"You're Fired!"
by Raul Roget
Copyright 2007 Adults only!

Chapter 7: Drag Ass Time

There's an old nautical expression for when an anchored ship moves about. It's described as "dragging your anchor." Slave was in that very position, except she had a pair of anchors to drag through the sand. To Slave it felt as if the sand was turning to glue behind her, snagging the anchors and making them jerk and pull against the chains locked to her ankles. Just moving her booted feet in the cloying sand was a serious problem. Moving two dead-weight anchors as well made it first order punishment.

She was winded by the time she completed the first circle. Ramos seemed to ignore her fatigue, constantly urging her on, adding a little more weight behind each series of lashes. She barely finished the second round, slumping in her harness, sawing air in and out of her lungs. Ramos swung. There was no reaction.

"We'll finish this tomorrow. In the meantime you get to keep your boots on. Any complaints and you get to drag your anchors all over the house."

He unlocked the anchors, but he left the short chains attached to her shackles, mute warning that the anchors could be reattached in seconds. Now she had to avoid backing up and stepping on the chains, which might send her legs flying out from under her. He left the anchors, half buried in the sand.

Slave made it through the rest of the day, fighting the ballet boots constantly, always teetering on the knife edge of overbalancing. Her hands were chained behind her, both denying any help in cushioning a fall, and prohibiting their use as a balance aid.

By bedtime her legs burned from her toes to her hip sockets. Her feet were molten pain, squeezed and cramped. She knelt at the side of the bed, expectantly waiting for Ramos to unlock and remove the twin torture instruments. Ramos ignored her silent plea, still annoyed that she had lasted such a short time on the merry-go-round.

He motioned her onto the bed, mentally daring her to raise her eyes to his in a forbidden plea for mercy. He was almost disappointed when she studiously avoided eye contact. He filed her intended punishment away, for some future transgression.

He admired her naked body before walking around the bed. He made a point of attaching the lower corner chains directly to her boots, a not-too-subtle way of letting her know that he was well aware of them and intended for her to wear them for the night. She realized that this would have been the wrong time to make any sort of plea and felt a small surge of pleasure that she had abided by his wishes.

The little surge was drowned in a great big surge a few moments later. Ramos put one knee on the bed and lifted himself onto the bed and half across her waiting body. His fleet fingers flew to her hot spots and Slave responded instantly, amazed that her torture had allowed arousal to sneak up on her. The pain faded into the background as her breathing became harsh and her body thrummed with excitement. Dimly she realized that the punishment - the pain - WAS the arousal. Unbidden her body bucked and bounced, writhing and twisting, tugging at her bonds.

Her breathing merged into intense moans of pure pleasure, louder and louder. Ramos laid a finger on her lips, warning her. Instantly she was silent, only her heavy breathing making any noise. She locked the moans in a secure compartment in her brain, where they could rattle the walls and add to her enjoyment. With surprising clarity one thought stood out. 'I didn't have to ask him to screw me!'

His ego satisfied, Ramos had now fully mastered her. She had asked to be fucked. That request covered everything until the day came that he disposed of her, or she rebelled against his authority over her. It was as close as he would permit her to top him from the bottom.

Her tired body gained strength from somewhere and she rose to meet him, stroke for stroke. She was in the final stages, wondering what he would do to her if she begged an orgasm. Ramos solved the problem with a few words, "Come, with me."

She felt his hardness stiffen, if anything, harder. It seemed to go past any depths reached before, driving past her clit and her G-spot with a friction that could not be denied. His first spurt was like a cannon going off, recoiling inside her. She came, and broke the silence with a wailing scream. The climax was so strong it hurt, eclipsing the pains in her legs and feet.

They lay side by side for several minutes, slowly coming back from wherever they had gone. Ramos released her and swatted her ass as she stumbled to the bathroom, holding his juices inside her with her hand. A single white drop escaped, sliding down her thigh, burning like a brand on her over sensitive nerve endings.

Ramos gave her a decent amount of time to clean up and then followed in her footsteps. She was washing between her legs when he walked in. She didn't look up but immediately began to worry that she had broken some rule, taken too much time, or some other problem that would end in punishment. She hurried to finish as he stood, splashing loudly in the toilet. She drew a lesson from it - a slave may view her naked Master, but it is the same as if a dog or cat was looking at him.

She wondered if she could watch him fucking another woman with that kind of dispassion. She chided herself, 'You're a slave. What you see doesn't mean a damn to your Master. Get used to it. You're nothing but property - just like the pickup in the garage.' She had a momentary flash of the pickup, her Master and some other woman going at it in the box. Perversely she immediately wanted Ramos to take her in the same place. Her brain clamped down. 'That's plain old jealousy! Can it, stupid!'

She knelt again at the bed. He came in, almost on her heels. This time she got rid of the hated boots. He sat her down on the edge of the bed and unlaced the boots. She nearly climaxed at the wave of pain released by the tight laces. She held it through the removal of the first boot, but a guttural groan announced her relief as the second boot came free.

"One more of those and you'll be standing in them for a day or two. I didn't order you to groan."

"Or come," he added, noticing the glitter of moisture beading on her pussy lips. She digested the warning as he spoke, her knuckles white as she strained to avoid reaping the whirlwind.

The next morning she ate from her bowl with her feet bare. Her young flesh had absorbed the marks of the too tight leather and there was no sign of her fetish footwear. She had an inkling that bare feet were about to get shod again and she was right.

The boots appeared the instant the kitchen was clean. With all the baggage of a virgin sacrifice, she arched her feet and slid them into the waiting leather. In a few minutes if was as if they had never left her feet. Her toes melted before the laces were fully tight. A wisp of leather, left behind by some unknown artisan, vied for space with her left foot, pressing into her flesh, with nowhere else to go. She knew that by the end of the day it would feel like the whole cow was inside that boot.

Once the hobble chain was locked to both, she must perforce walk. Down the stairs, into the dungeon. Her sandbox lay, silent, as if gathering strength to impede her steps. The harness hung open, a clutter of straps. Ramos already had his favorite whip.

She stepped into the sand, feeling it slump beneath her feet, dragging her down, and back. The routine was already established. 10 laps at full speed. The previous day's time a goal that MUST be beaten or there would be consequences. As Ramos said it, it had an unpleasant ring. Slave knew that their execution would be much more than unpleasant.

The starting gun for this bondage race was the whip that Ramos was caressing in his hands. Her equipage now included blinders that gave her only tunnel vision of the sand ahead. Thus she could not see the whip rise, circle and crash land on her jutting ass cheeks. She yelped in response and forced her foot to travel forward to the length of her hobble chain. She was off and running - well, off and walking.

Ramos gave her no help, beyond the constant flicker and slap of his whip. He never told her the times that she chalked up. The only indication was his growl if she failed to surpass the figures on his clip board. She was forced to go all out to ensure success, knowing that if she set too fast a time she might not be able to best it the next day. There were too many variables. Like yesterday when she wore those damn boots all day and well into the night. She wouldn't have made one lap if Ramos had taken her to the cellar again at the end of the day.

Apparently she was still tired, as she failed by one second to match her best time. Almost as if he expected her to lose, Ramos had a remedy ready. He sat her down and removed her boots. Then he donned a pair of leather gloves. Slave watched  with mounting concern. She had been giving the forge a wide berth, but she was close to it now and she wasn't familiar enough with it to realize that it wasn't going.

Ramos had other things in mind. He opened a box and brought it directly in front of Slave's face. She looked in and saw a jumble of green leaves and stalks. Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out what this was. Comprehension never came, until later.

First he drew several lengths of narrow tape. Then he gingerly reached in the box and pulled out a couple of leaves. He attached them to the tape and then reached down into her boot and taped the green to the arch. He repeated with the second boot. Slave was fidgeting, writhing in her chair, now all too aware that he was taping nettles inside her boots, right where her arches would get the full effect.

The boots went back on, if anything tighter, as attested by the extra length of laces, wrapped and tied. And padlocked. Slave's nerves jangled like Christmas bells. Her nervous system lied to her brain, claiming contact and infusion of the horrid stingers long before the green nettles touched her skin. The real contact set off explosive shudders that wracked her body. It wasn't so much the pain as it was the interminable itching, unreachable, deep in the stressed leather. Her cuffed hands moved behind her back, fingers clenching, so far, so hopelessly far from the itch she would give anything to scratch.

She tried to hide her reaction, knowing her Master would see, and use this knowledge against her. If he could control her with nettles it would solve his problems of dealing with penalties that depended on pain. Despite her pretense, Ramos had no trouble seeing the terrible effects of the nettles. Only one small area was affected. What if he made her sew a lining of nettles in a spandex garment and then locked her in it, with her hands unable to touch her body? The mental picture caused his rod to stiffen in anticipation.

As the itching steadily increased, her breath was coming in shorter and shorter pants. She opened her mouth to beg. She thought better of it and closed it. Seconds later, driven half mad by the itch she opened her mouth again. Closed it again. Opened it again. Ramos could think only of a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen. Slave opened her eyes wide for a second, staring blankly. Without a sound she toppled over.

Ramos checked her pulse and breathing, both normal. Taking his time, keeping a watchful eye on her, he unlocked and unlaced the boots. When her foot slipped free of the leather there was a bright red patch on the sole of her foot, matching the shape of the nettles fixed inside the boot. The other foot had the same red patch.

He decided to continue her punishment, but he kept a jar of ointment close at hand to end the itching after it had made his point. Slave stirred, moving her hands behind her. She murmured, "Got to scratch. Got to... scratch." Ramos grasped her wrist as she clawed at her back, his touch waking her.

He warned her, "Not a word. You're already in trouble."

She tried to move the arm he was holding but he easily held her in place. She looked down at her feet, the itching renewing as if working off a switch. She lifted the leg with the heavy manacle, staring spellbound at the redness. She frowned and lifted the other foot, mentally comparing the effects. She kept silent, at severe cost, waiting for her Master to comment, explain, or just talk to her. She almost stopped breathing, wondering what she had done to deserve his harsh reminder.

Due to a lack of hands she couldn't scratch. She could rub her foot against the opposite calf or shin. She started to do it, only to feel Master's grip tighten in warning. She resigned herself to itch. Ramos paid silent tribute to her resolve. He knew from experience what she was suffering. He remembered other times, other girls. Lots of screaming and tears.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, Master!"

"Going to set a new record on the merry-go-round?"

"Yes, Master!"

"Want me to stop the itching?"

"Yes, Master!"

"What would you do to stop the itching?"

She paused for a second. The question was unexpected and her brain was totally scrambled. She said the first thing that came to mind.

"Fuck, Master?"

He laughed. "You already gave me that."

She studied a tiny defect in the floor, her addled mind racing. She tried again.

"Slave, Master?"

"What kind of slave?"

"Devoted, Master."

"What else?"

"Pain, Master."

"So, putting it together, you will be my devoted, pain slut, slave?"

"Yes, Master!"

"That's not much beyond what I already have from you. Anything else to sweeten the deal?"

Slave pondered. At last she squirmed her arms from behind her, pointed to the boots and spoke, "Special, Master."

"You will accept special punishments, that others would consider cruel and unusual?"

"Yes, Master."

"Without complaint?"

"Yes, Master!"

Ramos gave no indication of his acceptance, other than to pick up the jar of ointment and her foot, carefully applying a thin coat. The itching stopped by the time he picked up the other foot. She wanted to gush her thanks at the sudden relief, but she remembered her place.

Slave was pleased that the incident had given her the opportunity to pledge her allegiance to her Master through her one-word answers. She was smart enough to realize that at least part of this had been staged to give her the chance, that otherwise might be considered softness on the part of her Master.

Ramos in turn was happy that he could make an object lesson of his slave, teach her a thing or two and still make it look like she earned her relief with her bargaining.

The rapport between Master and Slave had more far reaching consequences. She had opened the door to his storehouse of punishments. He had reached the conclusion that her biggest value was simply as a pain slut. That meant that while her training might take more time, it would not be as dependent on penalties that revolved around pain.

Slave was traveling a different road to the same conclusion. She was well on the way to accepting any pain her Master chose for her. Beneath this was a deep-seated love, awe, reverence and fear that framed her response to his training methods. She would already defend her Master to the death, and in her eyes he could do no wrong. She didn't have to tell him as he read it easily from her body language.

Looking back over the short weeks since he took charge of her, it was easy to see the rapid changes in her thinking, her attitude and the way she looked at her Master. To have that single-minded devotion and get paid for it was the thing dreams are made of.

As Ramos considered the road ahead, his plans might otherwise have been very unsettling for his slave. They centered on things that hurt, testing new restraints and equipment. Ramos already knew that she would accept willingly, no matter what he sprung on her. She would be surprised, but she would never complain. Her word was good.

Chapter 8: Changes

It had been a month since Ramos was hired by the Trust to train the girl that now answered to Slave. He was satisfied with the progress he had made. Slave might have disagreed on a point or two, but Ramos was not interested in her viewpoint. He had a job to do and she would have to conform, like it or not. It amused him that he could propose the worst possible torture and she would not dare to say "No." That in itself was progress.

He looked down at her bare back, framed by her shackled arms as she ate from her bowl. He was mulling over the mental list he was making - activities that would tug the ever tightening noose of slavery about her neck.  He glanced at the chrome-plated box he had laid beside his plate. He half-smiled as he considered her thirst for pain. That was a milestone that most women refused to pass, or admit. Where else would he find a slave who wanted a heavy shackle riveted to her ankle and accepted it as her due?

The list was already lengthy, but it was a live, rather than a dead list. The contents flickered and changed constantly, new ideas added, old ones discarded or dropped lower in the rankings. At the moment there was only one contender at the top of his list. Slave was moments from finding out her fate for the day.

When her bowl was polished clean she knelt up. Ramos automatically checked the bowl, knowing that she would not stop until it was in perfect shape, also licking up any morsels that might have dropped to the floor. Slave stared at the floor, that tiny knot of slave worry always there. His order was unexpected.

"Put your tits on the table."

Masking her surprise, Slave turned 90 degrees and shoved her breasts forward until the edge of the table stopped her. Ramos appreciated the presentation and unbidden, his hand reached and his fingers caressed, then tightened on her nipple, pinching and rolling it. Slave made no protest, enjoying the attention and soaking up the minor pain involved.

Ramos picked up the box and opened it. He tossed a ring that skidded to a stop between her twin peaks. It rolled into her line of sight and she looked down at it, knowing instantly what it was. Her Master was going to put the ring in her nipple. Typically female, her very first thought was, 'How am I going to hide that monster when I go out?'

Her question almost answered itself when she remembered that she had not been out of the house in a month. So far, Master had given no indication that she would ever leave the house again.

A second object came from the box and slid into view. This was a shackle. Not like the iron on her leg. This was a miniature nautical shackle, a "U" shaped rod with a cross rod screwed into  the open ends. That cross rod would go through her flesh. The other part would accept fingers, twine, string, rope, chain, or whatever else Master would use to control her and direct her movements.

She hoped against hope that he would not put these two radically different appendages on her breasts, but that wasn't what Ramos had in mind. The two were in unspoken agreement  that she would not be saddled with two different ornaments.

Ramos picked up the ring and held it to her nipple, letting it sag down. Then he picked up the shackle and held it in the same place. Slave suppressed a sigh of relief. Without commenting he put both back in the box. Taking her leash he guided her down the stairs, and put her on a chair near the forge, which had a small fire glowing in the center. After lashing her to the chair, with bands of rope above and below her breasts, he fanned the fire to life.

Then he attached a bracket to her chest ropes. Twin clamps pointed at her nipples. Ramos screwed the cross arm down until he could pinch the clamps on their targets, then turned the screw the other way until her breasts were pulled into cones. Slave choked down a moan. At this point he decided to blindfold and gag her. Slave cursed under her breath. She wanted to watch her virgin flesh get pierced. Ramos heard, his mouth making a wry grin. Pain slut!

A red-hot stainless steel needle did the job, cauterizing as it slid deep in her flesh, well behind the nipple, coming out in perfect alignment. Slave screeched into her gag, tossing her head impotently. He coated the bar with antiseptic and slid it through the hole in the shackle, through her breast and out the other side, where it screwed into the other arm of the shackle.

Slave mewled, drawing a snarl from Ramos. "Nobody gave you permission to make noise." Meekly she went silent, except for her stentorian breath noise. She waited, half expectantly, for Ramos to do her other nipple, but he left her alone to recuperate. She was actually on the crest, aroused by the pain and needing a second piercing to trigger enough pain. Once past the first piercing, Ramos intended to do one every few days until she was decorated from head to toe.

His footsteps came near. Her blindfold was pulled away. She stared down at her new adornment, turning the pain into pleasure. Ramos held her boots where she could see them. "No rest for the wicked."

She peered at the boots, trying to see inside, to see if the hated nettles were still there. Ramos laughed at her. "Either way, you wear them for 10 laps. If you don't beat the time, THEN you can worry about nettles!"

Walking with the little shackle on her breast was a whole new adventure. The piece seemed to weigh a ton and it bobbed with a life of its own as she hobbled to the ring. She was secretly pleased that she had survived the most stringent method of piercing, with a hot needle and no local anesthetic. Despite the distraction of the pain of her new jewelry, Slave bested her previous time by two seconds. It saved her a fresh bout with the nettles, but Ramos was already putting her next trial into view. Slave looked at it, suspecting the worst.

The object was a 55 gallon drum. It was standing on end, with the upper end open. Ramos grabbed Slave and easily lifted her above the barrel. When her booted feet were centered, he lowered her into the drum, her chains rattling against the metal walls. She curled in a heap, taking up less than half of the space.

Ramos reached in and grasped her chin, bringing her eyes to his.

"You have a problem with making forbidden noises. I like to make the punishment fit the crime, so you will find your little prison to be rather noisy. You won't suffocate as there is a three inch hole in the side, but I'm sure you will be very happy when your time is finished."

With that he laid the end on the drum and closed the clamp, locking the end to the drum. In her cramped position she could see light streaming in the side hole, close to her face. She had room to stretch out a bit, but if she did her head would be a distance from her air supply.

Suddenly the drum tipped onto its side, sending Slave sprawling. Her head hit the end, a painful bump. She had a momentary panic when she lost sight of her air hole, the tight space getting to her as well. She had never had claustrophobia, but what she was feeling right now fitted the clinical description of the phobia.

The barrel started to roll. Slave tried to stay upright on her hands and knees but she soon was tumbling helplessly as Ramos rolled the drum by shoving it with his foot. He rolled it back and forth across the dungeon several times, then tipped it end over end back to his shop. He picked up a two pound hammer and swung it softly against the side of the drum. The impact echoed through the big room.

Inside, the effect was near catastrophic. Slave's ears rang as the closed space magnified the sound. It was like being inside a huge bell. Ramos was unaware that his hammer hit the drum just a few inches from where Slave's head was pressed against the metal. He did hear the clatter of her chains as she hastened to take up a position in the center of the drum, as far as possible from the sides and ends of the barrel.

He struck the end a blow. Slave was facing the other end, but this was no protection from the sound waves reverberating through the drum. She vividly remembered his words, "I like to make the punishment fit the crime."

Slave spent a very bad day. After the first two or three hammer blows on her prison, her ears rang constantly, so she couldn't hear what was going on, or whether her Master was close by. The only indication would be the sudden boom of the hammer. Some were evenly spaced, at other times he would strike three or four times as fast as he could swing. There was no need to swing harder. A metal barrel will make lots of noise, with very little effort.

Lunch was not served in the drum. Ramos did put a glass of water with a long straw to the air hole. He had to tap several times to get her attention, but then she quickly sucked the glass dry.

Her day ended at suppertime. The lid was unlatched and Slave, meek and contrite, backed out of the drum on her hands and knees. She swung her body and found his feet, kissing them for the first time. Ramos looked down and smiled. "Lesson learned!"

He reinforced her lesson and then sprang his trap.

"Have you learned your mistakes?"

"Yes, Master!"

"Are you going to continue to make forbidden noises?"

Slave stared at his boots in horror. A "No" answer was strictly forbidden and would draw instant punishment, perhaps putting her right back into the barrel. She had said it only once in a month of training. She tried to evade by shaking her head.

Ramos was not to be tricked. He held the whip hand.

"That's a 'No' answer, just as if you spoke the word. What is the rule on a 'No' answer?"

"Forbidden, Master."

"At least you have a little memory when you want to," he said  sarcastically. "Punishment deferred."

She had dreaded the two words. She preferred instant punishment for her sins. She knew she would spend sleepless nights worry as to what the penalty would be. She had no way of expressing this to Ramos, but he already was aware of her reaction and used it as a weapon against her.

Actually she didn't have long to wait. The next morning after breakfast she was informed that her punishment would be to have a shackle riveted to her other leg. Her face showed no reaction to the news, but her body twitched almost imperceptibly, but not escaping past Ramos.

Slave approached it with considerably more calm than the first one. Knowing what was to come and that she was not going to be branded did a lot for her nerves. She welcomed the offsetting weight which would give her back her sense of balance.

She had second thoughts when they reached the basement. Ramos had a brand heating in the fire. He drew it out and held it up for her to see - an ornate R. She was momentarily tempted to tell him where to stick it, a pointless rebellion that would accomplish nothing and surely would bring on complications. She knew very well that he was merely trying to scare her. The bad part was that it worked perfectly. Her mouth was dry and she could feel her pulse racing.

Ramos read the fear in her eyes. Satisfied, he put the brand back and moved the coals around the rivet to perfect the heating. He got the shackle from his bench, closed and clamped it on her leg and then used his tongs to get the almost white hot rivet. Slave rested her foot on the anvil as Ramos guided the rivet up through the hole. His hammer peened the rivet into place and then he dropped her foot and leg into the waiting water tank.

The next little byplay was not lost on Slave. When he pulled her leg from the tank, he carefully inspected the shackle, wiping it with care. He ignored her dripping foot, pointedly showing Slave the difference in value.

He motioned for her to walk. Her movements were at once those of a young woman, with only the faintest trace of a lag because of the extra weight at her ankles. Her hips swung normally again, doing interesting things to her ass cheeks. Ramos called her back, detailed her faults and set her walking again. This time she handled the weights perfectly. There was the slightest compensation at her hips, causing her butt to swing just a bit more. Ramos enjoyed the view, mentally planning for her tenure on his bed.

A perverse thought struck him. Slave found herself goose stepping, swinging her shackled ankles waist high in front of her as she postured across the room and back. She was panting hard when he stopped her, but she suppressed the sounds and made sure that she made no other sound, trying to keep in her Master's good graces. He made no comment. He took her old shackles and unfastened the chain, transferring it and the locks to the new shackles. He tossed the old ones in a bin, for another time.

Two mornings later he had the chrome box in his hand when he came down for breakfast. It rested on the table unopened until she had cleared the dishes away. He held it down low, making sure she saw it, still without a word. She had easily broken a dozen rules so there was no need to talk about it. He led her downstairs and roped her to the wooden chair facing the forge where the needle lay, soaking up heat.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming as it wormed its way through her flesh, her teeth almost drawing blood. When it was over she had a matching pair of miniature shackles, framing her seemingly permanently erect nipples. Finished, he grasped the little shackles with his fingers, drawing her effortlessly to her feet. Effortless for him. For her a painful demonstration of the raw power he now held over her.

She went straight from the chair to the ring. A pair of thin straps, previously unnoticed on her harness were threaded through the shackles. Buckled, they pulled hard on her breasts. Ramos started her with his crop and she had an unpleasant surprise. The straps seemed to go directly to her legs and each step dragged on the appropriate breast. She worked hard to get through the slippery sand, but only tied the previous time. Management took ties.

Several days later the box appeared again. Slave had a sinking feeling, trying to guess where the next ring would go. Her guessing game was interrupted by the doorbell. Slave was poised to run and hide, but Ramos stopped her with an impatient gesture.

"Answer the door!"

Her eyes opened wide and a protest started her mouth opening. Ramos glared at her. "Delay!" was all he needed to say. Slave crawled to the door and reached up to open it. She knelt back as a white-coated man carrying a large satchel walked into the room, barely glancing at her nakedness.

Ramos greeted him by name and welcomed him. The two talked for several minutes, obviously friends. They completely ignored Slave, who remained kneeling after closing the door.

At last she became the topic of conversation. Ramos shook his head. "I don't know what her problem is, but she breaks rules faster than I can write them down. I want you to do the job on her - I just don't have the experience - and since she has problems with instant obedience I'm going to have you add a thing or two. Let's go downstairs and I'll show you my new blacksmith's shop."

Slave listened intently as their voices faded, leaving her with a growing case of nerves. Other than an occasional laugh or the sound of metal against metal, she couldn't hear anything.

After a few minutes, Ramos yelled up the stairs, "Come down here, at once!"

Her "Yes, Master" was automatic as she scrambled on hands and knees across to the cellar stairs. As required she came down head first, dragging her pierced nipples across the edges of the steps. The two men were waiting at the bottom. The stranger was grinning as he watched her come down.

Her chair had been moved. Now it was backed up against a post. Ramos seated her, tied her upper body to the chair and then used duct tape to pin her head against the post. The other man grasped her breasts and pulled them up, looking closely at the shackles.

"Good job. You don't really need me." He continued holding her, fingers palpating her flesh for a long moment. Ramos watched, pleased that his friend had complimented his work, and happy that he found her charms worth touching.

"Come on, Terry. It's more fun to watch than to have to concentrate on doing a good job."

"Guess that's why I get the big bucks. This is just so much meat on the hoof."

"When the Hell did you ever pierce a cow?"

"Cows, no. But I probably have put nose rings on a couple of hundred bulls."

Ramos laughed heartily, both at Terry, and at Slave, whose eyes had widened up to her eyebrows, hearing "nose" which told her what was in store for her. At that, she only knew one small part. Had she realized what she was in for she might well have opened the door and made a run for it. It didn't look it, but she was sitting there, in tight bondage, of her own free will.

Terry set his bag down on the table beside her. Ramos adjusted a spotlight to shine in her face, blinding her for the moment. Terry began laying tools and little boxes out, neatly arranged. By almost closing her eyes she could see part of the table. She was getting spooked by the mystery surrounding what Terry was going to do to her.

Terry held up a large punch, showing it to Ramos. He shook his head and pointed to the needle, heating in the forge. Terry nodded. The punch was so much swifter, but it hurt ten times as much.