Whether she realized it or not - whether she liked it or not - Bree Hamilton was the perfect female to experience being led Belowstairs.
For a start her kidnapper was well over a foot taller than her. That - and the fact he was almost twice her age - lent an air of dominance and sophistication to this man of few words who had selected Bree’s body for amusement.
She was an ideal subject to endure the long walk Belowstairs.
For a start it was Bree’s bleach white, pin straight, waist length hair which motivated the Controller to stalk her. As well as his victim’s green eyes which depending upon the lighting could occasionally appear more gray…or even blue.
She had been crying. And she was still trembling. Bree had already made the connection between ‘descending’ and ‘becoming lost’. A product of the narrow corridors, naked light bulbs glaring overhead, a series of locked heavy doors and the ubiquitous sound of her abductor’s footfalls from behind as their mutual parade put distance between them and the city streets above.
Perfectly suited for the walk. Because Bree was barefoot and topless. Her bare feet striking as softly as cats’ paws along the damp, cold steps of TheP.o.R.T. The discomfort the pretty girl felt as a cause of the pinching handcuffs that pinned her arms behind her bare back allowed for her exposed breasts to bob and sway seductively along the route of descent. The Controller was aware of those breasts…those nipples. He had chosen well.
A white ball gag nearly completed the picture of Bree Hamilton being led to sex slavery. There were of course her blue jeans…which fit her body well. And her panties…which (destination reached) would soon replace the ball gag inside her filthy mouth. Finally the degrading collar and leash that her kidnapper had affixed to Bree’s delicate throat. Used to herd her doomed body downwards. To certain places wherein the Controller could take his time with Bree. And his victim could plead for a smidgeon of mercy that would never come.
Perfect ass, perfect legs, perfect naked shoulders to make this trek. No doubt.
The most pleasing aspects for the Controller during this extended process of ushering Bree Hamilton down towards her new home were the stoppages at each locked entry/exit. To allow for his freedom of movement (and security against his captive foolishly resisting) Bree’s handcuffs at each transition point were tethered to Hitching Posts which were purposefully calibrated to most uncomfortably raise her arms towards the overheads. And forced Bree to seductively reach up on tip-toe in an effort to alleviate the agonizing pain in her lower back and arms.
The Controller instantly fell in love with Bree’s grunts of pain and spasms of fear as this torment of being hitched, forced to contort and then humiliatingly restarted/repeated took its heavy toll on the young woman’s body and mind.
It’s a considerable ‘walk’ from the garage up where the van was stowed to the very lowest bowels of the Controller’s sadistic Play Areas.
About two-thirds of the way down the Controller noted fresh tears welling up in Bree’s beautiful eyes. And the ripened firmness of her exquisite nipples. Caused no doubt by a combination of the dampness along the stairwells and the blanketing terror his new bitch must be experiencing. With each and every stop she took - at the Hitching Posts, one by one - Bree’s eyes seemed to be pleading with her attacker to ‘please, please take this gag out of my mouth’ or ‘I am begging you to free my arms’ or ‘what are you going to do with me’.
Just the prime subject for a descent into madness.
It’s worth verifying that from Step One up inside the garage until her preordained Arrival inside the main torture chamber Bree was wholly aware of the stout wicker lash being wielded by the Controller. More than once her left ass cheek, then the outside of her right knee, and ultimately both nipples tasted the searing glory of excruciating pain delivered by the rod. Due to any ‘infraction’ Bree might commit. Not to mention the lashes delivered by the Controller for imagined slights given to his Authority by the whore with the nice body.
It was good to be a shepherd for such a wayward lamb as Bree Hamilton.
Until journey’s end.
Arrival for Bree meant being secured to an especially configured Hitching Post that inflicted an incredible amount of agony to the helpless girl’s spine and shoulders. This being done the Controller could then take his damn sweet time to remove both the blue jeans and panties from the writhing body of his victim. Until Bree was naked. Dancing on tip-toe in shame for the fact her bindings allowed Bree zero opportunity for any small relief from the pain.
The Collar…then the leash…were removed. And an especially tight line of rope was circled about the struggling girl’s knees so that her willowy legs could be pinned together. Bree was sputtering pathetically from behind her ball gag…a ball gag the Controller had NO intention of removing until he’d raped Bree a few times at least.
A few dozen piccies were taken. Some vid, some audio, was archived. All of Bree.
Then, as if she weren’t there - or as if he’d forgotten entirely about her worthless existence - the Controller turned his back on Bree. He unwrapped a protein bar, drained a liter of water and changed his clothes. Spent at least an hour rummaging through a cabinet for torture utensils as his victim’s muffled pangs of agony grew frantic. During this process - whenever the Controller cast a glance in Bree’s direction - he was reminded of how sexy and helpless she appeared in her bare feet…struggling to alleviate the crippling pain caused by having her bound arms (behind her back) raised up to intolerable levels. Causing intolerable pain.
Only then - with the wicker rod in one hand and a vibe in the other - did the Controller deign to ‘welcome’ Bree and her body (and her fate) to his lair. He made NO adjustment to the Hitching Post…he betrayed not a SINGLE inclination to remove the ball gag from his victim’s aching jaws. Bree was sobbing uncontrollably…
What the Controller did do was threefold in nature. First he complimented Bree for the allure of her swaying, dancing breasts. Then he displayed the vibe to her (green? gray? blue?) eyes and casually informed Bree that she was going to learn - early on - to equate sexual pleasure with excruciating pain. Finally the Controller confided to Bree that other women - within THIS very room - had confessed to him that the worst moments of their lives had been being subjected to anal sex. With himself. ‘Something to look forward to’ he mocked Bree as the wicker rod sliced through the air of the chamber and painted a scarlet welt across the whore’s left hip. Bree cringed in blinding pain…but regained enough of her rattled sense of self to furiously shake her head ‘No, no, no!’ when asked if she preferred to have another taste of the whip across her nipples.
The parade was over. The prey had become plaything. This is what the Controller referred to as ‘any given Tuesday’. For Bree it was the beginning of an extremely arduous end.
