The Key Question
by Raul Roget


 "Have you ever been fucked while you were wearing handcuffs?"

 The question hung between them, a suddenly chilling interruption in what had seemingly started as a casual conversation. The man who had just spoken was tall, greying at the temples, well dressed in a casual way. The woman  to whom the vulgar question had been addressed was slender, but well built, with curves that spoke of a carefully tended body. Her reddish hair moved with her head as she tried to read his eyes for whatever message they might reveal. Her hair was her pride, nearly waist length. The pink flush that suffused her face turned a better than average "looker" into a knockout.

 His eyes, hazel, bored into her, reading the book she had opened by looking at him. They read each other, he with confidence, she with trepidation. She dropped her eyes, staring at the front of his shirt, mentally twisting a button between her fingers, the pink turning her cheeks to a bright flaming red, the color of intense shame, or perhaps even more intense arousal. She moved her head, motion that sent ripples down each individual hair, a slightly negative shake,  but not quite a denial.

 She tried to speak, mouth dry as old, ancient dust. Mentally she worried the button  with her fingers, twisting, turning, tugging, as if fighting for her freedom. When she found her voice, the word was so tentative, her voice crackling with some still-hidden emotion, that it seemed almost a sigh, so hesitant. "Nooo........."

 His instant reaction was that she was lying. In their short eye contact he had read many things that she would have preferred kept secret. He had literally picked her out of the crowd at the boring cocktail party, expertly reading her body language, the signs that didn't need words to expose her motives or desires. His question had been timed to jolt her defenses, catch her perfectly in an unguarded moment. His face remained impassive, as if the question had been merely mundane conversation about the weather, even as he credited her with both intelligence and some unexpected inner strength.  Still concentrating on the button, she seemed to dredge a second word from behind some locked door that had never before opened in her mind. "N...not...."

 He waited. She was obviously fighting herself. He suspected the tinge of fear that he had deciphered in her eyes was now full blown. He discarded the temptation to order her curtly to look at him. That would come later, in a more private setting. For all that, little impinged on this private conversation, even though there were two dozen or more people in the room. Smoothly he reassessed his initial impression. She would not  dare to lie. His patience was attuned to her hesitation, unhurried. This could be an interesting diversion in a very dull evening. For her part, she had the button that was her total focus nearly loose, held by a single strand of the fine thread. She managed to finish the cryptic sentence, "...handcuffs...."

 She finished with the button, cast it aside, mentally watching it roll across the floor, into a corner, leaving her free. Looking up, she tossed her head, hair flailing, taking in everyone in the room in a single sweeping glance. Somehow satisfied, she looked into his eyes. Boldly, blushing furiously, red to the neckline of her low cut dress, she opened a floodgate of words. Her voice barely a whisper, but carrying every word clearly, distinctly to his ears, she poured out her answer as if dumping a bucket of water,

 "No, not handcuffs. First ropes. Then... Manacles, Heavy old iron manacles for my wrists. Heavy iron shackles for my ankles. A big, wide, heavy, awkward collar, chained and locked to a ring-bolt in the head of the bed. A steel belt that cut me in two. Straps and chains that kept my knees wide apart.

 "If I was good, that was how he fucked me. If I didn't please him, there were other things, much worse things that he used to punish me. I was a virgin the first time he tied me to his bed and raped me. From that night until now I have never been fucked without some restraint locked on, or around -or in - my body."

 The man nodded, having heard exactly what he expected. "This is now history?

 She grimaced, more ashamed to admit her next words than the stark admission of bondage she had just uttered. "He...left me last week... threw me out, ...for a young blonde."

 He was tempted to chuckle, but suppressed it, intent on the rapport they had going. "So you are head hunting, or should I say, man hunting?"

 "No. " There was actually some confidence in the voice. "I'm looking for a new master. You asked the right question. You have all the signs of being what I'm looking for...." She jumped slightly when he suddenly stood up.

 "Get your coat. I'll make our excuses to the host." She nodded obediently, accepting her first order.  She was standing in the hall, the coat over her arms when he caught up with her. Reaching in his pocket he held up a pair of gleaming chrome cuffs for her admiring, but startled eyes. His hands darted under the coat, there were two muffled clicks and she could suddenly feel the tight, cold steel pressing on her skin. It was a warm night, so she didn't need the coat as they walked half a block to his car. On the way he confirmed that she had  come with a taxi, that she lived alone and that there was nothing she needed to take care of - no pets.

 Once in the car and moving, she laid the coat beside her, resting her linked hands in her lap in plain sight, as serene as if they had been lovers for years. The man concentrated on his driving, sparing only an occasional glance in her direction, somewhat amazed both at his luck in finding such an obviously experienced submissive and at the way she was handling what could otherwise have been a rather difficult situation. One simply doesn't walk up to the first girl at a party, slap cuffs on her and haul her home without at least some resistance. This girl, he realized had tremendous potential. For once his cocktail party trolling had found a "keeper."


 What little they had to say to each other was routine, beginning with names. She was Sylvia, 31 years old, an apartment dweller with an exacting job for a computer software firm. He was Harry, "Sir, to you," and "old enough to be your father." Oddly that brought a strange look to her face, suggesting father was not a pleasant memory. His methodical mind took careful note of every answer, and the gestures and body language that went along with them. Harry had an ego, and among other things prided himself on his ability to select women for his pleasure who would willingly accept his domination. The already evident success of this evening was more than pleasing to him.

 What little he allowed her to learn about himself seemed to both satisfy and please her as well. She watched the road in front of the car, only rarely looking in his direction, carefully avoiding eye contact, showing full knowledge of the "rules" that govern such a relationship. He digested her answers, already making plans for a lengthy evening, but saying nothing to her about them. She would learn soon enough the part she would be playing. He did "bait" her slightly, to gauge her reaction. "Aren't you concerned about driving off with someone you don't know?"

 Her answer showed she had been waiting for the question. "If this is a trap, it's too late now." She held up her wrists with their steel bands, "I couldn't do anything about it, since I'm helpless. Besides, you aren't the type." She looked at him, watching his eyes before he looked back at the road, taking liberties while still on safe ground. "Then too, I could be setting you up for some very lucrative blackmail."

 "You aren't the type either. Nobody as obviously submissive as you are is going to blackmail the one person who can provide what you really need." The flush was instantly back on her face and neck, visible just from the glow of the instrument panel. She tossed her head, twirling her mane across her bare shoulders.

 "I wouldn't have believed it was that evident. At least," she admitted, "not until you asked me about the handcuffs. Nobody, not even my... ex master was ever that blunt." She held her arms up again, allowing both of them to admire the steel holding her wrists.  He let the opportunity slide by, pretending to ignore her unspoken question rather than brag about his powers of observation.

 The car turned into the ramp down to a three car garage under an imposing house of brick and stone. The door opened, unusually rapidly, shutting as quickly behind the car as it braked to a stop. The trio of cars, now complete, spoke of ample money, complimenting the brief glimpse of the house. The room size elevator which carried them up to the main living area did nothing to dispel the feeling of solid wealth. Sylvia looked at everything, taking the opulence in stride, but she was making her own plans for the evening. Like Harry's they could have been carried out in a tenement or a cheap motel. the location was unimportant. The right person was. She already knew one thing. Harry's "toys" would be the real thing, not some makeshift "make do" adaptation. The thought gave her a little surge that promised far greater delights in the coming hours.

 Harry's words brought her out of the reverie sharply. "You must be extremely uncomfortable, going around fully clothed. You're welcome to take off anything you'd like."

 Sylvia looked at him and smiled. "Thank you, Sir. Is there any place where you would like me to put them?" Harry nodded toward an alcove, The smooth transition between the informal conversation of the ride and the ritual of slave and master was pleasing to Harry's ear. For her part Sylvia was intrigued by the way he had turned the abrupt, routine command to "strip" into an almost genteel concern for her comfort. She recognized the deft hand and mind of an expert, further adding to her expectations for the evening.

 She had absolutely no qualms about being the "entertainment" for his evening. She knew that she would enjoy it, no matter how severe he was with her.  The decade she had spent under the thumb of her former master had taught her many things about herself.  Not the least among them was her ability to soak up pain like a sponge and find the ultimate enjoyment in it.

 "There's a closet in there." She turned her back, looking over her shoulder. "Would you unzip me, please, Sir." When the zipper stopped, it was just between the upper swells of her ass cheeks. His hand remained there for a brief moment, fingers flat against the firm flesh that needed no girdle to round it.  Her "Thank you, Sir," covered both the unzipping and the pat.

 It was not a strip tease. It was amply erotic, simply because her hands were chained, limiting but not defeating her disrobing. The dress  dropped away from twin tits that were no Dolly Partons. but still were impressive, magnificent on her small frame. His eye went like a magnet to the nipples, flint hard, with a glitter that transformed into tiny rings that passed through the base, perfectly positioned, centered, above all, eye catching. He stepped forward, looking carefully, as she arched her back, forcing her peaks forward until he could see the ornate designs on the rings. He stepped back to twice arm's length as the dress dropped lower.

 Even Harry must raise an eyebrow now. Her waist was constricted by  a thin metal belt, more a wire than anything else, indented into her flesh. It was cruel in its design, its intent. "How in Hell does she move about and ignore THAT!" The thought itself was a compliment to the woman before him. Wryly she noted his reaction,

 "I do NOT eat ice cream, or lasagna, Sir."

 The dress fell to the floor, revealing the final, ultimate cruelty. Depending from the belt was a thin steel plate which was molded and shaped to her body, narrowing underneath and rising in back in the same wire form to weld to the belt. Feeling his eyes on her belt, she raised a bent knee and removed her shoe, then the other, stooping to place them in the closet, hanging the dress above them. She turned, stood for a moment, knowing he wanted to look at her, then knelt before him. "Sir, I am much more comfortable now."

 Harry walked around her, examining every inch of her nudity. When he stood in front of her again, his question was superfluous. "How long.... "

 "...have I been wearing this? Sir, it was placed on me as a punishment two weeks before my Master threw me out. He has been gone six days. A total of 20 days, Sir."

 "And, he took the key with him."
 "Yes, Sir."

 "Then I assume you would give a lot to be released from it." His questions were couched as statements, exerting his powerful influence over her.

 "Sir, I have only one thing to give. Myself. I will be indebted in a way which only my body can repay. If that is enough, then please take the belt off."

 "As you are fully aware, there is more involved here that just giving me your body in exchange for removing that belt. Spell out exactly what you mean, what you are willing to do." Sylvia dared to look at his eyes for a long moment, as they signified what he wanted. She already knew and had the words ready,

 "Sir, when I said my body, I didn't mean just to be used as you see fit for sex...," She stopped, corrected herself, "for fucking. I am a submissive. I need a master, I need to be subjugated in painful ways that will teach and train me to live fully as a slave. I offer you my body to train as you see fit. I offer my mind, for you to fill with the facts of my slavery, the things I must know to please you. I offer myself as a whole to be your total slave."

 "You know absolutely nothing of my wishes, my desires, what I may do to you. Can you still say this is what you want, knowing what you are offering me?"

 "Sir, in the car, on the way home, I said to you, "If this is a trap, it's too late. It's even later now. I have told you what I want, answering your question. You will tell me, in your own time, what it is you want of me. By then... now... I have no choice. I am already enslaved, with no hope or wish to escape my slavery."

 "And if I tire of you, lock you in your chastity belt and send you away, what then?"

 "Sir, that is the lot of the slave. I will have no choice but to find a new master."

 "Or, get killed trying," he muttered to himself. To her, "Alright, you are my slave. You may continue to be known as Sylvia."

 Her relief was genuine, her answer simple, "Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir."

 He walked to a big roll-top desk and slid the top up. Pulling out one of the small drawers he poked among the objects, finally extracting a thin piece of steel, oddly shaped.  He motioned her to her feet, then examined the belt. She pointed to a tiny slot on the edge of the metal plate. With considerable dexterity he inserted the pick and twisted and turned it, rewarded after a few moments with an oiled click as the belt came apart. The end of the belt slid away, coming out of the red groove in her flesh, spiraling down her thigh. The metal plate between her legs remained in place.

 He tested it with a finger. It came away from her body slightly, but resisted. He slid his other hand between her legs and caught the loop under her body, tugging now with both hands. Slowly it came loose, dragging a "choke-a-horse" dildo out of her depths. For the first time since he had seen her walk toward him at the party she broke from her obviously rigorous training and uttered a groan of pain. Harry held the belt, looking down at the hard plastic, wondering where and how she could possibly have concealed this terrible invader in her body. As startling were her contrite words, "Sir, I have shown pain by making a noise. Please give me five with the cane. If you will tell me where it is, I will bring it to you for my punishment."

 Harry covered up his admiration for the girl by waving her off. "Later," he said gruffly. "Right now you need a bath. It's down that hall and to the right. You have 30 minutes."

 Sylvia took all but a couple of minutes of her allotted time, taking full advantage of a deep, hot tub and several medications in the well stocked medicine chest to sooth stretched muscles and a small nick or two where flesh had come loose with the big dildo. Refreshed,  still wearing just the cuffs, she returned and knelt before him. Harry didn't even bother to check his watch, knowing she would be punctual. "Thank you, Sir, for the chance to bathe. It was very helpful."

 Harry looked down at his new possession, with full pride of ownership. The last two or three girls had been disappointing, but this one held more than promise. He settled himself comfortably, picking up where they had left off. "You asked for five with the cane for making noise. Was that the standard, for you?"

 "Yes, Sir. My master trained me very carefully never to make a noise, no matter how painful his punishments were. Whenever he chose, he would deliberately punish me until I made some sort of noise, then require me to ask for punishment. If he wished, he would continue this for hours at a time. Always,  I knew when he was about to stop, because he would double the punishment I had to ask for the last two times. If I screamed, the punishment was tripled."

 "You will have to relearn some things. I expect my slaves to be noisy. When they are punished, I gauge the amount of noise against the level of pain I am giving them. I prefer that they give full voice to what the punishment wrings from them. Can you do that?"

 "Yes, Sir."

 "Tell me more about this master of yours and the punishments he gave you. I want to know everything you learned from him. Take your time, as we have all night, if necessary."

 "Sir, I met my Master in college. He was a Senior while I was in my Junior year. He found me much as you did, at a party. He took me to his home before he tied me up, but it was much the same as tonight. At the first sight of the ropes he had ready I was so much putty. He tied my wrists in back first, then opened my dress and pulled my bra down so that it was holding my tits up. He used his teeth on my nipples, nipping and biting them until I was going crazy. After I came twice, I started begging him to stop. He just laughed at me and then pulled my arms up behind me, forcing me to beg him to bite me again and again. He was so strong. He held my arms up with one hand and had the other buried in my cunt up to his knuckles. He made me keep repeating 'Bite me. Bite my tits. Bite me.'
 "I was in so much pain that I started to cry. He pulled out his belt and rolled me over his knees, jerking my dress up and ripping off my soaking panties. He hit me with the belt until I screamed. Then he slapped my face. My arms were twisted even farther up behind my back and I was taught to beg him for ten with the belt for making noise and screaming.

 "Later, the penalty was raised to five with the cane. Oh, he gave me a choice. I could leave, never come back, or I could take my caning, and the other punishments. After the first night with him I was hooked on servitude. I couldn't wait to dash to his house the next night and present myself to him, offer myself to do whatever he wanted. And he wanted plenty!

 "He went through the whole thing with my tits again. Sore as they were, I welcomed his teeth, begging without being prompted. Somehow I kept quiet until much later when he decided that I was being stubborn. He used a willow switch  between my legs until I whimpered, then caned me for it. When he was sated he would throw me out, often without any clothes, making me run nude the several blocks to the apartment I had rented.   Yet  by the next evening I'd be panting  for him, and knocking on his door, ready for his worst.

 "There were times when I was sure he was deliberately trying to see how much it would take to make me quit. But I thrived on his cruelty. The worse he treated me, the more anxious I was to serve him. I was like one of those dolls with the weighted feet. You push them and they bounce right back up. I was like that with him. He could very easily have killed me and I would have accepted it with my dying breath.

 "He had a special punishment for me that he'd spring just for his own amusement. It had nothing to do with whether I had been bad or not, it was just something he enjoyed and didn't need an excuse to use on me. By that time he had the rings in my nipples and he would take a pair of lead weights and tie them to my rings with about two feet of fish line. He would put my collar on, chain my wrists to it, and chain my ankles close together, just a couple of inches apart. Then it would begin.

 "I had to turn in a circle fast enough to keep the weights in the air. He had a long slinky coach whip and whenever one of the weights touched my body. I'd get a stroke. The worst was when he would catch one of the lines with the whip, jerking on my nipple terribly.
I'd have to keep turning until I got so dizzy I couldn't stand up. When I fell down, I got ten with the whip and then had to get back up and turn the other way, to 'unwind.'

 "Before long he had a plaster cast made of my cunt. He applied the plaster right on top of my hair. When it was hard, he started pulling, Of course I was strapped down so I couldn't wiggle. He'd make me beg to pull a hair out, then he'd jerk two or three more, make me beg again. It took a couple of hours to pull all my hair loose and I was a total wreck, but I loved every minute of it. He used the cast to make the chastity belt. From then on I had to wear it to classes every day and whenever I wasn't with him. He didn't add the dildo until the very last, about six months ago. By then I was trained to juice on command, so he could force it into me. I couldn't help screaming the first time and of course got punished for it.

 "He graduated, and I went into my senior year, still learning to be his slave. After I graduated he made me keep the apartment and continued to throw me out of his rooms when he was through using me, so in all the years I never once stayed all night in his bed, or anywhere else in his house. To me the worst part was the long dull days, waiting until I could rush to his house and plead to be admitted to his life, even for a few minutes. I of course had to beg, kiss his feet, beg some more, kiss his cock, his ass, tongue his asshole, anything he demanded. Sometimes he would let me go through all that, then throw me out right then.

   "When that happened, the phone would be ringing when I arrived back at my apartment. I always hurried but he was always angry because I had made him wait. If he had to hang up and redial, I was in deep trouble. The usual punishment he prescribed was to make me strip and stand in the middle of the floor on one foot, holding the other foot in the air with one hand. Then he would make me rub my clit until I was ready to come. I had to ask permission to come, which was always refused. He'd hang up and I'd have to stay there until he called back. It might be two, three hours later before he'd call, and I'd be forced to do the exact same thing again. By morning I'd be groggy from lack of sleep and scared to death I'd fall over. I had to report every fall, and ask to be punished for it.

 "After graduation I got this job I have now. My master would interrogate me every day about who I talked to, what I said, if any of the men talked to me. I never dared lie to him, afraid of what he would do to me, so I learned to repeat every conversation verbatim. When one of the guys at work wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, I was made to wear the chastity belt to work. I was punished severely for every conversation I had with this man, even though I was helpless to stop him from hitting on me. I lived in daily fear that the guy would cop a feel and hit that metal between my legs. I knew I'd be in for it then, both from my Master and from the guy, who probably could get me fired.

   "I never knew a restful night the entire time he was my Master. He would wear himself out on me, then send me home and train me by telephone. He came to my apartment and fixed ring-bolts on the corners of my bed, with short chains that ended in a snap. It was understood that when I went to bed I had to attach my ankles and wrists to the snaps. I could unsnap them with one hand, but I was forbidden to do it once they were in place. I would be given orders when I left his house to sleep on my back, or on my stomach.  When I was being punished, which was almost every night, I had to sleep on my stomach, with a pair of ping pong paddles under my tits. The rough sandpaper would make my nipples so tender by morning that I couldn't stand anything touching them. Of course I never wore a bra or panties and he would make me wear blouses of a very rough weave that were as bad as the sandpaper.

 "He fixed a bar with a pair of pulleys above my bed. That meant that when I lay on my back, at his order I could attach weights to my nipples and let them hang while I tried to sleep. My master would call and make me unsnap one wrist and lift one of the weights and then let it drop. If I made a noise I had to do it again and ask for the cane the next night. I was not permitted to touch my sore nipples, but had to snap my wrist to the chain again and wait in the darkness for the pain to lessen enough so that I might get a few minutes of sleep.

 "As time went on, I could stand more pain and I wanted more pain. I got it, too. My master found out how much clothespins can hurt and went out and bought a gross of them. At the first excuse he strapped me to a table and started in on me. He found room for every one of them. I moaned once while he was taking the last few off, finally, so of course I got the cane. He used it on some of the spots where there had been several pins, which really got to me, but I held out and didn't get but one extra.

 "When I wasn't at work I had to be available, waiting in my apartment. His rule was that I had one ring to answer the phone, whether I was awake or asleep. Since it took several seconds to find and unsnap one wrist when I was chained on the bed, I was repeatedly punished. The standard became 20 with a special paddle for each extra ring. I would have five minutes to get to his door and ring the bell or the number would be doubled. If I delayed more than three rings, or wasn't there when he called I would have to spend the night standing in the middle of the floor with my legs spread as far as I could get them, holding the telephone. In that position I had to answer before the first ring stopped.

 "He decided one day that I must wear tighter, more restrictive clothing. I had to bring my entire wardrobe to his house. He made me model every piece. Anything that fit, he destroyed. Anything that was too small he kept. Then I had to shop for new clothes and shoes, everything a size too small. When I got back to his house he altered each piece of clothing so that the openings were fixed with chain so they could be locked on my body. He made me buy a heavy rubber long-leg panty-girdle, and fixed chains through the top and each leg, with padlocks. I had to wear that to work, which meant that when I had to piss I had to dash to his house at noon and beg him to release me long enough to relieve myself. Usually I had to give him a blowjob before he would consent, so his jism would be my lunch.

 "Several times he punished me by forcing me to drink several glasses of water before returning to work. After work I had to go to his house, beg to be allowed in, and then was forced to drink two quarts of water, and sent home.  I had to wait until he called me, very late in the evening. I'd have to plead with him to allow me to come to his house to piss.  He would make me very slowly masturbate, and to orgasm, two things I was otherwise strictly forbidden to do. Then he had me agree to accept my punishment when I got to his house. Of course I got the full treatment with his cane and the whip before he unlocked my chains and allowed me to strip the girdle down my legs.

 "He stood over me, shaming me as I sat there. When I was done he produced two dildos when were pushed into me, dry. Then the girdle was pulled back up and all three chains were tightened a link when he locked it. In the living room I had to do a whole set of exercises, jumping and hopping, swinging my legs and squatting, duck walking and splits. All the time he was keeping time on me with his whip. When I was exhausted, he dragged me out to the car and drove me to a street about a mile from my apartment, where he pushed me out of the car and made me walk home, wearing nothing but the girdle and a sheer blouse."

 Fascinated, and obviously aroused by her tale of her domination, Harry shifted his legs and cleared his throat. Sylvia stopped talking, staring at his chest, waiting for whatever command he was about to utter.

 "I have to admit, I'm impressed by what you've told me. How did you manage to survive ten years of that?"

 "Sir, I had to survive. I had no choice. I was totally in love with my Master. Anything he did to me was done with what I felt was love for me. I found very soon that I had a remarkable capacity for pain. The fact is that pain turns me on in a way nothing else can. I learned that the night I lost my virginity. Having my tits bitten hurt, but it made me come in a way that nothing else can duplicate. I survived because my pain is such an erotic experience for me. The more, the stronger, the more exquisite the pain, the bigger the bang when I come. I have learned, and I've been trained to enjoy my pain in ways that I'm sure few other people have ever experienced.

 "Then as my slave, you expect to continue to get your pain in large doses?

 "Sir, a slave lives to serve her Master. A master would not be dominant if he didn't make things painful for his slave, training her, teaching her. You are new, I am new to you, I have been trained one way. You have already indicated one major difference in orders. I'm sure there will be many other differences that you will teach me with your whip. Your satisfaction comes from my pain, so I can hardly expect a painless existence in your chains."

 "There could be quite a difference between painful, and very painful." The words hadn't come out exactly the way he meant, but it sounded good, so he let it ride. Sylvia seemed to read something more out of it. She nodded,

 "Sir I have been taught a special vocabulary. Whenever my Master said, 'special punishment,' it meant I had to use only those words in my pleas for punishment. I had to say 'hard' whenever I asked to be whipped or caned. The next time I would have to ask for 'very hard.' Then came 'extremely hard,' followed by 'double strength.' After that he would instruct me to use any word he chose to make my punishment more severe. After one especially trying correction he forced me to say, 'You're a weak-kneed wimp for treating me so gently." He flew into a towering rage and whipped my ass bloody. He made a tape of me saying it and later when he was ready to punish me he would gag me, play the tape and demand to know if I had said it. I could only nod, and then my punishment would begin.

 "Let's not forget any of that special list. It's going to come in handy here. You should do well." The faintest of praise, but Sylvia accepted it gladly,

 "Thank you, Sir. I will do my best to obey."

 "OK, then let's take you on a guided tour." She expected the classic 'collar and leash,' but her new master was anything but conventional, as she was learning. He pulled open a drawer and in a second had twisted a device onto her arm just above the elbow that immediately clamped tight, painfully tight. It had a handle into which his fingers fitted. He moved his hand slightly. The handle twisted, only a twitch but it nearly drove her to the floor, the metal seeming to press straight into the bone. She gasped in surprise, regaining her composure after a second, knowing herself well and fully restrained. He seemed to ignore her consternation, but again he was hiding his pleasure at his new find.

 He led the way to the elevator. As they walked in she noticed for the first time that there were ringbolts in several places in the elevator walls, cleverly disguised as decorations. They triggered something inside her. She shivered, feeling the thrill of anticipation.


 Chapter 2

 The elevator door opened to a hallway that could have graced the main floor of any mansion in the world. It reeked of money in the understated way that successful decorators use for their best - and richest - clients. The pushbuttons in the elevator had given no clue, but her master had pressed the lower one, suggesting they were now in a sub-basement below the garage level.

 The ever-gracious host, her Master pointed out the doors to the wine cellar, a fitness room, a sauna, but ignored two more doors before arriving at the end of the hall and another matching door.

 Matching that is, until it opened, revealing the oak facade as a covering for a solid eight inches of door, encased in steel. Like a vault door it had deadbolts at top and bottom and both sides. There was no handle, no keyhole on the inside. An electronic control, hidden, or in the Master's pocket controlled access. It was a door that would withstand a military assault.

 The door was daunting. It triggered a special fear in Silvia, making her shiver just to look at it. She was only too familiar with the helplessness that chains enforced. This door had its own brand of helplessness to add to her bondage.

 It was dark in the room. Harry reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his remote control. Fingering it, he activated a set of lights.

 "OhmyGOD!!!" Sylvia jerked against the restraint on her arm, sending stabbing pains into her elbow and wrist, involuntarily drawing back from the tableau in front of her, her exclamation loud in the silent room.

 She stared, now silent, barely able to breath against the constriction in her chest, the pain in her arm forgotten.

 In the glow of the small spotlights, a woman "sat," facing the door, in a massive wood and steel chair that was fixed - bolted - to the floor. Her face was contorted by unspeakable agony as two husky men stood over her. Harry touched a button and a wailing scream filled the room with the sound of pain. Sylvia gasped as the figures moved!

 The woman's head jerked, her long hair flailing across her face, partially hiding the wide open mouth. The men's hands moved, turning screws, eliciting fresh moans and yells, the woman thrashing impotently agains her bonds.

 A massive collar ringed her neck, apparently attached firmly to the wood behind her, holding her upright. Her arms were stretched to the side, encased in gleaming metal that reached nearly to her shoulders. Matching "boots" encased her feet, ankles and shins, seeming to meld into her flesh at her knees.

 The metal was dotted with threaded screws, each with a flaring head that provided an easy grip for the hands that moved constantly from one to another, twisting, turning, sinking sharp points into the encased flesh, probing for the bone. Sylvia winced in shared suffering with the tortured woman, realizing even as she shivered that an orgasm was quickly building in her loins. She couldn't move her eyes from the scene, couldn't close them, certainly couldn't blot out the sounds of agony that filled her ears.

 The effect was not lost on Harry. Silvia's reaction was typical for a true submissive. Other women that he had brought to this room had rebelled, fighting his restraints, trying to escape, fully convinced they were in the lair of a madman, or worse.

 Satisfied with her reaction, he casually dropped his hand between her legs, pleased when she automatically spread to receive his fingers. He felt her wetness, slick on his fingers. His forefinger found her engorged clit. He rubbed twice and she exploded, doubled over, moaning almost as loudly as the woman in the chair.

 "I take it you enjoyed that."

 "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She paused, gathering words, unsure if she could speak freely. "It's.... It's so realistic. I almost came from that... just from watching her... being tortured."

 As she spoke, he guided her forward until she was standing between the splayed legs of the seated figure. Unbidden, she reached out and touched the woman, feeling the cold of very skillfully executed plastic. She repeated, "It's so real!"

 In agreement, he nodded. "The art of making lifelike models that can move and make sounds has come a long way since the days of the wax museum."

 "But sir, aren't those boots, and the "gloves" real?"

 "Oh yes. They are copied from originals that I keep on hand." He grinned, seeing her reaction, reading her face. She was excited, but he could tell that there was something lacking. She could not picture herself in the place of the figurine. There was much more to show her. Before the evening was over, he was certain she would find the "perfect" bondage.

 The lights went out as Harry manipulated the control. Another set came on, revealing a stone wall looming between them and the light source. He guided Sylvia around the end of the wall, savoring her gasp of surprise as she walked into a medieval dungeon.

 Lying on the floor was a nude woman. Nude, but literally encased in heavy, rusty chains. A crude, angular collar choked her neck, trailing a length of chain that was locked to a massive ring that would have halted a charging elephant. Iron manacles chafed each wrist, each ankle. A wide, heavy belt sagged over her hips. Chains ran everywhere, linking every fetter, mocking the helpless captive with their redundancy.

 A hugh man loomed over her, his arm raised, hand holding a cruel whip. A closer look at the woman showed the marks of previous lashes, intermingled among the links of chain. At Harry's touch, the arm lashed out, the whip cracked across naked flesh and the woman screamed, pleading with tear filled eyes for an end to her punishment.

 As Sylvia watched she had quick, momentary flashbacks of times when her previous master had savaged her in a similar manner. Fresh from one orgasm, she felt the next looming, hoping that her new master would again give her relief. Harry perversely let her "suffer," knowing that she would find plenty of opportunities to come in the next few hours.

 In leisurely succession she was shown a girl stretched on a rack, another being branded as a slave. This was accompanied by the smell of burned flesh that permeated the room, a bizarre touch that oddly enough had saved Harry from a jail sentence.

 An undercover police woman had gotten this far before breaking down and admitting that she was attempting to entrap him. That is, after she got through puking her guts up. When Harry had shown her the videos of her in the nude, obviously enjoying the torture scenes, at least up to that point, she wisely decided that her investigation should go in some other direction.

0.... Even Sylvia felt a little queasy from the smell, but she quickly forgot it when the lights showed a new bondage scene. Here the girl was seated in a set of heavy wooden stocks. A leather helmet concealed her head. There were no eye holes, none for the mouth, just breathing tubes in the nose.

 She was seated on a bed of fresh green nettles, helpless to lift herself away from the stinging burn. A man at her feet swung a thin rod across the soles of her cringing feet while a second masked figure slashed her hunched back with a multi-thonged whip.

 Sylvia knew exactly what nettles could do to tender flesh. Her former master had forced them into her cunt and asshole, as a prelude to beating her with the cane as punishment for the uncontrollable groans that she was powerless to stop. Memories welled in her mind, the stinging, excruciating  agony as fresh as the day that it happened. She could feel an itching, burning sensation inside her as nerve endings remembered.

 Her orgasm came closer.

 There was much more to see, but the tour stopped abruptly at the next display. As her amazed eyes took in the scene, she grunted, deep in her belly, as the looming orgasm flamed and blew her apart. Loudly she proclaimed her release, excited beyond measure.

 Without a word Harry led, half dragged the stumbling girl toward a hidden door. She was nearly limp, barely able to walk, momentarily exhausted by the force of her climax, her brain seared by the scene she had just witnessed.

 At first she didn't realize what was happening to her, still shaken by the ghastly predicament of the woman. When she did begin to come to her senses it was to the feel of cold steel on her wrists and ankles. Immediately she understood. She was about to replace the plastic woman in the strange apparatus that had so shocked her.

 Momentarily she struggled, knowing even as she did that she would be punished for this lapse in discipline. She stopped, almost before she had started, standing quiet as the chains were locked about her. watching her master's every movement, fear choking her breath into short pants.

 He disappeared somewhere behind her. She craned her neck, searching for him, but he was gone. She stood, taut, legs spread wide apart, her arms shackled above her head and out to the side, so her body formed a perfect X. Even before he returned she knew what he would be bringing.

 The first shock came when he walked back in front of her. Gone was the suit, in its place the brown hooded robe of a friar, belted at the waist. She peered into the shadows of the hood, half afraid that she wouldn't recognize the already familiar face. The light was poor away from the floodlights that bathed her nude body. She fought the lights, fear clutching her heart, in an instant certain this was not her Master. Tendrils of fear curled through her mind like little snakes, seeking out every remnant of reality.

 The next shock came when she saw the large metal object dangling from one of his hands. It was identical - perhaps the same one - as that worn by the model in the torture scene. Remembering it  she felt the hot glow in her bowels surge and expand. Moisture seeped from her cunt, spreading down her thigh.

   A deep booming voice that she couldn't recognize came from the lips inside the hood, addressing someone - something - behind her. "Your Eminence, this foul witch is prepared for questioning. With your permission, I will begin the tests that will prove her heresy."

 Aghast, Silvia glanced frantically behind her, seeing nothing but the bare stone of the walls of the torture chamber. There was nobody there, but the hooded figure nodded as she turned back to him, bowing low to whatever it was she could not see.

 "Thank you, Eminence. You will not be disappointed."

 From somewhere behind her came the movement of heavy vestments, the creak of a chair as someone sat, then made themself comfortable for a lengthy vigil. She looked behind her again, unbelieving, sure her eyes were playing tricks on her.

 She screamed when she turned her head back to the robed Inquisitor. He was suddenly looming over her, hand upraised. The light flickered on a blade even as the hand suddenly descended, plunging the knife to the hilt in her left breast. Sylvia choked on the scream, cringing from the sharp point as she felt it drive deep into her chest.

 A lesser woman would have fainted on the spot. Sylvia was made of tougher stuff, honed by the years of punishment and pain meted out by her old master. She watched in awe as the hand jerked the knife free. The hooded figure paused, then pointed the knife at the girl's unmarked breast. "Eminence, it was as I thought! She is a witch. There is no blood." He held the knife high where Sylvia and the seated figure behind her could easily see the polished blade as he turned it to catch the light.

 Thoroughly rattled, Sylvia peered down at her breast, expecting to see blood pouring from the wound, despite the Inquisitor's words. The soft curve revealed no sign of any wound. Her nipple remained upright, stiff, showing her arrousal.

 With her last breath she screamed again as the Inquisitor attacked again, this time slamming the knife into her right breast. Unbelieving, Sylvia "felt" the knifepoint slice through her flesh, scrape against a rib before it entered her chest cavity. She knew she was wounded, felt the pain of severed nerves, cried out her agony.

 Yet, again she looked, and a stab wound was nowhere to be found. In real horror she stared at the hooded figure as he triumphantly raised the knife into the light. "See, Eminence, there is no blood!"

 Again the figure advanced upon her, but the knife was gone, in its place a dangling crucifix. "With this cross I accuse you of witchcraft," said the booming voice. He waved it before her eyes, repeating a lengthy Latin phrase over and over again, a chant. "Witch, repent, show me your devil's marks. Repent!

 Somewhere, Sylvia found her voice. Feebly she replied, "I am not a witch."

 "LIAR!" The voice echoed through the stone chamber. You insult his Eminence with your lies. Your breasts do not bleed, a certain sign that you have suckled the devil himself. If you will not repent and confess, we will make you, tearing every lie apart before you die in the flames."

 He turned and picked up the metal apparatus which had first caught her attention. He held it up, swinging it to and fro from the heavy ring. "Witch, you will not like our special helmet. It will hold your head firm while I search your body for the devil's marks. It will stifle your lies, stop your incantations from reaching mortal ears, choke off your magic spells, deny you contact with the devil, leaving you helpless."

 Even as he spoke the Inquisitor was moving toward her, opening the hasps, spreading it above her before dropping it roughly into place. Sylvia struggled against her bonds, helpless in her chains. She could have accepted the device if it had been just a helmet, but this was far more.

 To begin with, the headpiece was imposing in itself, but it didn't end there. There was a lower section which surrounded the neck, flaring out across the tops of the shoulders, looping through the armpits and down her chest to well below her breasts. When these pieces were closed, squeezed tight against her quivering flesh and locked and the chain at the bottom was drawn tight below her ribs, she felt as if she had been stuffed into a too-small box.

 There was more. A studded knob was forced into her mouth. A pin was shoved through the shaft and locked in place. She could not move her jaw or tongue without contacting the sharp studs and of course she was effectively gagged by it, unable to say a word. There was a click and a studded chin piece thrust against her upper throat, tightening her mouth about the cruel knob. Mocking her, a heavy padlock closed, locking the device that she was already helpless to remove.

 Her breasts were imprisoned in two extensions that stuck out from the plate over her chest. The insides were lined with tiny points that impaled the soft flesh of her breasts. Her turgid nipples stuck out through holes at the ends, as if inviting attention. Another locking pin went through her nipple rings, keeping her nipples extended, on display.

 When the Inquisitor was satisfied that every piece was in place, and tight, he lowered a chain from the ceiling and hooked it into the ring atop the helmet. Raising the chain he brought her to the tips of her toes, adding to the strain on her arms and legs.
She was trapped in the metal, helpless, hopeless.

 Once more he faced his horrified victim. This time his hand held four needles. "Witch, you may have powers beyond our knowledge, but I will ensure that you do not bring the devil into this room to help you."

 He held the needles close to her face, letting her see the sharp points. "Your devil cannot suckle at the sign of the cross!" With a leering laugh he grasped each nipple in turn and slowly pushed a needle through until the point came out the other side, passing through a hole in the steel that clasped her breast. Then he shoved a second needle at right angles, forming a cruel cross. Sylvia moaned in pain, feeling her orgasm building despite her fear, responding to the pain in her nipples. The slight movement of her body pulled against the needles, now taut in the metal. Her moan reached a higher pitch.

 "Again, Eminence, there is no blood. Her nipples stand witness to her witchcraft." With an evil laugh he picked up a small instrument from a nearby table. He walked back to stand in front of the fearful girl.

 "I have never failed to find the devil's mark. You will join the dozens of others I have tested, to burn at the stake. This tool has been annointed with holy water to protect us from your spells. Nothing will protect YOU from its search for the truth!"

 With that he pushed his hand forward, against her arm. Sylvia felt a sudden sharp burning pain, as the dull needle was forced into her skin. The Inquisitor's hand moved a fraction of an inch and again she felt the bite of the needle. Again she moaned. Startled, she realized she was about to come.

 Completely stunned and bewildered by the lightning speed with which she had been propelled into the midst of a torture session in the depths of an Inquisition prison, Sylvia found her mind reeling at the onslaught of pain. One part of her was feeding on the pain, building her orgasm, while the rest of her body cringed from the cruelty implicit in the device that was so tightly locked about her upper torso. The sharp pricks of the needle, one after another, each quarter inch segment of her skin pierced, forced her first orgasm nearer and nearer.

 Forgotten was the party, the humiliating questions, the shamed answers, the handcuffs that had appeared like magic in his hands. Even her new Master was blotted from her mind. The only reality was the constricting metal that bound her now, the drag on her neck from the chain hooked to her helmet, the burning needles criss-crossed through her nipples and the dull needle that poked and prodded at her flesh, pain stabbing with each new probe.

 As if gauging her impending climax, the needle moved faster, the pricks coming at shorter and shorter intervals. Just as she reached the verge, counting on one more prick to push her over the edge, the pain stopped. She moaned as she heard the gleeful booming voice of her torturer, "Eminence, I have found the first devil's mark! Here, near her left elbow."

 She felt the needle jabbing, but there was no pain. She fought to drag her faltering orgasm to fruition, but the pain had stopped. She moaned as the needle suddenly moved to another spot, again feeling her climax rising as the probing needle outlined a square inch of flesh that felt no pain. Even she was convinced, already pentinent for some quirk in her skin that allowed it to feel no pain, fighting the gagging knob in her mouth, ready to admit her guilt.

 The satisfied, sneering chuckle of the hooded figure sent a nervous twich through her body, fear stabbing at her like a handful of needles. The real needle jabbed faster, hurting, building the climax that raged impotently in her belly. The hand moved even faster, and she screamed against the studded metal that filled her mouth, the pent up energy releasing in a sudden rush.

 Her body, unbidden, thrashed against the confining metal. Through a haze she felt her nipples pull and twist against the steel needles that impaled them, tugging at her rings. Her head probed the helmet for room to swing back and forth, but she found not even a fraction of an inch of play. She suddenly realized that the noise inside the confining helmet were her moans, rising in pitch steadily, a breath away from another scream.

 The needle stopped. "Eminence, this concubine of the Devil has no shame! She has climaxed right under your very eyes. I had merely to touch the Evil One's mark and she spends, exposing her crime to every eye. With your permission, I will continue. I vow before the Saints to find every mark upon her person before she goes to the flames."

 Sylvia strained to hear the response, knowing it before the hooded head before her tear filled eyes nodded in agreement, knowing her torture would continue. The roaring in her ears from her pounding blood masked any verbal answer, but it could as easily have been a casual shrug and a slight nod, The horror had only begun.

 Her torturer "found" a second mark on the back of her hand, a third on her right shoulder, two more on her upper arm, more between elbow and wrist, each time forcing her to come with his probing needle. She was barely coming down from one climax when the next was upon her, overwhelming her. Her moans had long since given way to muffled shrieks, her body straining against the tight metal bands that encompassed her.

 At long last finished with her upstretched arms, the man in the hood returned to her suffering breasts. His practiced hands quickly turned first one, then the other into quivering, pain filled globes that seemed to swell with each prick of the needle, pressing against the studded metal cones that surrounded them in tight, inflexible bondage, and pressing into her chest, robbing her of the precious breath she needed to scream her pain to the world.

 The heavy mesh guided each thrust of the needle, row after row of holes into which the steel darted, prodding, poking, making pain a living part of her skin. More marks were found, more orgasms were forced from her, draining her strength, even as her will to resist crumbled. She begged against the gagging metal, pleading for the chance to confess her sins, admit her guilt, abase herself before her accusers and ask to be cleansed with fire at the stake.

 It was a good hour before the bloody needle reached the final row of the mesh high on her stomach. The hated point had wrung uncounted climaxes from her writhing body, leaving her exhausted, defeated. The booming voice of the hooded man filled the torture chamber as he recited the marks found from her waist to the tips of her fingers. The final words hung in the chill, slowly penetrating her addled brain,

 "Eminence, this devil's slut stands convicted by the sheer number of marks that the Evil One has placed on her willing body. With your permission I will chain her in her cell to await my continuing testing tomorrow. She will be more than willing to confess by then. Your blessing, Eminence."

 The hood bowed forward, deeply, almost touching her out-thrust breasts in their tight steel cages. "Thank you, Eminence. May God go with you, until tomorrow." Straining, Sylvia thought she heard the creak of a chair behind her as someone rose, robes making rubbing noises, then the sound of faint footsteps retreating into the darkness, She was jarred out of her lethargy by the clash of metal as one arm was released from the frame that held her upright and spread apart.

 Barely able to stand, she sagged under the weight of the metal on her upper body, dragging her feet together under her, feeling the strained muscles in her groin from being stretched for so long. A jerk on the chain attached to the ring atop her helmet sent her stumbling foward, following the lead of the hand that held the links, striving to keep her balance.

 The distance to her cell was measured in feet, but it might as well have been a mile for the exhausted girl. She stumbled, jerked against the chain, which was cruelly jerked in response, to bring her onward. The cell door stood open, waiting, as she was drawn inside. The man turned to face her. Deliberately he allowed her chain to slacken until the loop touched the floor. Lifting his foot he placed it on the loop, drawing sharply, tightening the chain, pulling her first to her knees, then sprawling onto the stone floor.

 She broke her fall partially with her unshackled hands, but the heavy metal confining her upper body  slammed into the stone with a loud crash, knocking the wind from her straining lungs. She lay, gasping, feeling the rings in her nipples twisting her flesh.

 The man stepped toward her. A foot caught her in the side of her breastplate, kicking her over onto her back. She moaned, staring up at the mold-stained stones of the ceiling. There was a jerk on her chain, dragging her helplessly a few inches.  A clash of metal and a loud click announced the locking of her chain to a ring bolt in the hard stone. Waiting shackles closed about her wrists and ankles, anchoring her spread-eagled body between four massive rings. She could feel the cold, rough stone tearing her flesh.

 Rising from his task of securing her, the hooded man stepped between her outflung legs. Gazing down at her for a long moment, he reached for the front of his robe, spreading it to reveal his rampant tool, hard and purple, bobbing with each pulse of blood. Grasping in firmly in both hands he aimed it, pressing down slightly so that the engorged head was pointing toward her face.

 "Devil's whore! You'll get no chance at this human cock. Tomorrow we'll probe your depths, your stinking cunt, dripping the the devil's juices. We'll find the teeth you hide in there to trap innocent men. We will expose you to the world for what you are - a disciple of the Evil One."

 As he spoke, continuing to revile her, ranting at her for her close ties to the Devil, his hands began to move, first caressing, then stroking his hardness. Drops of fluid oozed from the tip. As his accusations rose to a fever pitch his hands moved faster and faster, until with a deep groan he came, spurting his thick semen onto her body, some splattering onto the face of the mask holding her immobile head.

 Suddenly angry, he strode to the wall, grabbing a whip that hung waiting. In one quick stride he was back, slashing left and right, concentrating on the lower half of her body, but never completely neglecting her engorged nipples.

 "Damm you, confess! Confess, spawn of the Devil. Admit your sins!
 Sylvia, totally lost to reality, wallowed in the pain, deep in the scene, believing completely that she somehow had been transported back in time. She begged to confess, screamed her plea, chewed mindlessly on the stabbing points that filled her mouth. Some dim hope drove her to hurt herself thrashing in her chains, jerking her nipples against the needles pinning her flesh to the iron. She raked her tongue back and forth across the sharp edges of her gag, sick for the want of the taste of her own blood.

 Just as all hope was abandoned, just when Sylvia fully comprehended the torture she had been promised the next day and gave a shattered, defeated cry, just when......

 The cell door slammed open. It was Harry, suit and tie, a Magnum 44 in his right hand. Incongruous in the Medieval cell, but somehow fitting as a rescuer. The gun disappeared. Keys appeared. The chains fell away. The pin holding the bulbous gag came out, the gag following. Hands lifted her. A click and the ton-heavy branks lifted from her shoulders. The cool air of the dungeon found a wisp of matted hair falling to her eyes. He needed only a momentary glance into her staring eyes to assess her condition. He wheeled a flattened Gurney into the cell, rolled her onto it and moved her back to today. She passed out before he got her out of the cell.

 She awoke, totally confused. There were monstrous shackles and manacles on her ankles and wrists. Either she was still in A.D. 1400 or back in her boyfriend's bedroom. Harry's face broke through and she realized she was in a room she hadn't seen before - Harry's bedroom.

 "Rough night?"

 She nodded and groaned, gagged again, but this time with soft plastic. Young and healthy, she felt her strength surging back. The banked fires in her loins flared, white hot, remembering pain, feeling her bonds. Putting everything into her eyes she beckoned with her manacled hands, inviting him into her body.

 After the horror of the Inquisition his love making was tender and sweet, despite the obvious fact that she was totally helpless. Much later, she lay, exhausted, lost in the haze of unremitting arousal that he had created for her. She stirred finally.



 "Thank you, Master"

 "This is only the first hour of your slavery. If you thank me in a decade, a lifetime or an eon, then I would acknowledge your thanks as deserved."

 Feeling her servitude, she glanced obviously at her chains. She expected him to ignore her and she wasn't disappointed. She stirred again.


 "What!" He pretended annoyance.

 "Master, can we start with the second day?"

 His kiss nearly made her come.


 She awoke, locked in the branks, lying chained on the floor of the cell. Her nipples burned hotly. A good start to the day.