Missy Samuels was trembling when she whimpered that if she did what I wanted would I please not hurt her. So naturally in the course of stripping the thirty-one year old down to just her bra and panties I spent a goodly amount of time in slapping her around. Not so much as to leave a mark and/or bruise her face. But more than enough masculine physicality inside my basement to express to Miss Samuels that selfishly dwelling on a thought of her own preservation was not going to fly.
“When you wake up in the morning you will dedicate yourself to satisfying me with this body. When you lay your head down at night your only thought will be to ask yourself if enough was done with this same body to please me fully. In the weeks ahead THESE will be your sole concerns girl…”
Missy winced noticeably when I said ‘weeks’. To her silly mindset rape was something brutal that occurred in her living room over a span of maybe an hour at most. The prospect of an ordeal involving ‘weeks’ of captivity involving a cellar renovated to be completely soundproof and and utterly inescapable terrified her.
Missy Samuels was sobbing as her half naked body was ushered to a cell - a cage - wherein I could at last have a little bit of fun. I had decided that I appreciated the muted purple tone of my new slave’s underwear. The shading contrasted well with Missy’s tanned flesh and brown eyes. She was petite without being short. She was well endowed without being top heavy. The pitter patter of Missy’s bare feet negotiating the corridors of my sex prison was delicious music to me. And it had been a stroke of genius on my part to connect the bindings that kept my victim’s wrists tied up painfully behind her back with a leader line to the control collar and leash I was using to direct that gorgeous body to a well appointed place of suffering. Just minutes ago Missy had ashamedly submitted to yours truly putting her long brown hair up in a bun…so that the crippling restraint of the degrading collar and leash could best be enjoyed by a sadist like me.
“You’re not the first female I’ve brought here. I know how to do what I’m about to do with you slut. I chose you specifically. It took time. It took effort. I incurred a fair amount of risk in bringing you here girl. So you’ll keep your filthy mouth shut and understand then that this is Hour One of Day One. You’ve got an excellent body. If you behave suitably in the months ahead I’ll let you keep your nipples…”
My captive cringed demonstrably when she heard the word ‘months’. Missy’s beautiful eyes were open especially wide. Taking in not only the pair of beds inside the spacious cage where she’d be spending the bulk of her time moving forward but also the foreign, menacing collection of leather, chrome and electrical implements on full display.
This would be a place to rape Missy Samuels. Starting today. But it was also very much a torture chamber. Pain was equivalent with sex in prompting me to begin bringing young attractive women to this dungeon. And Missy was going to learn fast that along with her continuous auditions atop the rape beds that she’d be obligated to indulge my darker amusement of administering torture to pleading, helpless females.
Once I had locked the heavy yellow door behind us both I complimented Miss Samuels on her body, her choice of underwear and her good sense in not struggling overly much back at her apartment. Then I ordered the whore to kneel down…facing the larger of the two beds. I told Missy that I’d allow her three (no…TWO!) minutes to beg for mercy as I took off my own clothes. I sensed I was in a hurry. She was THAT pretty.
The doomed party did as she was told. Miserably pleading with me to be reasonable with her. Saying that she held no animosity towards me. Begging to know how I’d come to select her and ‘why’ it was so necessary for her to be humiliated and punished in this way. In this place. Missy was thirty-one, half naked, forsaken, quaking with fear and struggling with the constrictive pain my expert bindings had applied to her shoulders, neck and spine. She wept uncontrollably when she at last became aware of my hulking nude body approaching her near the bed. Foolishly the whore screamed.
I like it when they beg. But screaming should be confined to torture sessions. I had to discipline this worthless bitch.
Missy’s shrieks of fear were choked off by snarls of agony as I began to lift her fine young body up off the floor of the chamber via the bindings that secured her wrists behind her back. And contorted her head and neck by means of the control leash and collar. In seconds the privileged brat learned the truest nature of strappado…and began wailing in excruciating pain as my powerful arms allowed her - forced her - to dangle, squirm and repent.
“Please, no! PLEASE! EE - uugghh! MA - AAGGGGHHHHHH!! EE - aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhh!!”
Day One. Lesson One. Inside of ten minutes Miss Samuels learned the efficacy in pleading with me to ‘please, please’ take her slutty panties and teasing bra off. To ‘please sir, PLEASE’ toss her worthless body onto one of the beds so that she could ‘pretty please’ demonstrate her value to a Good Man. To ‘oh my God, sir…PLEASE’ allow her to apologize for stupidly not understanding right away that rape was her purpose in life.
Good girl.
I can’t tell you how much fun it was methodically pulling Missy’s panties down her exquisite legs once I’d set her free of the crippling bindings that had worked their special magic upon her previous lame attitude. Whimpering and convulsing in lingering pain Missy agreeably spread her legs wide as I placed her atop the bed so that I could fondle her pussy lips. And explore that wonderful gateway to a vagina I now owned. I can’t express to you how the slut wept as the bra - just as slowly, just as humiliatingly as her panties - was removed from her shoulders. And those enticing breasts fell free to allow the Last Man to ever play with them a full fifteen minutes of groping, mauling and punishing.
Missy Samuels was stark silent as I arranged her body for that first rape. The whore didn’t seem to need to make a bad situation worse with her bitching any longer. So when the ankle bindings were cinched by me as tight as I deemed fit Missy simply squirmed in pain but obediently kept her brown eyes open and locked onto the mirror in the ceiling. And when I pulled her arms up over her head as she lay upon her back Missy struggled to suppress the agony in how forcefully I strained every sinew and tendon of her supple body. As I tied off her wrists I joked with Miss Samuel’s that THIS is probably what it was like for witches upon The Rack. Centuries ago. But - I reminded the whore - this was now. This…was real. And all of this was her own fault.
Good girl. Finally had a place n’ purpose.
I decided to wait a week or so before introducing Missy and her wonderful naked body to the indignities (and insufferable pain) of forced anal sex. So those first few times atop the rape beds of my torture chamber I used the bitch in what I referred to as my 2-Point Stance. Missionary position. Her legs splayed cruelly wide. Ankles secured. Arms pulled up over her head so forcefully that a constant ache assailed Missy’s shoulder sockets and lower back. Until I mounted her with my cock.
The 2-Point Stance. ONE - Most of my weight was focused upon a center of gravity that was delving with my erection as deeply and as harmfully as I could inside Missy’s soon to be spent pussy. TWO - Propped up on my left elbow as I looked down with domination upon my newest slave’s helpless body. Any sadist can see that this approach to mangling Missy’s sexuality kept my right hand free and STILL allowed me to puncture and spear the whore with unbridled angst……
“Uu - uugghh! Nee - aagghh! Nee - uugghh! Aagghh. Aagghh. UU - aarrrrgggghhhhhh!”
That unfettered right hand of mine was having a field day playing with Missy’s breasts as the rapes piled up. As the sex torture sessions reached double figures by Day Three. I had chosen Missy Samuels because of her breasts. And crushing her titties to emote spasms of pain in the midst of her repeated rapes caused Missy to conform to a splendid series of back arching, leg kicking and head pounding that might have been problematic had it not been for the ever increasing severity of the restraints I insisted upon utilizing.
“Please, sir…PLEASE! Oh, pl-please…not that. Not again! PLEASE! I’m begging y-you sir. PLEASE! Let me…let me suck you off Master…pl-please! Oh, no…NO! Please! EE - aagghh! Muugghh! EE - aarrgghh! MAAGGHH - AARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!! Please let me s-suck you off Master! I’m begging y-you s-sir! PLEASE! Oh God…please not again. Aaaarrrrgggghhhhhh!”
Well before her second week was completed within my lair thirty-one year old Missy Samuels was convinced that she’d been a prostitute her entire life. Except now, instead of dinners and vacations and fine clothes and jewelry, her body was barely enough to afford her mercy. Freedom from pain. But only briefly…when I had other girls to attend to.
Missy accepted her status as a whore and was thankful to keep her nipples. As well as her ongoing ability to achieve an orgasm…which I permitted her only very rarely. Like on those occasions when Missy had been an especially good girl in bed. Or - more importantly - upon her knees with her brown eyes wide open and her mouth n’ throat ready to accommodate. The key for the thirty-one year old was in accepting the fact that I was the Last Man who would ever see her naked. And the only Good Strong Man that was allowed to fuck her.
It stayed that way until Holly Connors entered inside TheP.o.R.T.
The final things Missy had to learn under my tutelage was that she needed to be happy for Me when I located and obtained a cunt younger and prettier than herself. That…and the fact that being discarded by a Controller involved an application of excruciating agony that elevated a Man’s soul.
Thirty-three year old Missy Samuels was smiling as the Controller led her naked body to a very special place that only extremely worthless females ever visited. She’d just witnessed the Controller rape his new blonde anally for the fifth or sixth time…and was very glad her Owner was having such a good time. Missy was aware that she’d served her purpose well. Belowstairs. And that it was wrong for her to continue impinging upon the Controller’s need to feed, water, board and maintain her. Holly would see to Master’s requirements in future.
Holly.
The new girl - not quite twenty, tall, heavy breasts - had whimpered in agony as the Controller seemed not to require a rest period during her regimen of rape. She had shuddered as the physical pain in her own vagina or anus hadn’t been able to match the horror in her heart as the Controller whispered his plans for Missy’s now obsolete body into her ear. During sex. Plans to scourge Missy. Perhaps flay her alive. Or those wild notions of a Dolcett impalement behind the Yellow Door.
All Holly Connors knew for sure was that her kidnapper had plans to keep her - and what he called her luscious body - in this place for weeks. Months. And that he’d tacked up a muted purple brassiere along a strip of paneling just yesterday to augment what looked like a previous collection of ladies’ undergarments already on display there. All that. As well as a confession after a particularly degrading blow job Holly had performed upon her new Owner last night that the matching purple panties in his left hand were going to be inserted inside Missy’s filthy mouth - as he put it - ‘right before the screaming starts’.
Under the boot of the Controller a whore learns quickly that there’s a time for begging for mercy. And a time to scream in agony. The secret of being an accomplished Collector then is merely to ensure that sluts like Missy Samuels and Holly Connors experience both to the fullest.
