Trained to Obey 1

by Bruce McLachlan

  The sentence of such training lifted another question. How had they discovered her ability to detect the mutant genes in others? The only one who could have suspected had been killed. How had they found out? Had she been under surveillance? Was that how the officer had managed to set herself up as a prime candidate? Had they scrutinised the women she sought? Followed her into the sites she frequented? Studied what she studied to find the perfect match to slot into the escort service she most frequently used? She felt her cheeks blush as she realised that the officer would know every vice, every pornographic image and story she had used to stimulate herself. The time spent lingering on any one picture could betray her onanism, reveal that which she found most erotic. Also, the thought of a group of KGP computer programmers sitting there before their monitors, each knowing full well what she was doing made her stomach knot with shame.

  The woman approached at a steady march, the smooth burnished rubber across her chest shimmering with her saunter, her power like a wall around her, a sense of uncompromising authority and will that made Kirsten sag into her restraints. Despite her being KGP and therefor Kirsten’s mortal enemy, she was still beautiful and captivating.

  “Well, let me welcome you to our little training facility. It’ll be your home for awhile, though I can assure you it’ll seem like a lifetime. There is no escape. Any resistance you display will only serve to elevate your suffering, and no one here cares for your plight. In this underground domain, I rule without question. I am supreme, and the sooner you learn to grovel and worship me as your goddess, the sooner you can be of use,” she broadcast, lifting the stout weapon high in readiness.

  Holding it poised, she made Kirsten’s anxiety bloom fully and her body strain against her restraints in a vain bid to escape. Ordinarily she could snap leather as thin as this but her strength was gone—her muscles struggled and fought but could not break the fabrics. The seams groaned to hold her but did not part. Somehow she had been subdued.

  Upon a soft murmur of displaced air the strap fell, clapping to her exposed thigh and making her wail into her gag, the monstrous flare of suffering through the skin like a flash fire. The weapon came away, leaving behind a rosy welt and a soft pounding pulse that had her whimpering in a bid to endure. Again it fell, targeting her splayed thighs, the rapid applause as she was viciously attacked filling the room while muted howls emerged from the gag amidst burbling hisses and lines of manic drool.

  The pain of the mere strapping was more than she could take, her only desire to slip from under the kiss of the leather or find some means to appease her attacker whose sensual relish in her work was wantonly apparent.

  Trapped in the chair, Kirsten’s muscles battled the straps, her tendons raised, saliva dribbling from her spread lips as she burbled and hollered. Her toes and fingers clawed for freedom, her world filling with the image of the simple strip of leather that dropped onto her, punishing her grievously, churning her thoughts with havoc.

  Ceasing her assault, the officer drew back and examined the ardent glow she had etched upon Kirsten’s flesh. The prisoner grizzled in despondent misery as her skin pulsated with venom, reviling such barbaric treatment.

  Kirsten gathered her breath, panting, wheezing through her nose as saliva rolled from her chin. In the aftermath of the punishment she shuddered with elation, a strange wondrous high that followed on the heels of the ardent heat of the strapping. The flow of endorphins thundered through her, making her quiver, her thoughts swimming. She was weeping freely, but not from sorrow, more from a profound sense of exorcism, of being purged, of facing such trials and coming through sloughed of all guilt and impurity.

  It made no sense. While it occurred the attack had been terrible, but now, she was glad that the woman had been so meticulously savage with her initiation. She also almost wanted a repeat, to taste the succulent zenith of emotion she had just attained, to go further, to experience more. The fledgling fixation with perversity her isolation had cultivated snapped starved jaws to her ordeal, devouring it and bellowing for more, finding the bitter fare of discipline greatly welcome on its palate.

  But the officer could see no difference in Kirsten, she only saw the tears she had come to expect from a chastised slave. The woman could not tell that Kirsten ached to drop forward and kiss her boots, to abase herself before the one who had done this to her, to show her gratitude and reverence in full.

  “You are not a human being—you are a mutant freak. A base creature who is blessed by being used for the higher goals of the genetically pure. Through subservience to our goal you can gain some shred of redemption for the crime of being abhorrent. By your very nature you mutants are rebellious, evil, and wilfully destructive, but you will be taught your true lot. Now I’ll begin preparing you for your new existence,” she purred, lifting Kirsten’s chin with the strap to assess her turmoil before setting it aside.

  Closing back in she swiftly began to unfasten the restraints, leaving Kirsten to sag in the chair, her limbs chaffed from the fight to break free. Only the gag remained, the network of straps still firmly locked about her head, robbing her of an accurate response to this woman’s words.

  “Get off the chair and get on your knees,” commanded the Major.

  Kirsten tried to rise with a resentful glare, seeking to hide the truth until she had time to dwell on it and think things through. She found her limbs unexpectedly weak, as though the beating had drained the very life from her body.

  “I said, UP!” spat the dominatrix with severity and hurled a skimming swipe across Kirsten’s shoulder, the searing burn of its caress driving her to new levels of effort.

  With a twisting fling she cast herself forward, trying to carry herself into a walk only to have her legs fold beneath her like jelly, dropping her onto her front. She needed to know why she was so frail. Where had her might had gone? But with the swollen balloon choking her voice she could say nothing. Flopping onto her side she clawed at the accursed instrument, the dull ache that had been kindled in her jaws still rising from the perpetual rictus the device enforced. Her fingertips brushed across the stern straps, finding them sealed with locks she could no longer break.

  “Wondering why you are so feeble, slave?” asked the woman with a mocking glee, pacing around the felled form with a steady step. Kirsten watched the polished boots pass by, the shadow of her oppressor falling across her, the cold floor seeping its radiant chill into her front. Against all reason she wanted to caress herself, to mull over her abuse, but her sense of decorum forebode it. Kirsten found that she could not offer up her dark tendencies so easily, not after years of keeping them hidden along with her very existence.

  “When we saw to your bullet wound we implanted a neural inhibitor in your brain stem. At my whim I can rob you of as much or as little of your monstrous potency as I wish. Your grotesque freak powers will not avail you here, slave” she added, nudging Kirsten with the toe of her boot in a disdainful fashion, impressing upon her the sheer helplessness of her situation.

  Kirsten was in abject torment from having her powers stripped from her. It was worse than being rendered an invalid or to have a sense amputated. She had always had her superior strength and speed. It was a source of comfort to know she had such a massive advantage hidden and ready to aid her no matter what the situation. Now it was gone, stolen away by this villain.

  She wilted beneath the gaze of the woman, suddenly riven with a terrible fear, her enfeebled condition making her quail in a state of terror beyond any she had ever experienced. It was like being a child again, deserted by all relatives in a strange and frightening place.

  Replacing the weapon with its brethren the officer touched another section of wall, exposing an arsenal of restraints from which she selected a set of cuffs. Kirsten floundered and started to back away in fright, causing the woman to stop and remove a lengthy slender cane from the wall.

  “If you want another lesson in obedience, slave, I’ll happily oblige you,” she sneered, her eyes sparklin
g with malevolence as she watched the naked woman cower from her approach.

  As it slashed through the air the weapon sang a high pitched and threatening tune, further serving to intimidate as Kirsten quaked beneath its shadow. She knew a cane would be far more heinous an implement than the strap and she was afraid of how much it would smart, especially now that she knew she had no hope of resistance, that her only secret ace had been torn up before her eyes.

  “Get on your belly, slave,” the Major demanded.

  Kirsten froze like an exposed animal, unable to acquiesce to such a thing, yet afraid of the consequences of disobedience. Her indecisiveness was banished as the female stomped forward and hurled an overhead slash down into her flank. The bite of the cane was infinitely worse than the strap, its fulgent line exploding through her skin and making her shriek into her gag. Instantly she dropped to her front, clutching the throbbing weal as her eyes watered from the pain that continued to linger, fading at the most awful and tardy rate.

  Rough hands clasped her arms, drawing her elbows back and applying the manacles just above the joint, buckling them firmly to immobilise her. Kirsten resisted as best she could to feel her defeat, not only show that she was not a willing prisoner but also to savour the roughness of such treatment, to be manhandled and bound by the woman. What was happening to her? Had something else been introduced along with this implant?

  Succumbing to her captors whims did nothing to prevent added use of the cane, for it flew down with asperity to strike her rear and the backs of her legs, gouging into her with a steady monotony. Wailing, she kicked and tried to shield herself. Rolling around in a vain effort to hide from the methodical attack failed to do any good—her attempts at evasion only opened more of her body to the mordant bamboo. Searing stripes painted her body, the aimless brutality inspired solely by a desire to relish Kirsten’s subjugation, to show her that her captor bore no reservations about brutalising her prisoner. Kirsten realised then that she was in true danger of being fully rendered compliant, for under this mere initial attack she was ready to do anything to end the mistreatment.

  The last blow flashed onto her breast with a laconic flick, doubling her up with a muffled shriek. Quivering in shock, her body dotted with tiny beads of perspiration, she sagged into a listless heap of recovery. As her body settled, so too did her mind, sinking into a crapulent haze. It had felt gloriously satisfying to be bound thus, to be caned mercilessly, the woman oblivious to Kirsten’s wishes. What was going on inside her? She could not fathom how she could be finding a covert pleasure in this terrible violation of her rights.

  “You are forbidden to speak without permission. Spontaneous conversation and opinion are things that human beings should enjoy. You are far removed from such a state of existence and will consider yourself lower than a beast, for even animals and insects are at least genetically sound, unlike your corrupted unnatural tissues. You will refer to me as Mistress when I permit you speech and you will act with supreme reverence towards my person. Do you understand?”

  Kirsten could not believe or process this level of verbal attack. The imprecations spewing from this woman dripped with bile, of genuine loathing for her and she was defenceless and condemned to the iniquitous care of this tyrant for as long as she could survive or until she could successfully fake a docile and domesticated nature. However, the words not only offended but also aroused, the humiliation of being told how low she was, how lofty her owner was in comparison to her. The years of media propaganda against mutants had passed her conscious mind and seeped into the subconscious, wherein dwelt her submissive streak, feeding it, telling her she deserved punishment, to pay for her crime of being different.

  Kirsten felt as though she were losing her mind. Three very different characters were in her mind, fighting for control of her opinions. One demanded that she revile and fight to the bitter end, standing up against oppression. Another was more careful, arguing for her to play along, trick the woman and escape, to take the best chance for her survival and escape. But the last, darkest voice drew from her warped sexuality and seductively offered her the life she had tried not to fantasise about. This voice spoke from her libido and it was shedding levity with every abuse the alluring officer heaped onto her.

  A hot trench ate into her body, the violent strike bringing her attention firmly back to the situation. Clutching the throbbing injury she glared up at the malefactor and nodded sombrely.

  “Good. Now follow me on your knees, wretch,” she spat and applied a fearsome blow to the sole of Kirsten’s foot, the tender tissues proving to be more sensitive and susceptible to pain than almost any other zone. She screamed into the gag, her arms battled the cuffs and she spent a minute to recover, her foot burning with distress, her eyes shedding tears of rage and confusion.

  After reminding Kirsten of her dominance with this amerce the officer turned and walked leisurely towards the door, tall and erect, assured of Kirsten’s crawling pursuit.

  With no options available to her, the beleaguered mutant hauled herself up and began to shuffle forward, solemnly falling in with a limp, her breasts thrust forward by the binding of her elbows. Her eyes wandered lasciviously upon the woman’s back, unwittingly panning across her rounded shoulders, the curves of her back against the rubber sheet, her rear and legs, moving against the loose trousers. She was a magnificent sight and Kirsten’s mind dripped with the passionate memory of their coupling. Startled by her own thoughts she shook her head, trying to fling them out. This woman was a tyrant, she was a despot, she was Kirsten’s enemy and had to be loathed.

  The door slithered aside in respect of the Major’s mere presence and remained open as she loitered in the doorway, awaiting Kirsten’s exit and indicating to the left with the thin rod.

  Jerking upright Kirsten gurgled and swayed, dropping back onto her rear as another stroke touched her thighs, connecting the two regions of soft flesh with a penetrating welt. Huddled into a ball she again was forced to strain and fight to weather the brutal tempest of suffering the cane so easily distributed.

  “You can move faster than that, slave!” She snapped.

  Kristen broke into a speedier gait and the sudden acceleration grazed her knees as she sought to acquire the rate required of her in this short underground corridor.

  Roughly eight doors lined each side of this dreary wing and another occupied each end, one of them being the access point to the lift that had brought her here. The Major marched past, the door shutting in her passing as another ground open when she drew close and indicated for Kirsten to enter.

  A light flickered on automatically within the chamber, its bleaching white glow pouring out into the corridor and lighting up the fierce licentious grin of the officer.

  The small room held a long strip light overhead, the dazzling bulb fully illuminating the cramped interior, revealing the solid steel chair rising up at the heart, its stern limbs arrayed and armed with thick buckled straps. Connected to the floor by a wide base the fixed furniture seemed to loom in the brightness like some dark creature, the refractions upon its polished corners akin to knowing winks of malice.

  Kirsten’s heart sank to see it for such comprehensive restraint suggested she was destined for some outrageously barbaric abuse.

  “Into the chair, slave,” came the terse demand, the woman lounging against the side of it, offering her a seat with a casual wave.

  As though she were marching to a site of execution Kirsten began a long voyage across the floor, trembling as she came to the foot of the chair and then freezing, petrified. Her ability to submit was failing her, this chair promised things she could not know and dared not face.

  “I said into the chair,” growled the officer and fired a sideswipe into the pausing captive, making her spasm but failing to gain her obedience. Kirsten’s joints fought the bonds, trying to slip the cuffs, her hands reaching around trying to find access to the shackles.

  With a sigh of impatience the officer repeated the blow, causing
Kirsten to reconsider and take a folded step forward before withdrawing it, restoring her refusal to obey. She looked to the woman with imploring, trying to find some shred of pity. The weapon arced around again, the thwack of its bite echoing throughout the room, subduing her weak cries of protest.

  Kirsten’s ability to sustain this sort of abuse shattered and fell away, causing instinctive flight. Whirling back she threw up a leg and leapt upright. In a mere moment she was out of the room and sprinting down the dark corridor, her tremulous path weaving from one side to the other, her puny state making the mere act of running a maximum effort.

  The erratic route grew more acute with her dizziness until she collided with the smooth panel of a wall, knocking her shoulder and lifting an intense stab of pain from the newly healed bullet wound. The flesh had regenerated but the tenderness remained, the impact upon her injury making her lurch aside and wobble upon her feet. Desperately she fought away a swoon. Taking faltering steps towards the lift access she grimaced and held onto her quest.

  Upon reaching the plain door she looked for a means to open it but the slot was the only optional keyhole and without the card this door would not open. She could not access her only means of escape. She was trapped here.

  Slamming her foot to the fortified portal she shouted into her gag and dashed for the nearest door, hoping to find something to aid her in her plight. The door failed to move for her, its mechanism only tolerant of the diabolic officer’s proximity and Kirsten’s bound arms pawed at its surfaces in impotent panic, trying to find a hidden control.

  A booted foot fell upon the floor and into the light trickling out from the awaiting torture chamber. In mortal jeopardy Kirsten barged the door, gurgling and weeping in fright as she listened to the steady march closing in upon her. She did not look round, she did not need to see the vengeful angel of darkness moving in to make her pay for her crime, so she simply leant against the door and vented her despair.