Punishing Pamela

by Reese Gabriel

  “Indeed,” he arched an eyebrow. “That’s an advantage I may press one of these days.”

  “You mean again,” she added, her lips trembling slightly at the reference to their prior intimacy, short but spectacular. For a moment the possibility hung in the air of a second go round, but something seemed to be holding him back—and maybe her, too.

  “Better get to bed,” he shooed. “School comes early and I hear the principal at your school is a bear about punctuality.”

  “A wolf,” she corrected slyly.

  “Good night,” he kissed her hand. “Fair princess.”

  “Good night,” she bowed. “My prince.”

  Pamela floated to the front door. She was hearing violins in her head, seeing fireworks—all those girlish things she thought she’d left so long ago, back on the other side of that one cruel night with Hal that had changed her life forever, making her into a different kind of creature. The sort of woman whom a man did not court or show kindness.

  “Well, well,” called a male voice through the crack in the door, the sound of it dark and distinguished as well as eerily calm and collected. “The Prodigal Daughter returns…at long last.”

  Pamela froze, her hand on the knob.

  “Don’t just stand there, girl. You’ve kept me waiting long enough as it is.”

  Dazed, she closed the door, her knees ready to buckle, a thousand questions in her mind, and only one possible answer. Lorenzo’s VIP john, the man to whom she owed her total obedience and submission for the night, had somehow snuck into her house.

  “Have fun did we?” the man on her sofa wanted to know. “Out on a date were we?”

  His silver hair was cut short, styled in a way that indicated great wealth. The suit, a tailored Italian pinstripe, would go for at least two thousand. For some reason she cringed looking at the shoes. Pure leather. Italian. One loafer over the other, his legs crossed, arrogantly, powerfully. The gold watch on his wrist alone would match her annual salary. He wasn’t half bad looking, trim and in good shape for a man of fifty or so, except that she knew what he was underneath and what he was here for.

  “How…how did you get in my house?”

  He tugged idly at the French cuffs, clearly enjoying her terror and confusion. “I was given the key. I took the liberty of parking in the garage. I hope you don’t mind."

  “Just tell me what you want from me,” she said mechanically. “So we can get it over with.”

  The intruder cocked his head, curious. “Bold, aren’t we…for a slave. Lorenzo wasn’t trying to deceive me, then. You really have lost your conditioning. Yes,” he studied her. “It’s true. From the looks of you, you’re nearly virginal again.”

  Pamela straightened herself, mustering her pride. She was on the verge of tears but refused to let it show. “I’m my own person now, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you know how much I paid for the privilege of hurting you tonight, Miss Pamela Haley…or should I say, Miss Renfrew?”

  “No,” she replied curtly, her eyes focusing past him onto the Van Gogh print on the far wall. “I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  “You will look at me when I’m addressing you, girl.”

  Pamela trembled. The sudden shifts in his tone, from polite to bordering on menacing, was unnerving her worse than would have a beating. There was something about being called a girl in such a condescending, overpowering manner that had always made her feel weak and worthless, like something under a man’s shoe.

  “Since you won’t guess, I shall have to tell you. Your pretty little ass was worth a million dollars to me, Pamela. Can you believe that? Call me a sentimentalist,” he sighed.

  Pamela stiffened. Had this man had her before? There was no telling, in the dark, so many cocks, so many hands, fucking and using and taking her for hours at a time, positioning and moving and penetrating her, like a doll, a pleasure toy without feelings, without limits. And her, adding her own scent and liquid to the others, coming for them as they came for her.

  “Show it to me,” he said abruptly, making her jolt. “Show me the flesh I’ve purchased at such dear cost.”

  Pamela pulled the tank top over her head. The cool air hit her naked breasts, tantalizing her already erect nipples. It was the worst kind of signal to send this man, making it look as if she were wanting the very abuse he planned to heap on her.

  “So you’re a teacher now,” he continued conversationally, as though she weren’t in the process of revealing bare panty-less crotch.

  “Yes.”

  “English literature, no?”

  She nodded.

  “The shoes as well, if you please.”

  Pamela kicked off the flats and stood for him, nude in her own living room.

  “I could have had you in my dungeon,” he explained. “But I prefer to do it here, in your own environs. There will be an after effect, of course. It won’t be possible to look at your house, your rooms, the floor, the carpet, even the ceiling in quite the same way again—not after what is going to happen here tonight.”

  The room was beginning to spin. Pamela longed to lie down, to kneel, to crawl, anything rather than stand here and be subjected to this cruel discourse.

  “We’ll begin in the bedroom. I will rape you on your own bed, and once that is out of the way, we’ll get down to business. I noticed the mechanism for your automatic garage door—the metal brackets along the ceiling. We’ll be able to chain you to them quite easily. You even have a sawhorse in there; how thoughtful of you. Can you imagine yourself, Pamela, tied over that rough, splintering wood, your ass and cunt and backside completely exposed to the assortment of instruments I have at my disposal? What will it be, my dear? The rattan cane? A paddle, perhaps? The bullwhip, maybe? Or have you something else in mind? A savaging with the dildo, perchance? A good old-fashioned ass fucking? Which will you beg for? Which will hurt the least, or contrarily, which will you desire most?” He was reaching into his pocket now, the motion sending waves of panic through her body.

  She had to get control of herself. If he were to gain the upper hand at this early juncture, she would never make it through the night.

  “Put these on,” he tossed the clamps, gleaming silver and connected by a long chain.

  Pamela caught the nipple clamps in midair. They were the screw on kind, with tiny serrated edges that trapped the nipple on either side, squeezing it like a vise. She shuddered at the touch of her own fingers upon the gleaming metal. So many memories…the hours, days of endurance under the pinching, gnawing sexual pain. Expertly she fit them to herself, capturing mercilessly the already engorged nubs. The chain hung down between her breasts, reminding her of other things.

  “Tighten them.”

  She gave each a twist. Enough to make herself wince.

  “Tighter,” he insisted.

  Pamela was loath to give herself pain, and yet if she did not, the man would do worse to her, she was sure.

  “Enough,” he said at last, having forced two extra turns from her. “Now finger yourself. Mix the pain with desire.”

  The blonde teacher was breathing thick and fast. The blood was rushing to her head, the almost forgotten rush of physical agony. Using her nails, she dragged her fingernails down her trembling belly, on their way relentlessly to her already dripping snatch.

  “Bring yourself off,” he told her, his own voice darkening a shade.

  Her eyelids were heavy. She looked at him, openly panting, legs spread wide, doing his dirty, disgusting bidding. One flick of her clit and she was shivering, ready to pop.

  “Come,” he pressed. “Come now.”

  “Yes,” she hissed, caught up in his web, his devious design for her undoing. “Master.”

  She hadn’t expected to use the word, anymore than she’d planned on squirting upon orgasm. The fluid came like a sudden summer shower, spurting across the room, staining the carpet, drenching her legs and toes. It had been so long since she’d climaxed like that. In truth, it had ne
ver happened to her in freedom; only in captivity.

  Pamela fell to her knees, unable to sustain herself. The waves of orgasm were receding but now she felt the agony in her breasts, twice as strong, twice as hard. She wanted to tear off the clamps, but she knew that would bring a pain all their own. “Please,” she whimpered. “Master.”

  The man showed no mercy, no signs of relenting. “Tighten the clamps again, Pamela.”

  It was in that moment she knew herself truly to be his slave and him to be her master. What a moment ago was a mere word was now reality. Pamela bit her lip against the pain. What a wimp she was now, unused to torture. She’d have endured this easily in the old days, even begged for more as a sign of her usefulness as a good cunt and whore.

  “You’ve grown soft, Pamela,” he seemed to read her mind. “You need discipline. This teaching business, it’s done you a disservice. Tell me,” he said, re-crossing his legs, “which are your favorite poets? I’m partial to Lord Byron myself.”

  “T-Tennyson,” she stammered, falling onto all fours.

  “Ah, yes,” he mused. “‘The sailor home from the sea…’ True words of nobility. But those are male sentiments, Pamela, male aspirations. You are a female, are you not?”

  Pamela’s wet yellow hair hung to the floor. “Y-yes, Master.”

  “Females are designed to comfort the male. They are ornaments, objects of pleasure. Baubles for the returning warrior. Are they not, Pamela?”

  “Y-yes, Master,” she replied, in no position to argue.

  “Crawl to your bed now, Pamela, and wait for me, on all fours. As you wait, I want you to think about what is going to happen there; I am going to rape you, Pamela, but not before you beg me to.”

  “Yes,” she repeated for the third time. “Master.”

  It was all she could do to remain on hands and knees as she moved. Her tits swung low, every movement bringing them to swelling, reddening torture. She’d never felt the carpet on her palms and knees, had never known what it was like to be a slave here. Eye level with the electrical outlets, everything out of reach. The refrigerator, the furniture, even the toilet if she did not happen to have permission to void.

  Just like with Lorenzo. For months after Nick had affected her escape, she’d been afraid to simply sit on a chair or take a meal for herself, so thorough was her training.

  The kindly detective used to joke with her about her calling him at work to ask if she could make coffee or take a cookie from the jar. She’d been like a little child all over again, which is probably why he’d waited so long to make love to her. He was more like a father than anything, strong and stern, a big teddy bear that would never let anything bad come near her again. He’d been a teacher, too, the one and only man in her life to equip her for freedom.

  “I’m not going to control your life,” he would lecture on his way to work every morning. “Once I’m out that door, you can go where you want. Run off to Spain, join the circus…even go crawling back to Lorenzo, if that’s what you really want. It’s up to you. In here you’re safe, but eventually, you’ll be ready to leave the nest.”

  For days at a time she would sit in the middle of the parquet floor in the bedroom, wearing only the pretty white nightgown he’d gotten her, just thinking of all the possibilities while sunlight poured through the window onto her face and bare feet, her legs drawn up as she thought about all the things she might do. Make a sandwich. Watch a television program. See a movie.

  It took a while to break all the bad habits. To stop herself scrubbing on hands and knees all day, cooking a seven-course dinner and greeting him naked, on her knees head to the floor at the end of his shift.

  “You’re free,” the burly cop would chide good naturedly, unhitching the shoulder holster of his mammoth sized weapon. “And if you don’t stop pestering me, I’m gonna toss you out on your ass.”

  Eventually things sorted themselves out. Pamela stopped jumping at every click of a light switch and fantasizing about Nick tying her, beating her and fucking her every night. She found some books on his shelf. Shakespeare. Plato. And the Romantic poets. Tennyson. Keats. Shelley.

  “I want to go to school,” she’d told him one day.

  He set it up for her, far away in a place Lorenzo would never find her. Then he got her seed money, helped her pick out an apartment.

  “I guess this is goodbye,” he said as he was about to drop her off.

  “I guess so,” she’d whispered, across the passenger seat of his unmarked cruiser, the sadness almost too great to bear.

  “Good luck, kid,” he’d crooned.

  That’s when she’d kissed him. Thrown herself at him really. There was so much built up heat between them they almost didn’t make it up the stairs. He took her on the floor, in the middle of the pile of donated clothes and household goods. His hands intertwined with hers, his strong muscular body enveloping her, she’d shown her thankfulness, giving him the full pleasures of her whore’s body. For that night, though he never made a single request of her, she was his slave, his own property, a little slut for him to do with as he wished. For her own part, she’d never known such orgasms—the bliss of freedom mixed with that familiar old feeling of captivity, of obligation to this man who had saved her life.

  “Marry me,” he’d said the next morning, over juice and coffee at a diner across the street.

  His request left her at a loss for words, so totally wanting to say yes, feeling like she should, and yet in the back of her mind, despite the puppy dog face in front of her, there were all those speeches of his, ringing loud and clear.

  Be free. Choose your own destiny.

  “Oh, Nick,” she’d breathed, the tears welling up. “I—I’m sorry, but…”

  He didn’t wait for her to finish. Brushing off the finger she’d put to his cheek, he grabbed the check. “That’s all right,” he stood gruffly, his every emotion once more hid behind his tough cop exterior. “It’s better this way.”

  That was the last she ever saw of him. Except for the checks he sent in the mail. Five hundred dollars a month, all the way through school. She’d written him a couple of times, most recently when she’d gotten the prestigious job at Ivy Dell, but he hadn’t ever responded. She’d never had the guts to call him. Maybe one day—even soon—she would.

  But what would she say? Would she beg for his help? Ask him to take her back? Or would she tell him how wrong he was, that she wasn’t meant for freedom, but for captivity, at the hands of a relentless, even sadistic master.

  “Have you been thinking?” the silver haired man broke the silence, his silky, raspy voice, his foreboding presence at the doorway.

  Pamela clenched at the spread with her small fingers, balling them. She was facing away from him, utterly unprotected, totally submissive and waiting for him to fuck her, hurt her, play with her, whatever he wanted to do. Rape her was what he’d said…but not till she asked.

  For the moment he seemed to be enjoying playing with her mind.

  “How many times have you made love in this bed, Pamela?”

  “Never,” she whispered, exhaling the lonely secret.

  The crop bit viciously into her ass, as horrible as it was unexpected.

  “Never, Master,” she corrected herself quickly.

  He rewarded her with a caress down the length of her slit. “Good girl. And have you ever masturbated in this bed?”

  Dozens of times…hundreds.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” he struck her again.

  “I-I…yes, I’ve masturbated,” she replied frantically.

  “And what do you fantasize about?” He ran his hand over the welts, long and throbbing. “While your fingers are stuffed in your nasty little hole?”

  The rubbing was worse than the whip itself. Pamela feared she might pass out. “Please,” she moaned. “No more…I’ll tell you…I think about men, strong men, men who can—who can…”

  Pamela screamed as he whipped the under soles of her feet and the crack of h
er pussy in rapid succession. “Out with it you recalcitrant bitch!”

  “Men who can take me,” she cried. “Who are strong enough to use me for their pleasure.”

  “You’re a natural slave,” he softened his tone. “Tell me more and we’ll see if we can make some of those dreams come true.”

  She shook her head, determined to fight this invasion—a raping more deep than anything he could do to her body. But when he stuck a pair of fingers up inside her, working her to a needful froth, she found herself unable to resist answering. In a low moan, like she was all alone or writing in her dairy, she began her confession.

  “I wish for a pirate or a dark prince,” she sighed, the pain in her still clamped nipple and freshly whipped ass receding before the needs of her cunt, “who will sweep me off my feet and take me to an island. I would be reluctant at first, but he would lay down the law. He’d make a switch, from a tree branch, and he’d use it to correct and tame me. I’d have to take my clothes off and serve him naked. Cooking his meals, washing his feet, warming his bed. If I disobeyed or acted like a brat, he would take me over his knee, or tie me up to a tree. He’d be very firm with me and I would love and fear him, his hands, his cock, his steel gray eyes, his will of iron. He would make his complete creature, and I would kneel at his feet and acknowledge him as my lord and master.”

  “How touching. Now let’s talk about the reality.” He was over her now, having swiftly penetrated with his cock. “You’ve already been a slave and you know what it’s like. No fantasy islands, no handsome rogues.”

  “No,” she agreed, groaning as he filled her, once and for all stamping his mark and ending the mind games. “It’s…not like…a fantasy.”

  He pulled back on her hair, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. “Most men have no interest in a woman’s pleasure. Did you know that? Did you figure that out in your time with Lorenzo? They are not like romance book heroes. They want relief for their cocks and entertainment. And above all, power. The thrill of being able to spill themselves into any cunt they fancy. Isn’t that right?”