Cristina by Stern (D/s, S/M, B/D, WS, Scat, Lesbian sex)


DISCLAIMER: The following text contains sexually explicit material 
dealing with practices (sadomasochism, bestiality, enslavement, 
scatophily, etc.) that might be considered illegal in your country. If 
this is the case or you are a minor or you feel that these themes might 
disturb you, please close and destroy this file immediately. By 
continuing to read you implicitly relieve the author for any 
responsibility for the contents, legal or otherwise. 


CONTACT: The author is very interested in receiving comments from any 
woman who finds the contents of her interests. To contact him, please 
send a private email to italiansadist@hotmail.com

A UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY: Italian Master is currently accepting 
supplications worldwide from females seriously willing to turn their 
fantasies of masochism and total submission into reality.

I am 29, perfectly healthy, good looking and experienced even from the 
slave's standpoint. I have a medical and psychology background to 
ensure your safety, yet I am also very sadistic and extremely 
demanding. I can speak English, Italian and some French and German. I 
have a vast knowledge of everything S/M and enjoy most of its aspects 
in a well equipped setting. What I am looking for is a person willing 
to be trained into perfect submission as a full time, permanent 
slavegirl. Respect and care are assured, but the relationship will be 
centered on the Master/slavegirl aspect.

You must be of legal age, healthy and genuinely masochistic and 
submissive, with a liking for pain, humiliation, servitude and sexual 
service. You don't necessarily have to be particularly experienced or 
exceptional looking, but you must understand that after your training I 
will not tolerate the knowledge of another slavegirl doing or accepting 
things that you don't and, most of all, that this is a serious 
permanent position, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
Answer with your physical and psychological description, listing any 
previous experience, specific fantasies, current limits and especially 
your motivations. A photo would be appreciated. All the answers will be 
discreetly replied to, and should you interest me I'll arrange for an 
all-expensed paid trip here for an adequately long tryout to assess our 
mutual interest. If we'll find a compatibility, you will be required to 
relocate to permanently serve me. An emergency fund will be set up in 
order to allow you to get back to your former life should any problem 
arise, and in no case you will be dumped and left on your own. Do not 
answer to the newsgroup, but email me directly at Stern@it.net
This is a once in a lifetime chance. Try not to waste it.


Cristina by Stern


Summary

Introduction                              The Slave

Chapter One                               The Lover

Chapter Two                               The Lady

Chapter Three                             The Torture

Chapter Four                              The Captive

Chapter Five                              The Pervert

Chapter Six	                              The Whore

Chapter Seven                             Salvation



Introduction

The Slave

My name is Cristina, and I am a slave. I like the sound of this word, I 
like the fact that everybody knows what I am. Becoming a good slave is 
a long and difficult process, but now that my Masters have reduced me 
to an obedient and submissive pet, I am quite proud of myself. They 
have just given me a ring, and in less than one hour they will be home 
with their guests.

I have prepared myself in the way ordained by Sara, my divine Mistress. 
I have put on my chambermaid's outfit, which consists of a dress in 
black stretch fabric, with short puffy sleeves. The neckline is cut 
very low in front, and it is worn in such a way that all the upper 
portion of my big breasts is left on display, down to the very tips of 
my nipples. The pleated skirt is short enough to leave my buttocks bare 
to mid-height, and in front, my whole pubic mound is fully uncovered; 
of course I wear it without any panties, since intimate undergarments 
are allowed only during my periods. The outfit also includes a tiny 
apron, no larger than a handkerchief, and a white chambermaid's 
headdress. My legs are sheathed in black self-sustaining stockings, and 
I wear black shoes with 7" high heels, fastened at the ankles with thin 
thongs adorned with golden buckles. Naturally, as always, I also wear 
my tight-fitting collar of black leather, two inches wide, fitted with 
a gleaming metallic ring in front. Then some powder on my face, with 
water-resistant eye make-up. I take care first of all to stand before a 
mirror and to give myself a quick appraisal: I have to admit I am quite 
beautiful, especially between the skirt and the shoes, where my 
carefully depilated little pussy is well displayed by my clothing. I 
like its pink colour, almost red due to the treatment it received 
yesterday evening. It thus is the same colour as the other hole, which 
is well open like my Master prefers it to be; I have only to bow 
forward, ever so slightly, for it to yawn like a lascivious hungry 
mouth, which will be filled to its content in very little time. 

Everything is ready for the dinner; the house is spotlessly clean and I 
can afford a rest of a few minutes, sprawled on the cushions in my 
corner of the room, what my Masters call "the doghouse". I am aroused 
by the thought of what will be done to me tonight, even though the only 
thing I know is that Klaus and Sara want to make use of me along with 
two other Masters. I find myself, for awhile, fantasizing about who 
they may be, what they may like... My cunt is sopping wet, and I run to 
the bathroom, cleaning myself while trying to think of something else 
and to fight the urge to masturbate. Back from the bathroom, I write 
down my bout of excitation on the Reporting Ledger: it already is the 
third such entry in one day, and I know my Masters will be quite angry 
at the loss of face they will have to endure in front of their friends 
on account of me. I would almost have liked to cancel what I had just 
written, but the ink is indelible, and anyway, I am under quite clear 
instructions to write down every single one of my infractions. Back in 
the kitchen, despite my efforts to direct my thoughts to other 
subjects, I could not help going over the beginning of my adventure.


Chapter One

The Lover

There is no way I could ever forget the date: it was on the day of my 
eighteenth birthday. I had spent almost every day during the past two 
years fighting with my folks, who never once missed an opportunity to 
remind me that "as long as you live in our home..." But at long last, I 
was free. Adult, and free. At long last I was in a position to do 
whatever I wanted to, without any interference from them, and that is 
exactly what I did. On the previous night, I had locked myself in my 
room and I had stuffed two big suitcases with my things: some clothing, 
letters, keepsakes... The bare minimum. I bore no affection towards 
that house or any of its inhabitants. At that time we had only just 
moved to Verona, so I had no friends and no considerations which could 
have prevented my decision to leave everything and start a new life. I 
moved out early in the morning, and after a stop at an automatic teller 
machine to withdraw some money, I headed straight to the station. I 
stayed for some time in Milan with a friend of mine: a lot of people 
would call at his house, most of them North Europeans from the 
underground scene. One of them was a Dutch photographer, a woman named 
Katja, who at 25 was a firmly committed lesbian, with a beautiful face 
and a sex drive of almost nymphomaniac magnitude. I had never made love 
with a woman before, but it took her less than one evening to convert 
me. I was not in love with her, but she succeeded in getting me aroused 
from the first minute, and then to make me come in ways i had never 
suspected. Every time she touched me or she made me do something I just 
melted away, and when she went back to the Netherlands, I needed only 
one instant to make my mind I would accept her invitation to follow 
her.

The flight to Rotterdam was an incredible experience: as soon as we has 
gone through the metal detectors of the airport, Katja led me to the 
ladies' room, locked us in a booth and fitted me with one of those 
unbelievable sex toys she seemed to pack by the dozen in her large 
shoulder bag. This one was an object fashioned from soft pink rubber, 
molded in the shape of a heart. A cylinder about 7" long and more than 
1" thick protruded from its center, also molded in pink rubber, and 
studded with small bumps in soft rubber like the heart. Katja spent a 
brief moment making my juices flow, so as to be able to insert the 
whole device between my legs: she had backed me against the wall, and 
while she swirled her tongue to the inner depths of my throat, she 
blindly rummaged with the rubber heart, until she was satisfied it was 
in total contact with the skin of my cunt. These strange studs were 
massaging me like minute fingers. One of them was pressing itself 
exactly against my clitoris; still others had insinuated themselves in 
the fold between my bigger lips and my inner lips, and I had an 
overwhelming sensation of being licked everywhere by thousands of sharp 
tongues. However, Katja let go of me before I could reach a climax. She 
put my panties back on, and she managed to thread an electric wire, 
which I had not seen before and which protruded from the external face 
of the device, so that it ran under my clothes, going out of my panty 
hose and running inside my left sleeve, where it eventually was let out 
at the wrist. A small white box was hanging from its end, and my lover 
told me not to touch it. We brought some order to our clothes, and we 
went out together in the airport, like two good friends, holding each 
other's hand. In this manner, Katja was able to conceal the white box 
in her right hand, and I felt quite strange, with that device deep 
inside my cunt and with that wire which felt like a leash.

It's only when the plane started its engines that I got wise to my 
friend's little game. Katja looked straight into my eyes, and toggling 
a switch on the box, she made the device inside me start vibrating. It 
was all I could do not to scream my lungs out under the sudden 
sensation, and she kept grinning her perverted smile, which I had 
already learned to know. I abandoned myself to her capricious whims, 
and for the whole trip, the vibrator was quiet for only the briefest 
moments. Katja made me come innumerable times, while I sweated 
copiously and uttered sounds which could not leave the passengers in 
the adjacent seats in the slightest doubt as to their origin. A middle-
aged gentleman thus stood up from his seat to ask a question from my 
friend. The question was in Dutch, but I had no difficulty in 
understanding the answer: Katja showed her command box to the man, and 
she turned the regulating switch to its highest setting. I blushed, I 
tried to turn away towards the window, but there was nothing I could do 
to stop squirming and thrashing about in the most incriminating manner, 
until the man went away, his curiosity satisfied. I could not bring 
myself to be angry with my friend though, since she had succeeded once 
more in making me come, tabling in this occasion upon my exhibitionism.

Once in Rotterdam, I went out of the plane with vaginal juice all over 
my inner thighs, and leaving my seat sopping wet. Before going out of 
the airport I succeeded in obtaining Katja's permission to remove the 
vibrator and to clean myself, even though she first had intended to 
make me pass through customs in that condition. I was exhausted, but 
also curious to the extreme about what other surprises the girl had in 
mind for me.

The answer was provided as soon as we entered her flat in Rotterdam. 
The walls were decorated with large-scale erotic photographs, obviously 
her own work. Their subjects were girls in fetishist attire, or in 
various, complicated bondage. One of these girls, who could be seen in 
several photographs, wore rings through her nipples and smaller cunt 
lips. "Do you like these?" asked Katja. I nodded, overcome by a strange 
sensation. "Maybe some day you'll pose for me too, no?". My answer was 
out before I could control myself: "Oh yes, thank you!". My friend 
began laughing. She most certainly had already noticed my latent 
masochism and submissiveness, but she had not expected such an 
enthusiastic response to the prospect of being bound and exhibited. 
That night I slept soundly, but certainly not quietly, as my dreams 
were full of ropes and chains, and of the visible satisfaction which 
Katja's face would show every time I abandoned myself to her games.

During the following days, I gradually, yet ever more intently entered 
Katja's perverted universe. I was tied up in dozens of positions which 
were as uncomfortable as they were exciting, there to be photographed 
by my friend and to lend my body to her games. I was depilated, both on 
my cunt and around my anus, and I really felt quite naked and exposed; 
I was penetrated fore and aft by the huge collection of dildoes and 
plugs maintained by Katja, who obviously took particular pleasure in 
this whenever my mewling of pleasure, despite the generous amounts of 
lubricating cream she made use of, gave way to howls of pain; I was 
shown to all the fetishist shops of the town, where my sex teacher 
melted away my cash reserves by making me purchase obscene clothing in 
plastic fabric, skin-hugging leather apparel and a whole collection of 
shoes with incredibly high heels.

I learned, with time, how best to reward my naughty friend. Beyond 
keeping myself at her constant disposition to make her come with my 
tongue, my fingers and her own sex toys, I had understood how best to 
excite her. Katja liked to see me in a position of submission, thus I 
saw to her needs by licking her feet and her asshole, expressly asking 
her to bind me up, and generally fawning upon her like upon a lady of 
the nobility of yore.

The big change came around after about three months in her flat, when I 
eventually found in myself the courage to beg her to inflict pain to 
me. We had just finished dinner. I had gone into the bedroom, where we 
stored all our little toys, and I had come back stark naked, on all 
fours, wearing a leather collar and clenching in my jaws a cat o'nine 
tails which Katja had been using for some of her photographs. I had 
dropped the whip before her feet: "Are you going to whip me, Katja?" I 
had whispered, and I could see her face radiate an expression of the 
purest joy.

I was bound to a hook in the ceiling, hanging from my wrists, in such a 
position that I was constrained to remain on the tips of my toes, 
exposed and utterly defenceless. Before beginning with the game, Katja 
had dressed herself as a dominatrix, with black shiny high-spiked boots 
that went up to mid-thigh, a leather bodice and long black gloves. She 
was incredibly beautiful, and more exciting than ever: even though I 
was shivering in fear, my sex was dripping wet, and I could not help 
begging her to give me a kiss. My friend had come near me, her lips had 
brushed mine, then she had slowly stepped back, compelling me to strain 
forward in order to follow her. It went to the point when I found 
myself with my neck stretched forward, my tongue sticking out, my whole 
straining body trying desperately to reach Katja's mouth, while she 
obviously found my helplessness vastly amusing.

The whipping was terrible, an incredibly painful, unbearable and 
seemingly never ending torment. Katja did not spare one inch of my 
body, and the only time she allowed me some moments of respite was when 
she went briefly away to pick up a gag so as to stifle my screams. The 
lashes of the whip kept hitting my nipples, my vagina... even my 
asshole, making me swing like a crazed puppet dangling from my 
uncomplicated bondage. The pain was much worse than whatever I could 
have foreseen, but nevertheless, on that evening, I climaxed even more 
than usual. My arousal naturally had nothing physical about it: it was 
the idea of my undefended body, of the marks on my skin, the idea of 
TORTURE which made my cunt cream. I took pleasure in seeing my nipples 
growing ever stiffer and harder, thus laying themselves open to the 
fury of the whipping, I took pleasure in the feeling of being 
dominated, and above all I relished the incomparable pleasure I was 
giving to my tormentor. I had gone past the boundaries of convention 
and hypocrisy, I had vanquished my fear and the very image I had of 
myself. All the time the cat o'nine tails lashed my flesh without any 
mercy, I was no longer the eighteen years old Cristina who had dropped 
out from school, or the Cristina who had a taste for horror movies and 
Mozart music. I was only a body, an animal without a name or a 
consciousness, with no past and no future, an animal which only lived 
to its utmost the feeling of being alive. Yes, while I was tormented, 
my strongest and most overwhelming sensation was not that of pain, but 
of being alive. I was looking at my body as it spent itself screaming 
and thrashing around, bathed in sweat and throbbing with pain, and the 
spectacle sent me to heavens.

When I was pulled down, I collapsed on the floor, shaken by deep sobs 
which came from the depths of my belly; sobs not of pain, but of bliss. 
I was to have many more opportunities to sample pain during the 
following days, but even on that occasion my sensations markedly 
differed from what I had been expecting. Every time I tried to sit down 
and the angry welts on the skin of my ass made me leap up in anguish, 
the pain was not a burden for me, but rather a pleasant recollection of 
the pleasure I had given Katja and myself by submitting to such an 
obscene treatment as a whipping. During the days that followed, we 
busied ourselves with ever more complicated and fantastic games: molten 
wax, clamps, spankings... I was masturbated with a glove coated with 
ground pepper, and I even went so far as begging my Mistress to torment 
me with an enema, after I had seen it being done it in one of the 
specialized magazines which I had purchased in quantity, only to find 
myself struggling to decipher a language I did not understand.

The other important change in my life happened a few months later, on 
the evening of my nineteenth birthday. By that time I was already quite 
certain of being a masochist: my relationship with Katja now was an 
exclusively sado-masochistic one, and I was tortured almost every day. 
I had guessed that something was in the works, as for the last few days 
my Mistress had restrained herself to sexual games in her use of my 
body, but I had been careful not to ask any questions. Then, one 
evening, Katja suddenly ordered me to dress myself to go out: she 
already had selected the clothing and laid it down on the bed. They 
consisted in a leather bodice, silk stockings with the stitch on the 
rear, and black pumps with extra high spiked heels. The only other item 
of clothing was a long dark raincoat, which completely covered my 
nakedness. I thought it was a game we had already played a few times: 
Katja would get me into the car in that state of undress, then she 
would order me to expose myself to the other drivers while we drove 
around, or else she would make me pee in public parks when nobody was 
around, making sure I squatted and lifted the raincoat high enough to 
uncover my intimate parts.

That time, however, I also had to put on a collar and a leash, and we 
used a taxi rather than our own car. It was given the address of a S&M 
club: the first I had ever been in. The door was open by a man dressed 
as a butler, who invited us to leave our overcoats in the cloakroom. 
Katja curtly ordered me to comply, and I was concerned rather than 
aroused when I made my entrance into the main room of the club. I had 
already grasped the fact that, in the Netherlands, I could walk around 
naked and nobody would rape me, but the situation was a very 
embarrassing one. Katja dragged me by the leash to a small table, and 
she made me kneel down at her side. There were about a dozen other 
people in the room, and they all closely observed us as we went in. All 
the tables were disposed around a small theater stage, which for the 
time being supported a TV set which showed a S&M flick. A few minutes 
later the movie came to an end, and the lights went back on. A leather-
clad girl carried the TV set away, and Katja whispered in my ear "Happy 
Birthday".

After which my Mistress suddenly got up and pulled on the leash, 
dragging me to the scene. I immediately realized what was happening: my 
birthday present would consist in being tortured before all those 
strangers! My embarrassment went away almost at once, even though the 
punishment session was quite heavy. First Katja tied me upon a low 
bank, with my legs well spread, so as to utterly expose my two holes to 
the audience's gazes. Then she began fucking me with ever bigger 
dildoes, so as to ready me for a fist fucking of my two orifices which 
made me scream in earnest, especially when she pushed both hands in at 
the same time. After Katja had me clean her hands with my tongue she 
abandoned me to the care of the place's dominatrixes, who roughly 
amused themselves with my body while the audience laughed and applauded 
at my agony. Weight-loaded clamps were applied to my most sensitive 
parts, I was dilated again and again, and of course I was whipped: I 
was whipped long and hard with a lot of different instruments, which 
made me suffer and climax right under my friend's amused eyes. In fact, 
I kept trying to meet Katja's gaze between my irrepressible tears, and 
her expression of arousal led me to forget any feeling of fright. The 
hired tormenters' hands were only the extension of Katja's, and I fell 
down into an abyss of pain and pleasure perfectly similar to those I 
enjoyed within the sound-proofed walls of our flat.

When the spectacle of my torture was over and I went back to our table, 
after having cleaned myself, I found Katja in the company of an 
attractive woman of about thirty-five years, with long black hair and a 
resolute expression. I would have liked to run to Katja and give her a 
kiss to thank her for the gift I had received, but I reflected that it 
would be better to kneel down silently at her feet. The two women kept 
talking a few more minutes in their tongue-twisting language, then the 
newcomer got up, greeting Katja with a quite satisfied smile, and she 
left after giving her a visiting card.

We stayed in the club for a few more hours, witnessing another torture 
show which starred a woman not really beautiful or even young, but who 
obviously was able to sustain the harshest treatments.

Back home we made long, leisurely love, and I collapsed in Katja's 
arms, totally exhausted. When I opened my eyes the following morning, 
she had been up for a while, and for the first time in months she had 
fixed breakfast, thus fulfilling a chore which had been made an 
exclusive part of my duties as a slave.

"A few days ago I was offered a job," she said while we were eating 
breakfast. "It consists of an extensive series of photographic sessions 
in Japan. The pay is very high and I cannot afford to turn it down. 
Which means that I'll have to spend a long time abroad, at least five 
months, and you will not be able to go with me". I almost fainted 
hearing her words, and I felt as if somebody had dropped a big lump of 
lead right on my stomach. "I don't want to leave you either," she said 
seeing my expression, but there is nothing else I can do. Moreover I 
have been such a selfish bitch, I should have helped you to find work 
and instead I did not even start teaching you the Dutch language, so 
that I cannot even force you to stay here and wait for me". I was 
speechless and I felt only despair. "Until yesterday I was afraid I 
would have to send you back to Italy, but today I have a way out. The 
lady I was talking with yesterday at the club is called Fiona Martens; 
she's the widow of Anton Martens, the millionaire, who has left a huge 
inheritance to her". I had already started crying, and I did not 
understand what she was driving at: "Lady Fiona is a very perverse 
woman, she lives in a large mansion where she enjoys her own real harem 
of slave girls. You have pleased her, and she has offered to buy you... 
for a lot of money".

Katja leaned towards me and shook my shoulders, trying to make me fully 
grasp what she had said: "Stop crying! Did you hear? I've asked you an 
important question! Do you accept her offer?"

"I don't... I don't know, I haven't heard you... What offer?" My 
atrocious despair at the very thought of losing my lover certainly did 
not help my understanding of such a bizarre situation. "The offer to 
become Lady Fiona's slave," Katja said again, with some emphasis, "If 
you agree you will become her property for a full year, but when you 
get out, you can return to me. That woman is very cruel, but I have 
seen that you like to be used by others than me, and maybe it won't be 
so terrible after all". At long last I began to understand: "But you 
will not be able to visit me?" "No". "You'll wait for me, though?" 
"Certainly, Cristina, certainly I'll wait for you". "Then it's all 
right. I would do anything to be allowed to stay with you".

I spent the remaining of the day crying in Katja's arms and making love 
with her. Immediately after dinner, my lover gave a phone call and 
ordered me to put on the same clothes as the previous night. "Why do 
you want to go out?" I asked. "I do not want to go out, Cristina," she 
answered in a disconsolate voice. "They're coming to take you to Lady 
Fiona. I'll be going tomorrow." That news made me fall in an almost 
catatonic state. I cannot recall anything of what went on afterwards 
until I found myself in the street, being shoved by a blonde girl into 
a large black Mercedes. I kept crying during the whole trip, and when 
it ended I found myself in a large courtyard, right in front of a huge 
mansion's palatial entrance. I was dragged inside, and showed to a 
spacious study where I made the acquaintance of Lady Fiona.


Chapter Two

The Lady

She was a tall woman with long black hair and an expression of utter 
superiority, which was stressed by an elegant but showy make up, her 
red-painted lips much in evidence. She was wearing a long dressing gown 
in a precious, embroidered fabric and she was seated behind a massive 
desk of dark wood, across the chair I had been thrown into by the girl 
who had fetched me with the car. "I think your mistress has already 
told you everything," she addressed me in perfect English, "but at any 
rate I'm going to remind you of the terms of the agreement". "You will 
become my slave for one year, and I will pay the agreed sum at the end 
of the twelfth month. During that time you will be my captive, and I 
will have the right to do everything I want to you. The slightest 
mistake or disobedience will be punished by torture, and of course I 
will make you suffer also for my entertainment. I have seen that you 
are a little masochistic slut, and I am sure you'll have many 
opportunities to amuse yourself with me and my friends. Normally I 
would make you sign a contract, but since you are nothing but an 
illegal immigrant, there is no need for it. No court would ever find an 
Italian peasant girl to be in the right".

I agreed. The first thing that was ordered to me was to show her my 
intimate parts, opening myself as wide as I could with both hands. 
"Yesterday evening what I liked most was your smaller hole," the 
aristocratic dominatrix said speaking of my asshole, and I have special 
projects for it." The "special projects" consisted of a stern 
disciplinary regime which aimed at dilating my anal sphincter to an 
incredible extent, and it was started that very evening. Lady Fiona 
made me go down on all fours, and she led me thus to a real, perfectly 
appointed torture chamber, which I was to learn later was only one of 
the three torture chambers in the mansion. I was bound with wide spread 
legs on a gynecological armchair, and the lady amused herself first by 
staving me in with her hand, then with a good length of her arm, and at 
the end with a series of speculums and rectal plugs of ever growing 
sizes. Even though Katja had also shown a passion for these games, I 
had never had to submit to such huge penetrations, and my shrill 
screams led my sadistic mistress to produce a copious stream of cunt 
juice. She stopped only when the flesh of my anal sphincter was as 
tautly extended as a violin string, stretched by a dildo of truly 
enormous size. "For tonight that will be enough," she grinned 
viciously, while the plug settled in my asshole despite the muscular 
spasms which shook my anal ring and vainly tried to expel the intruder. 
The pain was excruciating, and I could not wait for the moment when 
that impaling stake would be withdrawn from my gut on fire. But in 
fact, the dominatrix selected a set of ropes in a nearby cupboard, and 
she used them to secure the dildo in its place, with specially devised 
knots which prevented me from expelling it, as well as from drawing it 
inside me, a demented idea which the tremendous pain in my anal ring 
had led me to consider as well. Then Lady Fiona went out without a 
word, leaving me alone with that atrocious instrument of torture.

It was a fellow slave who came and freed me from the chair, after I do 
not know how much time. The spasming of my anal ring was over by then, 
but it still throbbed with pain. The girl first freed my ankles, then 
she undid the rope which cinched my waist, and then she unbound my 
wrists. When the only remaining rope was the one securing the dildo in 
my asshole, though, she motioned me to get up. I could not believe it: 
how was I expected to move at all with such a thing stuck up my ass? I 
attempted to explain myself in English, but the slave girl nodded in 
quite an eloquent manner: I had to keep the plug where it was! It took 
me half an hour to reach the cell where I was to spend the night: it 
was situated in a kind of subterranean hall, and simply climbing down 
the ladder which led there was a terrible, incredibly painful 
experience. When I reached my bunk, I was almost completely bathed in 
transpiration, I quivered with pain and I was quite certain of having 
ruptured my anal sphincter. The slave bound my hands at the bed's head, 
while my ankles were secured by leather thongs which held them wide 
apart. It was fortunate that I was allowed to lie down on my belly: the 
weight of my body bearing down on my flattened tits was but a trifle in 
comparison with the agony I would have suffered if I had been reduced 
to support myself on the stake which sodomized me. The slave went out 
of the cell without a word, ramming home the bar which locked the 
wooden door and turning the light off. Alone in the dark, skewered like 
a chicken about to be roasted and bound stark naked on a bunk, I began 
at long last to grasp the situation I had landed myself in. I was a 
prisoner, a prisoner in a castle of horrors like the castles in fairy 
tales, like the castle in the Story of O, in the hands of a woman who 
could afford the luxury of torture chambers and of a whole seraglio of 
girls she could make suffer at her whim. As I lay there on my belly, 
with my ass on fire and my limbs stretched in all directions by the 
ropes which now were starting to chafe my skin, I reflected on Lady 
Fiona's dazzling, diabolical smile, which made her look almost like a 
pornographic version of Snow-White's cruel queen; back in the 
gynecological chamber, her eyes had gleamed with bliss while she 
rummaged with her hand inside my rectum, intent on drinking up to the 
last drop the suffering she was visiting on my most intimate parts. The 
intensity of the pain had almost stupefied me at the time, and I had 
not quite realized it, but now I remembered the arousal of that woman 
as she looked at my torture as something which hung tangibly in the 
air. And what about myself? I had allowed myself to be mistreated like 
a lifeless puppet, lending myself to the bondage and torture of my 
whole body with a submissiveness which was even more marked than that 
which I was used to demonstrate to Katja. Maybe the difference between 
what had happened just now and my relationship with Katja lay in the 
fact that now, it was not a game. Lady Fiona was too organized, too 
dedicated a sadist to allow herself the luxury of letting me rest after 
the torture. Katja would have put me in bed for many hours, coming now 
and then to shower me with kisses and caresses. With my new Mistress it 
was the reverse: she had not even deigned to see me to my cell, and she 
had only been preoccupied with the need to ensure that my anal ring 
should go on suffering even while I lay asleep.

These reflections eventually aroused me and made me wet, which 
contributed to make the huge dildo's intrusion easier to bear. 
Naturally, I could not sleep during that night: maybe I did lose 
consciousness for a few minutes from time to time, but the major part 
of the night was spent enduring the ever growing tension of the binding 
ropes, fantasizing about what would be inflicted to me the following 
day, and marvelling at the way the pain from my raped asshole was 
becoming less and less intense, and now and then even felt pleasurable. 
I tried to masturbate by shaking my hips, but to no avail. When the 
light came back in the cell, I had been reduced to a rag, and I was 
aroused like a bitch in heat.

The first person I saw on that morning, as well as on most of the 
mornings that followed, was Enrica. Enrica was my designated teacher of 
German, which was the official language in Lady Fiona's mansion. She 
was an Italian girl, like me, and was about 25 years old. She was 
rather smallish, with a well developed body which revealed her 
Mediterranean roots; she had black hair and big hazel eyes, and her 
dark complexion came as a surprise after so many pale-skinned local 
beauties. She wore the black, incredibly high spike-heeled pumps which 
I later discovered were compulsory for all the guests of the mansion, 
and a collar fitted with a ring. Besides that she was completely naked: 
her vagina was totally depilated and she wore large metallic rings 
through her inner cunt lips. The lips were stretched by the weight of 
the rings which clanked sonorously against each other at her very step. 
Similar rings, larger than those I already had seen used for piercing, 
ran through the base of her big dark nipples, compelling them to remain 
stiffly erect, in a permanent state of wicked arousal. 

Enrica did not remove the anal plug, which anyway I had already gotten 
used to, but she freed my ankles and wrists. I passively allowed her to 
fit me with a collar which was then chained to a ring in the wall, 
constraining me to remain standing, and I crossed my arms behind my 
back as I was ordered to. The lesson started right then and without any 
preliminary explanations. The first words I was taught were those which 
designated my bodily parts, and she obviously began by "cunt", 
"asshole", "tits", and so on. Enrica would lightly touch the specific 
body part, enunciating its name; and I would repeat after her. Any 
mistake on my part would be punished in the most appropriate manner: my 
nipples would be pinched and tweaked between two fingers, my buttocks 
were most painfully beaten with a slender cane (and whenever the 
beating made my anal ring instinctively tighten, I truly saw flying 
stars), and so on. After one hour or so of such schooling, it was 
explained to me that the Mistress' orders were that I should be able 
within the month to carry out whatever instructions were given to me in 
German, and that should Enrica fail to achieve this, she would be 
deprived of her status as a supervisor, which she had attained after 
two years of hard servitude, and would revert to being a mere slave, 
which would mean being subjected again to daily mistreatments.

In fact, I spent the remaining of the day committing to memory the 
complicated rules which governed life in the mansion, and which 
included detailed dispositions regarding the way one had to behave 
while walking, receiving punishment, interacting with supervisors, 
taking food, even responding to the calls of nature, and in a thousand 
other occasions. It amounted, in short, to a veritable penitentiary 
regime, with the difference that here, one could be tortured and 
mistreated at any time. The item which at first seemed to be the most 
unbearable was the prohibition of masturbation or of any other way of 
procuring sexual pleasure without prior permission from the 
supervisors.

These supervisors included, in addition to Enrica, two other women, a 
voluptuously formed German called Monika, and the Asian Midori, an 
excessively beautiful Japanese woman with a particularly hard stare. 
All three were former slaves of Lady Fiona's seraglio, whose particular 
merits had been rewarded by their being granted their freedom, and 
being put in charge of the everyday running of their Mistress' harem. 
Their duties consisted mainly in training the slaves, through daily 
punishments and humiliations, and in preparing everything for the 
Mistress' entertainment. For the mistress and sole owner of the 
mansion, as well as of our lives, needed to have at her disposition, 
every evening, two "favourites", who were selected by rotation from the 
cells' denizens.

The first of these "favourites" was to play the part of a sexual 
plaything, lending her own body to Lady Fiona's erotic whims. Our 
Mistress only allowed the fleetest of tongue and the nimblest of hands 
to fulfill this office. The other "chosen" girl was assigned a rather 
less pleasant part: that of victim, since she was to "liven up" the 
evening with the exhibition of her suffering, and thus was to submit to 
particularly intensive and sophisticated torment. These special 
tortures were thought up by the three supervisors, who had to take 
great care to keep their Mistress entertained with ever more new 
variations, on pains of being sentenced, in their turn, to exemplary 
punishments. 

At that time there were eight slaves living in the mansion, including 
me. This meant that between two evening torture sessions we had only 
one week's respite, during which we still were punished every day for 
sundry motives. In my own case, for example, I was not used as a victim 
for a whole week, during which I was nevertheless subjected to much 
worse treatments than I was used to. I was whipped hanging from my 
tits, I was made to wear a harness fitted with a huge rectal plug for 
all the time I spent in my cell, I was held in rigorous bondage for so 
long that I almost lost consciousness, I was given enemas which made me 
feel my belly was about to burst, and of course I was still held 
responsible for the hard housework I had been assigned. I who, back at 
home, would never have thought of even wiping a plate, was now in 
charge of scrubbing clean huge areas of pavement, using the tiniest of 
rags, or of dusting one by one every book in the entire library, while 
constrained in a bodice which left me breathless, with sharp-toothed 
clamps biting into my nipples, and precariously balanced upon high-
spiked shoes which painfully cramped my toes. So intense were my 
suffering, my never ending psychological stress and my terror of being 
punished that I could think of one thing only - to obey. I never once 
gave a thought to the world outside the mansion's high walls, to my 
beloved Katja or to anything which could distract me from the immediate 
satisfaction of my tormentors.

I laboured all day long, I licked boot soles, cunts and assholes 
whenever I was ordered to, I passively followed the women as they 
dragged me by my leash to the torture chamber, I resignedly endured 
whatever punishment was in store for me, I went back to work, I was 
sent to my cell, I collapsed on my bunk, and the following morning, I 
would be awakened by Enrica for the German lesson, which as often as 
not would be concluded by the hiss of the cane. A few days had been 
enough, under such an exhausting routine, to utterly destroy my will 
power, but it had not diminished the erotic pleasure I felt in that 
bizarre situation. Every time I proffered my wrists to be tied with a 
rope, my cunt was reduced to a sopping rag, my nipples grew stiffly 
erect and hard as pebbles, and I languidly observed the supervisors as 
they got everything in order to make suffer. However atrocious my 
torment would be, I had soon come to see that pain as the exact and 
right price to be paid in exchange for being granted the honor of 
giving pleasure to my tormentors. Sex proper was rationed, and the 
never ending arousal which stemmed from such a strange situation as 
prevailed within the walls of the mansion was a big help in sustaining 
the torments and the constant exhaustion. I had become a true 
nymphomaniac, and I found my highest happiness in being allowed to lick 
the supervisors' sublime bodies, and in constraining myself to swallow 
to the last drop the liquors of their cunts. The three supervisors were 
quite satisfied with my attitude, and so was Lady Fiona, whom in fact I 
hardly ever met during the day, and who almost never stopped to cast a 
look at me.

It was only at dinner time that the Mistress deigned to honor her harem 
with her presence. On those occasions, we slaves would congregate in 
the dining room, and we would witness, along with Lady Fiona and the 
two supervisors who sat at her table, the torture of the selected 
victim, who was tormented by the third one. The designated lover of the 
Mistress only had to remain under the table and to tongue her with 
devotion, while one of us would fulfill the duties of a maid, and the 
others had to remain at the disposition of the supervisors, who often 
followed the Mistress' example in enjoying erotic servicing during the 
dinner, and also could be in need of assistance to punish the victim.

The evening punishments were terrible and memorable performances, which 
were remarkable both by the sophistication of the instruments put to 
use and by the cruelty displayed by the tormentors, whom no begging or 
crying could ever hope to move. In the first torture session I 
witnessed, the victim was Undine, a German woman of about thirty years, 
with a head of crew-cut red hair. She wore rings through her vaginal 
lips and her nipples, and she had walked to the corner of the room, 
where her torture was to be inflicted, with a proud expression which 
made me think she had vowed not to show her agony to her tormentors. 
The supervisor in charge of the torture was Monika, who first 
imprisoned her neck and wrists in a rectangular yoke of dark wood, 
about one inch thick. Two ropes were fastened to her legs, around her 
knees, keeping them spread but not really tight, then the dominatrix 
chose two lengths of thin twine, which she ran through Undine's vaginal 
rings, opening her cunt wide before pulling the strings upwards. Undine 
never made a sound as the strings were fastened to the sides of her 
yoke, which stretched her outer cunt lips in a most painful manner.

Then Monika took a metal wire which she drew, very tightly, between two 
rings which had been fitted in the walls, at a height of about three 
feet, in front and in back of the slave's exposed body. The dominatrix 
removed Undine's shoes, who was ordered to remain on tiptoes: in that 
position the wire went right between her legs, a few inches under her 
splayed vagina. This was obviously a distinctly uncomfortable position, 
and the slave had to strain considerably not to touch the wire, 
especially with the weight of her yoke bearing down on her shoulders. 
The tormenter then selected four large metal clamps, of the kind which 
is used to fasten a car's jumper cables to an outside battery, and 
which were evenly disposed along a single electric cable. As I had 
foreseen, the first two clamps closed their cruel steel teeth over 
Undine's nipples, and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from 
screaming in pain: they were heavy objects, and the springs they were 
equipped with were able to exert quite a substantial gripping strength. 
The slave's reaction was not ignored by Monika, who amused herself for 
some time by shaking the clamps with both her hands, then dropping them 
by surprise, so as to stretch again and again Undine's tortured 
nipples. I could see two big tears gliding down the woman's face, but 
once again, she still had not uttered the slightest sound.

The affixing of the third clamp was even more painful than for the 
previous ones: for Monika, with a wicked smile, closed its jaws right 
on the slave's exposed clitoris, drawing at long last a piercing scream 
which sustained itself as the dominatrix took all her time positioning 
the clamp, making sure it would bite Undine's pink button from the 
upper side, the grip from its strong spring keeping it upright. When 
this task was completed, Undine was shaken with heavy sobs, her legs 
were quavering and her vacillating torso made the clamps jingle in an 
exciting and painful ballet. There still was a fourth clamp, which 
Monika hefted in one hand with a smile which was not leaving any hope 
of a reprieve. The blonde woman rolled a large orange painted metal box 
near her victim: I know nothing about electricity, but the dials and 
the switches on the top side of the box left no doubt about it. It was 
a generator!

The fourth clamp was fitted to it by Monika, who completed the 
preparations by hooking another clamp, linked to the generator, to the 
metal wire which still ran between the slave's legs. Undine had gone 
pale when she had seen the generator. Her tormentor toggled a switch on 
the device, and a deep whir was heard throughout the room. Monika went 
to her victim, walking with slow and sensual moves until she stood 
behind her shoulders, and raising her arms in a majestic gesture, she 
grabbed with both hands the wooden yoke which cinched her neck. Undine 
tried to beg for mercy, mumbling a few words, but the blonde haired 
woman never hesitated, and she firmly pulled the yoke down, rupturing 
the slave's balance and compelling her to stand on the soles of her 
feet. Her stretched vulva went into contact with the steel wire, and 
the electric circuit was closed, sending current through the poor 
girl's body and pouring it though her nipples and clitoris.

Undine's scream was really atrocious, and as soon as Monika had stepped 
aside, the slave went up again on the tips of her toes, ending her 
suffering for the time being. From then on, the woman remained bound to 
the wicked device for at least four hours, during which her exhaustion 
got her calf muscles to give way a great number of times. Every such 
defeat was signalled by an ear-splitting shriek, which as the time went 
by lasted longer and longer, as the mere effort of getting back into 
position was more and more difficult. Lady Fiona kept looking at her 
shaking body with a satisfied smile, obviously turned on to the extreme 
by the pain her slave was enduring. 

Every single one of the performances of the following nights proved to 
be terrible and unbearable for the unfortunate victims. Midori 
tormented Ann, a very young Irish girl, by hanging from each of the 
rings which perforated her breasts and her vagina a big bucket. The 
buckets were filled slowly with water, through a sophisticated tubing 
apparatus, throughout the whole evening. We could see her most 
sensitive flesh being stretched to impossible lengths, while her body, 
tensing to the spasming point, kept quavering under the intensive pain.

Then it was Enrica's turn to torment the pale-skinned Karen, a girl who 
had been forbidden to pass water for the last two days. In order to 
ascertain that the order would be carried out, she had been made to 
wear a kind of super-tight rubber panties, internally fitted with a 
gigantic inflatable dildo, which crushed her urethra shut. Karen was 
compelled to drink a full quart of warm water, then she was made to 
suggest herself the torture she would be inflicted in exchange for the 
permission to empty her bladder, which by then hurt her so much that 
she could absolutely not speak clearly. The final agreement was reached 
over a whipping of her whole body, delivered with long riding whips by 
Enrica and Midori until the slave lost her senses. This would be 
followed by fifty lashes on her vagina, administered with a thin cane 
wielded by Monika.

The latter was in charge the following evening, taking pleasure in 
fitting Tanya, a voluptuous American girl, with big vaginal rings, as 
her cunt had been unadorned up to that night. After having pierced her 
smaller lips, Monika ran two syringe needles through her clitoris, 
making her almost faint with agony. The fifth day Midori made use of 
the only black slave, an athletic Senegalese woman whose name I cannot 
recall, for a penetration-centered performance. The unfortunate woman's 
vagina was raped with hands, feet, plugs and dildoes of varying sizes. 
As a final climax, Midori thrust a big bottle-scrubbing brush in the 
black woman's vagina, and she rummaged without any precaution, shaking 
the hard-bristled brush inside the slave's cunt. The ultimate touch was 
provided by a copious quantity of molten wax which was poured into the 
slave's vaginal cavity, which a speculum kept wide open, care being 
taken to pour it directly on the mouth of her womb.

The next victim was Jacqueline, from France, whom Enrica bound laying 
on her back on the floor, with her head encased in a kind of gold fish 
glass bowl, where a rubber-padded opening had been added on one side 
for the slave's neck. We had been forbidden, that very morning, to 
refrain from producing piss or shit for the whole day, and on that 
occasion we had to empty ourselves into the clear glass bowl, almost 
drowning Jacqueline in a sea of excrement, most of which she was forced 
to gulp down in order not to suffocate.

The following night was dedicated to torturing Bettina, who was the 
only other guest of the mansion who seemed to be as sincerely 
masochistic as I was. Bettina was so young that I was pretty sure she 
was still a minor, and I had first noticed her a few days before that 
evening, when we were both assigned to kitchen duties at the same time. 
I was dusting a shelf, and she was doing the dishes. At some time in 
the afternoon Enrica came into the room, and she had started checking 
upon my work, intent on finding some leftover dust or any other excuse 
for punishing me: I had briefly paused, casually turning my head 
towards the other slave. Bettina had taken a plate she had just washed, 
she had winked at me, and she had quite deliberately thrown it down on 
the floor, shattering it and provoking the supervisor's fury. The young 
slave had been dragged to the punishment room without further ado, and 
when she came back almost half an hour later, her ass had been turned 
into an angry red mass of burning flesh by Enrica's whip.

The torture visited on Bettina was more cruel than anything I had 
witnessed up to that moment in the mansion: Monika sealed shut her 
pretty little cunt with a great number of safety pins, with which she 
pierced both her inner and her outer lips, making her lose some blood. 
Even Lady Fiona was not pleased by the performance, and before she went 
back to her rooms with that evening's designated lover, she had the 
other two supervisors administer a whipping to Monika, who was set upon 
by her colleagues with much enthusiasm.


Chapter Three

The Gaoler

As the days went by, my own reaction to the evening shows was 
undergoing a slow change: whereas, at first, I had found the merciless 
cruelty displayed during those performances to be most exciting, the 
closer it was getting be to my own turn to star in one such show, the 
more I came to feel ever more terrified. It happened two or two times, 
during that week, that I was tormented by the supervisors at dinner 
time, but despite the agony from the whippings and the screams I 
uttered when a clamp was positioned on one of my most sensitive parts, 
I had spent the evening hours in the same resigned state I was in 
during the days, reduced to a mindless wreck by the never ending 
suffering and by the unmovable authority of the dominatrixes.

However, as the time went by, the understanding of the fact that pretty 
soon, the girl being tortured would be no other than myself deeply 
printed itself in my mind. It is true that I had got accustomed to 
living with an impaling plug deeply thrust into my asshole most of the 
time, it is true that by then I found quite natural to throw myself on 
the floor to tongue the soles of the boots which were proffered to me, 
and it is true also that the very thought of spending my days in such a 
paradoxical predicament instantly got me in heat like a sow in need, 
but I was not quite ready to undergo that kind of handling. I knew it 
only too well: whenever the supervisors looked the other way and I 
could afford to focus my attention for one moment from the demanding 
household duties or from the agony of punishment, I found myself 
standing on shaky legs, my stomach cramped in terror. Had I not been 
perfectly aware that such a request only would have resulted in a worse 
sentence, I would have begged my tormentors, on my knees and crying, to 
do anything to me, to kill me even, but to spare me from the murderous 
dinner torture. I was ready to abandon myself to the most abject 
humiliations, humiliations I had not yet understood belonged only to 
fantasy, and to the most inhumane sacrifices. Nevertheless, day after 
day, hour upon hour, the unbearable moment came ever closer, its 
progress not to be checked. When the fate-designed evening came at 
last, so feverous was my terror of the torture that was in store for me 
that I could not help making a great number of minor mistakes and 
blunders during the day, so that I received again and again the kiss of 
the whip - an instrument which, in Lady Fiona's castle, never had to be 
asked twice to sing its anthem. I even had daydreamed, at some time, 
that if I could contrive to get to the torture stage with a body 
utterly disfigured by the whip, I could be possibly spared the torture. 
Of course, that very thought was nonsense, on at least two counts: 
first of all, the supervisors were perfectly able to whip me for a 
whole day without inflicting serious damage to me, and anyway, there 
could be no doubt that the Mistress would have found the infliction of 
torture to a slave already marked by the whip to be vastly interesting, 
so that nothing could save me.

When, at long last, it was dinner time, sheer terror had utterly numbed 
my mind. I went straight from a state of unrestricted sexual arousal to 
one of almost total paralysis: I had witnessed the terrible condition 
in which the tormented slaves went back to their duties on the 
following morning, and when I reflected that even so masochistic a slut 
as Bettina had hardly been able, literally, to stand on her feet, I had 
to realize that, whatever torture was being readied for me, it would be 
the worst on of all my life. As I was trying to fortify myself despite 
that desperate situation, Monika came and without further ado tied my 
wrists behind my back, snapped a leash to my collar, and dragged me 
with a total lack of regard towards the dining room where all the other 
inhabitants of the mansion were getting ready for their evening meal. 

We came in at the far end of the room, and I still distinctly recall 
the sensations I went through while I was being led to torture The 
coldness of the air, which made my nipples even stiffer, Enrica's hard 
stare as I passed her, the lack of interest that the other slaves 
seemed to display towards my perils as they went on servicing the 
dominatrixes in every possible way, and of course... Lady Fiona. Like 
always she was incredibly beautiful. She was sitting on her chair like 
an Empress on her throne. Her long hair only partially covered the 
generous measure of luscious cleavage bared by the low neckline of an 
obviously very expensive silken evening dress. I had seen her turn her 
eyes to me as soon as I had entered the room, and since then she had 
never wavered in her inquisitive gaze, studying me, appraising every 
feature of my body with the knowing eye of a cattle merchant. I recall 
the strange sensation I had felt right then, and I almost felt ashamed, 
because at that very moment I was being freed of the huge anal plug 
which up to then had never once left me. My attention had been focused, 
for an instant, on the perceptions which came from my bottom: I had 
distinctly identified the unfamiliar sensation of cool air nuzzling the 
inner walls of my distended sphincter, and the burning feeling which 
still remained from a caning I had received, a few hours before, on my 
ass cheeks. Momentarily turning my eyes to the table, I had been 
overwhelmed by Lady Fiona's smile, an ironic smile which conveyed all 
the cruelty she was able of, and for that very reason, utterly 
fascinated me.

Then, as I reached the other end of the room, I had no choice but to 
look at the instrument which had been readied for my torment. I was 
astonished to find that the executioner who stood waiting at its side 
was Midori, the Asian overseer. Even though I was, by then, fully 
convinced of my status as a plaything for anybody's use, I had 
developed a kind of bond, not to say of affection, to Enrica, who had 
come, through her daily lessons and her brusque ways of awakening me, 
to embody my own progress in the perverted universe of submission. I 
must confess that I would have preferred to be tortured by her, but 
after having tied my leash to a hook in the wall, she had hastened to 
walk to the table, where she was now seated with a slave's slurping 
tongue between her legs, and she had left me to the care of Midori. It 
was a long time before I discovered that the latter had spent several 
full days building the sophisticated device needed for that evening's 
performance, which she had designed and planned on her own. The 
mansion's well established custom was to celebrate a new slave's "first 
night" with the most sophisticated, spectacular and painful tortures, 
and Midori had no intention of leaving to her fellow tormenters such an 
opportunity to display her skills.

The sadistic overseer was, without any doubt, not cast in the typical 
mould of the underdeveloped, awkwardly proportioned Asian female. Her 
body was that of a beautifully proportioned Western female, with long, 
straight legs, large breasts and a well formed bottom, which made the 
unyielding stare of her slanted, almond-shaped eyes even more 
magnificent and made her a dream vision, a vision which in other 
circumstances could have been defined as an "angelic" vision. She had 
chosen to wear a low-cut bodice of black leather which left her breasts 
free, a G-string of the same black leather, stockings of the sheerest 
material with self-supporting garter bands, and, of course, the ever 
present black leather pumps with ludicrously high heels. Even though 
they were a bit more moderate in size than the ones we slaves were 
compelled to wear, her spectacular high heels made her a perfect 
fetishist's dream.

As far as I was concerned, however, I was suddenly dragged away from my 
contemplation of her features by her lively demonstration of the 
instrument's working, which she launched into in perfectly fluent 
German for the benefit of Lady Fiona. My limited language skills were 
of no help for me in grasping the working of the contraption. It looked 
like the main component of the apparatus had been salvaged from one of 
those children's see-saws which are made up of a beam oscillating 
around a central axis, with two small kids straddling the ends of the 
beam and alternatively sending each other up into the air.

The main beam had been replaced by a length of thick metallic pipe, 
each end of it had been somehow fitted with a large "thing": one of 
those "things" was a simple counterweight, which would allow the beam 
to remain balanced on its central axis. The other end, however, bore an 
apparatus which greatly concerned me.

It consisted of a strange-looking, rather complex metallic device, 
which protruded above and under the steel beam. Midori first 
demonstrated how this part was also articulated with the beam, and 
could slightly oscillate on its own axis as the main beam went up and 
down, in such a way as to remain always perfectly vertical, even when 
the "see-saw" was at a marked angle with the horizontal plane. A kind 
of dark-colored shaft seemingly fashioned from wood, protruded from the 
device's upper side and was the subject of Midori's following 
demonstration: through some kind of mechanical design which I did not 
care to understand, every time the see-saw oscillated and that end went 
down, putting the down side of the device in contact with the ground, 
the dark pivot slid upwards with a clicking sound. The length it 
travelled was not that impressive, maybe a few tens of an inch only, 
but Midori "pumped" the see-saw in rapid successive strokes, which 
promptly produced, to a musical accompaniment of sinister clicking 
sounds, a huge spike about one foot long. Its shape was strange-
looking, like a streamlined missile. It was circular in section, and 
thickening to a maximum 3 1/2" or so at the base, but, at its top end, 
what had first looked to me like a smallish shaft actually was a 
second, smaller spike, like a scaled down reproduction of the main one, 
no more than 2" long and maybe one inch thick. I had abruptly fallen 
down into a mood of utter resignation, and to tell the truth it never 
even occurred to me to wonder about the possible use of this extra 
device. Thinking back upon it, I certainly would have had no difficulty 
in guessing right, but a strange quirk of my mind made me feel quite 
unconcerned, and devoid of the slightest interest regarding whatever 
could happen to me. When I was a little girl I had read about the 
"illuminations" to be found in Buddhism, and as strange as it may 
sound, I am convinced to this day that I was then, quite literally, in 
a similar situation... It is called "satori", or something like that, 
the feeling of being beyond all that. 

My gaze nevertheless stayed glued to Midori as she went on with her 
presentation, and demonstrated how the spike, as it sprang upwards, 
allowed the see-saw's beam to come ever nearer to the ground, until it 
almost touched it. To conclude, the overseer called her perverted 
audience's attention to two ropes which hung from the ceiling and ended 
in what looked like hangman's nooses. These ropes went through pulleys 
and their other ends bore big metal masses, each of which could weight 
at least forty pounds.

The presentation was ended with a truly devilish smile by Midori, who 
went to me after having pushed back the spike in its initial position. 
My inner serenity promptly melted away. The woman tied my forearms 
behind my back, bound to each other on their whole length, then she 
made me kneel and used a rope to tightly bind my ankles to my thighs, 
thus compelling me to keep my legs folded. And, at long last, she began 
the torture.

Hefting me up as if I had weighed nothing, Midori grabbed me and 
carelessly dropped me upon the see-saw. My whole weight was bearing 
upon the tiny area between my legs, and I tried to find some support by 
steadying myself upon my knees. I heard a metallic tremor and what was 
probably a metallic pole was inserted between my back and my forearms, 
which thus hugged it, the ice-cold metal gliding between my shoulder 
blades and down my spine to end up being somehow affixed to the main 
apparatus. A few loops with a rope tied me to that last device, the 
purpose of which was to prevent me from falling on my side. Now the 
tormentor could deprive me of still another support, and she used a 
spreader bar, which she positioned upon the see-saw's beam, to both 
spread and hitch up my knees. In that position, I was being inflicted 
that painful torture which consists in straddling a thin plank. I had 
submitted to only once after my arrival in the mansion, and it had left 
me with lasting pain for many hours. 

But it was far from being the end of the story. Midori positioned 
herself between my legs and, handling my tenderized parts without the 
slightest care, she saw to it that the lips of my cunt were exactly 
separated by the see-saw's beam and by the small pivot which protruded 
from it. At that point, the pivot was able to invade my intimate 
orifice without the slightest trouble. As I softly groaned from the 
pain this operation was giving me, I understood, at long last, what was 
in store for me: the pole I had seen jutting out, huge and threatening, 
was going to be stuck up my cunt, quartering me! I felt the blood drain 
from my face, and my expression must have been quite clearly one of 
terror, for I could hear Lady Fiona laugh heartily from the table where 
she was enjoying her meal. A sudden thought, from a small recess of my 
mind, momentarily set my fears to rest: "That cannot be, this is too 
big. They would not ruin my cunt for ever, they must have something 
else in mind". But right after that, I thought of the enormous size of 
the plug which was used every day to spread my asshole; of the extent 
to which a vagina could be distended during child birth; and of the 
sadistic laughs with which Lady Fiona and her executioners greeted 
every howl of unbearable agony from a tortured slave.

Despite my tight bondage, I shuddered when the touch of Midori's hands 
on my breasts pulled me out of these thoughts. Ruthlessly stretching my 
flesh, she was pulling one of my mammaries through one of the nooses I 
had noticed. She tightened the noose in a painful manner around the 
base of my breast, and its companion underwent the same treatment: 
while the woman was thus readying me, my inquisitive stare glided along 
the rope, until it came to rest on the heavy weights at the other ends. 
They were, at that time, resting upon two chairs which kept them off 
the floor. With an ultimate tug on the ropes, which made me utter a 
surprised yelp, Midori checked that her work would hold. Then she 
walked away, giving the signal for the performance to begin.

The first weight to be dropped was the one hanging from my right 
breast. Never before had I felt such a pull, and when Midori let it go 
I felt as if my tit was being torn off, or, better, I was quite sure it 
had been ripped off. The pain was truly too high, it had nothing to do 
with that of the whip or of the other punishments I was used to, or 
even with the throbbing, sustained, yet somehow more sensual agony 
inflicted by the anal plug. The pain from the other mammary promptly 
added itself to the one I had started experiencing, and I was startled 
to discover that I could not greet it with proper screams, as I had 
already started yelling at the top of my lungs as soon as the first tit 
had been stretched...

I could see, through the tears which flooded my eyes, Midori slowly, 
sensuously walk to the other end of the see-saw, and nonchalantly put a 
hand on the counterweight. The beam between my legs gently lifted me by 
a few inches. The weights on my tits came to rest on the floor, and the 
pain I felt there slightly decreased, as the warmth of restored blood 
circulation filled my breasts. Maybe this was the best moment of the 
torture: although I remained in that elevated position for a few 
fractions of a second at most, in that short time I grew excited like I 
never had been up to then. At long last, for the first time in my life, 
I was TORTURED like in my most perverted dreams. It was no longer a 
game, or a punishment: this was a true and authentic torture, its only 
purpose to make me suffer for the pleasure of the people who dominated 
me, who totally owned me. The pain itself, as I had realized from the 
beginning, felt different: this time it was intensive pain, unmerciful, 
inflicted by a soulless machinery which could feel neither mercy nor 
lassitude, a contraption which had been thought up with the sole aim of 
reducing me to an animal, my mind annihilated by pain, exactly like my 
first whipping in Katja's house.

These thoughts were quite short-lived, of course. Midori lost no time 
in sending me down again, and the ropes tensed again around my tits, 
gripping them anew and stretching them upwards. The yell of pain I got 
out covered the first clicking sound of the dildo, which was still 
sheathed enough to be harmless, so that it could glide up into me 
without any trouble. Nevertheless, the impact of the see-saw's end with 
the floor, as light as it was, went up to the beam I was straddling, 
sending a slight jolt up my genitals. I tried to gather my courage, and 
I looked at my chest: my tits were bulging out like balloons, they had 
taken on a bright red hue, and they were getting worryingly far away 
from my chest, so taut was the rope. Midori said something, and I found 
myself going up again.

This time, the tormentor has put some decisiveness in her handling of 
the counterweight, and as I reached the uppermost part of my journey I 
wobbled quite painfully on my beam, as it stopped unceremoniously. I 
was bathed in sweat, and all of a sudden that session looked somehow 
less fascinating to me. As the time went by, and the up and down moves 
followed each other, the treatment was soon becoming what is was 
intended to be from the start: torture, and nothing else.

The agony only grew more acute, of course, as the dildo started really 
filling my little cunt. There was a moment when I realized, despite the 
sea of pain in which I was drowning, that there had been a drastic 
change down between my legs. My body weight no longer supported itself 
on the metal beam, but on the wood spike: my whole weight thus was 
bearing down on the walls of my vagina, which tried to adjust to the 
spike's monstrous girth, but did it with excruciating slowness. A 
"Click!" and my sex went up in flames, cleaving itself like an apricot 
being torn apart by eager hands. A yell (one of many, many yells...) 
and I felt myself slide down the spike, ever so slowly, until I could 
sense again the cool touch of the metal beam on my anal ring. The 
fierceness of the stimulation went way beyond anything I had been 
inflicted during the previous days, even though I hardly had been 
spared, so that every sensation I could perceive in my cunt was 
magnified: even though the actual increment in height was quite 
minimal, it felt as if I was gliding down the dildo for several feet at 
a time, a girl-sized ice cream stick left out in the sun to melt down 
and slowly slide along its wooden stick. Then, after a while, I 
discovered with horror that the interval of time between two touchdowns 
no longer was enough to let my tender flesh open itself by the required 
extent, so that I began to be pushed upwards even though I had not 
settled down on the metal beam yet. What this meant was that my whole 
body weight was now supported by that monstrous artificial cock, and 
the added push on my cunt walls staved me in much more painfully than 
before, as my stomach and viscera were pitilessly squeezed.

The sophisticated torture thought up by Midori now proved to be even 
more refined than I had feared. Right after having pulled me down one 
more time, she came to me and lifted me up from the see-saw. By that 
time it seemed to me that I had remained impaled for hours, with my 
tits growing ever more swollen and outstretched, and my cunt ruined 
forever, and I only longed to be freed and sent back to my cell. But it 
was not time to end my torture, rather to make it even sharper. With a 
total lack of feeling, Midori lifted me up completely, letting the 
whole dildo glide out of my cunt. I still had the ropes and the weights 
tugging at my boobs and strangling them, but I could not believe I was 
being spared at least one of the tortures.

The tormenter explored my cunt by thrusting several fingers in, or 
maybe even her whole hand, not meeting any resistance. Then, very 
slowly and carefully, she let me down on the dildo. I could not believe 
such cruelty: I begged for mercy with desperate screams, which she 
seemed not to hear. The impaling spike was now out for a sizeable 
length, and this enabled Midori to take advantage of its peculiarity, 
its "double tipped" shape. The Asian woman showed consummate skill in 
succeeding to position the thin end of the dildo exactly at the deepest 
end of my vagina, the mouth of my womb. I felt the wooden tip push 
against it, and there was nothing I could do as I was shot through by 
the unspeakable agony of being raped in my most intimate sphincter.

For a few moments I literally did not feel a thing, and even the 
throbbing agony I endured from my stretched tits at my every heartbeat 
seemed to fade out. I then found myself to be back in the highest 
position of the see-saw, although I had no recall of being pushed up, 
but now I had that hideous device foraging in my most sacred, most 
intimate part. The following descent was even worse: my tits were more 
stretched than ever, as my body was compelled to glide farther down, 
but the thing that terrorized me most was the dildo's imminent 
progress. No words could ever translate the hellish agony I felt when 
the wooden point made its way even deeper into me: even now, years 
later, after having submitted to innumerable torments, the sensations I 
had then remain literally unspeakable. The Masters and Mistresses who 
have made use of me since that time have never been loath to inflict 
uterine distension to me, sometimes making me faint straight away from 
the pain. That first time, however, my most intimate flesh had not been 
trained to endure that penetration, and yet at no time did 
unconsciousness intervene to prevent me from fully savouring, despite 
myself, every subtle flavour of the torture.

Even my mind, numbed though it was by the incredible pain, played a bad 
turn on me. In a flash, I perfectly understood that the dildo was still 
quite a while away from being wholly out, and that the rape it was 
inflicting me would get even worse, and for a long time. I clearly 
reminded myself that Lady Fiona's evening meal rarely lasted for less 
than three hours, and that the tortures never ended before she was 
through, sometimes even being carried on after the dessert. I tried to 
cast a glance at the table where Fiona and the overseers were seated, 
to see what course was being served, but my tear-filled eyes could not 
see a thing. My blood was beating an unearthly tempo against my 
eardrums and I only heard distorted noises, garbled words in a language 
which was not mine: I could make out laughter and groans of pleasure, 
but nothing else.

I do not know how long the torture lasted after that, but to me it was 
an eternity. My own perceptions were dizzy: I still remember having 
looking at my breasts and having seen them a deep purple, swollen to 
huge balls of flesh, with disgusting-looking veins in deep-etched 
relief which kept pulsating. The slightest move made my suffering only 
worse, and soon I became a nameless thing, its only universe being made 
up of the two agonizing pains it went was hanging between, the upper 
one of stretched tits, the lower one of staved in genitals. This 
torture must have been a quite exceptional one, even by the mansion's 
standards: a few years later, when I met again with slave Jacqueline, 
now established in France as a professional Mistress, she confessed to 
me that she had dedicated a whole room of her Parisian dungeon to the 
torture of the see-saw, and that some of the best among masochistic 
slaves were sent to her to submit to it, including from abroad, as it 
was widely deemed to be the most painful torture that could be found in 
the richly diversified market of professional S&M. 

As I have said, no words can truly do justice to my suffering, nor to 
Midori's exquisite skill in devising it. The apparatus kept clicking up 
at every touchdown with absolute efficiency, and my dilatation 
proceeded with diabolical finality. I obviously had no time for such 
frivolous thoughts, but it certainly was a miracle that I suffered no 
lasting wounds: the dildo soon reached the limits of my vagina's 
stretching capacity, but I think that I somehow succeeded in going 
straight past these limits, getting totally distended in the process. I 
could feel my vaginal walls slowly giving way, my womb opening more and 
more, despite itself, with every thrust of the dildo, and my inner 
organs shifting positions to accommodate as best they could the 
merciless object.

I still don't know if I was yelling, begging for mercy, or if I was 
only uttering resigned whimpers. I don't know either the time my 
torture lasted. All I know is that, when the dildo had reached its 
maximum extension and thickness, Midori locked the see-saw in its lower 
position, so that my tits had to remain in their maximum, most painful 
extension. I remained that way for an untold duration, covered in 
sweat, with slavering mouth and tear-filled eyes, while Lady Fiona and 
the tormenters went through with their meal. Keeping still did almost 
nothing to alleviate my pain, and I was foundering in an ocean of 
agony.

I do not recall how it all ended: my next remembrance goes to the 
following evening, when I was awakened for my German lesson. I went 
through it like a zombie, automatically whispering the names of the 
anatomical parts which Enrica pointed to, then I was left alone in my 
cell, and I readied myself for the day's chores.

I looked at myself in the mirror: my face was a mess, my breasts still 
wore a black mark all around their base, and my vagina still showed 
signs of being somewhat enlarged. I looked for indications of wounds, 
of lacerations of some kind, but beyond the readily explained pain I 
felt whenever my fingers merely brushed the places where I had been 
tortured, I seemed to be in astonishingly good shape. I washed with the 
ice-cold water which dripped from the only faucet in the cell, I 
emptied myself in the Turkish style toilet in a corner, I put on the 
regulation high-spiked shoes, which constricted the tips of my toes and 
had given me, in a matter of days, quite painful blisters, and I lay 
down (sitting down was definitely out of the question) to wait for an 
overseer to come and fetch me.

Contrary to well established custom, the next visitor was no other than 
Lady Fiona. Beautiful and ice-cold as she always was. She ordered me to 
spread my legs, and as I had feared, she proceeded to explore my pain-
ridden cunt. "Does it still really hurt?" she asked without expecting 
an answer other than my moans. The Mistress thrust two fingers up my 
vagina, and spreading them scissors- style, she sampled the quite 
decreased firmness of my vaginal muscles, while I shuddered in pain. "I 
have loved your two holes from the first evening," she lasciviously 
whispered. "My assistants tell me that by now, you manage to walk quite 
well with the anal plug in," she commented as her fingertips brushed my 
softly wrinkled anal ring, "therefore it is time to do something about 
it". I shuddered. "First of all, however..." Lady Fiona lifted her 
straight skirt, under which she wore no undies, and she kneeled down on 
my bunk, straddling my face.

I licked her with passionate fervour. Her very presence in my cell, her 
unyielding stare which, in many undefinable ways, was the true mark of 
the dominatrix, had freed me of the slightest hint of fear. As I lay 
there carefully tonguing every nook and cranny of her wet, strong-
flavoured slit, my masochistic soul was lost in unfeigned bliss. I was 
proud of exciting her, I was satisfied of being able to endure pain for 
her, and above all I was proud to the extreme of having undergone the 
torture. I got wet from simply making Lady Fiona come, and in a certain 
manner I could not wait for another week to go by, so that I could 
enliven her night once again by submitting to some inhuman torment.


Chapter Four

The Captive

To tell the truth, I was still in a lot of pain for the whole day, and 
at times I even cursed that perverted mansion. I do not want to bore 
the reader with too detailed a recount, but during that day, as in fact 
during a number of other days I spent in the service of Lady Fiona, I 
was compelled to (as she put it) "improve my anal self-control".

What this really meant was that I had to endure anal penetration by 
ever bigger dildoes, the purpose of which was to keep stretching and 
softening my youthful sphincter. As had happened on the first night 
after my arrival in the mansion, I was regularly bound upon a 
gynecological chair and mercilessly raped, until my flesh gave way and, 
despite my hopeless yelling, my intestine was compelled to fully take 
in the grotesquely enormous intruder. The plugs which were used for 
that purpose were fashioned from some kind of supple material, black in 
color, and in the shape of huge suppositories: thick smooth cylinders 
with one tapering end, topped by a threatening curved tip.

Most of the time it was Lady Fiona, and no other, who proceeded with 
the insertion of the plug. Even though her mansion could best be 
defined as a single huge torture chamber, all its guests being 
defenceless girls whom she could overwhelm with her most perverted 
whims at any moment of the day, the sadistic dominatrix took particular 
pleasure in this special torture. I would look at her, tied on my 
chair, my heart wildly fluttering as I looked at the dildoes she hefted 
with a diabolical smile, and more than once I even started crying way 
before Lady Fiona had actually come near me.

The penetration itself was more like a kind of wrestling match, even 
though the winner was known well in advance. Lady Fiona faced my 
sphincter like a deadly foe, to be vanquished at all costs: her hands, 
sometimes sheathed in latex gloves, would push and shove roughly, 
grabbing the weakened muscle to pull on it and force it to open ever 
wider. When I think back upon it, I do not think Lady Fiona was 
interested in my screams, my convulsions and my tears. From the 
unyielding expression on her face, it looked like her only 
preoccupation was to position correctly the plug, the submission of my 
mind and of my body coming as an afterthought, way after that of the 
only muscle in my body which still involuntarily showed resistance to 
her whims.

At such times, my mind and my tormenter's would in fact be united 
against a common adversary. We both wanted the anal sphincter to give 
way as soon as possible, to open itself wide enough to accommodate the 
plug and bring my suffering to an end. I tried to practice yoga of a 
kind, focusing all of my conscious will upon my asshole, endeavouring 
to gain control of every single last muscle fiber: I wanted only to 
relax my body, to get rid of the contractions which did nothing but add 
more pain, I willed myself to collaborate with the enemy. Lady Fiona 
pushed and pressed on with all her might, she rotated the plug as if 
she was trying to screw it into my behind, she sweated almost as much 
as I did and her face could even, at times, lose its usual proud and 
superior countenance.

Such sessions could last almost a full hour, during which time the 
concentration of the torture in one single part of my body made it even 
more painful. At long, long last, usually as I let out an even louder 
yell than the previous ones, the fake cock made its way past the anal 
ring, and it promptly slipped up my colon. At that very moment I felt 
all my lower body throb painfully, as the merciless shoving filled it 
with an unspeakable sensation of burning: I sensed the rebellion of my 
body as it tried to expel the intruder like a huge turd, but to no 
avail. Despite its involuntary, incredibly painful contractions, my 
anal muscle ring was so taut that there was no way it could exert a 
force in excess of the poor results it had already achieved, and ever 
so slowly my body would come to terms with the cruel reality, as it 
tried to adjust to the monstrous intrusion.

Even as I lay in agonizing pain from the brutal rape, Lady Fiona 
serenely sat down upon a chair which faced my quivering body, and she 
took advantage of her position to fully savour every single groan, 
every stifled sigh. Then, again assuming her usual godlike, arrogantly 
perfect mien, she would take a belt on a low table and she would adjust 
it around my waist, all the time closely peering at me. 

The belt was a very narrow one, with a quite practical purpose. A very 
thin black leather thong went down from its back, like in a G-string, 
and went through an opening in the base of the plug. Then the thong 
divided itself in two parts, each of which was carefully positioned on 
the outer part of my bigger cunt lips, and went back to the front part 
of the belt where it was held in position with a buckle. In that way 
the plug was sure to remain in its right place: there was no way I 
could expel it or suck it in, and thus my Mistress was satisfied that 
my anal muscle would stay in permanent stress and distension.

For a few hours after having being so stuffed, I found it almost 
impossible to move at all. Trying to walk, or simply to stand on my 
feet wearing the terrible high spiked shoes which compelled me to tense 
my buttocks, was out of the question. But even rotating my torso or 
stooping would bring me unbearable pain, making me drop limply upon the 
floor. The only way I had of moving around was to do so on all fours, 
almost crawling. Simply to get out of the room in which I had undergone 
my stretching lesson would take me at least half an hour of carefully 
planned moves, which soon reduced me to a quaking, sweat-soaked animal. 
Lady Fiona was aroused by the sight of my predicament, and she often 
had me lick her cunt while I was in this sorry state, quenching the 
thirst I felt from my protracted howling with her perfumed vaginal 
liquor.

However, life in the mansion left no room for self-pity. A few hours 
later I was back to my usual chores of housemaid and of slave to the 
overseers, exactly like the other inhabitants of the house. It was two 
full days before I was able to move without paying for it with 
overwhelming exhaustion, and quite often I would incur additional 
punishment on account of my involuntary lack of zeal. Every whipping, 
every improvised torment visited upon me by the overseers would compel 
me to contract my sphincter despite myself, sending red-hot pangs out 
of my inflated asshole. And yet, with an infuriating slowness, my body 
would get used to the plug, learning to remain open and relaxed at all 
times. One step at a time, I would graduate first to standing on my own 
feet, then to walking, with steps ever longer and firmer, and at last 
to moving almost naturally. However, as soon as I was through the paces 
and I could behave normally, Lady Fiona or her assistants would notice 
my improved condition, and I would be fitted with a bigger plug.

This was torment of the worse kind and I more than once got frightened 
out of my wits as I spied droplets of blood gliding down the plug, but 
I must admit, including to myself, that I like being treated in that 
way. By this I obviously cannot mean a sexual pleasure, but rather a 
deeply rooted psychological satisfaction. Some time before she 
relinquished me to Lady Fiona's care, Katja had given me the "Story of 
O" to read, and I had found a similar torture described there, though 
much less intensive to be sure: so that, as time went by in the 
mansion, I had started seeing myself in a situation like the beautiful 
O, who submitted to torture because she was in love, and the weird 
romanticism of that predicament had taken total empire upon me.

Moreover, my dilatation treatment made me a bit special in the eyes of 
my fellow slaves. Besides me, the only others whom Lady Fiona used in 
that way were Karen and Ann, and we three would exchange knowing 
glances whenever we met by chance in a hallway, or we found ourselves 
labouring in the same room. Once I came to pass by the small room where 
the stretching sessions were held as Karen was being sodomized, and her 
shrill yells had sent a shiver down my spine, as I pictured myself in 
her place.

Besides being hellishly painful, wearing a plug in my asshole night and 
day had other consequences. The first one, which I could only learn to 
live with, was a constant need to evacuate my bowels. This was allowed 
to me only once a day, in the morning, and the very sensation of being 
in constant need of doing it again made me feel even more debased and 
vulnerable under the dominatrixes' gaze. Even worse, after more than 
one month of this treatment, my anal sphincter had learned its lesson 
and did not try to contract any more, as Lady Fiona had foreseen.

The first time I noticed this was at dinner time. That night, Bettina 
and Jacqueline both starred in the usual performance, being tortured at 
the same time as a result of Lady Fiona's dining out in town the 
previous night. The session consisted in a succession of perverted 
contests between the two slaves, with the winner donning the 
executioner's hood (so to speak) to inflict additional torture to the 
loser. I recall that the two girls were busy playing, against their 
will, a cruel game of endurance to pain: grasping each other's nipples 
with their fingers, the player's goal was to compel the adversary to 
fall on her knees by stretching, pinching and tweaking her sensitive 
flesh.

The two girls went at it in earnest for the entertainment of the 
dominatrixes, showing the same detached resignation as Roman 
gladiators, and the outcome remained undecided for several minutes. 
Jacqueline had started by hooking her fingernails deep into her foe's 
areolas, and she seemed bent upon bringing her down, even though 
Bettina was mauling with utter brutality the French girl's own stiffly 
erect nipples, almost suspending herself from her enemy's boobs. The 
two women, their eyes brimming with tears, howled in pain and hurled 
hoarse curses at each other, and even I had been fascinated by their 
fight. So much fascinated, in fact, that as I was giving a refill to 
Monika's glass I unwittingly spilled some wine on the table-cloth.

The overseer could not let pass this opportunity to punish me. With 
Lady Fiona's leave, she made me kneel down, with my face resting on the 
floor, and she pulled out the rectal plug, which clattered on the 
pavement while my tortured asshole loudly farted, with a popping sound 
like a bottle being uncorked. Ordering me to hold my buttocks well open 
with both hands, Monika then grabbed a whip and she administered five 
or six vigorous lashes right on my asshole, as I moaned and squirmed 
under the atrocious pain.

My suffering proved to be to Lady Fiona's liking and when it was over, 
she ordered me to come to her, probably wanting to use me in some 
undisclosed manner. I wearily stood up and started walking towards the 
throne where the Mistress was seated... and I felt something warm 
sliding down along my legs. Concerned that I might be bleeding, I 
looked down to see what it could be, and I saw, to my considerable 
disgust and embarrassment, a huge, massive lump of shit making its way 
down my self-sustaining stockings. My face contorted in pain and 
blushing with shame, out of my mind with terror as I thought of Lady 
Fiona's reaction, I tried to close my asshole, but to no avail. Every 
step I made forward was echoed by a warm, stinking turd splattering on 
the floor, as if I were a sanitary truck with a broken valve.

Frightened out of my wits, I threw myself at the Mistress' feet, 
begging for her forgiveness, but she had merely laughed, or better yet, 
she had actually scoffed and laughed herself silly in that surrealistic 
circumstance. This made me understand my predicament, as I lay shaking 
in fear before her shining boots: my asshole was now ruined for good, 
it could not function any more. From then on, wherever I went, I would 
have to wear something stuck into my asshole simply to avoid 
splattering shit everywhere.

Even later, after having been whipped again and having had sharp-
toothed clamps affixed on my breasts, I grasped the other implication 
of the state I was now in. I had collapsed down in my bunk, in my cell, 
in total exhaustion. An overseer had locked me in, like every other 
night, and I lay down in the dark, ready to fade out to sleep despite 
my burning skin and the mute, yet never ending throbbing from my 
stretched asshole. All of a sudden I realized that "always wearing 
something stuck up my ass" was not exactly a common situation. This may 
sound rather stupid, but the time I had spent in the depraved universe 
of Lady Fiona's mansion had more than blurred my recollection of the 
outside world. 

I was astounded by that revelation as I finally realized that never 
again would I be able to wear a bathing suit, to ride a bicycle, or 
quite simply to allow a stranger to touch me. I shivered as I fully 
took in the fact my life had changed forever, and for several minutes, 
I stared into the dark with terror-filled eyes. Maybe I cried a little, 
I cannot tell. What I do clearly recall, though, is that my mind 
suddenly grew obsessed with the words "Slave forever". I tried to think 
of something else, but it always came back: "Slave forever". I tried to 
focus my thoughts on my beloved Katja. "Slave forever". I even called 
up the long lost images of my family: "Slave forever". 

In summary, in that darkened cell, my whole universe was reduced to two 
things: the pain I still felt from the punishments I had been 
inflicted, and "Slave forever". It was not long, however, before my own 
treacherous senses got the better of me. Swimming in an unforgettable 
state of masochistic arousal, I sent my hands down to my so often 
tortured cunt, and I masturbated to a wonderful climax. I was a slave, 
forever. 

When I now think back upon the year I spent in slavery under Lady 
Fiona, my recollections, terrible as they may be, are mostly of the 
pleasant and exciting sort. Yet, in reality, life in her house was far 
from being as beautiful as those recollections would indicate. We 
slaves lived in perpetual terror, in the constant knowledge that we 
could be selected, at any time, for the most cruel, the most 
unthinkable torture. As we carried out the overseers' orders, we spent 
the whole day rushing from one chore to another, in a turmoil of 
senseless drudgery. The most remote corners, the least used utensils 
were to be scrubbed clean again and again, unless we were ordered to 
stand utterly motionless for hours at a time, with our limbs trembling 
with weariness, until we collapsed in total exhaustion.

We would eat from a bowl, or simply from the tiled floor, wolfing down 
tasteless or downright revolting gruel, in amounts which did keep us in 
good shape but always left us with a consuming hunger. Speaking was 
absolutely forbidden, as well as touching one's fellow slaves, or 
helping each other. On the contrary, the overseers would insist on our 
spying and reporting on the other slave's mistakes, if only to be 
provided with excuses to punish them. Should one of us choose not to 
comply, and too much time went by without any snitching from her, she 
was punished in a most cruel way, to such an extent that I sometimes 
found myself compelled to make up false accusations against my fellow 
slaves. Most of the time I pointed my finger at Bettina, since she had 
proven herself to be an authentic masochistic slut, but I had to be 
careful not to follow an obvious pattern, so I had to report on the 
others as well. They took care to do the same to me in return.

We could not urinate or move our bowels at will, but only when we were 
ordered to by the supervisors. Sometimes it was quite impossible to 
wait any longer, and every one of us sooner or later found herself 
compelled to go to the bathroom without the necessary authorization, 
thus incurring certain punishment. Another source of torment was the 
bondage apparel, such as shoes, plugs, collars and special clothing 
which we often had to don: sometimes it even was difficult to breathe 
while wearing such harnesses, but the overseers, who seemed to have 
eyes all around their heads, were always ready to provide stimulation 
with their riding whips. We would not have had the leisure to give 
pleasure to each other, even if it had been permitted: the only 
opportunity would have been at night, sometimes, when we were not 
fastened to our bunks, but that happened very infrequently.

The only time we could rest a little was that of our monthly periods. 
The rule in the mansion was that a slave was locked in her cell for the 
duration of her period, and these few days had to be enough for her to 
get back into shape, so as to be able to sustain the punishments to 
come. In fact, even during that sick leave, the overseers would from 
time to time rush into the cell where one of us was laying on her bunk, 
asleep or thinking of precisely nothing, and would inflict various 
whippings or other punishments, but most of the time we were left alone 
enough. 

In such days alone in my cell I lay thinking of Katja, my far away 
lover, for the love of whom I had agreed to live in this hell. I had 
quite suddenly lost the count of the days, and as I never went out of 
the mansion, I could not even guess what month we could be in. I would 
bask in the hope of being able to fall into her arms pretty soon, then 
a few minutes later I would start crying, now convinced that mere weeks 
had elapsed since my arrival. I would long after the happiness of being 
back home, and right after that I shuddered in sudden fright, thinking 
that maybe Katja would no longer want to have me, or that for some 
reason she would elect to stay in Japan. I daydreamed about the words I 
would use to relate to her my adventures in Lady Fiona's mansion, then 
I would be devastated by the thought that maybe she would be repelled 
by my ruined orifices and by the marks of a whip she had not wielded 
herself.

Luckily for me, I spent most of my time busily carrying out my duties 
as a slave. To scrub, to tongue, to obey, to submit. The more time went 
by, the more I grew to be like an automaton, with ever dwindling will. 
I had been trained like a laboratory rat to feel fear when I heard the 
clicking sound of the overseers' high heels, to answer only "Yes, 
Mistress", and a lot of other small things which all concurred in 
slowly making me into a true slave. Lady Fiona's house was my slave 
school. Quite a number of new things were taught to me, with unyielding 
single-mindedness. For instance, I was taught to become a toilet.

Naturally, I am not alluding to my physical appearance, which in fact 
has vastly improved as I became softer, more feminine in outlook. I 
mean, to actually function as a latrine. Monika was, of the three 
overseers, the most addicted to that form of humiliation. Whenever she 
accosted a slave, it was to make her kneel down and open her mouth, 
after which she straddled her victim's face, she slightly pulled open 
her cuntlips, and she sent a perfectly aimed stream of piss into the 
girl's offered mouth. That the slave was supposed not to lose a single 
drop of her drink, and then to clean the dominatrix with her tongue, is 
obvious enough not to be stressed further.

I had already played water games with Katja, but the first time I 
witnessed that kind of performance I was convulsed in disgust. Granted, 
I had been pissed upon two or three times while sprawled in the 
bathroom tub, but never in my mouth, and anyway I could wash myself the 
following minute. Once I also had licked clean Katja's wonderful little 
cunt right after she had been to the toilet, but then it had been 
nothing but an erotic gesture of love. In that case, however, I was 
deeply disturbed by the essential abjection of the practice: no 
pleasure was being given or received, its only focus was the total 
humiliation of being used as the most despicable of all domestic 
appliances. 

The first time I had to submit to it was with Enrica. As I knelt down 
before her, I tried to focus my mind on the masochistic pleasure of 
being dominated, but despite this I was frightened out of my wits. I 
actually choked on the first stream of urine, and I started coughing, 
fearfully aware that this would not be left unpunished. When I got my 
breath back, Enrica was kind enough to refrain from delivering an 
uninterrupted stream (which most of the other slaves were perfectly 
able to gobble down), but to piss in small squirts which were easier to 
swallow. Drinking it to the end was an authentic torture: there seemed 
to be an unlimited supply of the stuff, and its repelling smell and 
taste very nearly made me sick. There was the small usual voice, in a 
corner of my mind, which kept repeating "Go on drinking piss, slave! 
Enjoy your degradation!", but even though there was a distinctly wicked 
stirring in my cunt, my stomach was heaving to another tune.

Suddenly I felt I was going to be sick. I firmly closed my mouth and 
tried to control the heaving of my stomach. The yellow stream flooded 
my face, and when I opened my eyes, already brimming with fear-induced 
tears, I met Enrica's angry stare. Without uttering a single word, the 
woman hooked a finger through my collar ring and dragged me from room 
to room, until she found Midori. Exchanging a few words in German, the 
two women bound me upon a chair, with my arms crossed behind the 
chair's back. I was fully aware of being guilty and of richly deserving 
a punishment for my shortcoming, so this time, even more than at other 
times, I let them mistreat me in all kinds of manners without showing 
the least resistance.

They selected two long horse-whips, positioned themselves on my sides, 
and they whipped my breasts for a long time, until they were totally 
covered with bruises and I found myself in the sea of timeless, mind-
numbing pain I fell into whenever I was punished real hard.

After that incident, the overseers took particular interest in training 
me to swallow their refuse. One day I found myself compelled to drain a 
whole huge pitcher of piss which the three overseers had contributed 
to, gulping down mouthful upon mouthful. The torment was inflicted in 
my cell, under Monika's stern stare: I would pour out a glassful, I 
held my breath to keep my nostrils free from the nauseating smell of 
the beverage, and I gulped it down. My stomach turned three times, and 
I had to run to the Turkish style toilet to be miserably sick, but the 
lesson was not ended until the pitcher was perfectly empty.

Within the next few weeks, I was taught how to master my revulsion and 
to swallow it all with the same promptness as my fellow slaves. I went 
so far, when I began to get used to the humiliation, as to actually 
develop a taste for the dominatrixes' piss, and as the end of the year 
got closer I awaited the order to drink it with aroused expectation.

I doubt that anybody who reads this and has never really experienced 
the bliss of absolute submission can fully understand this, but as time 
went by, I grew ever more content with my lowly condition as a 
plaything. Of course the tortures never grew more bearable, nor did the 
humiliations become less degrading, but the fear I had of either 
gradually went out, so that I found myself, like Bettina, actually 
looking for excuses for being punished.

The courage to do so came to me mainly from an incident which more or 
less disturbed all of us slaves. As I have said, we were forbidden to 
speak among ourselves and to exchange ideas, so that we communicated 
only with our eyes, or else with facial mimics exchanged on the sly. Of 
course, as a consequence we really knew very little of each other, and 
I had more or less assumed that all the other girls had a psychological 
set-up similar to mine, and that they had come to stay in Lady Fiona's 
mansion with motivations that paralleled mine. I discovered that this 
was not the case only towards the end of my sojourn in the mansion.

It was dinner time, and I had been assigned the duties of kitchen 
service along with Tanya: we had to rush in and out of the kitchen, 
bringing to the table the dishes we had just cooked and hurrying to 
take away the dirty crockery at the very moment the dominatrixes were 
through with it. The kitchen regulations were every bit as stern as 
those which governed life in the whole house. During meal preparation 
there was always an overseer to look after us, to make sure that no 
slave pilfered food from the dishes readied for the Mistresses, and to 
avert any mishap. As soon as they had been put to use, ingredients and 
utensils were safely put under lock and key, so that in the end we only 
had to cook and to serve, with the kitchen itself in perfect, spotless 
condition.

To make it short, I had just come back to the kitchen. In the turmoil 
of the table service, I had not realized that Tanya had stayed behind 
in the kitchen, and as I came in I froze in shock. My fellow slave was 
sprawled on the steps leading to the sink, and she was busy slicing 
open one of her own wrists with a knife just brought back from the 
dining room! Blood was already running, and I dropped the dishes I was 
carrying as I rushed to her and snatched off her weapon. Midori was 
alerted by the loud clatter of the broken crockery, and she was at the 
door the following instant: right away, prior to asking any questions, 
she delivered resounding cracks of her riding crop to both of us, and 
she made me get away from the other slave, who remained in her corner, 
sobbing, her appalling pallor in full contrast with the blood which 
still gushed out. "What happened?" the supervisor screamed, but despite 
her angry yells neither of us could utter a single word. 

I could not believe at first that Tanya had actually wanted to kill 
herself, but the violent shoving she had resorted to in order to keep 
me away from her left me in no doubt. In a blinding flash, I finally 
understood that living in the mansion was not necessarily a freely 
accepted choice, and that maybe, for some of my fellow slaves, it could 
be even more unbearable than for me. Numbed by the shocking revelation, 
I saw through glassy eyes Monika come in and rush to Tanya, whom she 
swiftly attended to, while Midori went on screaming at the top of her 
lungs. I could not believe it: there we were with a suicidal woman, and 
the tormentor found nothing better to do than to rave about my 
carelessness in dropping the dishes! "What the hell happened here?" the 
Asian woman yelled once more, and at that very moment I understood that 
her question was not a merely rhetorical one - she really had not 
grasped what Tanya had done.

I briefly reflected upon the discretion I had to observe regarding my 
fellow slave's decision, upon the overseer's blind cruelty, upon a 
thousand other confused considerations, and not really understanding 
what I was doing, I heard myself whisper "It's my fault"... If I really 
have to spill it out, at that very moment I was sure Tanya was out of 
the picture, and I totally discarded her, with ice-cold cynicism. Maybe 
it can be ascribed to some inner self-preservation mechanism, but the 
fact is that my conscious thoughts were revolving around the 
undisclosed, richly earned (and therefore even more exciting!) 
punishment which now was in store for me. It was as if I had been torn 
between two individuals, my masochistic side rushing in, throwing 
reason away, nudging me awake with the shocking revelation: "Now! Now 
is the moment! Grab the opportunity!"

In the minutes that followed I confessed, thrilling, to having 
assaulted Tanya because she had jostled me and caused me to drop the 
plates. Even as I kept talking, astonished by the words I uttered, I 
heard the feeble voice coming from the corner where the other slave was 
laying down. She weeped as she confirmed everything I said. Now the 
wine had been drawn, I merely had to drink it: I turned to her in a 
sudden flash of anger, astonished that she still was alive, but her 
deathly pallor stopped me in my tracks. The only thing I remember next 
is finding myself in Lady Fiona's presence. She merely pointed to the 
corner where Undine was yelling in pain under Enrica's tender care. I 
was dragged to the torture like a common criminal, like a medieval 
witch, and my punishment soon was in full sway.


Chapter Five

The Pervert

The manor's Mistress ice-cold stare had struck me like lightning, and 
something had started coming apart inside me. I clearly felt the inner 
freezing, statue-like rigidity which now invaded my body, while my 
abdominal muscles kept spasming, totally out of control, like in a bout 
of hysterical weeping. The craving desire to make my escape, to pray 
desperately for the miracle of a sudden vanishing, was matched in my 
head by the frenzied bliss I felt at having succeeded in going beyond 
that last inner border, by diving headlong into torture. And above all, 
while all this was going on in my head, and despite the feeling of 
being both rigid and ready to shatter to pieces, as if sheer terror had 
turned me into glass, I kept perceiving with total clarity the 
unmistakable smell of my own vaginal juices, which now flowed out of my 
copiously enlarged cunt and bathed my thighs, in unheard-of abundance.

Midori lost no time in binding me upon a table, reclining on my back. 
The ropes kept my legs wide apart, while my arms were tied alongside my 
torso. Some minutes went by before I also felt Monika's presence, which 
was heralded by the noisy clatter of her high heels on the highly 
polished floor. She was pulling Naima, the black slave, by her leash. 
Naima in her turn was wheeling forward a small cart which was 
positioned at the foot of the table I was reclining upon: from my 
supine position there was no way I could see what was on the cart's 
upper tray, but I had no doubt that I would find out pretty soon, and 
as I crossed Midori's steel-hard stare, the prospect of the immediately 
forthcoming punishment, and of its certain unaccustomed intensity, 
quite literally robbed me of my breath.

Monika called out for the Asian woman to join her, and they both picked 
up a few short, broad candles. "Maybe they only want to drip molten wax 
upon me?" I thought; from the very start of my severe training 
sessions, punishments inflicted with molten wax had become a real 
pleasure, as I had learned to enjoy the sting of the hot boiling drops 
in the same way as I would have enjoyed a lover's kisses. However, it 
is not for nothing that the tormentors had been recruited for their 
outstanding skill, and what they had in mind was much more 
sophisticated and cruel that what I had envisioned. In fact, the 
candles ended up being arrayed under a metal plate, like that used by 
Chinese and Indian restaurants to keep the dishes warm, and two small 
bottles of a clear liquid, bearing chemical labelling, were positioned 
upon it.

Nothing more happened for the next few minutes: Monika rushed out of 
the room again, Midori went up to Lady Fiona and whispered something to 
her ear, and I lay there, alone with the growing turmoil which was 
invading my mind and my body. Undine's desperate yells and sobs, as she 
went on suffering under Enrica's tender care a few feet away, provided 
a lullaby of a sort. My thoughts turned to Tanya, and I cursed myself 
for having wasted such high-minded heroism and nobility of soul for 
such a despicable traitor; strangely enough, I found myself thinking of 
her as a "useless creature", on account of her having neither the 
unattainable, superhuman charisma of the Mistress, nor the skill to 
play her part as a slave. That was my whole world, from that time on: 
Mistresses and slave girls, and nothing else. The whole male 
population, everyday trade and work, family life, everything was gone 
for good, without so much as a whiff of remorse on my part. Now it was 
Mistresses and slave girls, and I belonged to the latter. A slave 
forever. A slave, a lesbian, a licker of shoe soles, addicted to piss, 
with a ruined asshole, in perpetual arousal, with a constant need to be 
tortured, even to the point of actually provoking my torment... I was 
drawn out of my masochistic daydreaming by a metallic noise from the 
trolley. Midori had taken a syringe from a tray, one of those huge 
syringes of old, made of heavy, thick glass, and she was fitting it 
with a needle. She had already started walking to me when something 
stopped her in her tracks: I could not read her thoughts in her proud, 
enigmatic eyes, but her body went rigid, she turned away on her high 
heels, and she went out of my vision field, only to return several 
minutes later. A renewed bout of panic took hold of me. When I saw her 
again, Midori was unscrewing the needle to put another one in its 
place: a thicker one in dark metal, which even from a distance appeared 
to be much larger and much more cruel than anything normally used in 
medical practice.

Going to the glass bottles, the beautiful tormenter cautiously touched 
one of them and, feeling the burn, abruptly drew her fingers back. She 
then plunged the needle inside and filled the syringe up, after which 
she pushed a few drops out of the needle: falling down, they splattered 
on my belly. The liquid (which, I gathered later, was nothing worse 
than simple, non-toxic saline solution) was not boiling hot, but it 
certainly was not cold either, and merely contemplating the question of 
where this scalding substance would end up made me whimper, although I 
could not say whether it was out of fright or out of anticipated bliss.

The first injection was made by Midori in my left breast, with a 
studied slowness as she pushed the needle in, repeatedly tapping the 
syringe in order to increase my suffering. Nevertheless, I did not 
scream until she began pushing the plunger down, drowning my inner 
flesh in liquid agony. Of course, my tits were already in pain from the 
manhandling they had undergone for the whole day, but at that moment 
the pain I was experiencing belonged to an unheard of category, not 
that much more intense maybe, but without a doubt quite different from 
that I was then almost used to. What the injection had added to my 
flesh was pure unadulterated agony, a minute rivulet of torment which 
was to stay there, between my very cells, my milk glands and God knows 
what, even after the woman had withdrawn the needle, twisting it and 
wrenching it along its way to make sure I would suffer even more. Then 
another injection followed, still into the same breast, and another 
one, and again and again and again, but always with the same slow, 
deliberate cruelty. Midori worked in a methodical way, never twice 
stabbing my flesh under the same angle, sometimes pushing the needle a 
mere fraction of an inch under the skin, sometimes driving it all the 
way to the very heart of my mammary, so that I was sure she was going 
to drive it through my heart. The liquid was invading me, as each 
renewed injection added some new tortures to those which already were 
making me stiffen and yell, and whose intensity did not in any way 
decrease.

The torture went on for a long time, with the tormenter showing no sign 
of wanting to move on to another part of my sweating, spasming body. 
When I gathered courage enough to open my eyes and to actually look at 
the condition my poor breast was in, my first thought was that my tears 
were distorting my eyesight: my tit had grown into a huge balloon, 
dotted with innumerable minute pink marks, a thing which had nothing to 
do with my breast as I was used to it. At that moment Midori had just 
made her mind to get busy with my nipple, and I clearly recall that 
some time was needed for me to fully register the pain of that terrible 
perforation. My attention was wholly centered on the reaction of my own 
flesh as I saw it slowly swell up, while the nipple itself stiffened as 
it never had. A glance at the trolley, right before I drowned again in 
a red-coloured ocean of pain, showed me the first bottle, empty, along 
with a reserve of full bottles which had been brought out from some 
unknown place.

That time I screamed for a very long time, as much from the physical 
pain as from the thought that I was being permanently ruined by the 
woman. That frightful quantity of liquid, forcefully injected between 
my most sensitive cells, into the most minute spaces, had made my 
mammary swell out of proportion, growing into a grotesque appendage. 
Was it going to remain that way forever? Was I to become a sexual 
monster, who'd be too ashamed to even go out in the street?

Even as I was trying to keep my thoughts coherent, despite the constant 
interruptions caused by the injections, a variation was brought to my 
torture: Midori grabbed my breast with both hands and she started to 
squeeze, twist and mould it as if it was made out of clay. My flesh had 
been made more sensitive than ever, so her every squeeze reverberated 
through my brain, and after some time I fainted. I was awakened in no 
time, thanks to some foul-smelling stuff which Monika put under my 
nose; Midori was still working upon my tit, and I could feel with 
frightnening clarity the settling down inside my very flesh of the 
liquid she had injected, and which thus allowed her to mould me like a 
clay doll. Other injections followed, by the dozen, then renewed 
mauling, then more injections, until the tormenter was perfectly sure 
that she had brought every single part of my poor tit to its maximum 
tension. Then she moved over to my right breast.

At some point I really thought I was going mad. I begged her to kill 
me, in Italian, in German, in English. I begged her to let me go, 
offering every kind of degrading sexual services in exchange. Midori 
nevertheless remained unmovable and she went on making me suffer, with 
the cool single-mindedness of a machine, even after Undine had been 
dragged out of the room by the other dominatrixes and sent to bed. When 
I next could hear another woman's clicking high heels, dawn had been 
peering through the window for some time, and my tormenter was busy 
putting the final touch to the torture of my right outer cunt lip, 
after she had caused properly identical swelling in my poor cunt's 
inner lips, as well as in my left cunt lip. I had spent the whole time 
relentlessly lamenting: my throat and eyes now burned almost as 
fiercely as my tits and cunt, and whenever I started fading or giving 
the impression that I was not suffering enough, Midori had taken care 
to wake me up, using the salts or forcefully kneading the swollen, 
shiny flesh of my ballooning tits.

The newcomer was Lady Fiona, who silently ordered Midori to desist, and 
came closer to address me in her deep, sensual voice: "Does it hurt so 
much?"

"Yes, Mistress", I managed to answer feebly, while taking in with awe, 
as always, her grace and beauty.

"Good. As you know, I enjoy knowing you are in pain."

Surprisingly, this simple sentence made me proud of being her slave.

"I bet you must be very thirsty," my Mistress went on, gently stroking 
my cheek.

"Yes, Mistress".

"I have not peed yet this morning. Would you like me to pee into your 
mouth, little one?" Her eyes were bright stars in which, from the very 
first moment, despite the agony which gripped my mind, I had utterly 
lost myself.

"Oh, yes, Mistress, I beg you to. My face is your toilet". The very 
effort of mouthing these words brought me inhuman fatigue, but I had 
been totally overpowered by the perspective of having something to 
drink, and, even better, of being given by the lady who had come to own 
me body and soul her urine, which I had been judging, for some time 
now, to be the most exquisite beverage on earth.

"Maybe later, then", she smiled at me with her bright white teeth, 
after which she addressed Midori in German, much more brusquely, and 
went away. It was then and only then that I realized we had spoken in 
English, a language which still had my preference despite all orders.

The Asian woman resumed jabbing her needle into my cunt, inflating it, 
kneading it, torturing it. I resumed my desperate screaming, but in a 
totally changed mood, which had nothing to do with the mindless 
resignation I had spent this night of torture in. From now on I 
suffered in order to give Lady Fiona pleasure, and also to show her, 
even while she was away, that I was utterly convinced I was meant to be 
a slave.

It was almost half an hour before my sublime Mistress came back to 
stand near my table, which by then was sodden wet with my tears and 
sweat. At that moment the very last square inches of my martyrised sex 
were enduring the pangs of being injected with the boiling hot 
solution. She was wearing a floor-length satin gown with a high 
reaching split in the side, which let her thigh out as she lightly 
rested it against my cheek.

"For now I want you to answer my questions, slave", she mewed in her 
languid, throaty voice.

"Yes, Mistress".

"You probably have no longer the strength to tell lies, but I must 
remind you that it is the duty of every slave to always tell the truth 
to her Mistress".

"Yes, Mistress".

"Yesterday evening, the things did not quite happen as you told them, 
right?" One of her well manicured hands had pulled a bit more open the 
slit in her gown, showing me a corner of her black, clean-smelling 
panties.

"N-no, Mistress".

"Then what happened, slave?" Lady Fiona slapped my tits with all her 
strength, making me yell in agony. Of course I confessed everything, 
overwhelmed as I was by her very power, by the pain I was in, and by my 
irrepressible desire to savour her piss. The more I kept talking, the 
more she kept toying with her panties, pulling it aside ever so slowly 
to bare her intimate parts, which to me was as beautiful a performance 
as a night at the opera.

"But you did not lie only to protect that whore, right?" Lady Fiona 
remarked when I was through.

"No, Mistress. I also wanted... For some time now I have been aware 
that I am a real masochistic slave, Mistress. I longed so much to be 
tortured." 

Lady Fiona slipped her middle finger between her cuntlips, giving me a 
whiff of her pleasure to smell, and withdrawing it glistening with dew.

"Aaah... Good little slave," she smiled tweaking my nipple and leaving 
me breathless, "and now do you repent your desire?"

I laboured to gather my breath back, and I needed a few seconds before 
I could answer "N... No, Mistress". The hot stream of piss splashed 
into my throat, and I gulped down all of it with the contented 
abjection of a dedicated toilet.

"I had judged you quite properly," Lady Fiona commented as she finished 
answering the call of Nature, lowering herself upon my face so I could 
lick her clean, "you are exactly what I was looking for. To begin with, 
I will finish your torture myself".

Not bothering to listen to the heartfelt thanks I would have loved to 
offer, the lady lost no time in taking a comfortable seat near the end 
of my couch. As it now was easy to guess, the needle was that time 
headed for my clitoris, which was almost buried in the surrounding mass 
of swollen flesh. Near the end, as I immersed myself in the perfect 
consciousness of my masochistic desires, I fainted several times and I 
also had at least two orgasms, ranking among the best I ever had in my 
whole life.

I was untied shortly before lunchtime, and I was sent unceremoniously 
to the kitchen, so as to carry out my cooking duties. The floor had 
been cleaned of any bloody spots, Tanya was nowhere to be seen, and the 
other slaves gaped at me when I went to them.

My body was disfigured in a fashion as terrible as it was sensual. My 
tits were now huge swollen, shiny balloons with incredibly turgid 
nipples, sitting on enlarged, upraised areolas. In stark contrast, what 
I had between my legs was long, heavy, dangling lumps of flesh which 
felt as if they were made from lead. Every step, every move added some 
new torment to the continuous burning of my most sensitive parts, yet 
during that day I fulfilled my duties in a state of total bliss, even 
when the supervisors whipped me, without the slightest excuse of a 
motive, aiming at my sensitive, swollen parts, and instantly reducing 
me to a creature devoid of reasoning, whose consciousness was only one 
of total torment. At some time in the afternoon, Enrica ordered me to 
kneel down behind a chair, resting my tits upon the seat, and she 
settled down on them, squashing them with her whole weight. I fainted 
right away. 

When I brushed by small Bettina in a hall, we exchanged satisfied 
smiles, as became people who had fulfilled their life's purposes. 
Checking myself in the mirror as I was cleaning a crystal showcase, I 
found myself to be so unexplainably, yet strongly and scandalously 
arousing in my disfigured state, that I briefly attempted to masturbate 
here and there, only hoping not to be caught out: the sudden pain which 
shot out from my genitals prevented me from experiencing anything but 
psychological pleasure. That evening, kneeling under Lady Fiona's 
table, I was granted the honor of licking her at leisure and of giving 
her all the pleasure I was able to: such was my small reward for having 
freed myself of all that stupid bunch of hypocritical inhibitions which 
had, up to then, prevented me from experiencing true happiness.

Quite a number of days were to pass by before my organism could process 
all the liquid which had been injected inside it, but at long last I 
went back to having a quite normal anatomy, even though my breasts now 
were a bit larger, and my cunt too. During the time that followed 
nothing of importance happened to me, except that in a few other 
occasions I found courage enough to directly beg Lady Fiona to subject 
me to extra torture, which was granted with great pleasure. Every time, 
I would have rather died than endured what was in store for me, but 
when it was over, I wound up even happier with myself, and even more in 
love with my wonderful tormenters. Bettina followed my example, while 
the other slaves went on behaving in such a way as to avoid any 
avoidable punishment. This was especially the case for Tanya, who went 
back to her duties a few weeks after the incident, quite unmarked by 
whatever punishments she had undergone.

Then, one day, I suddenly found myself in Lady Fiona's office, the very 
same room I had been ushered into for our first meeting. The clothes I 
had worn at the time of my arrival were on the desk, carefully folded, 
right in front of the comfortably seated Mistress.

"Today is the last day of your year in slavery," she unceremoniously 
explained. "You have been a good slave, and I want you to know that you 
can call me whenever you want should you need me. Here is my number". 
She put a visiting card upon the pile of clothes. "Hurry up getting 
dressed, the car is waiting for you".


Chapter Six

The Whore

I complied, but only because by that time, instant obedience to orders 
of any kind had been made part of my very nature. While I was putting 
on these clothes which to me were quite superfluous, feeling quite 
strange to the touch, I would have liked to tell her a million things, 
but I could not manage a single word. I can only recall that I felt two 
large burning tears running down my cheeks, while the Mistress, 
unmoved, merely dismissed me, remarking "You may keep the ass plug. I 
will not be needing it" before leaving the room without further ado.

I put on my shoes, which I found strangely uncomfortable on account of 
their heels being too low, and I went out in the garden. The big entry 
portal, which I had not gone through for a whole year, was open. It had 
always been, and as I breathed in the fresh air of the outside I 
realized with a start that none of us slaves had even given a thought, 
in all probability, to the fact that going out of the mansion was such 
a simple thing. Of course, going though the garden with all its alarm 
systems and its electric-powered gate was another thing entirely, but 
our whole universe had been reduced to the house and none of us had 
ever questioned that state of affairs.

I went out in the limousine with my head in a turmoil, totally lost in 
the real world, and when I found myself before Katja's flat I was in a 
state of trance. I mechanically rang the doorbell, and it was only when 
the door opened that I realized I was back home: Katja enthusiastically 
embraced me, kissed me, helped me out of my raincoat, then there was 
the smell of the meal, the warmth... All that fuss looked like some big 
mistake to me, as if I was shocked not to have to kneel down in front 
of her or even simply to be given a kiss, but soon enough I relaxed. 
Our love night was a long, incredibly beautiful one: Katja was 
overjoyed when she discovered the amount of dilatation my two holes 
could withstand, and she found my sensitivity to any sexual stimulation 
of the "usual" kind to be quite exceptional, leading me to particularly 
intense climaxes.

The following morning, we told our respective tales. Her job in the Far 
East had earned her a lot of money, which would allow her to shortly 
move into a larger house, and even though she readily admitted to have 
slept with several Japanese girls, I fully believed her when she told 
me she had never stopped thinking of me. But my own tale, in contrast, 
deeply disturbed her. Now and then, upon hearing of the tortures I had 
been subjected to, Katja blanched and obviously remained unconvinced. 
At other times, specific tales excited her a lot, and she asked me to 
masturbate her while I went on talking. Then I enthusiastically told 
her that I now had discovered my deep, true nature as a masochistic 
slave, and that from now on she could do absolutely anything with me, 
and that I needed to suffer and to humiliate myself for her. I 
confessed to her that, at times, the regime I was subjected to in Lady 
Fiona's mansion had made me forget my relation with her, and I vented 
out in one single stream all the doubts I was having: I explained to 
her my uneasiness at being treated by her as her equal, and how much 
happier I would have been if, instead of covering me with kisses and 
caresses, she had demonstrated her love by making me submit as she saw 
fit. I attempted to convey to her my astonishment and disgust at seeing 
my Mistress having to use a ceramic toilet, when she could quite simply 
order me to swallow all her excrements, and all the other weird 
principles I had been inculcated during my year of slavery.

At first Katja was rather perplex. Then her excitation and sadism began 
to take the better of her, and she was overjoyed at the absolute power 
she now exerted upon me. Her punishments were far from being as 
intensive or sophisticated than those in Lady Fiona's mansion, but they 
were quite as satisfying for the two of us. Up to then, my thirst for 
masochism was not too much for her.

Then came a Saturday, when Katja had agreed to whip me to 
unconsciousness, as I had relentlessly begged her for during the 
preceding days. I was devoutly licking her feet when she decided to 
confess the difficulties she was experiencing.

"You see, Cristina, I am under the impression that everything is not 
right," she began sadly. "You're so sweet with me, but there is no way 
I can compete with Lady Fiona or any other professional dominatrix. I 
am but a photographer, a sadistic one if you want to put it that way, 
but I am in no position to satisfy your needs." Her monologue went on 
for some time, concluding itself when I had to admit, more or less 
against my will, that the tortures I craved were of a much higher level 
than whatever beautiful Katja could provide for, with her four whips 
and her handful of dildoes, and above all with the love she felt for 
me, which effectively prevented her from using me as a true slave.

I suggested her to make me work in a brothel or a S/M club in daytime, 
so as to satisfy my needs and be less demanding on evenings, but Katja 
had already made her mind: her eyes brimming with tears, she gave me a 
large sum of money to move into my own flat, and she begged me to go 
out of her life. We cried at length together, we tried to comfort each 
other by making love, but even as we clung to each other in the throes 
of ecstasy I had to admit she was right. That very night I slept in an 
hotel.

The following morning I went to one of the best supplied adult shops 
which Katja had introduced me to, and I purchased the main S/M and 
contacts magazines, which I carried to my room in order to look for 
somebody who might be interested in my masochistic possibilities. There 
were very few interesting contacts: I did write a few letters to the 
most promising ones, despite my rather deficient command of Dutch and 
German. What I concentrated upon was the contacts by the professional 
dominatrixes. I gave a phone call to all the dominatrixes who had 
placed an advertisement in the magazines and to all S/M dungeons, 
offering myself as their personal slave. I discovered that none of 
these women needed me, but after having paid a visit to the main 
dungeons of the city and having explained my situation to the ladies in 
charge, I easily and rather pleasurably passed the "admission tests" 
and I was hired as a collaborator in two such dungeons, which I went to 
one day out of two, bar on Sundays.

I became a salaried whipping subject, and that strange position gave me 
some nice satisfactions for some time. I earned a lot of money, but 
above all I was used as nothing more than an object by the utter 
strangers who came in, hurt me, demanded that I give them pleasure, and 
then went out without so much as one word. Of course, I did not like 
much being dominated by males, and the suffering I was subjected to 
never was as refined as that I had been used to, but thanks to my fast 
growing fame as an absolute slave, I was targeted by the most demanding 
sadists, those the other professional submissives would not even 
consider. Moreover, I just loved the degrading side of the position I 
now found myself in. A photograph of mine was printed with some 
frequency by the specialized magazines. I was shown wearing only high-
spiked shoes, so high that I was on the verge of falling forward, and a 
collar, linked to a leash held by a woman, only her hand being shown. 
My legs were spread wide, with one kilo weights hanging from clamps 
affixed upon my inner lips; similar weights also stretched my nipples 
down. A high, baroquely ornated mirror behind me allowed an easy view 
on my nice little ass, which a savage caning had striated with a deep 
red pattern. The most striking features, though, were my facial 
expression - with my eyes staring straight at the reader and my 
slightly pouting lips - and the photograph's caption: "Slave Cristina. 
A real masochistic girl of 23 years, eager to satisfy your most 
perverted desires. Specialized in extra hard treatments: needles, 
weights, protracted whippings, dilatation including with both hands, 
all-including toilet service. Extremely enduring, loves pain - a most 
entertaining plaything for sadists of all persuasions".

Under the photograph was the advertisement of one of the dungeons I 
worked for, whom my collaboration had put in a position to ask for much 
higher fees than usual, and therefore to afford advertising fees in 
almost any paper. In a way, it was very satisfying, one night, to be 
stopped by the old owner of the general store in front of my flat, as I 
was checking out at the cash register with the goods for my evening 
meal: "But you are the girl from the paper?" he asked, his eyes boring 
into mine.

"I beg your pardon?" "The whore in the paper, the one who gets 
whipped".

"Yes... That is me."

"You make me sick. When I was a young man I did visit the girls, but 
only for healthy, wholesome sex. I would never had thought that such a 
disgusting slut could even exist. I cannot bar you from my store, but I 
do ask you not to come back. I have respectable customers to care for."

"V... Very well. I will not come back," I whispered, red with shame. I 
was so used to the sado-masochistic universe that I had all but 
forgotten that, in the "real" world, I was nothing but a perverted 
slut. I ran back home with my cheeks burning almost as much as my ass' 
ones were on the night a seemingly indefatigable Englishman had used a 
paddle to beat me for an incredibly protracted time. I did not eat, but 
I cried hard and long: being a slave was something I could be proud of, 
but being regarded as a common prostitute was like an insult, which I 
could not live with. To have dedicated all those efforts, all that 
single-minded concentration, and to end up being treated like a street 
hooker! My only satisfaction was that my submissiveness had earned me 
this outrage: even in my despair, that thought comforted me somewhat, 
and before I crumpled down in exhausted sleep I masturbated, dreaming 
of my degradation and what I had made of myself.

The lady owners of the dungeons I worked for always were very careful 
to reach an agreement with their customers, whereby I would not be 
permanently ruined after a session; this did not prevent me from 
undergoing breathtaking tortures at their hands, so that I ended up 
experiencing again the mixture of terror and pleasure which I had found 
with Lady Fiona. I came to spend my days waiting for such moments: I 
found myself, in more than one occasion, dutifully sucking on a 
customer's cock, on my knees, and thinking only that, maybe, I would be 
more lucky with the next one, who might just be the one to show as much 
cruelty as my former Mistress.

To tell the truth, I do not know why I did not call her from the start. 
Maybe, in a way, I did not want to disturb her, but naturally I ended 
up dialling the number she had given me. The writers of the ads I had 
responded to had shown themselves to be unequivocal madmen, inexpert 
beginners or other such uninspiring people; my work in the dungeons had 
turned me into a common prostitute rather than into the high-level 
slave I deeply aspired to be; and so it came to pass that, one evening, 
after having spent the day in the hands of ordinary little men who had 
not even picked up one whip in the whole day, I called her with deeply 
felt resolve.

It was Ann, who meanwhile had been promoted to the exalted rank of 
supervisor, who picked up the phone. She quite matter-of-factly 
transferred my call to Lady Fiona, and merely hearing her sensual 
throaty voice on the phone made me melt down. The call itself, though, 
what somewhat short: Lady Fiona had no need for a new slave, and all 
she could do for me was to speak for me to somebody. I received the 
order to wait for her phone call, after which the Mistress hung up the 
phone without further small talk.

I fell down in a true and real state of despair: I had dreamed that the 
Mistress would welcome me back to her harem, and instead... Sobbing, I 
even looked up Katja's number, but the number I had known was no longer 
valid since she had moved, and I remained there, upon my bed, cursing 
my own stupidity and the fate which seemed to hold against me, when I 
only wanted to be tortured for the pleasure of others.

The call in which my every hope of a happy life now rested did come 
after all, two days later. A man's voice directed me, in severe and 
clipped words, to an address in Hamburg, in Germany. When I asked for 
explanations, the man only ordered me to show up within twenty-four 
hours, giving me a name as a reference. The he hung up.

Needless to say, I hastened to comply: I called the two dungeons I 
worked for, telling them I was interrupting our collaboration and I 
could not tell when I would be able to resume it. I packed a few 
clothes in a suitcase, along with my personal toilet kit, and I ran to 
the airport. Whatever was waiting for me, it had been selected for me 
by Lady Fiona: I was going to get, at long last, what I longed for.


Chapter Seven

Salvation

During the trip, and during the never ending transit periods in various 
airports, I tried with all my might not to fantasize over the man with 
the mysterious voice, but I only succeeded in thinking of him to the 
exclusion of anything else. Was he a former war criminal? a trader in 
white slavery, feeding the hungry markets in the money-awash Middle-
East? Or had Fiona played one of her cruel jokes on me, sending me to a 
convent? I was utterly in stress: when I arrived in the city and my 
taxi drove by the high, black spire of some Gothic cathedral, I recall 
that all I could think was "I wonder how it would feel to be impaled on 
this". My masochism was bordering upon madness, and I was inebriated 
with my own submissiveness.

However, these fantasies went away as soon as I was at the indicated 
address. Instead of a high castle, a jail or a concentration camp, as I 
had imagined, there only was a business building, and rather recent and 
well maintained at that. The name I had been given was to be found on 
the brass plate of a law firm, where I was ushered in by an elegant, 
ice-cold secretary, who showed me into a waiting room quite similar to 
that of a dentist, at least as for the levels of hospitality and 
personal warmth. I remained there for almost two hours, bored to death, 
but also absolutely terrorized of showing signs of deficient 
submissiveness, and therefore risking of losing that last chance I was 
given. I compelled myself, instead, to commit to memory every single 
detail of the ugly pictures hanging from the wall facing my armchair, 
until the secretary at long last called me and showed me to a dark-
panelled wooden door.

The office's inhabitant greeted me in excellent Italian, only made a 
bit harsher by a slight German accent. "Miss Cristina, please take a 
seat." He was a middle-aged man, with grey hair and hard-staring grey 
eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles, and a well-cut suit from the best 
tailors.

I sat down in the indicated chair. "I am Mr. Schneider, a lawyer and 
the legal representative of your new employer. Will you please sign 
those documents."

"What are they?" "Sign, that is all," he hissed in an ice-cold voice, 
which made me reach instantly for a pen and initial  the papers he had 
pushed toward me. "It is you slavery contract," he deigned to explain 
as I finished my chore, "thanks to which my client will avoid every 
possible legal complication arising from your relationship. These other 
papers are your letter of leave to your landlord, abandoning your flat 
and all related utility contracts, the document empowering me to sell 
all your belongings, and the papers for changing your residence."

I signed everything, duly impressed by this bureaucratic efficiency. 
How in Heavens had they contrived to obtain all the necessary data? 
"Now give me the keys to your flat, your papers and your purse." I put 
everything on the desk.

"Is there anything in your suitcase you cannot do without?" "Yes... 
Let's see... Ka... A friend's photographs, and... No, nothing else. I 
will take them now."

"No. Do not bother. We will burn it all along with your clothes. Please 
undress completely."

The idea of losing that ultimate link with my former lover was utterly 
unpleasant, but I had but myself to blame. Why had I brought them with 
me? A few minutes later, with the practiced ease brought by years of 
submission, I was stark naked in front of that total stranger, having 
taken off even my earrings, with only the rectal plug which was a 
necessity for me. The lawyer touched a button near a door, which slid 
open, revealing a private lift.

"Go in. A car is waiting for you in the parking lot. You will enter it 
in the back. Good bye".

I complied breathlessly, with the feeling of being a loose part being 
sent here and there in a factory chain. I did not see Schneider's face 
any more, and I did not see the driver either, as the wide back of the 
car was separated from the front seat by a sliding partition. The 
centrally operated doors locked themselves shut as soon as the car was 
under way, and for quite a long time the only thing I could do was to 
look at the landscape through polarized glass windows, which ensured 
that nobody could look into the car. We went through what I took to be 
the downtown area, then along a highway above the harbour, then a 
residential area, an autobahn, a hamlet, a small wood, a bare plain... 
And, to end with, a factory. After the gate leading off the road, a 
rather long strip of dirt road led to a high wall. An electric gate 
slid aside to let us in, and the car found itself in a small courtyard. 
A quite beautiful girl with long red hair worn in a ponytail came out 
to open the car's door. There could be no doubt as for her function: 
she wore a leather collar, ankle and wrist restraints, which allowed to 
bind her with ease, the usual extra high spiked shoes which had become 
part of normality for me, and thick metal rings through her breast 
areolas and the outer lips of her vagina. She motioned me to follow her 
to one of the smaller buildings which ringed the courtyard, and as I 
entered it I heard the car start off and drive away in a hurry.

That is where I met the Doctor. He was a rather old man, with wrinkled 
skin and almost no hair left. He held a medical file and a ball-point 
pen in his hands, and while the red-headed slave kept silent in a 
corner of the room, on her knees, he proceeded to interrogate me 
without further ado. He wanted to know about my health and my medical 
history, then, without even asking for my name, he deftly took all my 
measurements. By "all" I mean that, among other things, he made me lie 
down upon a gynecological chair and, without the slightest regard for 
my comfort, he used a number of instruments to ascertain the depth and 
maximum circumference of my two holes, the stretching capacity of my 
cuntlips, my clitoris, my nipples, my whole tit mass, and even that of 
my tongue. Then he took samples of my blood, my stools, my urine... 
This lasted for an eternity, during which I could not muster the 
courage to say one single word. The Doctor was silent too, but probably 
for quite different reasons. Apart from his short directions in German, 
he spoke to me only to dismiss me: "We are through with the 
examination. From now on you no longer have a name. Whenever it will be 
necessary, you will be number forty-two".

The slave then led me to another room, a small storeroom where I was 
fitted with a collar and restraints identical to hers. She bound my 
wrists behind my back, she affixed a leash to my collar, and still 
without a word, I was dragged to the tallest building.