delicately across her cheek, her pouting
lips slightly parted revealing perfect white teeth behind.

There was no hidden agenda, no body shaping underwear, no string or strapping, nothing
to deceive the eye of the beholder, by twisting her body into unnaturally pronounced
positions. She owned no clothes, no high heels to shape her calves and force her to walk
with her hips thrust out. She had no mini skirts, designed to titillate the voyeur with a hint
of what might lay beneath. She had no figure hugging, chest lifting, breast moulding tops.
She had no 'attitude', no image to uphold, no annoying habits or platforms of moral high
ground.

She had no affiliation with any clique, no misplaced loyalties

She was exactly as you found her, a vision of truth, with no other tools of seduction than
those which her maker had given her, no means of deceiving the onlooker, those
attributes on display at all times, for inspection by all.

The only onlooker to date had been Chris and I, and Chris didn't count, as she had been
fulfilling a professional capacity.

I had decided to at once test her obedience and also share my prize with some friends.
Of course, I hadn't made my slave aware of this; the last thing I wanted was to give her
time to mentally prepare herself for what was about to befall her. The element of surprise
was everything in these situations.

It intrigued me to know just how far she would debase herself in order to obey.
The memory of the lash was strong, that much was obvious.

The merest hint of the switch was enough to send a fleeting glance of horror fleeting
across her face, her hands involuntarily reaching for the soft skin of her buttocks, feeling
the tiny, almost invisible lines some of her more severe punishments had left.

I also knew that her desire to please her master was stronger still, a desire that had
originally been born through the pain of refusal, but had now become an integral part of
her subconscious. She did not now know why she obeyed, it seemed to her a natural thing
to do. She could not know that her brain had forced her to adopt this attitude, as an
instinctive barrier against receiving more earth-shattering bolts of pain through its
overloaded nerve endings.

The brain was indeed a complex thing, but incredibly easy to manipulate when using
pain as a tutor.

As I watched, she stirred from her sleep; her long lashes fluttering as she struggled to
open her eyes.

She opened like a flower, her long slender limbs stretching languorously as she shrugged
off the stiffness of sleep, her perfectly smooth pubic mound and pert, full breasts coming
tantalisingly into view.

In an instant she realised she was being watched. It took a further second for her half
asleep brain to register her watcher's identity, before she scrambled to her feet, bereft of
all modesty, standing to attention in her tiny cage, her eyes trained on the floor in a
gesture of servility.

I smiled as I unlocked her cell door, stooping to unlock the padlock between her thighs,
before threading through the short chain I was carrying and relocking it.

I insisted on these demonstrations of obedience. Not only did it do the slave good to,
adhere to a strict set of rules, but it also pleased me, the subservient actions re-enforcing
my position as outright owner of my property.

I began to lead her up the stairs to the bathroom above, somewhat spitefully yanking on
the chain as I did so, relishing in the gasp it brought from the slave behind me. It must
have been an eternal temptation for her to grasp the chain with her free hands, allowing a
little slack to fall and so take the tugging, insistent pressure from her sex. Of course she
never did, knowing full well the punishment that would befall her for such a
transgression.

Never did do I feel in more of a position of control than when I am leading a slave in this
way. There is something utterly undignified and debasing to a slave, when being led
around by the most delicate part of their anatomy.

I also knew, that the presence of the padlock, as well as being symbolic, stimulated her
intensely, the swing of the padlock grazing her labia and the weight of the thin chain
gently but insistently pulling at her clitoris could excite her with incredible speed, the two
flights of stairs to the bathroom on the first floor were often enough to bring her to the
point of orgasm.

Only to the point, of course. I had not allowed her the pleasure of sexual release since her
arrival, although I enjoyed that privilege whenever it suited me, empting my hot seed in
to her mouth with no regard for her own unsatiated needs.
I was are of course, that there was a possibility she had reached orgasm during sleep, but
his had occurred without her knowledge and constituted a physical release, the
psychological tension still inexistence the following morning. It was not the lack of
orgasm that frustrated her; it was the lack of the privilege to be allowed to stimulate
herself.

Waiting for her to finish on the toilet, I turned on the shower and stood back to admire
her as she washed, an operation, which I found highly erotic.

She would unconsciously pay special attention to her pink, swollen labia, rubbing the
soapy lather dreamily into her sex before struggling to her senses and hurriedly picking
up the safety razor.

I could feel my self-becoming hard beneath my trousers as she searched the folds of skin
between her legs for stray hairs, and I quickly turned my thoughts to other matters. There
would be time enough for that later.

Debbie had been brought up to believe that sex in all its forms could only be justified
between, a man and a woman, and then within the sacrosanct confines of marriage.
It was partially this strict upbringing that had brought her to me. A part of her sexual
unconscious, stifled by the restrictions her parents had placed upon it, had struggled to
break free, desperate to experience all the things her body craved for.

It was this craving that had led her to explore her submissive side, her need to feel
controlled, and had ultimately led her to sign the slave contract relinquishing her entire
being and its fate to me.

Of course she could not have imagined just how painful his process could have been, or
common sense would have led her to tear up the contract instantly. I had forced this submissive streak out of her, pulling and twisting it to my own ends,
until it had taken over every other part of her consciousness, and she had no other choice
but to obey.