by Trent Evans
The familiar squeal of chair legs dragging across the cement sent chills down my spine.
“Keep your eyes down. Raise them before I give you permission, and it’s the cane. Understand me?”
I was already looking at the floor. “Y-yes…what’s going—”
“Quiet, Quinton.”
The chair made its way before me, closer than usual. But the pair of heels and smooth bare legs that appeared in my field of vision were not Anna’s.
“You may look.”
Ivy sat before me, close enough that I could smell the sweet, clean scent of her perfume — different than Anna’s, but enticing in its own understated way. She wore a patterned dress of blues and whites, the fabric loose, thin. Her buxom breasts threatened to spill from the low bodice. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her green eyes looking upon me with an intensity I’d never seen in them before.
Anna was nowhere to be seen, somewhere in the inky shadow beyond the harsh illumination bathing my prostrate form.
“Ivy, please what—?”
She shook her head slowly, bringing a finger to her lips. She leaned toward me then, and I flinched.
“It’s okay. Just be quiet and let me see to you,” Ivy murmured. As before, she checked my wrists, her soft fingers fluttering along the stinging abrasions at the back of my neck. She touched my cheek, and I met her eyes. Her lips formed a half smile. “If I undo the stocks for a minute, you have to promise me you won’t move, won’t try anything.”
“I—I won’t. Jesus, I—”
“Just nod, Quinton,” Anna’s voice growled from the shadows. “No speaking.”
I knew better than to answer, nodding my head even as my face heated. I may have been devolving into a lower life form, but it was one that still keenly felt shame.
The top part of the stocks were lifted away, and I moved my head enough that my throat wasn’t resting on the padded leather, my muscles screaming.
“This should help,” Ivy said, wiping the cream into each wrist, then spreading the cool gel across the back of my neck. Her fingers eased around, softly rubbing into my throat, the medicinal smell making my eyes water, but the relief almost instantaneous.
Too soon, the wood frame was locked about me again, and I made a frustrated sound through gritted teeth.
“I heard that,” Anna warned. My balls tightened at the sound, but I didn’t know if it was from fright, shame… or anticipation.
Ivy sat back in her chair then, for a moment looking upon me in silence. I couldn’t help but smile at her, hoping to get her to say something, anything, to break the tension. This was about much more than tending to my wounds.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Ivy’s hands moved to the hem of her dress where it dangled over her knees — and eased it slowly up her legs.
My mouth gaped as the smooth, plump alabaster thighs were revealed inch by inch, Ivy’s knees kept primly together.
“Not a fucking word, boy,” Anna said, her voice thicker.
I met the auburn-haired beauty’s eyes then as she drew the fabric still higher, her eyes glittering, her generous crimson lips open just the tiniest bit.
Finally, she stopped, the entirety of her lush thighs exposed, the sunlight making them almost glow. Her knees eased apart somewhat, the hem casting the briefest of shadows across the apex of her sex — but not enough to conceal the hint of silky russet curls there.
I had no idea what was happening, but my cock was hard almost immediately, pulsing with a strength borne of a deprivation I hadn’t experienced since at least my early teenage years. How long had it been since I’d come? I didn’t even know how many days I’d been here, but I knew for sure it was many more than I’d ever go voluntarily without spilling my semen in some convenient, compliant pussy.
Your days of doing much of anything voluntarily appear to be over.
Ivy’s gaze moved downward slightly, noting my reaction. She gave me a shy smile. “I see someone’s glad to see me.”
I tried to swallow down the growing lump in my throat, the heat flaring in my cheeks. Despite the shame at my erection standing up like a hormone-addled teenager, my cock seemed to have zero intention of cooperating with me.
Her slender hands moved to the open neckline of her dress, hesitating, then deftly slipping the bodice down under her breasts, revealing them in all their round, soft, naked glory.
No bra.
I was in serious trouble.
Ivy’s breasts were as generous as any woman I’d had in years, and I was unable to suppress a quiet groan at the sight, the nipples hard bullets, the pale pink areolas broad and smooth.
Nibbling on the corner of her mouth, Ivy paused, her glance sliding to somewhere behind me. Then she smiled again, rising from the chair, her dress tumbling back down to cover her thighs, my eyes unerringly following the gentle sway of her tits as she walked around me and out of my sight.
Fabric brushed against my ribs, then a hand rested upon my hip. “Try to relax, okay?”
Ivy’s voice was soft, tentative, but the grip of her hand around the base of my throbbing cock was anything but, her touch confident, firm, even proprietary.
“Ivy…” I couldn’t help blurt it out as her fist began stroking up and down, squeezing at the base on each down stroke. My balls had already pulled up tight, my mouth dry, breath coming fast and hard.
“Another word, and you’re getting ten with the cane,” Anna barked. “Mouth shut.”
I knew Anna was somewhere behind me too, and somehow that only made the shame burn hotter.
Ivy’s fist pumped my cock faster and faster, her hand patting my hip like one might a nervous animal bound fast in a breeding stall. In embarrassingly little time, I was almost panting, my groans continuous, my hips beginning to push into each stroke. I’d forgotten how good it felt to feel pleasure, to feel something other than pain or discomfort. I don’t know how long it took, but the pressure was building behind my balls, my thighs tight. I wanted to come, I was going to come. Blessed release was finally at hand.
Oh, thank God!
Then it stopped, and I bucked my hips, hard, against nothing but air.
“No… no.” It was only a whisper, but it was enough, a line of fire lacing itself across my ass. I froze at the shock of it, my cock quivering, hard as steel, the tip already wet.
Then stroke after stroke of the cane sliced into my backside, and I was grunting through gritted teeth at the fifth one, biting off cries of anguish at the last.
“When I say ‘not another word,’ I mean it, stubborn boy.” The rattan menaced my now half-erect cock. “I see serious pain didn’t take everything out of you after all. Hmm.”
No!
It didn’t mean anything, I told myself. I still hadn’t had to courage to contemplate why I’d gotten hard when she’d plugged me. The prospect that being caned might not make my cock flag either was downright terrifying. Caning others, watching the wheals fill and darken upon quivering female buttocks — that was what I’d liked. That was what I was supposed to like. I’d never once considered how it would feel on the receiving end. I’d known it was painful of course, but the clawing, searching, unavoidable anguish was a shock to me in a way I’d never imagined. It was a hot burn, then a deep ache, melding together, the wheals left behind swelling, feeling as if they pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
It should have made my cock wilt like a flower in the noonday sun; it had done anything but.
“Seems little Quinton here is full of surprises. Only the most hardened masochists are able to stay erect at all during a hard caning.” The tip of the implement tapped the swollen head of my cock, and the breath caught in my throat. “I think he likes pain. Well, my boy, you’re in the right place for that. Lucky you.”
The truth though was even more awful, and I stuffed it deep down, exiled it to an abyss my mind refused to allow itself to access. Some truths were too shocking, too earthshaking. What was happening to me?
“Go a
head,” Anna said softly, and once again, the hand wrapped itself around me, quickly bringing me to full erection once more, even as my ass ached, the marks ever more painful as they swelled. It was the hardest whipping I’d received yet, the level of pain such that I knew I’d be sore for several days. I wondered if I was bleeding even as Ivy’s clever palm spread my sticky precome over the sensitive head of my cock, making me groan. In seconds, I was ready to explode, my silent prayers even more fervent that I’d finally climb that summit. I clenched my jaw, my legs tightening to steel cables, my belly rigid, the hard contracting beginning deep inside.
And again, her hand pulled way, leaving me just out of reach. My angry groan was loud and long, but I had the sense to avoid uttering any words this time, the agonized seething of my buttocks reminding me what awaited if I fucked up again.
A hand smoothed over my tight scrotum, closing over it and pulling gently at my testicles as if to coax them to relax. I lunged against the stocks, the chains binding my ankles to the cement clinking as I pushed at the floor with my feet.
“He’s desperate to come,” Ivy said, a note of almost reverence in her soft voice.
“Then he’s exactly where he needs to be,” Anna murmured, pure sadistic pleasure in her voice.
Oh God no.
I waved my head from side to side, my protests bitten off, my teeth clamping on my tongue. I feared that cane, but I was frantic now, a deep ache already beginning to make itself known at the base of my balls, the start of what I knew would be pure hell if they didn’t let me come.
Just once! Fucking Christ, just let me come once!
I’d never needed to ejaculate so badly. It was as if a giant coil had loaded itself between my legs, the torsion, the tension ready to explode forth if only it were granted release. A tiny soft touch was all I’d need, and I’d succumb to the sweet oblivion of my climax.
So close.
My hopes proved utterly forlorn, dashed by the cold reality of my captivity, my helplessness. For the next hours — I had no real idea of the true passage of time — they brought me to the brink. In silence, that devilishly clever hand stroked, squeezed, the thumb worrying the slit at the tip of my cock until I gasped, the palm squeezing hard, until I groaned with it. My balls ached terribly. They took to waiting several minutes, in silence, until my cock softened, then Ivy’s hand would take possession of me once more.
I was delirious, the skin of my shaft sore now, the head of my cock slick and sticky with my precome, deep inside my prostate felt like a drastically overfilled balloon, my entire pelvis aching now. It was the worst case of blue balls I’d ever experienced. A mere touch to my testicles had me groaning in misery.
I wanted to plead, to beg them to stop, but I feared the cane so. The stripes decorating my ass throbbed almost as badly as my balls, the wheals burning as a bead of sweat ran down and met the abraded, cane-scorched flesh.
“You poor boy,” the deceptively sweet voice of Ivy whispered above my hanging head. She made sure I knew it was her finger that collected a dollop of the stickiness at the slit of my cock. Strolling around in front of me once more, I managed to lift my head again. Though she was petite, she stood so close that the fabric of her dress brushed my temple, making me strain to meet her gaze. Her eyes sparkled as I watched her hike up her dress once more, revealing the enticing auburn curls of her mons. She spread her thighs, her fingers pulling back the deep pink of her hood. She wiggled her glistening finger before my face, then touched that wet fingertip to her very red clit, coating it with my fluids. That finger swirled around that pearl, faster and faster, working her increasingly engorged bud.
My mouth hung open as I watched, mere inches away as she rubbed herself to a moaning, hip-bucking climax, the air suddenly spicy with the scent of her deep arousal.
“Something to remember me by,” Ivy murmured in a shaky voice, sliding a finger between sopping, glistening labia, then painting the tip of my nose with her fragrant wetness.
“Thank you, Ivy. I’ll see you in a moment.” The redhead sauntered into the shadows without another word, the door opening as she slipped out of the cell.
Anna, dressed in a cream, high necked blouse and rich slacks the color of onyx, took a seat in the chair before me. Crossing her legs, she leaned an elbow on her knee, leaning toward me, her crimson lips a tight line. “Do you understand yet? Go ahead, you can speak.”
“I—I don’t understand any of this.” I took a shaky breath. “I… said it. I did what you want. I don’t… I’ll do what you want me to do. I can’t take this anymore.”
The truth of it flooded through me. I just wanted to know what to do now. The pain was breaking me down, the exhaustion, the shame, the degradation. I’d do what I must — to obey. At that moment, I thought I’d do anything at all.
“Do you still think you have control over anything here, Quinton? Anything at all?”
“No.”
“No, what?” She fingered the cane, the sight of the pale yellow rattan making my buttocks clench involuntarily.
“No… Anna.”
“Wrong. You no longer have the right to call me that, boy.”
“I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“What am I, Quinton?” Her heel bobbed before me, the nails of her slender toes painted a glossy amethyst. “What do you finally understand? Who is it who sits before you? What are you to call the woman who controls everything about you?”
No!
Inside though, the words were ever more seductive, the truth, just now peering around the corner, becoming as undeniable as my surrender to it. To her. Maybe it was pure survival, maybe this was simple coping, psychological bargaining, rationalization.
Or maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome.
“Please… this isn’t who I am! What I am. I’ll… I’ll obey. But — this isn’t me. You can’t — please don’t make me do this.”
“That desperate, disobedient cock of yours seems to have its own ideas about what it thinks you are, about who it wants — and about what you want. That never lies, stubborn boy.” She lowered her voice, leaning still closer, her words as soft as they were devastating. “I want to hear what I really am to you, from your lips. How long do you think you can deny the facts, Quinton? How long do you think you can hold out on giving me what I want? What we both want?”
“I don’t know what that means,” I whispered, looking down, unable to meet that brilliant, implacable gaze. Unable to confront the inevitability of her words, the pure truth.
“You do know. So say it.”
“No.”
“Say it!” Her words were harsh whispers, steel wrapped in velvet. “Say who I am. Tell me who owns you.”
“No!”
Panic rose within me, and I thrashed against the stocks, the wood creaking and cracking, my wrists and neck screaming as I yanked at the merciless bonds holding me fast, crying out at the searing pain as my abraded skin finally gave way, blood slowly meandering down my wrist.
Then her hand touched my cheek, and a stillness came over me, the touch so gentle it stunned me into silence. Her gorgeous all-seeing eyes bored into mine, though her gaze was no longer hard, her mouth soft, kind, offering solace, absolution.
Mercy.
“Give me this, Quinton. Release yourself. Take the next step.” Her fingertip caressed my lower lip. “Say it for me, boy. Say what we both need to hear. Tell the truth about what I am to you now.”
I met her liquid gaze, and the warmth and understanding I saw there made my voice crack, a painful lump growing in my throat as I whispered the most important word I’d ever uttered in my young life.
“Mistress.”
Chapter 12
He’d spent so much time in the stocks that even released from them, but still on his knees, he was bent over his legs, as if he’d become accustomed to the demeaning, submissive position. She found she rather liked the look on a naked, kneeling male.
He knelt on the floor, pleasingly silent, his wrists boun
d together, ankles chained to the floor. His eyes watched her as she paced before him, her heels clacking on the floor, echoing all around them.
This was a new morning, the first of many steps she’d take with him on making him into what she wanted, what she desired, and what deep down, he needed. Rather than Darynn waking him, Anna had taken her place, rousing him from his makeshift bed along one wall. He’d only been allowed a few sheets to lay on, but he’d managed to create a functional bed mat of sorts from it, something that at least took the edge off of sleeping on the cold floor of his cell.
On his knees just outside the boundary of the sunlight shining down from the single overhead window, his head was bowed slightly. His hair, the edges of it just illuminated by the light, was getting longer such that it hung a little bit in his eyes. The wild look was appealing in a way she wasn’t sure how to describe. Perhaps it fit in with the general theme of breaking him down into something… less.
Every now and then, his gaze flicked down to the plate before him, the still-warm bread, the white tendrils of steam that rose from it illuminated by the bright shaft of sunlight pouring down before him.
“Darynn tells me you turn your nose up at your food two days out of three.” She snapped his shoulder with the flapper of her crop, noting the way his muscles were slimmer, his already slender form threatening to transition from rangy to wiry — and not in a good way. He wasn’t eating enough — and more importantly, he wasn’t getting the vitamin D the bread was fortified with.
That was going to stop right now.
“I don’t want it.” His voice was more a mumble than speech.
“You don’t want it, what?” She stopped before him, tapping the side of her open-toed heel with the crop. “You will learn the proper way to address me.”
“I don’t want it… Mistress.”
“That’s better.” She loved that it was hard for him to say it, that it still felt foreign, that it continued to make him blush. Soon enough, if she did this right, speaking the word would be as second nature to him as breathing. “One of the things we need to get clear — right now — is this: what you want no longer matters. At all. Your job, the only thing you need to worry about, is to please me. And the best way to please me, is to do as you’re told. Any time. Every time.” She stopped before him, tucking the crop in the crook of her elbow. “Do I make myself clear?”