Amanda's  Training

by Abe

Amanda was in a state of near panic when she got a message that her mother  was gravely ill and she should visit her immediately.  Whoever sent the message had bought her airline tickets and must have had her American passport number, for nothing stopped her immediate response.  She quickly packed a small carry-on bag and decided to wear a comfortable black suit, jacket and pants, with comfortable shoes and cotton underwear.  It was said  in “Accidental Tourist” that one should travel with a black suit in case one is invited to a funeral.  Now that wasn't just a joke. 

The flights from Gatwick to Dulles and on to St. Louis were long and tiring.  She worried about her mother, and she couldn't sleep on the crowded planes.  When she finally cleared the drug sniffing  dogs at Lambert Field,  it had been about 30 hours since she had slept.  As she exited the terminal, she expected a family member to pick her up, but instead there was uniformed driver holding a sign with her name on it.   He took her bag and helped her into a black Mercedes car.  He was not very articulate in English, and she never could find out who had sent him, but she had no choice.  Her parents lived at Fort Leonard Wood, halfway across the state, and a car was the only practical way to get there.  Once they were on an interstate highway, Amanda fell asleep.

She woke when the driver stopped in a circular drive in front of an imposing house in the country.  Amanda had never seen it before and wondered why they stopped there.  Was her mother in some sort of nursing home or hospice?  The driver deposited her bag on the driveway and left, so she had no choice but to go to the house.  At the imposing front door, a uniformed butler took her purse and bag and led her down a hall to a small room.  There she was met by three men in suits and a middle-aged woman in some sort of uniform, like a doctor or nurse.  The woman was clearly in charge.

“What is your name?” she asked.  Amanda told her.  “And your address in the UK?”  Amanda gave her the expected address.

“Who are you?  Where is my mother?  Is she all right?” asked  Amanda.  For a second she wondered if this place was a funeral home, if her mother was already dead!

“Think of us as a branch of Homeland Security.  Intelligence agents have marked you as a person of interest, and you will be required to assist us in our investigations.  Your mother, by the way, is all right and still living with your father.  The message was a ruse to get you onto US soil for interrogation.  Now give me your jacket.”  Amanda hesitated.  Her jacket pockets held her money and her passport.  “Now,” said the woman, “you will obey all orders without hesitation.”  Amanda slid the jacket off over her arms and one of the men took it.  “Take off the rest of your clothing, right down to the skin.”  Again Amanda hesitated.  What was this, a strip search?Could they make her  disrobe in front of three strange men?  Her unspoken question was answered when a high voltage stun gun was pressed against her  just above her navel.  She screamed in pain, a burning pain, and doubled over as her abdominal muscles cramped tight.  As she picked herself up off the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks,  she knew these people were determined to get her cooperation.  She took off her shoes and footsies,  unbuttoned her blouse and removed it, then loosened her pants and stepped out of them, standing there in only her bra and panties.  She saw the men staring intently at her, and she was afraid and embarrassed.  “To the skin,” reminded the woman.  Amanda reluctantly removed her bra and panties.  One of the men took all her clothing, while the others escorted her, stark naked, to another room.

This room was more like a clinic.  The woman measured Amanda's height, at five-eight a bit more than average, and weighed her.  145 pounds was not excessive for a woman of her curvy proportions.  The chill air conditioning made Amanda's nipples stand out from her large breasts.  The examination continued with blood pressure, heart rate, peering into her eyes and ears and throat, and drawing blood, the usual quick medical examination.  Then the men held Amanda face down against a table, mashing her breasts against the top and exposing her vulva and anus to easy observation.  The woman kicked Amanda's feet a part, and she slipped a lubricated, gloved finger into the frightened woman's vagina, swirling it around, then using two and three fingers.  Then, worse, she invaded Amanda's anus, forcing a  finger deep into her rectum and again moving it around inside.  Amanda could hardly believe this was happening, not in the United States, “the land of the free.”  “OK,” said the woman, “pack her up for shipment.”

The men taped Amanda's wrists to her elbows, so her folded arms pushed her big breasts upward and inward.  One copped a quick feel and remarked, “They are natural.”

Then they bent her forward over the table again and woman slipped a lubricated butt plug into Amanda's vagina.  “That will keep the messy stuff out.”  She forced a somewhat bigger butt plug into Amanda's rectum.  Fortunately, Amanda tried to relax, as if she were taking a dump.  They packed gauze pads between her legs and pulled the panties up, compressing the gauze against her labia and forcing her cheeks apart.  They used tape liberally to make sure nothing could come loose.  Then they taped her thighs together and her ankles, so she could not move except to bend her knees a bit.  They lifted her up and placed her on her back in a coffin, as if for burial, and  Amanda nearly freaked out,  started screaming, but they gagged her with a rubber penis gag, secured with straps. “The phallic gag is hollow and will be connected to a bag of water, so if you get thirsty, you have only to suck on it.”  One of the men snickered and said something about giving head, and then the lid was closed, leaving Amanda in darkness, unable to move, almost like being buried alive.

She felt the coffin being carried out and placed in a vehicle, a truck or van.  The air was a bit stuffy, but she could breathe.  The plugs and gauze pads in her crotch were distracting, but not painful.  She kept telling herself to calm down, counting to a hundred over and over.    She seemed in no immediate danger; they were not piling dirt on the lid of the coffin.  She kept reminding herself, do not worry about things you can do nothing to change.  Finally, she fell into a troubled sleep.  At one point she wakened and felt as if she were in an airplane.  She sucked on the gag and wet herself, for it was a long journey, but, except for the claustrophobia of being  in a coffin, she could  manage.  At least her mother wasn't going to die anytime soon.  But what was in store for herself?

Ultimately, after much tilting and bumping, the coffin came to rest and the lid was opened, and her dark adapted eyes were blinded by bright lights.  Men cut the tape binding her arms, freeing her squashed breasts.  Then they put rope around her wrists and lifted her, arms overhead, out of the coffin, so she was hanging, feet off the floor, by her wrists.  The coffin was moved away.  The gag was removed.  They cut the bindings on her legs and removed the panties and their contents,  throwing the wet waste in a trash can.  Then, rather considerately, they placed a stool under each foot, so she could support herself with her legs, but the stools were moved far apart, so she was not really standing on her own.  Rather she was hanging by her wrists but with her  spread feet steadying her and taking some of the weight.  It was an obscene position to be in, but the men seemed to be businesslike about it, not joking or groping.

As her vision returned to normal, she saw she was in a stereotypical torture chamber, a room with concrete walls and floor, ropes, chains, a pillory, stocks, even a medieval looking rack.  There was also a desk and chair.  On the desk was a laptop computer.  On the chair was a past middle age woman, dressed in black.  “So, Amanda,” she observed, “You got some sleep during your journey.”

“Where am I?” said Amanda.

“You don't have a need to know.  You are feeling stress.  Your heart rate is 112, and your blood pressure is elevated.”

“How do you know that?”

The woman seemed to reflect a moment, before saying, “The object in your rectum has various transducers, which I can access via Bluetooth.”   She turned up the volume on her laptop, and Amanda could hear her own heartbeat, until the woman lowered the volume.  “You have in your body what is equivalent to a lie detector.  I am going to ask you questions, and I advise you to be truthful.  Let's start with what is your name?”

“You know may name,” said Amanda, who, though totally helpless, did not want to play this woman's game.

The woman leaned back in her chair and called out, “Slave!”  Instantly a woman appeared.  She was tall and skinny, like one of those stick insect fashion models, with short blonde hair and icy blue eyes.  Her mouth and lower jaw were covered with a black rubber gag, which had straps going upward either side of her nose and straps in front of her ears and straps behind her neck.  Her breasts were prominent, seemingly rigid, encased in a sports bra.  Lower down, she wore a metal chastity belt, like a male athlete's jock strap.  Her genital cleft was invisible behind a metal grill, and in the back metal chains parted her ass cheeks and revealed a butt plug.  She carried what looked like a glass fiber fishing rod, about four feet long.  “Administer three,” the woman said.

Amanda heard a swoop sound and felt fire across the backs of her thighs, just below the crease of her cheeks.  She stifled a scream, not wanting to satisfy the woman.  As the sting subsided a duller pain persisted.  The second blow was a little higher, horizontal across both cheeks, and Amanda could not keep silent, screaming and then saying, “OK, I'll cooperate.”

“Of course you will,” said the woman.  She nodded at Slave, and the third stroke, an inch above the last, elicited a loud scream.  The woman remained silent, watching the laptop screen, until she judged that Amanda was in a more normal state.  “Your name,” she repeated.

Amanda hastened to tell her.  “And why were you in the UK?”

“I have dual citizenship.  My father was on an overseas assignment, and I was born in a hospital in Ruislip, outside London.”

“You haven't answered the question.”  She looked pointedly toward Slave.

“I was visiting a man, a suitor.”

“But you are not married.”

“Correct.”

“Were you sleeping with him?”

“Yes, we slept together, but we didn't have sex.  He is a perfect gentleman.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“Yes.”

“You lie!”  That was a signal for Slave to administer another stroke, placed neatly above the last.

When Amanda stopped sobbing, she amended her reply.  “Actually, I lost my virginity in high school, but I try not to think about it.”

“Tell me how you came to lose your virginity.”

Amanda tried to think how to explain.  “Ever since I was twelve, I have had big boobs, often the largest of any girl in my class.  At first I was embarrassed about it, but as I grew older, I attracted a lot of attention from boys.  They didn't seem interested in my personality, just my big tits.  There was a clique, The Sweater Girls, because we all wore a pink sweater and a black miniskirt every Wednesday.  To be admitted, you would need big breasts.  They made you prove it, taking off your bra and dunking one breast in a large jar full of water.  Of course, water overflowed, and when you stood up, the lower water level was recorded with a grease pencil mark on the glass.  The lower the mark, the bigger the breast and the higher your status in the club.  Some girls were heartbroken when they couldn't pass the test.  Cliques are almost like religious cults.  They  don't allow deviation from the culture of the clique.   When  I was 16,  the leader and the other members decided that there should be no virgins in the club, and, like the breast test, the condition must be demonstrated, witnessed by the others.  I was the last.  I had no boy friend.  The other girls held me down, bent over a table, and they fingered me until I was wet.  Maybe they used a lubricant.  I don't know.  I was crazy.  Then a man, I never saw his face or knew who he was, fucked me from behind.”

“Did you enjoy it?” asked the woman.

“No.  It hurt.  I bled.”

“So you could say you had sex because of peer pressure.  Did you continue as a member of the clique?”

“Yes.  I was ashamed of myself, but I stayed in the club.  I dreaded being ostracized, and once the damage was done, there was no need to quit.  When the word got out that we were all sexually active,  I even  became  more popular with boys.  All they wanted was sex.”

“When was the next time you had sex?”

“I haven't,” insisted Amanda, “there was no next time.”

The woman seemed dissatisfied.  “You are an attractive American woman, 24 years old, with birth control pills in your purse, and you expect me to believe you are almost virginal?  By the way, the pills suggest you just recently finished you last period.  Is that true?”

“I take the pills to make my periods regular, and because I know that a moral lapse or even rape are possibilities.  Yes, I finished my period last Tuesday.  I don't know what day it is today.”

“Surely you masturbate.”

“Sometimes.”

“When was the last time you had an orgasm?”

“I don't know that I ever had one.  Not the earthquake kind of orgasm you read about.  I understand even some married women  don't experience orgasms.  If I rub myself down there, it feels good, but I never seem to get over the edge to a real orgasm.”

“Do you prefer women to men?”

“No!” Amanda replied with no hesitation.

The woman leaned back in her chair and looked concerned.  Amanda took advantage of the pause to ask a question of her own: “Why is Homeland Security interested in my sex life?  Isn't your job to find terrorists?  You haven't asked me about terrorists.”

The woman smiled.  “Do you know any terrorists?”

“No, of course not.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Then why have you arrested me?”

“You have heard, I'm sure, that the CIA traffics in guns and drugs, and the Dept. of Justice traffics in guns for drug lords in Mexico.  My organization traffics in sex slaves.”  There was a pause.  “That surprised you.  Your heart rate etc. all indicate you are concerned, perhaps afraid.  Don't be.  You have drifted from job to job, and you are not married.  Why shouldn't you find happiness as a sex slave?”

“That's insane!”  shouted Amanda.

“Don't you agree that your destiny as a woman is to be fucked?”

“No.  Chastity is a virtue.  Well, maybe after I am married, in order to have children.”

“You are not normal!  Every female mammal, female humans included, wants to be fucked by an alpha male.  If they don't, they don't reproduce, and their gene line goes extinct.  Chastity is the most odious of  sexual perversions.”

“I'm a feminist.  I don't exist just to gratify a man's lust.”

“Feminism is a tiny ripple on the river of human history.  The majority of humans on this planet live in patriarchal societies where men and women both believe that the role of a woman is to be subservient to a man.”

“Perhaps if they are in love,” suggested Amanda.

“I grant that almost every society recognizes love.  But love comes after sex, and a woman loves the man who owns her.  If guy from the next tribe over kills her husband, she gives herself to the killer. It's a survival mechanism.  A women will do anything,  endure any pain, to please the man who fucks her.  She calls her devotion love.”

“I can't believe that,” said Amanda.  “I won't listen to those lies.”

“Well,” said the woman, “If we can't carry on a civil conversation, we apply peer pressure.  Slave, front and center.  The slender slave stepped forward, where Amanda could see her clearly.  “Slave, if you would prefer, you may take off your gag.”  Slave stood motionless. “You see, Amanda, Slave seems content in her role.  You should learn from her.  The reason she has not yet been shipped to her new owner is that she is recovering, healing, after surgery to please him.  Her misshapen tubular breasts have been reconstructed to a nice full C cup, with nipple rings, and her  vulva is now adorned with a number of piercings.  She should be ready in three or four weeks.”

“Will she be able to breast feed, with her breasts mutilated that way?” asked Amanda.

“She will never  be called upon to breast feed, nor will she ever get pregnant.  Her ovaries have been removed,” replied the woman.  “She's OK with that.  She gets replacement hormones.  She swings both ways and never wanted children.  Slave, remove Amanda's butt plug and clean her out.   Wash her well, comb her hair, and remove her vaginal plug.  Feel free to play with her nice, full breasts, if you want to.”

Slave went to fetch a bucket of hot soapy water and a garden hose.  She pulled the plug from Amanda's ass, and with the hose she administered a fast, fierce enema, cleaning her colon.   Then, with a sponge, she rubbed Amanda all over with soapy water, paying, it seemed to Amanda, too much attention to the breasts and vulva.   She washed Amanda's chestnut hair as well and jiggled the plug in the vagina before pulling it out. Then Slave stood back and, with the hose nozzle set for a solid stream of water, she blasted the soap from Amanda's  body.  The hard stream  distorted the breasts, pushing them back and forth, up and down.  The stream on Amanda's bruised backside was mildly uncomfortable, and the worst, from Amanda's view, was when Slave aimed the hose at her genital cleft, pounding her clitoris, making her labia flutter in the stream, even filling the vagina with a high pressure jet of water.  Amanda pleaded with her to stop, but Slave renewed her efforts to sexually stimulate her captive.

The woman said, “Slave, stop.  She is not in a receptive state of mind.”  Slave obediently flushed the results of her work down the drain and turned off the water.  She removed the hose and bucket, leaving Amanda, gleaming wet,  alone with the woman.  “Amanda,” she said, “in your new profession there are three attributes which increase your value.  One is submissiveness, the willingness to obey your master and to please him in any way.  Two is artistry in the sexual realm, an educated cunt, the ability to orgasm on demand.  The third attribute is the ability to suffer, or even enjoy, pain, as it may please your master to administer it.  You don't seem to have any of those attributes, yet, but when you adjust your viewpoint we can train you to bring a good price.  I imagine you are a bit uncomfortable, trying to support your weight with widespread legs.  I can see your muscles twitching.”  The woman took from her desk an object resembling a giant sperm.  The head was about the size and shape of an egg, and the tail was a wire.  It seemed to be rubber, and there were metal electrodes on the surface.  The woman smeared a bit of gel on it and deftly slipped inside Amanda's most private place. It was firmer and heavier than a tampon, but she soon forgot it, as the woman put clamps on Amanda's nipples and another compressing the hood of her clitoris.  Then a vibrator device was turned on and hung from each of the three clamps.  Amanda clenched her teeth and refused to acknowledge the pain.  “Think about it for a while, and when you decide to get with the program, let me know.  The default position is to train you for pain.”  The woman left the room, turning out the lights. 

Amanda did not want to let them break her will, but she couldn't stand the intense stimulation for long.  Her legs were cramping, her wrists and shoulders aching when her legs could not support her.  Her nipples hurt but seemed to go numb.  The mucous membranes of her vulva got wet, and the clamp on the clitoris slipped off, providing some relief.  Still, the torment wore at Amanda's resolve.  She knew they had plenty of time to break her, and she could not stand much more pain without losing her mind.  “OK,” she yelled, “I'll get with your fucking program.”

The woman came in with two men, who removed the stools Amanda stood on and lowered her to the floor.  She could barely stand.  They unbound her wrists.  “Well, Amanda, are you sincere in your request to enter our training program?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.  If you refuse, if you do not cooperate in your training, we will let you star in pornographic videos in which you will be mercilessly tortured.  Use your imagination.  Beatings.  The rack.  Hot skewers through your breasts.  Genital mutilation.  If you embrace our training program, you will still appear in videos,  but they will be to help find you a loving master.  When you graduate, you will be owned by a man, most likely, who paid a great deal for you and values you highly.  You will be his pet, his toy, his arm candy, not a bad life, really.  The profession of courtesan has been respected since antiquity.  You have the physical attributes, but you need to change your mental state.  Do your understand?  Submission, sex, pain, all three wrapped up together.  Is that for you, or do you choose a short life of intense pain?  Martyrdom for chastity?”

“You are going to make me a prostitute.”

“No, a courtesan.  A prostitute has sex for money.  You will have sex for love, love of your master, and he will treat you, more or less, as a number two wife, or even number one.  A prostitute can have sex with a dozen men and never enjoy it.  You will enjoy his every touch and experience passions you haven't dreamed of, yet.  Do you read romance novels?  The kind they sell in supermarkets, porn for housewives?  Or maybe Fifty Shades of Gray?”

“No.”

“Such ignorance!  But we will educate you.  You should get some rest now.”

The woman led her down a hall with many doors.  One door was hers, the door to her cell.  The cell was hardly wider than the door and was about six feet deep.  The floor was covered with straw, and there was a bucket for human waste in the corner.  There was a dim light and, Amanda felt sure, a surveillance camera or two.  The woman added, cheerfully, “You should be comfortable here.   You see the bucket there, if  Slave didn't clean you out sufficiently.  Here, in the door, is a nice big black rubber penis.  When you are hungry, you need only suck on it.  Do you prefer vanilla or chocolate?  You can't just suck, as you did when you were thirsty in transit.  You will have to milk it, with fingers or lips.  So, enjoy a period of rest.  Masturbate, if you wish.”  With that, the door was closed, and Amanda realized she was totally helpless.

Sitting was uncomfortable, as the straws irritated her beaten backside, but she was able to lie down and sleep.  She had disturbing dreams, being naked in public places, being bound tightly while red hot skewers were thrust through her breasts.  That one woke her up, but she fell asleep again and dreamed of her boyfriend, the perfect gentleman.   When she awoke, she was hungry and thirsty, and she had her first new lesson in fellatio, milking the rubber penis.  She kept reminding herself it was only rubber.

For her first training session, she was led to a room with a chair and a big high-resolution TV screen.  The woman had a desk and display, monitoring Amanda's physiological responses as transmitted from the egg in her vagina.  “Think about your boyfriend.  Is this him?”  She put a picture on the screen.   The electrical resistance of Amanda's vaginal walls decreased, indicating the first stages of arousal. The bedroom was familiar, the last one Amanda had slept in.  The screen then showed a man on the bed.  He  was the man Amanda had hoped to marry.  Only he was naked.  And beside him was a muscular youth, also naked, with an erect penis.  And then her lover was sucking on the erect penis, and there was another shot of her man taking it in the ass.

“Your heartbeat is elevated, but your sexual arousal is not.  You find the thought of your man being Gay is distasteful?”

“He's not my man.  Seeing is believing.  I'm only glad I found out before he asked me to marry him,” said Amanda vehemently.  It never occurred to her that her trainers might have Photo-Shopped images.  “I've heard of fags who marry as a cover.  I feel degraded by him.”  The woman smiled.

“Now,” she said, “I'm going to show you some video clips.  Just sit there and watch.  If you need to comment, you can, but better to just watch.”  There was a landscape scene, perhaps English countryside, for about 30 seconds.  Then  a seascape, fishing boats, then a woman standing by a tree.  None of those aroused Amanda's vagina.  A wildlife picture, nothing threatening. Then the same woman, same tree, but naked.  Picture of Grand Canyon, scenes from a helicopter for half a minute.  Same woman, naked, bound to the tree.  Amanda's vagina twitched.  The Isle of Capri.  An unoccupied beach in Hawaii.  The same woman, bound to the tree, being whipped on the buttocks.  Clouds.  Fish in a tank.

The videos went on for a long time,  some innocuous, some blatantly pornographic, with lesbians and heterosexual sex, various positions, cunt, ass, and mouth.  Many incorporated bondage, as with the woman and the tree, or had bondage as an element, like the  woman bound to a whipping bench, variously whipped, buggered, and raped by a big dog.  From time to time, Amanda would involuntarily gasp, and her heart rate and breathing rate would soar, but she made no intelligible comments.  After an hour, the woman said, “OK, Amanda, you can get up and walk around a bit.  Mustn't sit inactive for too long.”

Amanda was glad for the change of pace, and already she was getting used to being naked.  It seemed the woman was intently studying her computer screen, correlating Amanda's involuntary responses with the visual stimulus.  Bondage was highly correlated with sexual arousal.  Then she touched a button, and two men entered and escorted Amanda back to the torture chamber.  Her heart rate indicated anxiety.  There was a different sort of chair.  Instead of an ordinary seat, there were only two short boards, some distance apart and adjustable as to orientation.  Amanda was made to sit, with her thighs strapped down against the boards, her bottom unsupported, and her vulva, when they moved her knees apart, displayed and vulnerable.  A quite obvious video camera was aimed between her  legs, and Amanda could see her genitals in high definition on a wide flat screen.  For some reason, her pubic hair, reddish, not black, and scraggly, not tightly curled, absorbed her attention.  Even with a mirror, she had never become well acquainted with her pubic hair and its distribution. 

“Masturbate,” ordered the woman.  When Amanda hesitated, the woman added, “Touch yourself in a sexually stimulating way.”  Amanda heard the swoosh of a cane, but it didn't strike her, just a warning swing.  She reached down with her right hand, leaning forward a bit, and stroked her pubic hair with her finger tips.  She ran up and down the edges of her outer labia and even pressed a bit at the top, where her clitoris lay hidden.  “You are not putting your heart in it,” scolded the woman.

“I can't.  It never works,” replied Amanda.  The woman responded by fitting her with a gag like the one Slave wore, leather covering her mouth and chin, tight straps.  The woman smiled.  Things were dampening a bit.  The woman directed the men to bind Amanda's arms behind her, which forced her to sit straighter and watch herself, gagged and immobile, on the TV.  The woman smiled to herself.  What Amanda found exciting in the videos was confirmed when she herself was bound.  The woman expertly wound rope around Amanda's rib cage and breasts, forming a constricting “bra” and forcing the nicely shaped breasts into grotesque, pink parodies of breasts, round and full and looking as if they would burst.  The nipples stood out, and the woman stroked and twisted them, as Amanda made mewling sounds into her gag.  Clearly, Amanda was becoming sexually aroused, but she had a long way to go.  “Think sexy thoughts, Amanda”, ordered the woman, leaving her bound trainee to reach arousal.  They added a blindfold, but it didn't help much.

There seemed to be no progress, so they came up with an Hitachi wand, a big vibrator with a ball shaped end, which was planted firmly over the location of the clitoris.  The vaginal sensors indicated a heightening of tension, but nothing approaching an orgasm.  “Stop resisting, you insensitive slut!” she said.  The vibrator was replaced with a jet of water, which explored the folds of the genital cleft and sometimes shot right up under the hood of the clitoris.  Amanda squirmed in her bondage and responded, as if in pain.  “I doubt you will be released from this chair until you have an orgasm, and if you should fail to have an orgasm, there is always the alternative of causing real pain.”  Still Amanda was unresponsive, almost dreamily  experiencing what had, at best, been only a fantasy before.  She didn't want to have an orgasm, as she reveled in the straps and tight ropes.

After a long period of failure, the woman brought out the never-fail big guns.  She pushed a rod with a metal ball on the end through Amanda's exposed anus and positioned the ball so it pressed against the back wall of her colon, opposite the sacral vertebrae, which is to say, above the tail bone.  Then she put some conductive gel on the skin over the sacrum and attached an electrode.  All the nerves from the sexual apparatus lead to the sacral plexus.  “Pay attention, Amanda,” the woman said.  “You will have an orgasm.  You could be brain dead, and this would give you an orgasm, as it is an involuntary reflex of the autonomic nervous system.  Even if you fight it, you will have an orgasm, so let it be and enjoy it.”  The woman passed pulsating electrical currents between the electrodes, and Amanda responded by arching her back, breathing hard, straining against her bondage  and then, after perhaps ten seconds of rigidity, she slumped, limp and barely conscious, breathing heavily, her bound breasts covered in sweat.

After several minutes, the woman said, “OK, Amanda, back to work,” and she turned up the electricity again.  Amanda was instantly aroused, as shown by the egg in her vagina, and went through the cycle of  muscle spasms and relaxation even sooner than the first time.  Vagina secretions splashed on the floor.  Amanda looked as it she had just run a hundred yard dash.  Just to be sure, the woman forced two more orgasms before they released Amanda from her bondage,  removed the gag and blindfold.  Amanda lay on the floor, her body marked by her tight restraints, her breasts actually bruised.  They removed the electrical apparatus and returned her to her cell.

Slowly, Amanda recovered.  She had been overwhelmed with sensations she had never felt before.  She wondered if  that was what drug addicts felt.  After “lunch”, from the penis food dispenser, she was brought back to the torture chamber.  There the naked woman was fitted with a corset.  It was not a red and black satin number such as a stripper might wear, nor was it a full length canvas contraption, such as Victorian women wore.  It was modern, nylon with a rubber lining to enhance the sense of confinement.  It went from above the hips to the lowest ribs, essentially a waist cincher, not a proper body molding corset.  Instead of laces, it had notched plastic strips which could be wound up and tightened as one might tighten guitar strings.  Low in the back was a metal electrode which accessed the sacral vertebrae.  Rings were attached here and there, the function of which became apparent when Amanda was fitted with cuffs, nylon and rubber, on her wrists and ankles.  Simple snap hooks could be used to restrain the wearer in many different positions.

They let Amanda sit in a chair, ordinary except for the metal dildo up her ass.  As she watched herself on TV, they ordered her to masturbate.  “Use your fingers to rub your clitoris,” instructed the woman.  Amanda tried to comply, and as she pressed the sensitive spots, she felt a tingle of pleasure.  The more she worked at it, the more aroused she got.  She tried harder, putting fingers in her vagina, too, and marveling at how wet she became, much more aroused than she had ever been before her capture.  She didn't realize that her manual stimulation was augmented by small currents  to the sacral nerves.  She smiled when she recognized that she was going over the edge; she was unable to stop the tensing, the machine gun spasms, the sense of total bliss.

“There, you are getting the idea,” the woman said, encouragingly.

They increased the bondage, strapping her down impaled on the metal dildo.  They added blindfold and gag, actually a bit and bridle.  They fitted rubber cones over her nipples.  When the rubber was squeezed, air escaped, and when released it sucked on the nipples, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to engorge them with blood and distract Amanda.  Her “egg” indicated arousal.  “Finger yourself again.”  Amanda massaged her clitoral region again, becoming more aroused.  The woman let her hang on the edge for some time, on a plateau of arousal, but unable to relax.  Then, totally unexpectedly, for she could not see, a cane slashed downward on her breasts.  An awful growl of pain escaped the bit gag, as simultaneously she had an electrically forced orgasm, prolonged to the point where she nearly lost consciousness.

It took a while for Amanda to recover  and return to a normal state, not especially wet or sensitive.  The woman said, “Again, Amanda, become aroused, but don't touch yourself.  Use your imagination.”  It was a slow process, aided by having Slave stroke and squeeze the big breasts, occasionally flicking them with a multi-tailed flogger.  Amanda wanted to comply, to think herself to an orgasm, but it was slow going.  The woman applied the electricity as Slave whipped Amanda's vulva, and the effect was awesome, convulsing the vaginal walls until they hurt.

While Amanda recovered, which took nearly half an hour,  she had her arms bound tightly behind her, her gag tightened, her breasts mashed.  Bound in the chair, blind, unable to anticipate what would come next, Amanda waited, her vulva wet.  They applied a vacuum device to her clitoris, which notched up the baseline arousal.  She was instructed to wish herself to an orgasm.  She tried.  She got wetter and more aroused, but she couldn't achieve the paroxysm of  nervous release which  she had come to love.  A single swipe of the cane, across her thighs, tipped her over the edge.  Electricity had not been necessary.

They left her, bound to the chair, and told her that she would, from time to time, hear a bell.  If the bell rang five times, she should have an orgasm.  If she did not, she would be whipped.  Then they played with her, randomly ringing the bell one or two or three, even four times, but not five.  Each time the bell rang, her vagina responded.

When , at last, there were five consecutive bells, she  had a minor orgasm without further stimulation.  That was reinforced by an electrical gut shaking orgasm.  For two hours the conditioning went on.  After a while, she would go on to orgasmic release after only three or four bells.

They put her back in her cell, having removed the gag so she could drink from the penis but leaving her blindfolded and with her arms bound.  The corset was tightened, using a tool to tighten the plastic straps.  The vacuum nipple suckers were refreshed, accommodating nipples which had grown about 50 per cent.

When she was wakened, Amanda was in pain, from her bound arms, her compressed waist, her stretched nipples.  They stripped off the hardware, even the corset, to let her drink her penis juice and take a shower.  Then it was back to bondage again.  The woman had determined that Amanda found bondage erotic, and the object of the exercise was to turn her into  a sex machine.  Her wrists and neck were placed in a pillory, so, bent at the hips, her butt was thrust outward.  She was fitted with a big butt plug, loaded with batteries, remotely controlled and grounded to the external electrode in the corset.  Wherever Amanda was, she could be made to cum by remote control.  A horseshoe shaped rubber thing was installed in her vagina, one leg pressing on her G-spot and the other leg pressing her clitoral hood.   It was a remote controlled vibrator.  A strap attached to the corset ran between her legs to keep the hardware in place.  She was gagged with a ring gag, which did not prevent screaming or groaning but made articulate speech impossible.  Again, she was blindfolded.

“You can have all the orgasms you want,  but they will come at a cost.  Five strokes of the cane,” said the woman.  Amanda felt the sting of a can across her buttocks and counted the strokes to herself.  At five, she was overcome by the turmoil of a raging orgasm.  Her legs gave out, but they supported her with a horizontal bar beneath her belly. 

There was another group of five strokes, a bit higher on her lower cheeks, causing her to scream through her ring gag, continuing as her insides churned with orgasmic fury.  Five more strokes to her hanging breasts were even more painful, but the orgasm occurred spontaneously on the fourth stroke, even before the electricity drove her into an orgasmic trance.  She experienced, for the first time, what is sometimes called subspace, a detachment from reality, a suspension of time, an endorphin high which turned pain to pleasure and triggered endless orgasms, one after the other as she was beaten.  Ultimately, she lost consciousness and might possibly have choked in the pillory, if they had not released her.

When she recovered, she was suspended by her wrist cuffs and with her legs spread, feet on stools, the same condition which had made her agree to play their game.  She was no longer gagged, but she was blindfolded.

“What is your name?” the woman asked.  Amanda answered as before.  “No, Amanda is dead.  In time, an I.C.E agent will find a woman at the Mexican border trying to enter the US with your passport and driver's license.   She will confirm that you were killed in Mexico and your body will not be found.  Your parents will grieve, but they will no longer suffer the uncertainty as to whether you are alive or dead.  You are dead, and they can get on with their lives.  Forget your former life, your former name.  You are no longer a 24 year old American woman.  You are fresh fuckmeat in training, with no identity, no will,  no ability to do anything but obey and please your master.  You  will be known as Toy.  Your sexuality will be enhanced.  Hormones, breast conditioning, vaginal exercises, anal training, corset training, and removal of hair.  You will learn to cum on command by your master, and you will learn to resist cumming when he so orders.  We'll start with the hair.  There are several ways to remove hair: chemicals, razors, tweezers, wax, microwaves, lasers, and good old fashioned needle electrolysis.  Some are fast and or nearly painless, but you deserve the very best, the most painful, needle electrolysis.  You will not be gagged, but I urge you to resist crying out in pain, as it will only earn your more pain.  Understood, Toy?”

Toy said yes.  The epilation began with her underarm hair, which while regularly shaved, had begun to grow back.  Someone, probably Slave, would grasp each hair with tweezers, pulling it taut, and then a needle would be thrust into the hair follicle at the base and a current applied.  The electricity dissociated the salt in the tissue, forming sodium hydroxide, a strong base which chemically killed the cells, reducing the chance that the hair would ever grow back.  It was briefly painful, a burning sensation, and it was repeated as fast as the epilator could grasp hairs with the tweezers.  Toy ground her teeth and resisted crying out.

Then the process began at her mons, at the top of her pubic bush.  Overcome with humiliation, Toy complained, and she was rewarded with a  hard stroke of a cane to her buttocks.  She ground her teeth and bore the pain as the needle burned her hair follicles hundreds of times, progressing downwards, across her labia and perineum to get the few hairs near her anus.  After the long and nearly unendurable pain, she felt some sort of lotion being applied to her tortured skin and, unexpectedly, her butt plug administered an electrical jolt which triggered a satisfying orgasm.  Toy's legs gave way, and she hung from her wrists, smiling.

“Toy, this is your master speaking,” said a deep masculine voice.  The English was  Oxbridge, cultured, but probably not his native language.  “You will have daily training.  Are you sexually aroused?”

To her surprise, she was.  “Yes, Master,” she said.

“When I command, you will have an orgasm.  “Get ready, Toy.  Now, cum!”  Muscular spasms ravaged her vagina, followed by a glowing relaxation.  “Again, Toy.  Now, cum.”  Again, she came.  Three more times she was ordered to cum, which she did, with or without an electrical push.  Her vaginal muscles ached with fatigue, and her inner thighs were wet with pussy juices.  It never occurred to Toy that her Master was a recorded voice.

That session was over.  They returned her to her cell, let her slake her thirst by fellating the rubber penis.  Then they tightened her corset again and fastened her wrist cuffs to the lower edge on either side.  They smeared her chest with greasy stuff and fitted her with a sort of rigid plastic bra.  When a vacuum was applied, the rigid cups sealed to the base of each breast, and the breast swelled, sucked into the cup.  They fitted a ball gag, and put the U-shaped remote controlled vibrator into her vagina and against her clitoral hood.  They strapped her knees together, so she could not shake it out.  She tried to sleep, but from time to time the vibrator would tease her g-spot and clitoris, raising her arousal to near the edge, but then it would stop short of an orgasm.  Finally, in frustration, the thought to herself, in her master's voice, “Toy, now, cum.”  And she did!  Satisfied with her accomplishment, she slipped off into sleep.

Training continues for (how does one judge time?) several more training cycles.  Her breasts nipples were sucked and manipulated until they were sore and very sensitive.  If her breasts were squeezed, she immediately became aroused, although it did not always work when she squeezed them herself.  Her vaginal muscles developed to the point where she, thought, she could squeeze the juice from a lemon if asked.  They didn't ask that, though they did measure her intravaginal pressure with the “egg” when she performed Kegel exercises.  She lost a few pounds, and her waist became noticeably smaller as they tightened the corsets each session.  They forced her to do exercises, lifting weights and such, until her flesh was firmer than before, though any Hollywood starlet would still regard her as “too fat.”  Each session she was spanked or flogged or caned, made to endure pain followed by mind-blowing orgasms which made it all worthwhile.  She actually looked forward to the beatings and would relive them, remember them, when alone in her cell, being sexually aroused all over again.

Finally came the day, actually night, when they washed her thoroughly, had Slave do her hair and apply eye make-up.  She retained her cuffs and, after a cleansing enema, a plain, non-electric butt plug.  The electrical stimulation had long since become redundant.  The vaginal “egg” remained.   She was made to wear  rubber thong panties which were so tight that the crotch panel slipped between her labia and could not cover the width between her thighs.  She was tightly laced into conventional satin corsets, the color of her hair, which extended upwards to lift her breasts a bit.  They put on decorative nipple shields, covering her nipples and areolae, held on by suction.  When she saw herself in a full length mirror, she realized that she was remarkably beautiful, sexier than she could have imagined.  Then they taped her lips shut.

They covered her with a black burqa, a huge sack which made her indistinguishable from any Muslim woman.  Her veil was opaque, so she was unable to see, but someone led her out of the building and onto a street.  She rode in a car for what seemed a long time, so long that she could not help passing some urine, which did not wet her rubber cunt covering but soaked harmlessly into her burqa.

The car ride was followed by a boat ride and, eventually, being guided up steps to the deck of a large yacht.  They removed the burqa, leaving Toy displayed for the approval of many guests who were in the salon.  Another woman, about Toy's height, donned the burqa and returned to shore in the boat, so a casual observer would not notice that toy had joined the crew.  The tape was removed from her mouth, and the now familiar masculine voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present for your entertainment, Toy.   I would order her to perform for you, but she is, at present, still a virgin, so I will take her to my cabin now to unwrap my new Toy and test how well prepared she is.”

As he led her to the owner's suite, Toy felt a certain joy, akin to graduating from college,  her entry into a new life of carefree submission.