A Slave's Story By Snyder
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Chapter 5
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Anyway, here I sit, waiting for the return of my Master, and recalling
those first few days of my captivity as his sex slave. I estimate it
won't be much longer until he returns home, so I don't know how much
more of this I can get into writing today.
Actually, this little memoir was my Master's idea. After months of his
training and discipline, I was quite the model slave. But over the
last few days, I had become moody and restless, to the extent that the
Master's usual "attentions" failed to have their usual effect on me. I
don't know myself why this was, but yesterday he brought me his
Powerbook, and said "I know you used to like to write, so I command
you to start writing again. You're to recount your experience as my
slave. You should include your own thoughts and feelings as opposed to
just a factual account. I will not punish you for anything you write,
but all other aspects of your behavior must continue to be strictly
respectful to me as usual." A rather odd form of discipline, this, but
I guess it's already worked pretty well. After all, I'm back to
mentally calling him "Master," instead of "that madman."
Once again, my Master has shown he knows his slave better than she
knows herself. But unexpectedly, writing this has got!
ten me thinking about an incident that occurred after about a month in
his control; an incident I though I'd put out of my mind for good.
It was fairly late one evening. We'd been playing one of his little
games, the one I call "Chrissy, the clumsy cheerleader." I was dressed
in a cheerleader's outfit, and was being disciplined for not holding
the splits long enough (the truth is that he tickled my foot!). I was
seated on a high stool, my wrists tied behind my back and pulled up
sharply to a hook in the ceiling. He had pulled the stool little by
little away from the spot where the hook was, so that I was finally
forced to sit quite upright, with my arms pulled straight out back
almost parallel to the floor. My ankles were tied to the legs of the
stool, and my mouth was stuffed with one of his ever-popular
ball-gags. When he was satisfied with my position, he pulled
my cheerleader sweater up and tugged my bra down so my breasts popped
out, for him to knead and kiss and squeeze. Despite the strain I felt
in my shoulders, his manipulation of my tits was getting me hot, and I
squirmed on the stool trying to get one of the knots in the crotch
rope to rub my clit. And when he clipped the clothes pins on my
nipples, I practically exploded inside. Those hateful little things
are like a direct jolt to my pleasure center when they first go on,
although they hurt like hell after a while. Thus stimulated, I pleaded
into my gag for him to take me down and fuck me. But just as he stood
back to admire his handy work, a funny look crossed his face, like
he'd just reached a decision about something, and he left the room
without a word.
When he returned, he was carrying something I hadn't seen before. It
was a metal rod, about the size of a fireplace poker, except for the
end which was finished in an elaborate pattern that looked something
like a circle with mirror-image letters inside. Suddenly, I recognized
it as a branding iron, and my arousal of just seconds ago turned
quickly to stark fear. He was going to brand me! I started to panic,
bucking about on the stool, and almost dislocating my shoulders. He
rushed over and physically settled me down.
"Relax, Michelle, I'm not going to use this now," he said, using my
*real name* for the first time since he'd captured me. It had been so
long since I'd heard my name, it sounded strange to me. Why was the
Master calling his slave by her name, I wondered?
"I just decided to show this to you today..." he continued. "Yes, it
is a branding iron, and yes, those are my initials." He held it in
front of me like he was displaying a fine wine at dinner. "As I said,
I won't use it today, but I *do* hope to use it on you some day - to
permanently mark you as mine."
Despite his assurance, tears of panic still streamed down my face. He
lifted the short little cheerleader skirt to reveal my naked ass, and
pressed the business end of iron up against my skin. It felt hard and
cold, and I shivered at its touch.
"When the day comes to use this, it won't be cold - it'll be red hot,"
he said. "I'll tie you face down to the x-frame, so thoroughly you
won't be able to move a muscle. But I won't gag you, because I'll want
to hear your screams. I'll bring the heated iron over to you, and let
it linger by your face so you can feel its heat against your cheek."
He demonstrated with the cold iron, holding it by my face. "Then I'll
guide it down the length of your naked body, letting you feel the heat
all along the way - and finally press it into your flesh right about
here," again demonstrating with the now cold iron.
As he did so, I imagined the hot metal pressed deliberately onto my
skin. I started crying again, and I mmpphed through my gag, "Please
no, Master, please!" Why was he taunting me like this?
Again he continued, "The pain will be worse than anything you've
experienced before at my hands. It will probably be worse than
anything you've *ever* experienced. You'll scream like you've never
screamed before. You'll smell your own flesh burning under the red hot
iron. And when I pull the iron away, the air hitting the wound will
redouble the pain - you'll think you're going to die."
He paused, letting the impact of his decsription sink in. But what he
said next was even more shocking to me.
"But, Michelle, this is one thing I will not do to you at my own whim.
Your permanent marking with the iron will be your own decision, and it
will be the last decision you'll ever make for yourself. That's why
I'm using your real name - to emphasize the fact that this is
completely within your control. And that's also why I'll want to hear
your screams - because they'll be screams you offer to me of your own
will." He started removing my gag as he went on, "You may not believe
it now, but a day will come when you have so completely accepted your
true nature as my slave, when you've so accepted my ownership of your
body, mind, and soul, you'll crouch at my feet and beg me to do this
to you." Having finished removing the gag, he said, "You have
permission to speak."
After hearing all this, I was convinced that he'd completely flipped,
and couldn't help saying so. "You're CRAZY if you think I'll ever ASK
you to brand me! You're just plain nuts! You might as well get rid of
that thing now."
"We'll just see about that. But you can rest assured I'll keep my word
not to use it until you ask for it." And then, putting the branding
iron down, he abruptly changed gears, saying, "I still seem to have a
clumsy little cheerleader who needs to be punished."
Realizing our strange interlude was over, I quickly stifled my tears,
and put myself back into obedient slave mode, "But, Master, your
slave's mood is ruined," I said, sniffling and pouting.
"We'll just see about that, too..."
And so, on that day my Master confidently predicted he would someday
capture his slave's mind and soul as well as her body. And I had
successfully avoided thinking about his prediction until now. But
then, why am I thinking about it now? Is this some kind of plan of
his? He must have known that forcing me to write about my experience
would eventually bring me to the topic of the branding iron. Does he
actually think I would agree to such a thing now, when in reality I
would still escape from here given the opportunity.
After all, if I were freed today, I could return to the world I knew.
My job, my friends, deciding things for myself. But then again, I
can't deny that the man who captured me has shown me a side of myself
I never even knew existed. And he's brought me levels of ecstacy I'd
only read about in romance novels. Would I be able to find THESE
things again "outside"?
And could I really return to that other world again? The deadlines,
the obnoxious people, the bills to pay, the stress... The man who
captured me takes cares of my every need. And this man - this Master -
had to risk his own freedom to get what he wanted - me. How many other
men have I known who would do that? Not one! My Master has made me the
center of his world like no other man I've known.
My God! Suddenly a mental fog lifts, revealing an exquisite gem of a
paradox, a fundamental truth that hits me like a slap in the face.
These steel bars, these ropes and straps that confine me physically,
have actually freed a part of me I don't want to lose and would never
know otherwise. The REAL prison is the mental one I'd built for myself
in the world outside. I begin to see that my true decision is not
about avoiding a hot branding iron. It's about being truly free in my
capitivity rather than enslaved in so-called freedom.
And I suddenly know what I must do when my Master returns home. I will
crawl to his feet, and beg permission to speak. I will tell him that
"Michelle" has gone for good, and I will beg him to please get the
iron hot, because "your slave" is ready.
Listen! I think I hear him coming now...
