Taming a Brat (redux)

[AbusiveMaster]

I have no idea how she managed to fall asleep in her position. Whether it was exhaustion, or her body's defence, trying to escape the situation. But I am not above taking advantage of such things. Dialing down the heat a few degrees to make her wake less comfortably, I decided to give her an hour. When the time expired, I blared a loud klaxon through the speakers built into the walls, while flooding the room with an intense light – revealing for the first time that the floor and walls were painted in unrelieved white. The light bouncing from wall to wall, glaring down on her weary eyes as they struggled to open. Long minutes passed, the room inundated with an assault of light and sound before I shut it off completely, leaving her in the pitch black silence while sipping slowly on a cup of tea, relying on the night vision cameras and sensitive microphones to allow me to monitor her.

Eventually, dialling up the lights in the cell again, I make my way through, gathering up the next torment with me as I leave the warmth of my monitoring station into the chill of her little room. The robe I have chosen for her is sheerest white, barely there, and in length more like a long shirt. The hemline would reach to mid buttock at best, and the open front might just contain her large chest if she stood perfectly still and held her breath. Shaking the skimpy garment out for her inspection, the look on her face when I offer to allow her to wear it is priceless. For a long moment it seems she is more disgusted by the robe than her own, piss sodden, clothing. When finally she replies, the tone of voice is sharp enough to cut steel, and if that failed the acid in her voice would certainly eat a hole in it.

“Oh no,” I tell her with a smile. “You can ask nicely, say please.”

Again the hatred in her eyes, the anger in her face. At times like this I just love being me. There is a primal pleasure in making a beautiful girl look at you with that amount of venom while she is helpless, where you know that despite the fury she will have to eventually capitulate. It took me turning to leave the room, but she surrendered, her voice soft and tremulous.

“Please.”

My answering smile is genuinely warm as I right her chair and loosen her bonds. Genuine, but short lived, I feel her muscles tense in anticipation of her freedom.

“I wouldn't,” I caution her softly, freeing her from the chair. It takes a few moments for her to respond, the blood returning to her extremities before she – predictably – bolts for the door. Her clumsy attempt would be easy to thwart in so many ways, but I anticipated this, and so choose the path which is most fun, I let her go.

She makes it to the only visible door, closing her hand triumphantly about the handle, and shrieks as the car battery I have hooked up to the other side sends its voltage through her sweat and piss soaked body. Silly girl, all she had to do was push the door, but if you put a handle on a door, even one which pushes open, then the instinct is to grab it. As she starts back from the shocking end to her escape attempt, she stumbles into me. Her hands rise, fingers flexed like claws, she tries to scratch my face, almost hissing in her rage. I catch her hands easily, and her knee rises, catching me in the solar plexus. It takes quite a lot of effort not to show how much that hurt, but seemingly I convince her that her effort was wasted, even as I draw shallower breathes, recovering my composure. The effort lost on her, she decides the only option she has remaining is to spit in my face, and suddenly she is not the angriest person in the room.

My fingers close in her long, bedraggled hair and I pull viciously down, forcing her to her knees.
“I warned you,” I inform her, my voice lower, colder. Each word dropped like a lead ball on sand. Turning on my heel, I pull her swiftly across the floor. My grip in her hair prevents her from rising, and I drag her, half kneeling, half crawling, the length of the room and through a second door which she has had her back to for her entire stay in my little guest house.

The next little room was a pleasure to plan and build, even more of a joy to use. The stocks and pillories, gyno chair, et al positioned throughout the room surrounded the central focus, a thick wooden pillar rigged with chains. It was to the whipping post I dragged her, and I think that I had her secured to the post before she had even registered where she was. Certainly her whimpers only began when it was far too late, but they increased when I pulled the knife from my belt, the long steel blade glinting menacingly in the low light of my dungeon.

Pressing metal to flesh, I ran the blade carefully, delicately down her spine, parting the fabric of her blouse, slicing through the strap of her bra with ease. Revenge! The amount of bra clasps that have made me work and look like an idiot through the years, fumbling with those stupid hooks, thinking I had it undone only to discover this model came with three of the bastards. As the elasticated band sprang, severed, apart, I claimed a moral victory for the entire male population.

Her jeans provided more resistance, but those too ended their existance as scraps of fabric on the floor. Only a few slight marks on her skin where I had allowed the point of the knife to score, but not break, her skin. For some strange reason she had been exceptionally still while I had the knife on her, if you discount the trembles running through her body.

Selecting a short, heavy whip from the rack, I turned again to face her. Her back pressed hard to the rough grain of the wooden post, her eyes locked defiantly on mine, the short respite as I chose the implement of her torture enough for her to bolster the last dregs of her courage. I met her stare, her burning fury meeting my own cold indifference. Fire and ice warring between our gazes for long seconds before, with a curl of my wrist, I sent the tail of the whip screaming through the air, the lash falling and curling about her thigh. The only noise was the echo of the whip and the ragged gasping of her breath as she took the blow in silence. Not giving her time to recover or reflect, not yet, I again sent the lash on it's merry dance through the air, whistling audibly before striking harshly across her chest. A livid red welt appearing to mark its passage on her flesh and... silence. It wasn't until the third blow that any response escaped her, the smallest of whimpers slipping reluctantly past her clenched teeth. I smiled at the reluctant exhalation, “This,” I told her, “is going to be fun.

“Fuck. You.”

I laughed at her outburst, but couldn't stop myself from being impressed at her strength. Not that my admiration saved her. Chest, belly, thighs, pubis, nothing was sacred. My whip flew through the air, sweat beading on my forehead from the speed of my assault as I delivered such a rapid succcession of blows, varying the location randomly, leaving her no opportunity to anticipate the next, nor to recover from the last. Though it seemed I was in a violent rage, every blow was controlled, her reaction monitored throughout. Slumped on the post, struggling for breath, her body gyrating in the aftermath of each blow, trying to escape the last only to dance into the next. As she hopped and spun in her escape attempts, she presented her back and buttocks, and these also took their turn meeting my leather friend.

It didn't take long for her silence to end, screaming and crying with each blow, whimpering alongside her futile attempts to break free. When, finally, she slumped exhausted, held up only by the chains securing her wrists, I stopped my assault.

Allowing her a few seconds to regroup, but not nearly enough time to recover, I released her from the frame, allowing her to fall to her knees, this time of her own accord. My hand again closed in her hair, twisting her head up to meet me gaze. Where her spitting on me had been a furious show of defiance, mine was a slow, deliberate humiliation. Opening my mouth, I let the pooled saliva fall gently from between my lips, the string of spittle trembling as it gradually descended towards her face. Striking sweat and tear streaked skin, rolling down her tormented features, I think I made my point.

“You stink,” I informed her coolly, “you smell of piss, sweat and fear, you filthy little fucking whore.”

Turning from her, I took a few steps across the room towards yet another door. Stopping, I looked over my shoulder. “Well? Come on,” I instructed. She started to rise to her feet, and I lifted my whip hand in warning. Taking my meaning, she dropped to all fours and crawled to me, following as I led her into a small bathroom, he sink and urinal sunken into the floor, a drain in the centre and a shower overhead.

In preparation for her visit, I had been busy. The past few days I had been using this toilet exclusively, but, rather than peeing down the bowl, as one aught, I had lifted the lid and pissed into the cistern tank. So when I pushed her head-first into the bowl and flushed, rather than fresh, clean water rushing out to meet her, it was stale, malodorous urine which assaulted her face, rushing into her mouth, up her nostrils, leaving her filthier and smellier than before. Coughing and spluttering, I allowed her just enough breath before pushing her face down into the piss filled bowl, drowning her in stale urine. Pulling her viciously upwards after long seconds, only to force her again into the acrid pan. Again and again I dunked her, continuing to immerse her in the filth until all struggle had gone, all the fight drained from her body, at which point I threw her onto the floor like a discarded rag. Turning on the shower, the ice cold water beating down on her filthy, gasping body as I turned from the room, locking the door behind me.

“Next time,” I tell her as I leave, “I won't be so kind.”