The slap echoed across the dungeon, the sound sharp edged. The nude girl shook her head, soaking up the pain, afraid to check with her tongue for loose teeth. The handsome male, in full erection, cradled his hand, still feeling the contact.
She twisted in her chains, acknowledging her helplessness, awed by the shackles that were tight on her flesh, aroused by the cold metal on her warm skin, suddenly damp with sweat. Her mind wandered, curiously remembering that in her mother's day, girls didn't sweat. Men sweated. Women glowed. Despite the memory she knew she was sweating.
The side of her face hurt. She wanted to touch it, sooth it. Her hands were unavailable, locked in tight cuffs, chained to a hook above her head and behind the post she leaned back against. She felt the trail of a trickle that ran down her rib cage. Blood, or sweat? She looked down, relieved to see the clear drops, yet somehow disappointed. She exhaled loudly, drawing breath just as loudly in the silent room. Dimly she realized she had been holding her breath.
Expecting. But what?
The man waited, silent. Watching her. Waiting. But for what?
The girl moved her head carefully, testing the hurt in her jaw. It was her turn. She had a simple, short sentence to speak, her role in this unfolding drama. He was unmoving. She had no choice. She gathered her strength, knowing that when she uttered the words it would trigger more violence against her body. But, she had no other option. She took a deep breath and held it, forcing the expected words - the words he waited for - from her mouth.
"Hit me, again, please."
The words slurred slightly, forced. She knew what was coming.
The man suddenly moved, pacing into her space, nose to nose. His hand swung from his knees, bouncing off her other cheek, jolting her head to the side. She whimpered, hurt. But again that creepy feeling of disappointment. He saw it in her eyes. His own narrowed as he wondered, "Did I hit her hard enough?"
Not too hard, but not hard enough?
She mentally assessed the bruises that would have to disappear under layers of makeup for days to come. Both blows had been far too strong. It didn't help for her to realize that she had brought this on, opened the door and invited this man to beat her.
He stepped back, watching her, as if waiting for orders. She hid the contempt in back of her eyes, tempted to bark an order to make him release her, but she was literally powerless. The agreement they had both signed made it perfectly clear.
He could ignore any order she tried to give him, once the dungeon door was locked. She intended to live up to the provisions, but she wasn't at all sure what he would do. Strangely, she was not in the least worried about his actions. In other circumstances she would have been called a pain slut. Fitting, as she relished the hurt from the two blows, letting the pain push her toward a crashing orgasm. She made a mental note to revise the agreement to eliminate her face as a target.
She rattled her chains, masking the suggestion with a writhing movement that was only half arousal. Fortunately the man got the message and quickly released her from the post. Still shackled, he dragged her to the stocks, bending her forward and placing her neck and wrists in the cutouts, then closing and locking the upper half.
After a lengthy pause, a single tail flicked across her horizontal back. She nearly spoke, "You've got to be kidding!"
She had to repeat three times before the leather was applied properly.
Morning came, eventually, and was mostly gone when the girl stumbled up the stairs, still shackled and cuffed. Her face had indeed bruised and there were other welts and bruises decorating her young body. She stopped in the middle of the living room, momentarily out of poop. She gathered her strength and went to her desk. Awkwardly she wrote a check and had just signed it when the doorbell rang. The man looked at her. She nodded and he pulled up his pants and went to the door.
A carbon copy strode into the room. Carbon, except a foot taller and 50 pounds heavier. The other man followed him in, obviously deferring to him. The newcomer eyed her as she put away the pen and checkbook, making no effort to hide her nakedness.
"I came to see what your ad was all about. Looks like you've already picked someone." He waved a hand in the general direction where the other male was hovering.
"Hah! That piece of shit couldn't dominate a frog, let alone a woman. Look what he did to my face! Too hard, or too soft. Never right. I had to tell him - and keep telling him - what to do. Can't even get written instructions right!
The big man looked her over, then eyed the topic of conversation.
"You're fired. You have 30 seconds to reach the porch on the other side of the door. Git!"
Turning back to her he looked her up and down again. She stared at his face, trying to read it.
"What in the name of living Hell is a slave doing, sitting on a chair. On your knees!"
She slid off the chair, hitting the rug with a thump.
"And, look at the floor, not my face!"
She flushed as her eyes dropped.
"You will crawl to your dungeon so that we can test out some of the stock of whips you probably have. Then we'll discuss MY limits."
From somewhere she produced a collar and leash. With practiced fingers she locked the collar and presented the leash to her new Master.
"This is going to work out just fine!"
Sandra studied the floor intently, obeying, already juicing, feeling the room fill with the hulking man's power. She barely noticed the sound of the door slamming as the other man left. She looked for a moment at the open checkbook, the single check that would have paid for her night of abuse. The man cleared his throat, making a disapproving noise. Guilty, she swung her eyes back to the floor.
"Lead me to your dungeon and be quick about it!"
Sandra started to rise...
She winced as the man's boot hit her thigh. Another bruise.
"Lower! Drag your nipples!"
Lightning fast her mind studied the route ahead. Harsh fibers of the rug, splintered wood on the stairs, abrasive concrete floor. Her sob of anticipation drew another harsh reminder from his big boot. When she got to the top of the stairs, he left her no options.
"Head first, and hurry. My hand is itching to hold a whip!"
Sandra gathered her strength. She was young and already recuperating from the night's strain. Unused to crawling, she hesitated. Ramos kicked the chain between her ankles, shoving her forward and down the first step. Afraid to overbalance, she dragged her body down across the edges of the steps, pulling with her shackled hands, careful to drag her nipples across each step.
Ramos grunted, almost approving.
At the bottom she held her body low, feeling every grain of sand in the concrete as her nipples scraped and dragged. Still tender from the abuses of the night, they felt sorer and more tender with each foot of progress.
When she reached the wall where the whips hung in a now disordered row, she raised her hands before her, as if pointing to the whips, face pressed to the floor.
His boot came to her cheek, not quite touching, but where she could see it.
"Please, whip me... Master."
The title came willingly, but hesitantly, she unsure of his reaction. His response was a slashing blow diagonally across her back and one hip. One blow, but enough so that she fully felt his authority and power. The leather burned to the bone, satisfying her normal masochistic urges, but hinting of experiences to come that would be new to her, and even more satisfying.
A leash snapped to the collar the first man had locked on her neck. She lead Ramos about the dungeon, explaining each piece of equipment, each attachment, each construction, designed solely for the punishment, abuse and torture of the various parts of the female body - her body.
She spoke, always with her nose pressed to the floor, the only thing visible to her the boot, or boots, inches from her eyes. She was rapidly getting an obsession for his boots, wanting to lick and polish them with her tongue, knowing instinctively how much she would suffer for a poor job, or a missed bit of leather.
She steeled herself for questions, but there were none. Ramos said not a word, delivering his orders through the taut leash. She learned quickly to raise her head slightly when the leash beckoned. Having her nose dragged across the rough floor once was enough. For her nipples there was no relief. Actually, her nipples seemed to enjoy the constant contact, stiff as little pokers.
At the end of the tour, the leash guided her back to the whip rack. Ramos began at one end, commenting and using the whip in question, "Out of order. Too heavy. Tangled. Knotted. Piece of junk!"
There was a pause and a loud clatter as he threw the offending whip into the waste barrel.
For a second she didn't understand the order, still reeling from the score of blows she had received.
Ramos tapped her feet with a cane. Obediently she bent her knees, raising her feet behind her. Ramos tapped on his targets, letting her feel the slim wood across her arches.
"Take notice. I want these whips in perfect order, always ready for use. I will reinforce my order with one stroke of the cane. A notice stroke, if you will. Forget my order at your peril. More than six strokes and you will be unable to walk upright, even if I allowed it."
Sandra could feel the slickness between her legs, his threat forcing her suddenly toward an orgasm, which she barely contained. Ramos was well aware of the effect of his words. He leaned down close to her ear:
"Your legs will be spread and tied at a ninety degree angle and you will ask for a ‘hard' stroke of the cane on your clit. Anything louder than a sigh and you will ask for a ‘harder' stroke."
"Master, may I come? Please?"
Ramos laughed, ignoring her plea. She renewed her begging, embarrassed by his laughter, and even in her desperate need, thrilling to his complete and unyielding domination of her.
He watched her - and she knew he was watching her - feeling his eyes boring into her naked back. He waited until she was calmed down before delivering the capper.
"That's the punishment when you have permission to come. I'll let you imagine your punishment if you have one without permission."
Sandra gasped, fully aware of the ramifications of his pronouncement. Her hips unconsciously clenched, avoiding the promised punishment.
"We need to talk. Here, or upstairs?"
"Please, Master. Upstairs. The... the paperwork is on my desk."
"Then get crawling. I don't have all day."
Again her mind split. Half dreaded the crawl, the other half tickled pink with it. She had to balance control of her orgasms against the raking of her nipples over the floor and stairs. Going up she had encouragement from one of the whips. Which one she wasn't sure, but ultimately she would have to crawl back down and hang it properly on the rack in its correct place.
Sandra crawled to her desk, mentally adding carpet burn to her list of un-favorite things. She stopped when her hands touched the leg of the desk.
"Kneel up. Get the papers and bring them to me - crawling."
Fortunately she had stapled the documents together, so she was able to carry them in one hand and still crawl. Her nipples were toasty warm by the time she reached his feet. She laid her body on the floor, nose pressed to the carpet and held the papers up to him.
Then she waited. Her nose itched. Unspeakable punishments filled her mind as she considered moving. This was no time to test his ability to punish her. Thinking about her new Master fanned the flames in her belly. She made a very tiny squirm and was promptly warned by another throat clearing.
Her nipples decided simultaneously to punish her for dragging them through the dirt. As one they swelled, drove between the rug fibers and aped drilling for oil. She could swear they were rotating, driving into the carpet with the full weight of her breasts upon them. Sandra choked on a groan.
Ramos cleared his throat. She felt him looking at her again. What would he do to her for interrupting his reading? He resumed reading, with punishment deferred. Sandra turned on her worry machine.
When he had finished, he laid the papers to one side and sat thinking. He eyed the girl prostrate in front of him, chained, collared and shackled, studiously holding position.
"Sandra, you want a Master. You are willing to pay $10,000 a month to be punished, tortured, brutalized, abused and dominated, not necessarily in that order. You have a list a yard long of things you don't want done to you - but on which you left out abuse to your face and head - and an even longer list of acceptable practices."
Sandra's face flushed, visible on the back of her neck and shoulders, caught out on the bruises on her face. Ramos paused, letting his words sink in.
"I would classify you as a raving masochist. You don't just want to be dominated, you want to hurt, morning, noon, night, 24/7. In the wrong hands, such as that shithead I ran out of here, you have a life expectancy of about three weeks. Or was that what you wanted - a short, painful demise?
Sandra automatically shook her head, rubbing her nose painfully on the floor. She dared to speak, "No, Master."
Ramos snorted. "Then, you're dumber than I thought. He would have delighted in killing you."
Since it was not a question, Sandra held her tongue, but her face flushed at the deliberate insult. Somehow her Master's degree paled in comparison with this real Master.
Ramos picked up the papers again. Starting at the top he read every item aloud, demanding her reasoning, critiquing her intentions, making her repeat aloud each parameter they agreed on.
After the first few listings Sandra was in agony. The collar locked on her neck was too wide to allow her to rest her chin on the floor, so the entire weight of her head depended for support on her neck muscles and her nose. The muscles were protesting and shoving the weight off onto her nose. Ramos ignored her strain and took his time, debating doubtful items at length asking question after question.
Ramos had very neatly turned the tables on her. Intended as a tool to select a hired Master, he was using it to select a masochistic sub. Although his questioning was often indirect, he skillfully drained her of her situation, background and experience. Among other things, he learned that the $10,000 a month salary was very real, sourced from a family trust that controlled multiple millions. He recognized the name and its old money.
Ramos frankly was astounded. Sandra was a knockout beauty with black hair and green eyes and a figure that began at the beginning and didn't quit until the end. To have this handed to him on a silver platter - and get paid handsomely - was the stuff of his dreams.
The sex part nearly got to him. He went down her lists of do's and don't's and rigorously interrogated her on her wants and the things she didn't want to do. Anal sex was the first red flag. Sandra was as adamant as a helpless woman could be, refusing to even consider any penetration of her asshole, even a finger or a butt plug. Ramos asked question after question, but never forced the issue. That would come later.
When he had read aloud everything she had written, he sat back, chin in hand, studying the situation. Ramos was not accustomed to jumping into a project without seriously considering all aspects. Sandra was forced to remain in position, dreading the penalties for moving without permission. The realization shocked her as she thought it - With this Master "permission" was out the window. She would exist, move about, do things, by his order, and only by his order. This man was anything but permissive.