A Tough One

A Tough One

She wasn’t exactly pretty. Attractive, yes. Intriguing, sure. Some — most — might even say beautiful. But pretty? There lay a kind of hardness in her features, making it difficult to connect her to terms such as “cute” or “twee”.

I would call her Rho, for her real name was of no consequence anymore. ρ, the sixteenth letter of the Greek alphabet. Or, minding that it was to be a proper name, the capital form: P.

Rho owned the lithe body of a runner (actually, she had been a semi-professional fencer until some years ago). Right now this very body, nude and firm, was struggling and wriggling to get free from the sole chain that was tethering it. The woman felt the ring in the back of her stainless steel posture collar, grabbed the chain’s end locked to it, pulled. Grabbed the chain’s other end fixed to the concrete pillar that bore the cellar ceiling, pulled again. Finally she forced her fingers behind the collar from above in an attempt to pry it open, to break its lock. All in vain, of course.

I had let her be uncuffed intentionally. Not being able to free herself even with the use of her hands would frustrate her nicely. There would be severe arm bondage soon enough: reverse prayer, armbinder, strappado. She appeared tough enough to dangle from the ceiling by her arms pulled up behind the back for the better part of a night. I was indeed considering to apply this punishment, given her current attitude.

“You sick fuck! Get that shit off me! Now!”

If she was still dizzy from the sedative, she did a hell of a job not showing it.

“I’ll get you for this, you bastard!”

As the more perceptive amongst you may have realised by now, Rho wasn’t gagged — a circumstance of which she took advantage to full extend. In flowery phrases she outlined my supposed impotence, genetic degeneration and fondness for homoerotic practices. “Cocksucker” and “arsefucker” were the most quotable expressions of the latter.

Well, with cocksucking I could not serve, but let’s see what I was able to do about the other one…

However, her accusations were tiring me. Eventually, she would be without a gag only a few minutes each day, if ever. Better break her in to it in time. The next foul word would earn her some mouth hardware.

“Fuckface!”

Thank you.

I chose the multipurpose ring gag. Stainless steel, heavy duty. Far too large to be worked out by tongue and jaw movement. Nonetheless it was fitted with four “spider-legs” around the circumference to keep it from being flipped — even if I decided to do things to Rho’s mouth which would be considered anatomically impossible by people with less imaginative potential than me. Or sadistic potential, for that matter.

First things first, so I closed in to her with a set of shackles. No stuff from the Internet, but manacles forged to put on a victim, throw away the key and let her rot in them. Rho hissed another profanity and kicked at me. I was impressed that she was capable of this action.

For a reason to be revealed later on, I had laced and locked her into punitive fetish boots while she had been unconscious. The soles were sharply angled and only level off somewhat near the toes, as you might see it at medium-severe pony boots. They were the precursors to ballet boots, which her feet would suffer from the next phase of her training on.

I spun her around and pressed her against the pillar, capturing her arms in a nasty grip. She writhed for all she was worth, but I managed to trap her wrists in the fetters — after getting her elbow in the ribs twice, that was.

I secured her upper arms as well, forcing her elbows to touch, which made her squeal nicely. Her legs remained in freedom, at least for now. Still chained to the pillar, she was not going anywhere anytime soon. Besides, I didn’t want to give her an opportunity to knee me in the face (approach from the front) or lash out (approach from the rear).

What was next?

“How dare you tying me up, you depraved pervert?! You will bleed for that!”

Right, gag. In fact, I was about to do Rho a favour. Such a language was just beneath a well-educated woman like her.

The spider gag came with a full head harness, and a very strict one, too. Even the chinstrap was additionally secured by separate belts running around the neck. Somewhere in my considerable collection I had a panel gag with a similar feature. But on it the straps would run down the sides of the chin, cross and — still the same straps — go around the neck. Not the clean task sharing one could find on the model that was to become Rho’s new best friend. It had a decoupling of vertical and horizontal force application, if you are into that technical stuff. What did it boiled down to? That the brunette bitch would bite the steel ring, no matter what. That she would taste iron. That she would undergo the sickening sensation of bare metal on tooth enamel. No leather wrapping. No rubber cover.

Whilst she was putting into question my general sexual orientation (again) and the size of my genitals (that was a new one), I produced the harness and showed it to her. Rho stopped her tirades long enough to give me a look filled rather with incomprehension than with fury. She did not know what to think of the contraption in my hand, but was in doubt about my good intentions.

With my free hand I sized her head unceremoniously from beneath, using a special grip that put unbearable pressure on the jaw joint within reach. Rho opened her mouth automatically, both to lessen the pain and to reward me with a distinctive scream.

When I had finally manoeuvred the ring into place, my fingers were pretty sore. She had bitten me several times, but luckily parts of the gag-gear caught in her mouth had prevented worse injuries.

I wiped her saliva off my hands with my shirt, letting the complex tack dangle for the moment. The metal loop was so large that I had had to angle it in order to wedge it between her jaws. Rho would not be able to push it out in time.

With fingers dry again and less smarting, I attended to the most satisfying business of harnessing my unruly prisoner. The main strap running to the back of her head was first, and the way it pulled the ring further into her mouth was just delightful.

Rho yelped every time a new strap cut into her flesh, and I made sure they do cut, and cut deeply. More than once she tried to abscond within the limits of her tether. To bring her back to heel, I occasionally tugged on her chain, or — a little meaner — on her elbow bondage. The procedure took me some minutes, for I had a bit of a struggle with the high collar as well as with her mane.

Eventually, I closed the last buckle. Neither it nor any other of its kin would open soon. The harness was fully lockable, and I had no intention to remember where I had left the keys.

I stepped back to admire my work. Yes, very nice! The strict bondage forced her chest out and put a beautiful strain to her arms and shoulders. But the ring gag really was the icing.

If she thought that the discipline collar was humiliating, Rho was in for a nasty surprise. I held up the small hand mirror I had brought just for an occasion like this, so she could admire herself. The sharp intake of breath, amplified by the increased resonating cavity of her gaping mouth, told me enough.

The head harness made her appear to herself like a captured and bridled beast, low and not worthy to be treated as a human being. Especially the Inverted Y-strap running across her cheeks to the bridge of her nose and up her forehead added massively to the demeaning look. The uncontrollable drooling was certainly gnawing on her dignity as well.

Glad you like it, darling.

Darling loathed it, and darling did not need her ability to articulate intelligibly to show me that she was fuming. I supposed there were several reasons why Rho went for rage rather than for fear. She had a strong personality with a dominant streak — I had to give her that — , she knew me to some degree (at least she had thought so), and she was absolutely no fan of fetish stuff whatsoever.

Time to dish out some more humble pie to her:

“Since you are still considering yourself a kidnapee, I may let you off for your understandable resistance so far.” It was the first time I spoke to her since she had regained consciousness.

“But from now on it’s training time. Each infraction gets you a demerit. Five demerits result in corrective measures with the cane. Twenty-five demerits will call the bullwhip to action. The bullwhipping is additional to the caning for the last five demerits that brought you up to twenty-five.”

For a second, Rho stared at me in true bewilderment. The look was just priceless: her auburn eyes huge and with a tendency to squint due to the Y-strap, her forced open mouth helpless and vulnerable — and hurting, she could not hide that fact from me. Ring gags this large had the nasty habit to cause the jaw joints to throb immediately. By now the mean, or better said cruel device was causing her considerable pain. She should better get used to it, for the mouth-ring would not budge a millimetre with the harness and its back-bend extensions digging into her cheeks. Did I mentioned that I had ground those spider-legs’ ends to fierce points?

“Do you understand these rules of discipline, and are you ready to obey and submit to your master?”

” ‘uck ‘ou!”

Demerit No. 1

I locked a longer chain to the ring at the pillar and to her posture collar, then removed the old one. The first, short chain had forced her to stand, staggering in the demanding boots. The longer one allowed her to sit, a prospect welcomed by her aching feet and cramping calves.

I knew how to prevent that:

“Sit down, slave.”

Three simple words. Rho kept standing, leant against the pillar instead. If I had ordered her to breathe, she would had shut down her lungs until turning blue, just because. That reverse psychology really seemed to work!

By the way: disobeying a direct order. Demerit No. 2

Manipulating a stubborn woman like this was fun, but of course I could not have my authority being undermined. I released her from the chain, only to lock one end to her wrist shackles and run the other through another pillar-ring, set higher into the concrete than the first one. She realised the purpose of this re-arrangement the moment I pulled at the loose end. My captive put all her strength against me, but I had the whole length of her arms as leverage.

Soon she was bent over, her arms dramatically rotated in their sockets and now pointing straight up. Any more pulling would force her up again mercilessly, until, finally, her body would be suspended in the dreaded strappado.

But that was not the position I had in mind. Right now she was resting her flank against the pillar in an attempt to gather both stability and relieve.  Good approach, yet some adjustment was needed.

“Turn to the pillar! Head down! Head down!”

I emphasised each command with a gutsy jerk on the chain. Especially the head down-part was hard to manage due to the posture collar and needed additional encouragement. The chain was already arrested, so I could give her a hand to assume the desired posture — an operation that entailed two more demerits for her and several bruises for me. The massive heels of Rho’s punishment boots could be very wicked, and not only for the wearer.

As I had mentioned before, Rho was a sporty one. Nonetheless she was challenged by having her head upside down, with its back pressed against the pillar while her arms, still straight up, touched the concrete structure from shoulders to thumbs (I had cuffed her hands with the palms facing out).

I further secured her arms to the pillar with ropes at wrists and below and above elbows. Finally, her legs were forced into a spread position by more metal. This in return brought her pelvis lower and added to the stress in her shoulders and back.

“Comfy?”

It was a rhetorical question. I had put my charming prisoner into a complex predicament, where every alleviation of one pain resulted in the increase of several others.

Rho answered nonetheless. The recent procedure might have taken her down half a notch, but I was still receiving gag-scrambled pleasantries. There were “You won’t get away with this!” and her all-time favourite: “Cocksucker!” — sticks and stones may break my bones…

This latest unladylike outburst, of course, was booked to her account, too.

Besides, it had been her with a penis between the lips at our third date. (Yes, penis. No need for returning to filthy language.)

Don’t be fooled:  She had let me feel a lot of teeth during her ministration, so do not consider it an act of submission.

Well, now we were one date further, and the whole situation had turned out a wee bit different than Rho had expected. She had sought a romantic adventure — and finally found me. When we first met — under unsuspicious conditions –, I told her I was married (a lie) and that we could only see each other in secret which obviously turned her on. I implored her not to tell anyone about our meeting points nor whom she met there.

My speech aimed at certain aspects of her personality. First there was the married-man theme, bearing the image of integrity, reliability and trustworthiness (the fact that I was about to cheat on my fictitious wife seemed not to count). No risk there, plus I had much to lose. Which leads to the second point:

Power.

I don’t impute the conscious consideration of blackmailing to her. But it was a back-up, just in case I got troublesome. My imploring, both the act itself and in terms of the content, must have given her quite a rush.

I watched Rho searching for a somewhat bearable position and finding none. Did she know how invitingly she was wriggling her derrière by doing so?

The inevitable flow of saliva which had covered her ample breasts with a coating was now drenching her distorted face. How I adored a ring gag on a strong-willed woman!

Eventually, our fourth rendezvous brought her far away. By then, she was quite spirited in our relationship (commemorations to the fellatio at date three), but meeting in an abandoned barn to make forbidden love was the utmost kinkiness that could be expected from her.

Engaging in even lightest submission play? No way.

Hot ‘n’ heavy bondage scenes? Not if you value your balls.

It was a pleasure to break women like her.

The welcome drink I served Rho at the barn was spiked. Once she was out, I hid her Audi in the barn and my unconscious mistress in the boot of my own car.

Stripped and collared, she woke up in a soundproof cellar unknown to her, gathered five demerits and was now in for the first caning of her life. (I reckoned that it was to be the first caning of her life, for the parents of her generation had sadly underrated the benefits corporal punishment could offer in the education of a young lady.)

Actually, she was experiencing many firsts today: being abducted, tied up, gagged. I was determined to add at least two more within the next hour.

Infernal cramps were racing through her legs and shoulders, and soon enough her back would get its share, too. Rho was suffering. She was just too proud to accept it yet. I might be merciful enough to release her from that draconic position once we were done with her first training session. But even then she won’t be able to sit down — for several reasons.

I took an implement from the workbench behind the notorious pillar. Rho tried to catch a glimpse when I came back, but could not move her head thanks to the collar. To satisfy her curiosity, I cut my weapon of choice through the air, producing an intimidating hiss. I was sure she recognised it for what it was, even if never been disciplined by it up to now.

A cane.

I hadn’t chosen just any cane from my selection, but one suitable for my guest of honour. The evil one.  A fine carbon fibre body, wolfram-balanced and chrome-tipped.

“Five strokes for starters. Later in training, when more obedience can be expected from you, there will be much severer stints.”

This was perhaps the moment in which Rho realised — not just suspected or knew in a hypothetical dimension — that things were going south. Until now, nothing I had done to her, not even the drugging, had violated her in the deepest sense, had victimised her to the point where she would no longer react with rage, but with fear.

That was about to change. Submission play? Bondage scene? Not anymore. We were graduating straight up to heavy torture.

For the first stroke, that one that would pop her chastisement cherry, I aimed at these delicate spots where the thighs ran into her buttocks. My aim was true, and for the first time, Rho felt the terrible bite of this instrument made for punishment, and punishment only.

The restrained brunette yelled and performed every contortion her stern bonds allowed. Forgotten were cramping muscles and burning jaw joints with every new white-hot impact to her flesh. Chances were good that the promised five cuts arranged the most painful experience in Rho’s life so far.

Still, could be worse…

I laid into her until her wails of anger turned to those of pain and then despair. By then we had reached eighteen, and her bottom and thighs were a bleeding mess of scarlet, crimson and purple welts. I shrugged my shoulders and gave her two more, closing with a round number.

Rho was alternately crying and snorting. Saliva had flooded her sinuses, a most hideous sensation. And still I could see remains of defiance in her tear-wet eyes.

“That were just love taps, stripy-bum. After the next beating you’ll need a cauterisation.”

I waited, gave her some seconds to calm down, admiring her sweat-covered, straining body.

“Something to say?”

She considered keeping quiet to be a good idea. Misjudgement on her part.

Thank you, master would have done the trick (” ‘ehng ‘ou, ‘a’er”). But since she refused to talk, she did not have to move her tongue at all. So, instead of another demerit, I provided her with a penis gag. The phallic insert fitted perfectly into her mouth ring and was, of course, lockable.

I had chosen its length wisely. The tip was tickling her gag reflex, a most exquisite torture. Fresh tears formed in her eyes from gagging almost constantly.

One more peril was scheduled for my prisoner today, the coup de grâce to her dignity. I parted her sliced buttocks and blew gently onto her anus. Rho’s immediate and very fierce reaction told me that she got my intention correctly.

When I had once mentioned anogenital intercourse in general (without any hidden agenda, of course), Rho had given me a quite insulting nickname. The blowjob I had had the pleasure to receive on our third date had partly been an unofficial apology for that. In her view, buggery was on the same level as incest with dead underage animals.

I wanted her tight. Tight and dry. So foreplay consisted of exactly one action: opening my trousers.

“Save yourself some pain and relax.”

Rho tensed her muscles, what a surprise. Her final attempt to uphold some dignity.

Demerit No. 6

Not that her insolence could prevent me from forcing this degrading and most vile act upon her. Dryness, virginity and lack of cooperation added up to a considerable resistance. But the choked scream that my initial penetration elicited outweighed my struggle and own discomfort.

Every further inch of violation led to new highs of pain and breathless screams, proving that dry anal rape wasn’t for the faint of heart. Once bottomed out at the entrance to her sigmoid colon, I paused for a moment. The heat was incredible, and so was the feeling of her abdominal cramps the deep penetration was causing.

With a lot of self-control and choosing a slow pace, I would be capable of lasting quite a time in her. But this wasn’t an option if I wanted any more fun with my trainee later on, for Rho was suffocating. The obscene object occupying her mouth was asphyxiating her. Her nose was still clogged up, her neck trapped inside the collar and her lungs ineffective due to her punitive body posture.

I gave her several excruciatingly hard and fast strokes and was lost, ejaculated into her bowels for what seemed to be minutes.

With weak knees — Rho had always known how to drain a man — I stepped back from her and grabbed the box cutter from its place at the workbench. Its blade sliced the ropes, and when I released the chain, the agonised woman slumped down the pillar.

I unlocked the penis gag, and did no more. She was the one who wanted to breathe so badly; let her do some of the work, too.

With her tongue jammed under the phallus, Rho had to rise her head to make it slip out. When the insert finally left her mouth, it was followed by a torrent of coughs and retches. Then she collapsed again and just lay on the cool ground, legs awkwardly twisted by their bonds, arms still cruelly cuffed, her rectum bleeding.

I spared her to clean me off this time. Arse-to-mouth deserved its own session. And she was not in the condition to learn anything else today.

Tomorrow we would intensify her training, then with two demerits for each infraction. I could barely wait to show Rho what was in store for her once she would have reached one hundred.

End

v1.14

[ (c) v1.0: 2011]

About Venom

Bloke from Central Europe; Petrol Head; Observer of Human Depravity View all posts by Venom

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