Condemned to Slavery (22 page)

The soft flesh releasing nova bursts of excruciating misery with each stroke, the softness of the arches and toes responding to the thin staff with a vivid clarity that even rivaled those times her sex had been targeted.

After a dozen or so strokes that had her wailing and wriggling impotently within her stark confinement, the weapon was set aside, leaving her to hang limp. The cream had lessened its harsh effects, and as her head hung forward, salty drips ran through the interior latex, her sweat mingling with the lines of saliva that dripped from her slack and bloated mouth.

The clamps were removed swiftly and while carefree feeling skipped blithely back into the pinched mamilla, the nerves reported on the pain they had suffered but which the compression had thus far stifled. The ache escalated in an instant to a potent pinnacle that had her casting her head back and screaming into her gag, the flow of drool extending on viscid strings from the hem of her hood and helmet. Jolting as her nipples broiled, she weathered the storm of pain and calmed as the mayhem slowly dwindled away, taking her energy with it and leaving her an apathetic husk of hopelessly bound femininity.

The rope tethers on her ankles were loosened, letting her enforcibly parted legs drop heavily to the floor, the joints still parted by the spreader. Several agonizing hacks of the cane into her opened pussy became a prelude to the removal of the clamp there, the woman grabbing the implement ant pulling it a few times to scorch the nugget before taking the contraption away.

The throb of the welts slithered away and was replaced by the sanguinary stab of agony that the loss of the clamp slipped in to replace it. As Lydia scowled within her enforced bleak world, trying to endure this flare of biting sensation, the breathing tube was removed and her elbows finally set free. The opening of the handcuffs was terribly ferocious, her trials having caused them to badly bruise her skin, her limbs dropping by her sides, robbed of vitality.

The procedure of being released was unpleasant in itself, her twisted frame responding to movement with a testy attitude, but compared to the torture it was a most blessed relief. When she was finally rid of the upright beam, she crumpled into a loose heap, her helmet clanging upon the stone as her abused form twitched, the last remnant of the ordeal still keeping her legs in a wide split.

Her grief knew no bounds when her arms were turned and folded up behind her back, the application of an arm lock giving way to bondage as leather shackles gripped the discolored joints and flicked a short chain up her spine to snag the crown of her helmet. With both arms affixed, her head drawn back by the extreme altitude of her hands, she murmured pitifully as chains were clipped to her ankles. Any pull of her head or arms afflicted the other anchor, her neck smarting unbearably, swallowing being almost impossible against the rigors of the pose.

The cranking grind of cogs forged a testing tug and slowly the leg spreader ascended, lifting her up until only her face and chest were left touching the floor, the weight of her body crushing her contused breasts beneath her own torso. Kicking her legs, she writhed her body against the cold stone, the helmet scraping against it, her form unable to defeat the bondage.

A plastic rod dove into her rear before she could resist, the smooth lubricated shaft sliding through her cheeks and piercing her anus. With a squall of violated dismay she flung her muscles against it, trying to eject the plastic rod.

There was a cackle of tape that warned her before the item was secured, and the adhesive strips were placed to her raw rear, keeping the intruder stable and sheathed. Frantic maneuvering of her internal muscles failed to dislodge the interloper and as she heard water being run, she could guess what the Mistress’ intentions were.

Water drummed from a jug into the bag of an enema, filling it until its own weight turned the flow out of the nozzle from a squirt into a torrential jet.

The chill flood washed into her, flushing into her body unchecked. Every clench caused a swell to develop and through the engorging pain of this she was encouraged to give the waters free reign to fill her. But the quantities being introduced were too much, her innards could not cope with the glut. It seemed her stomach were about to rupture, and as chill wrought cramps made her groan, she tried to force out the volume. No more than a few icy trickles escaped and they wound paths down her belly, soothing the burning skin when they passed over the brutalized regions. Writhing in her restraints, Lydia spread her rolling weight across her front and shuddered as the sensation grew ever more forceful.

Whimpering mewls emanated from the helmet, her dreadfully bend arms fighting their bonds as she tried to find some way in which to overcome the internal pressure.

The dregs of the contents entered her body and the tube was wrenched free, the tape tugging briefly at her skin, ripping out the soft pelt of hair by the root and leaving her with turgid innards. Striving to break out, she could not stop herself from making the futile attempts, her body was running on instinct alone, her mind too occupied by the pain of her predicament to issue any legitimate orders.

“If you let one more trickle escape before I say, slave, I will force a sea of water into you until you burst like a balloon. Is that understood? Slave!” she growled, putting her shoe onto Lydia’s helmet and tapping the dagger heel against the metal to gain her full attention. The spike sent a deep tone through the interior, causing Lydia to shuffle her head as best she could, nodding to a tiny measure that would have been imperceptible had not the Mistress been looking for it.

The fetters were opened and her legs dropped lifelessly to the floor, the twinge of pain from the harsh landing causing a brief squirt of her volumes to emerge despite all her efforts to stop it. A hand grabbed the chain between helmet and hands before pulling, dragging her back to the pit as she strained to hold on, her beleaguered rear fighting a losing war. The lid was raised and she battled to hold off the ocean of force pressing down on her harried sphincter. Without care, Lydia was shoved into her diminutive prison, the woman lifting a leg and using the painful prod of her stiletto heel to thrust out and catapult Lydia forward.

Rolling down the steep side and into the depths, her sudden tumble agitated the douche and made it all the more restless within her. The waters seemingly alive with their own awful intent, ready to rip through her belly unless she quickly presented them with another alternate access to the world. The ceiling was restored and the locks set, but Lydia had little time to consider her confinement as she frantically sought the drain. If she unleashed the douche now she would be condemned to wallowing in it, and the thought repulsed her enough to lend her strength to endure.

Her teeth were clenched to the gag, her face a burning mask of strain, her arms rigid with exertion as she held to the gurgling sea in her rectum. Prayers for strength against this abuse poured through her mind, followed by frantic pleas that she find the drain quickly and accurately.

With her hands secured high behind her back she had to use her toes and she wept with calamity from trying to find the small hole, her stomach ready to explode, the flow already starting to emerge despite her best efforts to hold the dam. Praying that she was properly positioned she dropped down, her buttocks resting on the cold steel bars of the grate. Shuffling across, she assured herself she had found the center and let herself expel the soiled fluids. The rank odor choked her as it filled the tiny cell, the stink seeming to replace the air as it made breathing difficult. The sighs of relief as the spurting jet poured from her were broken with spasming retches, her belly turning over as she was assailed by the grotesque odor of her flushed bowels.

The woman was enacting despicable acts of the grossest kind to damage her psyche, to bruise it and leave it more readily vulnerable to her teachings. Like a piece of meat she was being tenderized, pummeled to make her more open to the will of the chef, save that her cook was deploying hardship and indecent vice rather than mallet and spices.

The enema had been done to break her spirits, to demean her, humiliate her. The woman was showing Lydia that she had full control over all her bodily processes, that Lydia was nothing more than a possession, such lines of thought impressing such a caste on her via these grotesque deeds. She wanted to destroy Lydia and create a slave via her debauchery, the lessons in control and humiliation breaking away Lydia’s psyche and converting her into the configuration the malevolent bitch wanted.

Lydia convinced herself that she had to remain focused on this aspect if she were to evade the results it was designed to generate. Only by cold clinical examination of the things done to her and the methods employed would Lydia be able to survive and keep Lydia the slave safely hidden in the depths of her mind.

She remained seated upon the tiny grille for what seemed like hours, her intention to preserve the meager sanitary nature of her cell being a paramount concern. The occasional hiss against her ears declared the speakers to be laying their indoctrinating cargo at the periphery of her hearing, and while she squatted she tried to damage the instrument of her assured corruption.

Banging the steel cask against the interior wall, the booming tones punched her eardrums and bruised her skull, the ringing notes of her attack rolling through the interior and unleashing stunned white flashes of shock as she battered herself in an attempt to save her mind from the programming. The helmet was solid and any impact of it upon the walls only served to daze and deafen her. It was secure and could not be removed or broken. She was trapped within it.

The words wanted her to become some slavering beast, subscribing to being a pathetic being and obsessed with gaining the Mistress’ favor and abuses. How long would it be before she would willingly call for a beating just so she might lick the woman’s heels? The thought made her heedless of the trauma and smash the helmet to the wall with added verve. Having again caused no damage to her target, and having concussed herself further, she slouched back against the stone and grizzled in abject self-pity.

Sleep was near impossible to acquire, for the gag, the awkward position of her arms, the cramped cell, her ravenous hunger and thirst, and the prospect of what horrors lay in wait for her future all assured that she could find no refuge in slumber.

Time sailed out of all ability to track in the impenetrable night of her hoods. Her starvation bloomed once more within her like a weed whose roots never left, and each time the plant was removed it always grew back. The conspiracy of lack of sustenance and from being confined were gradually weakening her again. How long would she be left in this Draconian hellhole?

The isolation was hard to endure, the various protests of her body making it even harder. How she wished to be set free, to see her Mistress again and be granted the honor of her ministrations. Lydia paused in horror, the dawning of what she had been thinking making her heart sink. As she had been dwelling on such things she had visualized the woman, not for hatred’s sake, but to stoke a prurient lust, to dream of crawling at her feet, of kissing her rear or clasping a latex stockinged leg. The allure of the fetishistic material was strong, and alien. She had never before found it so stimulating, so attractive, and to detect such thoughts riled her with impotent rage as she knew then that she was not immune from the subliminal education she had been promised. The conscious mind slept and could be distracted, the subconscious was always awake and was a gullible entity, believing whatever was told it. The earphones were speaking to it endlessly, and had told it what to think, re-sculpted it and left her changed. The foundations of her mind had been altered, and it was only a matter of time before the changes crept like a cancer upwards into the forefront of her thoughts, affecting her conscious mind after having totally overwhelmed and suffused the subconscious with its programming litanies of depravity.

The discovery was terrifying, to think that she could be ruled by her devotion, that already they were infecting her during her delirium, and that the tainting of her waking world was inevitable.

Lydia tried to keep the tumorous thoughts away, but they were not so easily subdued because her starvation, pains, and the sensory deprivation were feeding the growing submissive beast, making it stalwart and intractable.

There was nothing she could do, she was being reformed as an adoring rubber slave, eager for being smothered in the fabric or worship it on her owner. How could this be happening? What was the prison doing to those it sent here? Why were they reprogramming the prisoners no one would miss? Such questions were pressing for they were her fate, and though she feared it immensely, simultaneously, Lydia ached to find out what was waiting for her.

Lydia’s training and seduction into adoring her fate continue in Book Two: Condemned to Torment.

Here she finds herself in a world devoted to the bizarre whims of others. Rubber bird-women fill aviaries, latex mermaids swim in pools, impossible bondage subjects hang as decoration, rubber pets dwell at the side of master and mistress as they make use of female furniture and maid alike. Willing sex slaves serve every lewd whim, all of them trained by regular punishment to ensure their cruel owners are satisfied in every way.

About the Author

Born and raised in London, Bruce was a Royal Marine Cadet, has worked in demolition, rainforest preservation and for the Ministry of Defense, Harvey Nichols and Selfridges, but writing was always his one true passion. He encountered a wonderful Californian and after marrying, they moved to San Francisco in ‘98 where he worked and played in the S&M community before relocating to Seattle a few years later. He has written many books and illustrated a number for other poublishers. Several works are under development into graphic novels and computer animated series/films.