[AbusiveMaster]

My IceMaiden wrote an interesting story, which she shall post in instalments here - http://www.getdare.com/bbs/showthrea...42#post3043342

Here is the same story told from the Dom perspective - though some of the details have been changed, the happenings are not identical.

*******

Her struggles had capsized the chair. Watching unseen from the next room, I smiled to myself as she struggled on the floor. She was so much more animated when she didn't know I was watching, the bank of hidden cameras was a worthwhile investment.

The ropes securing her belly to the chair left her large tits displayed to their best advantage. Her legs forcibly splayed and tied to either leg, arms behind her back, fed through the gap in the rear of the seat. As rough and ready as this looked, every detail had been meticulously planned for, even down to the size and shape of the chair – even down to cutting an inch from one of the legs to make it topple.

Leaving her prone, almost turtle-like for several long moments, enjoying her predicament, I deliberately announce my presence as I enter the small, dimly lit room which serves as her holding cell. The hand I place in her hair pulls hard enough to let her think I have lifted her solely by the top of her head, even though it is mainly supporting her as my other hand wrestles the chair back into position. Swallowing back the grunt, and disguising the sheen of sweat – this has to at least look easy. I walk slowly round to stand in front of her, looking down into her tightly closed eyes. Her features wrinkled adorably as she clenches her eyelids shut.

“Look at me,” I tell her softly. Her refusal is almost cute. I know I could force her to obey, but it is much more fun, and more effective, to walk softly away. My footfalls silent as I slip into the control room, the door closing inaudibly behind me. As I look at the bank of monitors, I laugh to myself, her face screwed up, eyes tightly shut as she shakes her head, defying... well nobody, if she only knew it.

Making myself comfortable, a cup of tea and a sandwich, feet up on a small stool as the heater warms the control room. Every comfort I allow myself a sharp contrast to the cool, dark, sparse cell. Her struggles against the bonds ceased long ago, her chafed skin making no headway. And so when I glanced up from the episode of Star Trek I was watching alongside the bank of monitors and saw her squirming on her chair, I smiled again and popped open a bottle of water, sipping it as Q introduced Janeway to his recalcitrant son. The episode is almost over before her voice sounds through the speakers, almost polite as she calls for me. Even though I have seen this one before, I wait until it ends before I make my way through to the adjoining room. Perhaps sitting through the closing credits was an necessary evil, but I have never enjoyed the closing theme so much as I did on that occasion.

Her almost indecipherable mumble, informing me she needed to go to the bathroom, was not enough for me. I made her repeat herself over and over again, clearer and louder on every telling. Her face flushed purple with the humiliation as she was forced to beg me to let her urinate. Finally, her voice loud and clear, every word perfectly annunciated, her request was satisfactory.

“Please may I use the bathroom?”

Of course, I refused, my parting remark simply, “Maybe you will look at me next time.”

Taking my comfortable chair again, I sit back to wait. I know this will take some time, her stubborn refusal to be humiliated will force her bladder to inhuman efforts. I dial up the light in the room a fraction, enough to allow the cameras to pick up colour, and – eventually – I see the material of her leggings darken. The stain spreading from her crotch down either leg. Droplets hitting the floor in preparation for the torrent that follows. As the flow halts, I turn the lights off completely, leaving her sitting in the pitch black, soaked in her own piss. The night vision camera is enough for me to monitor her progress. She can sit there for a while and reflect on the price of disobedience. And anyway, my pot noodle was just ready.

Eventually, I relent. Turning the lights in her cell on fully – the level must be blinding after so long in the dark, I cross to her. I exaggerate the motion of stepping around the puddle of piss on the ground, making sure she is aware of the reason for my perambulation.

“Oh dear,” I smile in mock concern. “Did you have an.... accident?”

If looks could kill, I wouldn't be writing this account. Her glare was pure murder as she refused to reply. The time for walking away from her defiance is long past. Pushing her chair back, I lay her on the floor in her own puddled urine. Still in her sitting position, legs raised and spread, her hair falls behind her, spreading out mermaid-like in a lake of piss. Standing directly above her head, I unzip and expose myself. Still glaring, her eyes lock on my manhood. Her face drops into an expression of shock and horror as I take hold of my flaccid length, aim it down at her prone body and unleash my own torrent of urine to add to her own. Her leggings already drenched, I instead turn my attention to her chest, belly, face. Her t-shirt clings and turns transparent, revealing the lines of her bra beneath. Every inch of her body deliberately soaked, but I pay particular attention to her face. Her eyes and mouth tightly closed, I laugh softly. That is easily fixed. I change my aim and piss directly down her nostril. The flow of liquid causes her to gasp and choke, allowing me to redirect the current into her mouth, denying her wretched and retching attempt to breathe. Calmly I shake off the last few drips and walk wordlessly away, the room falling back into darkness as the door closes behind me.