Chapter One

Darkness. Darkness and pain. That had been her world for...how long? She had lost all sense of time, almost all sense of self. Sensations. The blindfold covering her eyes, cutting out all light. Arms crushed together behind her back, tight hemp ropes at elbows and wrists, secure enough to keep her arms utterly immobilised, but not enough to affect her circulation. He was considerate about some things.... A supple leather collar buckled around her neck, with a short chain bolted to a ring-bolt in the floor, forcing her to kneel with head lowered; her ankles crossed and tied; the maddening discomfort from the bristly doormat, biting into her tortured knees; her mouth, crammed with an immense penis gag, which almost scraped the back of her throat. He had left her here to think about her behaviour, about her lack of obedience.

His voice made her start; it was deep, rich, but pleasant and soft, which somehow made him appear all the more intimidating. There was power behind that deceptive tone, and a massive calm and sense of self-knowledge. How long had he been standing there, she wondered, watching her with those deep brown eyes. "I hope that you now understand the importance of obedience and self-discipline, slave?"

She grunted affirmatively into the gag, so exhausted, so drained, so hurting, that she would have agreed to anything at that moment. She shuddered as she felt the touch of his hand on her cheek, stroking gently down her face. "I'm not convinced."

She let out a small sob of frustration. he couldn't leave her like this for any longer. HE *couldn't*!

"You still deny who and what you really are. You continue to fight against me, against yourself. Until you let your real self free, you will be unhappy and in chaos...and you will not have learned anything."

"I don't need to learn anything. I know who and what I am!" she screamed in the privacy of her mind.

She heard a sigh. "As I thought. We'll continue this chat in a little while." What, could he read minds as well???

She whimpered as his footsteps receded across the flagstone floor, then they paused. "Oh by the way...happy birthday."

She wept then, realising just how long she had been here, and how distant was that fateful day, when all this had begun...

***

Tara sat in the changing room, inhaling the unique and stimulating perfume of leather and polish, barely able to repress her excitement at this, the chance of a lifetime! She had long desired to play competitive polo in England, and thanks to her scholarship to study marketing at Reading University, she had found herself in rural Berkshire, one of the archetypal English shires, home of the Hunt, and County Society. To be honest, it had its fair share of sink estates, crime and drugs too, but these social malaises were a million miles away today. She was at Thurlingham Park, the home of the polo team of the same name, and she was in today's starting line-up. The excited babble from the other girls as they donned their breeches and shirts washed over her as she reflected on her good fortune.

She could hardly believe it. When she'd become aware through university bulletin boards that the team was recruiting new players, and also that there was a chance of being sponsored through an IWPA scholarship, she had applied with the expectation of an arduous series of try-outs. She hadn't been disappointed - the team set high standards and the young Canadian was not an experienced player, although, at 5' 7", with a lithe, disciplined body, and firm though not excessive muscular tone, she was a natural athlete: volleyball, skating, softball, all came as second nature to her, and she was an accomplished equestrienne. She was also strong-willed and determined and these traits in particular stood her in good stead as she passed try-out sessions, one after the other. Supposedly better candidates fell by the wayside as, though they may have been superior players, none could match her deep understanding of her mount, an understanding that almost appeared to be a symbiosis. It seemed that she merely had to will the pony and it would do her bidding. Mark Bridges, the team coach, soon recognised her potential - the poise and surety with which she coaxed her mount through the intricate manoeuvres, the supple strength of her right arm as she wound up her mallet for a shot. He could plainly see he had a burgeoning talent on his hands and was quick to sign her up.

That had been four months ago - Tara had experienced a number of intensive training sessions to develop her polo skills to match her horsemanship: swing techniques for the four main strokes, the mechanics of hitting, short stick practice, polo riding, stick and bail, and the opportunity to experience the tactics of team play in mini-games. The strictures of this training had suited her down to the ground. It felt good to have her goals and her limits set for her after so long having to make her own decisions and motivate herself to succeed. There was almost a sense of release…it felt natural somehow to live within such constraints, let someone else do all the worrying apart from the most important aspect, which was to perform to the best of her ability. She thrived upon it.

She acquitted herself admirably in a number of reserve matches and was soon called into the first team as a regular substitute. Her late entry into a vital Zodiac Trophy match had been a revelation, with a wondrous goal that had won the match and kept a demoralised team struggling with injuries in the competition. As her cheering laughing teammates clustered around her in the saloon bar of the local pub afterwards she finally felt the warm sense of acceptance and camaraderie she'd been seeking, perhaps all her life.

And now she was on the verge of her first match in the starting line-up, playing in the number 4 position, primarily responsible for defence. She knew she was better than that, and would have liked the pivotal number 3 role, but that went to the more experienced Dawn Taylor. Still, it was attainable if she maintained this level of commitment. And she would...

She methodically checked her gloves, pulled on her helmet over her short reddish-auburn hair, idly thinking it was about time that she got it cut again, and tugged on her supple leather boots. She was resplendent in her crimson number 4 shirt and regulation white breeches. As she was buckling on her knee-guards, Mark appeared at the door. "OK girls, let's get out there and slay them!"

The team voiced their unanimous approval of this sentiment and trooped out to face the enemy.

***

Dominic Bartholomew, 4th Duke of Malmsbury, was bored. From his seat at the edge of the field he brooded over the proceedings like a raven perched above the postern gate at a funeral. He was over 6 feet in height, thin, with dark brown, almost black, hair and a thin face, dressed casually in black corduroy trousers and an open-necked green shirt. Attendance at these matches was one of those tedious obligations – noblesse oblige – that were these days about the only remaining function of an almost redundant British aristocracy. This whole event was as bizarre to him as the chants of the crowds, FA Cup, and tribalism of football would be to the huntin', shootin' and fishin' set of Berkshire. Although he was the only son of Donald Bartholomew, His Grace the Third Duke, he had been raised in Islington, now home of the New Labour glitterati, following the acrimonious break-up of his mother's marriage to His Grace. It had taken the premature death of his estranged father, in a hunting accident, typically enough, and the subsequent resolve of his mother to return to the "ancestral seat" over which she was determined to rule like some kind of modern-day matriarch, that had brought them both "home".

For someone who had been raised in the cosmopolitan environment of London, where Soho met Docklands met Westminster met Hackney, this transition to the stuffy, cloistered and ludicrous snobbery of the remnants of the so-called "upper class" of the County was an incredible culture shock. Privately, he knew they looked down their noses at him, due to his strong North London accent, his mannerisms, and his perfectly understandable difficulty with conforming to their feigned standards of etiquette. The major irritant was that fact that he was the rightful heir to the title seemed to mean nothing to them. His upbringing had labelled him as "not one of us" and that was a handicap he would never be able to overcome. It was not even as if he was uneducated. He had gone to the Brompton Oratory, where even the Prime Minister's children attended – he had been to Kings College, Cambridge, and graduated with a second in Psychology. His IQ was possibly far higher than the entire "set" of inbred mutants that now looked down upon him, but it meant for nothing here. He was out of place and apparently out of time.

His one consolation was that the Internet even reached out to this benighted place and he could continue to indulge his particular tastes in art, photography and literature in his old virtual haunts. It was a spark of normality in this new alien environment, and he clutched gratefully at it.

It had been his mother's idea to introduce him to as many of the local events as possible, in order to coat him with a veneer of respectability, something which served only to re-establish herself in her former position, though meaningless in the reality of 21st century Britain.

Dominic bore them all stoically, making the obligatory small talk and concentrating on using the cutlery laid from outside to inside during the interminable five-course meals. He opened fetes and fun-runs, attended the village church every Sunday in order to dutifully mouth pieties and mime to dreary hymns. He bore it because at night he could retreat to his bedroom, and his computer, and re-enter the world that was...his.

***

Tara checked the girth-strap was secure. This was an English-type saddle with an overgirth in addition to the regular girth to keep it from slipping. Her chestnut gelding, whose name was Days of Thunder nickered gently and shot an enquiring look back at her. She smiled happily and patted him. She was never happier than when she was with him, either riding or grooming, it was all the same. He had a beautifully sweet nature and personality, more so than most men she had known in her life. She bent down to check his leg bandages were also secure, then put her foot in the stirrup and mounted.

***

Dominic shifted position in his uncomfortable folding chair and was instantly nudged by the Dowager Duchess. He swung a glance in her direction, only to see her facing the front, a fixed smile on her face. Dominic had not yet mastered the art of feigning polite interest on these occasions, and the look of sullen boredom on his own face was obvious. It was then that the two teams trotted out onto the field, Thurlingham Park leading, their red shirts a startling splash of colour against the green of the trees bordering the field, with their rivals, Norton Parva, in royal blue behind.

Dominic perked up. He hadn't really been paying attention when his mother had tried to sell the idea of this event to him, and hadn't realised it was a women's match. Things were looking up... he fixed a look of polite interest on his face, and settled back to watch...

Chapter Two

Light – blazing light, drilling into her brain. She could feel that she was lying on a flat surface and her wrists were in some kind of leather cuffs, which were joined together and stretched, painfully taut above her head. Her ankles were pulled to the two bottom corners of the table, also encircled by soft, but inescapable leather. She was naked, but she had been mostly naked since the day she'd become his...since the day he'd taken her. Anytime she had been given clothes it had been with the express understanding that they were his to give, and could be taken away at his whim. And his every whim was her most important rule at any given moment. At any rate, they were not the type of clothes she would be seen dead in if she'd had the choice. Ridiculously high-heeled strappy sandals, that immediately threw her off balance, although the fact that her arms were invariably restrained behind her did not help, and slutty lacy underwear that showed everything. This was the extent of her "clothing" which he had so magnanimously provided!

A bull-nose clamp tortured each of her nipples, linked by a chain. Perspiration glistened on the smooth porcelain of her skin, as the fierce light beat down. Her mouth, now uncomfortably accommodating a large red ballgag, was dry as the streets of hell. Yet she shivered. She shivered at the slightest sensation from the evil little device buzzing away relentlessly between her legs, as it insidiously and unrelentingly aroused her to the point of orgasm, an orgasm she dare not allow herself the luxury of. This was another of his lessons. Self-discipline, control, the realisation that she owned nothing, not even her body. It was not her orgasm to have, it was his gift as and when he chose to bestow it. Should she falter and succumb to her own needs, then there would be further lessons. He never called it punishment, never thought of it as sadism; these were "lessons", or "tasks". Again he'd been "generous", with the distractions of light and heat, the pain in her limbs and nipples, constantly forcing her attention away from the spiteful little device whirring away inside her.

His voice again. She had stopped being surprised, as he was usually there somewhere, or kept her so distracted by discomfort or arousal that she didn't notice him sneaking up on her. Yet she felt he was always there, always watching; those calm eyes reading her like a huge colourful picture book, all her emotions, thoughts and needs writ large on every page.

"You've done well, slave. This is the longest you've lasted."

Her skin shrank beneath his light touch on her stomach. His hand was snatched away as if he'd been burned. Secretly in the vaults of her mind, in those areas that would forever be free, forever be HER, she exulted. It still hurt him when she did this, when she recoiled at his touch.

His voice, when it came again, was tight, rigidly controlled. She knew she'd hit home. "You've still failed to learn some things. You still think of this body as yours. That's very...disappointing." His tone was mildly reproachful, as if she'd left a light on, or forgotten the milk while shopping, but she grew tense. This was like physics, where each act of defiance merited an equal and opposite reaction of a further "lesson".

She gasped into the ever-present gag as she felt the buzzing between her legs increase in speed and intensity. Oh my God, oh shit....!

***

The sun blazed down on that hot summer afternoon, and the birds sang a joyful chorus to the delights of wheeling in that azure sky.

Closer to ground level, there was an eager buzz of anticipation from the medium sized crowd sheltering securely behind the fences ringing the polo field. It was a good field, and had been tended well. There had already been three minor games played on it that day, and it was barely marked. The ground staff at Thurlingham Park prided themselves on their maintenance of this 200 by 300-yard rectangle of earth and turf, and their pride was the players' reward.

Tara took a deep breath of the sharp, clean country air, hoping it might somewhat dispel her nerves and slow her heart rate. It singularly failed on both accounts. From her superior vantage point she was looking down at the spectators, so why did she feel like she was in the centre of the Coliseum, with the cruel faces looking down at her, waiting for her to become the main course? Pffftttt, just stage-fright, get a grip, girl! As if in the hope that the deed would reinforce the thought, she took a firm grip of the reins, and joined the rest of her team in lining up in the middle of the field. The opposing team did likewise, and there was the usual few minutes of appraising each other that happens at these times. Tara sized up Norton's number 1, a tall olive-skinned girl, called Hannah Chakravarty. Hannah returned the look coolly, but there was a challenge in those deep brown eyes, and one thing Tara loved was a challenge. She felt her heart quicken as the umpire rode towards them, ready to throw the wooden ball between the two lines and begin the first chukker, or period.

***

The Dowager Duchess stole a surreptitious glance at her son, and was pleasantly surprised. He was leaning forward in his seat, intently studying the teams as they lined up. She did not try to fool herself for one moment into thinking that this was anything to do with a newly awakened interest in polo. She knew well that he preferred somewhat more common sports. No, she knew where his attention was directed, and wondered idly if any of those girls were of sufficient breeding to make them marriageable. She would have to make some discreet enquiries after the game.

***

Battle commenced - the umpire threw in the ball which was instantly flicked out of the line up by Norton's number three, Rachel Saunders. She immediately followed it up to circle round the pack and with a half shot from the boards at the 25-yard line sent the ball whizzing towards the Thurlingham goal. Adrenaline surged through Tara with the power of Niagara Falls the minute the ball had appeared. All feelings of nervousness were suddenly cast aside as she deftly steered Thunder round towards the goal, and was in position to make an almost perfect interception. Almost negligently, or so it seemed to those watching, she thrust out her mallet. The ball connected with a sharp "THUNK" and the force sent a tremor up her arm, but she clutched the handle all the tighter as the ball was elegantly deflected away from the goal.

***

The game continued. As a practised student of the art of the female form, Dominic was glued to the spectacle of eight of them jiggling up and down on horseback for his entertainment, however other considerations were beginning to impinge upon his mind; that number 4 player for instance. Obviously his view was restricted by the distance and she was rather anonymous beneath that polo helmet, but Dominic was a born observer, a man who saw beneath the facades that most people liked to project. He observed and catalogued examples of body language, and its true meaning. He stored mannerisms, expressions and speech patterns in that capacious data bank of a mind, and used it to analyse and explore those people who interested him. If he could penetrate those shields put up by nearly all human beings in their everyday life, he could also read certain character traits, even from a distance. His practised powers of observation noted that the number 4 radiated dynamism and a certain sense of pent-up aggression. He watched spellbound as she rode off Norton's number 2 and it had been as though she had barely stopped to consider the consequences of her actions, as if she was acting on pure adrenaline, or maybe animal instinct? A certain wildness...What would it take to tame such a woman?

***

The first two periods were virtually without incident, and more importantly, utterly devoid of goals. Tara was obliged to change ponies for the second period, as was the rest of the team and found herself riding a fine bay mare called Blaze of Glory. Although she was initially uncomfortable with the change, she was accomplished enough to take it in her stride. After all, every polo player must adapt to different mounts. In many ways, the choice of mount was immaterial; what counted was the proficiency of the rider. An exceptional rider could be introduced to a pony of any temperament and coax and mould them to their will. Tara had ridden Blaze many times before and her empathy with the pony was only slightly less than with Thunder.

***

"Empathy". The word popped into Dominic's head as he watched the pretty Canadian's obvious symbiosis with her mount. Now that was an interesting thought…he had a calling, more than an interest, more than a hobby. He had carried out exhaustive research, both theoretical and practical, into the rituals and protocols that were necessary in a true D/s relationship, but such was his depth of perception that he had moved beyond the superficial and shallow practices of merely "breaking" a sub. For sure, these had their place, but in his mind were complementary to the main technique of "deconstructing" the slave's personality and examining just what exactly it was that made one human being happily or unhappily submit to another in the 21st century. Empathy – the power of identifying one's self mentally with (and so fully comprehending) a person or object of contemplation. He had always rather liked that definition, especially the inclusion of the term "object", as that could equally apply to an owned slave. As he looked on, Tara wheeled Blaze around to block a scorching ten-yard shot from Norton's number 3. The easy, fluid motions of her arm as she deployed the mallet spoke of her top physical condition. Dominic smiled. That too was extremely important in a good slave…Dominic daydreamed on imagining what it would be like to have a girl like this under his "tutelage". Or, this girl…?

***

The sun had reached its zenith and waves of heat washed over the perspiring crowd, the players and their mounts alike.

A rebound from the side boards, upon which Norton's number 2 ably capitalised, put Norton into a shock lead at the beginning of the third period, Tara, who had left her unmarked as she closed down the number 1, was left dazed. She blinked as she wheeled Thunder around just in time to see the ball zip between the posts of the goal *she* was supposed to be defending! Shit! Norton's player had moved so fast, she had barely had the chance to react. She had let them all down, the whole team. How could she have been so stupid??? She perceived the disappointed looks on the faces of her team-mates as a personal rebuke. She had let them down, and she had failed.

She seethed silently in the next line-up, waiting for the ball to be thrown in, her anger boiling up inside her as she regarded the smug faces of the Norton team opposite. Bitches! They would not be gloating for long!

Dominic had studied the woman's reaction to the goal as best he could from fifteen yards away, yet with intense interest. Now, this was something…small but noticeable changes in body language – the way she hunched over her reins - eyes downcast in an attitude of…what? Sorrow? No…abjection? Not quite…then it struck him…apology. She had failed to perform well and was unconsciously apologising to her team, Whilst it was undoubtedly true that anyone in that position might behave in the same manner, Dominic was confident that his appraisal was correct. He wondered if there would be any chance to meet her after the match…

Chapter Three

"Conjugation," he had announced quietly, tapping the blackboard with the junior rattan cane, which gleamed in the dim light. "First person?"

"This slave," she replied dully, too exhausted to fight anymore at the moment. Barely ten seconds passed before the cane swished through the air and scorched across her alabaster backside. She screeched in pain.

"Wrong, the first person as far as you are concerned is "Master", is me. You've still got so much to learn."

"No shit," she thought mutinously, her butt stinging like crazy.

"Second person."

"This slave?"

*SWISH-CRACK* her bottom-cheeks quivered with the impact of the second blow, and she choked back a scream as the pain coursed through her backside.

"Second person?"

She ground out the words like an oath. "Th-there is only one person. One Master. You…Master." The final word somehow forced its way past her clenched teeth, but the tone was flat and utterly without sincerity.

"Much better, slave." Inwardly, he sighed - it was as if he was fighting a losing battle, with all his theory and previous practice worthless. Of course those he'd trained in the past had been willing, had wanted nothing else but to be his, but therein lay the problem. Once a slave was fully compliant and he'd always discarded them, knowing that the training was the only worthwhile challenge. He'd had his pick of beautiful submissive women, but none with the "spark" he sought. Until now…but her rage, her obstinacy, was undiminished, even with the passage of time. She was the challenge he had been seeking, but was proving to be more difficult than all the others put together. In the dead of night, he'd lain awake wondering if it was time he reviewed his methods, but deep down he knew they were right. He was not sadistic, he didn't unnecessarily humiliate or bully. Patience was always the best way, and he knew that he had to take this slowly and carefully.

At that precise moment they were having to repeat her first ever lesson all over again.

***

She had failed to thank him when he had removed her gag the previous evening and he had, almost regretfully it seemed, announced that yet again, he would be forced to refresh her memory on basic grammar. As a further aid to recall, she had spent the night in a tight hog-tie, soft cotton ropes keeping her arms twisted painfully behind her and her ankles joined to her wrists. Her gag had replaced by a circular, rubber-coated ring of metal, which wedged her mouth wide open, leaving her drooling impotently. Her bed had been the cold flagged floor of her cell, which had grown harder and more uncomfortable throughout that long sleepless night. "Perhaps this will assist in encouraging you to think in future." he had said gravely and he had left her in discomfort and humiliation.

***

And so to today: another repeated lesson in the dark, cold "schoolroom". By the feel of the stale damp air and the dim utility lighting, this was as much as part of the cellar as was her own cell. Her inability to tell for sure was due to the fact that she was always blindfolded when moved between rooms, a practice designed to increase her uncertainty and disorientation. She was guided up or down flights of stairs several times a day, sometimes into warmer, better-lit areas, other times, into dark dinghy holes like this. She loathed the "schoolroom" most of all.

Of course, her entire existence since she had been captured had been one long "lesson", but here took place what he liked to think of as the intensive sessions, where her mind was tested as well as her body. Day after day he battered away at her reserves of self-determination, individuality and ego. She fought back as much as she could, but was beginning to fear that she was losing herself. Not that he was particularly brutal or abusive. On the contrary, he spoke in that damned deep, but quiet, voice as ever, never losing his cool, rarely changing his expression. If anything the only emotion he ever displayed was sorrow. A "sadness" that she was so slow to learn, so quick to lapse into bad habits. And, what was worse, he then repeated whichever lesson it was that she had so obviously not learned, again and again and again if necessary.

Both were stubborn in their own way. She, determined not to break, calculatingly letting slip the odd error or act of defiance, just in order to prove she was still Tara, still her own person. He, with that maddening calm, just going over and over the lessons, with the result that she had never gotten past Lesson 7 "Proper Attitudes of Submission", before he took her all the way back to Lesson 1 "Punctuation and Grammar".

She shivered beneath her thin clothes in the depressing damp room, bare save for the school desk and chair, the old-fashioned easel-mounted blackboard, and the impressive collection of rattan canes, neatly arranged in their rack along one wall.

She was kneeling, as usual, on the chair, which had been turned around so that its back abutted the front of the old-fashioned sloping school desk with its twin inkwells. The seat, also of rattan, interestingly enough, dug painfully into her knees, and she shifted as best she could to redistribute the pressure, however her movements were severely limited by the leather cuffs buckled around each ankle. These were connected by a D ring to a short length of close-linked steel chain, which terminated in a steel cuff. Each cuff was looped around the front chair leg and ratcheted tight. Her upper body was pulled down over the desk and secured in a prone position by a wide leather strap that ran around her waist, and was also buckled around the desk legs. As a final touch, and a permanent reminder from Lesson 7, her ever-present leather collar was attached to another chain, and this was padlocked to a ring-bolt set in the dead centre of the back section of the desk, exactly halfway between the twin inkwells. This kept her head forcibly lowered, facing the flagstone floor, upon which was stencilled in stark white lettering, the single word "OBEY".

Her "uniform" was a travesty of an outfit, but slightly more than she usually got to wear. A plain white school blouse, although with the buttons removed, and knotted just below her firm breasts, allowing them to hang freely, with one succulent brown nipple peeping out from the gap in the blouse; a grey pleated skirt, but the protection and modesty afforded by this garment was somewhat counteracted by the fact that it was always worn pinned up at the back, exposing her smooth round bottom, both to his visual attention and that of the canes, as necessary. Naturally, she had not been allowed the luxury of panties. Her hair was tied into two bunches with pink ribbons for an adorably cute look that she absolutely detested. The finishing touch was the lacy white ankle socks and the black patent leather Mary Jane school shoes, although these had five inch-heels, and she HATED heels! It was the closest she ever came to being fully dressed again, but upon reflection she felt she would rather be naked than humiliated like this.

The sharp edges of the desk bit into her waist, and her neck ached from the position into which it had been forced. Her knees were sore from kneeling on the hard chair day after day, and then, of course, there were the sensations from the vibrator thrust deep into her throbbing pussy. He seemed to enjoy doing this to her, even though that deep patient voice had spoken only of self-discipline and concentration. Should she dare to orgasm, he had explained, then he would recognise that she had failed to concentrate on her lesson and she would be disciplined accordingly.

The discipline…those canes lined up like weapons in an arsenal! She had felt each one, from most junior to senior, depending on the severity of her error, or the depth of her inattention. Not that he ever used them to excess. He never did anything to excess. No, the canes were used only when he deemed absolutely necessary and only in accordance with the tariff of punishments he had drummed into her during lesson 2. He had thought it best not to reveal yet that the tariff was subject to amendment at any time and without notice, but he had played fair. So far…

He moved on to the next part of the lesson. "What is the correct form of address to your Master?"

"Duh..'Master'?" she muttered. The tingling warmth in her butt was only slightly diminished and she was unable to hold back the sarcasm.

This time she did not fight the scream as agony flooded her rear end. She bucked against her restraints, driving the fiendish little vibrator deeper inside her and, despite the pain, the humiliation, and the rage, could not longer hold herself back. The orgasm flowered within her, flowing through her very core, her cries of pain mingled with passion, straining against metal and leather until she was spent. Even as she panted with the exertion, she glared at the floor, thankful that she had to keep her eyes lowered, so that he could not have the satisfaction of seeing the tears of shame gathering in them nor the hatred reflected there for what he was turning her into.

Chapter Four

The third period saw an intense burst of activity. Norton, whilst naturally seeking to put the match beyond Thurlingham's reach with at least another goal, were forced onto the defensive by a home team frantically needing to even the scores. The front three players hurled themselves forward at different stages and Tara began to relax into the flow of the game, determined now not to allow her earlier error to throw her game, as that would only lead to further losses.

***

Dominic had little knowledge or appreciation of the sport, although he admitted that it was slightly less coma inducing than cricket, but he could still appreciate the Norton team's tactics. Norton knew that Norton were the better team, on paper at least, therefore they had looked for an early lead, then closed ranks in a defensive posture to maintain it, shutting Thurlingham out whilst looking for any opportunity to put themselves even further ahead. Their attack would be seeking to exploit what they now perceived as the weakest link on the defence - Tara. Dominic smiled slightly. The fascination the game now held for him was very much linked to the reaction of a specific personality type under pressure. Tara had let the opposition score and that failure had rattled her. The Dominant type of personality would now be expected to buckle down, be patient, calm and alert, guarding the goal with increased care and caution.

The submissive personality was a different matter though. One type may become increasingly nervous, dwell upon the error and in doing so set themselves up to repeat it. The other may see the fact that their team-mates were now on the counter-attack and that theirs was essentially now a waiting game as a temptation to try and atone for their mistake. They would over-compensate and may in fact fail by doing so, either by committing a foul or even, wound tight by guilt and impatience try to go for goal themselves, leaving their own goal unguarded, and vulnerable should their attack go wrong. Of course, things weren't always so black and white: there were many other permutations of behaviour. He decided to put on a little mental bet with himself as to which course of action she would take – there, choice made. Now, who said polo was dull?

***

Tara would certainly have agreed with that assessment; although still unnerved by the early goal, she was not about to go to pieces as yet, thanks very much! Norton's number 1, Hannah Chakravarty, was making her somewhat nervous though. The Asian girl was riding backwards and forwards at the halfway line, waiting for her team to get a break. At present there was an untidy scrap going on in front of the Norton goal, the ball almost lost in the melee of flying mallets and trampling hooves. The game was starting to become ill-tempered, and if the umpire had been able to make out some of the shots for which those mallets had been used there would undoubtedly have been a penalty handed out by now. As it was he looked about ready to wade in and call a time-out. But, ultimately, the scrap was merely sound and fury, signifying nothing, with little chance of either team gaining an advantage.

In her position in front of her own goal, Tara chafed visibly. She was dying to pile in and assist her team-mates, but had just enough self-discipline to stay where she was for the moment.

And this was a fortunate decision as seconds later the ball was flicked out of the scrum by an anonymous hoof and rolled sedately along the smoothly shaven turf, largely unnoticed by the majority of both teams, except for one person – Tara.

Tara was in an agony of indecision – try for the ball or stay in defence? She knew what the right decision was, but then saw that Chakravarty had not yet noticed the ball, and could no longer contain herself. With her heart suddenly pumping fit to burst and every part of her body afire with adrenaline she spurred her third mount, Storm Chaser, into action. She hadn't ridden him often before, so the level of trust shared with Glory and Thunder wasn't yet there, but he was steady and calm, and quick to respond. The dark gelding, perhaps picking up his rider's urgency, eagerly sped into a gallop.

Hannah Chakravarty heard the beat of hooves behind her, and was alerted to the sudden danger. Her head swung from side to side as she sought to locate the ball, knowing that that was the only thing that would induce a number 4 to leave the goal area at a time like this. Then she noticed the small plastic ball, rolling gently to a halt not five yards away and also noted her team-mates and three-quarters of Thurlingham breaking away from their rather enjoyable rumble, and starting to focus on the whereabouts of the ball.

***

Dominic watched Tara's mad dash for the ball and smiled. "I win," he murmured.

***

Norton's number 4, Julia Gardner, peeled back towards her own goal, while Rachel Saunders, the number 3, and Sarah Steele, the number 2, made a dual dash for the ball, as did Hannah Chakravarty with Tara now hot on her heels. Thurlingham's first three were left trailing and confused, as the play started back towards their own end. Tara was moving into position, deftly steering her steed in for an interception, when it suddenly became clear to her that this was three against one, and not only that, she was the only one in anything like a defensive position. She had blundered, leaving the goal unprotected.

Shit!

Ignoring the ball she swerved round and galloped back to her position.

***

"Damn," Dominic muttered to himself and leant back in his chair once more. Oh well, the game wasn't over yet. Plenty of time left to prove his evaluation.

***

As she pulled up in front of the goal, Tara was relieved to see her team hurrying back to assist her, even as Norton had seized the ball and were making another attack. She moved forward a few steps, but not enough to leave the goal wide open.

***

The tattoo of hoof beats rose up and was stifled in the humid Berkshire air as six players chased that 3 ½ inch plastic ball as if their lives depended on it, carefully tended divots of turf hurled up in their wake. Chakravarty knocked the ball on to Steele narrowly avoiding an interception by Thurlingham's number two, Catherine Johnson. Steele bore down on the Thurlingham goal, where Tara stood ready and alert, watching like a hawk for any feint or attempt to pass, or a dummy run from another of the team.

Then it happened. A fierce drumming of hooves and Saunders galloped up from the left, obviously as part of some pre-arranged tactic, deftly evading Thurlingham's number 3, Dawn Taylor, who was caught out whilst marking Steele.

The flicker of movement registered in the corner of Tara's right eye, and at the same time she noticed the Norton number 2 almost imperceptibly changing position. It looked like she was turning for a neck shot, evidently to pass to the poaching Saunders. Tara read all of this in the space of a second and knew exactly what she had to do.

She pulled Storm Chaser around and backed off to the goal, as Steele sent the ball rocketing to her team-mate. Saunders' eyes widened as she saw that Tara had anticipated their stratagem, but was now committed. There was little hope in her heart as she automatically made her shot. Wheeling her horse round, she suddenly noticed that two of her team-mates were now in the Thurlingham half with her. They were ready to offer back-up if need be, but in their eagerness to score again, they had left their own number 4 at the mercy of Thurlingham's 1 and 2 who, the instant they saw Tara moving in to defend the goal, had gambled and made two separate charging runs up the left and right sides of the field.

The ball skimmed over the grass as if borne on a cushion of air, however its trajectory was slowly taking it up in an arc, and Tara knew that she was going to have to knock it out of mid-air. That baseball practice last summer was about to come in very handy...She carefully judged her angle and let rip with a thundering deflection. The ball cracked satisfyingly off the mallet, curved elegantly past the rival team and slid neatly past Taylor, who casually knocked it on to Johnson who was speeding goal-wards.

Tara drew in a deep draught of air. This habit of forgetting to breathe on tense occasions was pretty inconvenient sometimes!

The Norton players suddenly realised that the fairly routine blocked shot had been converted to a precision pass that had their own goal looking terribly vulnerable

The ball and Johnson's mallet came together as if magnetically attracted and after a further two short knocks, she fired it straight between the legs of the Norton number 4's pony and into the net like a cannonball.

***

There was a polite cheer and smattering of applause from the Thurlingham supporters, almost immediately followed by the clang of the bell, signifying the end of the third period, with the score at 1-1.

Exultation swelled up in Tara until she thought she would burst. She stood up in her stirrups and whooped with delight, her mallet swinging joyously in an arc. Her earlier error had been erased by this, her assistance, in what had turned into a glorious equaliser. She now felt a whole lot better, and knew they could pull this back their way! Things were looking up!

***

So, she didn't buckle under pressure and eventually learned from her mistakes. Dominic grinned inwardly. Perfect material. If only…

Chapter Five

It wasn't easy being a Master…Dominic was relaxing in his room, surfing some of the more "interesting" websites in his favourites list. A cup of tea sat congealing and untouched on the tray by his side in contrast to the nearly empty can of Red Bull next to it. Old habits died hard, despite the efforts of the staff ("never call them 'servants' dear, not these days!"). There were frequent sighs of exasperation in the kitchen when the tray was returned untouched, but still they persisted. Duke and all he might be, but it was the staff who knew best, always had been, always would be…

Dominic's mind was not fixed upon the endless parade of submission and bondage glaring brightly from his monitor, though - he had his slave, a feisty brat of a slave, but a slave nevertheless. Over the past months he had taught her, given her discipline as required, and restrained her in every imaginable position, plus a few new ones he'd developed for the occasion, but still, despite a veneer of submission, she seemed as unbroken as ever.

Not that he actually wanted to "break" her. There were many so-called Doms that would do so, leaving cowering, beaten violated pieces of flesh behind, barely human, who trembled at a look and flinched at a touch. That was barbarity, not submission. He wanted to persuade this fiery obstinate young woman to submit of her own free will.

His lessons had been strict, but not harsh. She had maintained her excellent physical shape by utilising the specially modified gym equipment he had provided. The exercise bike with the dildo for a saddle had been his favourite. It was the way she was forced to stand while she pedalled, firming up her muscles even as they screamed for rest. Even as she did so, she knew that that much sought-after rest, settling back on the thick rubber prong, would merely increase her chances of orgasm without permission, thereby leading to yet another "lesson". She had stayed limber due to the many inventive positions in which she had been restrained. She was fed, washed and looked after, but of course he knew that wouldn't be enough.

He had her body entirely at his mercy but had not abused that position, had not violated her himself. But her mind…her mind was her own. She resisted all his attempts to probe it, to pick apart the complex threads of personality and experience that moulded her individuality. Rectifying this, intensifying her training in these areas, was a task that he'd been putting off. He didn't want a brainwashed vegetable or psychological trauma case on his hands, and he seemed to have little enough time for her as it was, what with his own mother's social pretensions on his behalf taking up more and more of his free hours. But, somehow…somehow, he had to find a chink in that impenetrable wall she erected in her mind, a way to pry apart the close fitting mental blocks.

There was one spark of hope though - it seemed to him that she had recently begun to tire of all these daily acts of rebellion. Not that he believed for one minute that it was to do with any great desire to suddenly submit to him. No, it was more that she had hardened herself and decided the easiest thing to do was to get through each day as quickly and painlessly as possible. The only thing that bothered him was - why? All she had to look forward to was a night restrained in her bed and then another day of exactly the same routine. Rebellion may have been unacceptable, however what she was now showing was…tolerance. She was tolerating all his attentions, in a manner that suggested that she had something else to look forward to, but he knew that to be impossible. He frowned - what was it? What was she thinking when she answered his questions and obeyed his commands on automatic pilot. What was she keeping from him? He meant to find out, and today had taken steps to do so.

***

Tara lay on her bed, staring at the whitewashed wall of her cell. The room had once been a cold store at the far end of the cellars and in many ways she felt that she had been put into cold storage herself. So many months had she been here that she had almost lost track of time until her birthday a few weeks back. So it was now early May, almost eight months since her capture, since that fateful match where he had first fixed his attention on her.

Each day since then had been its own kind of hell - stripped, chained, gagged and humiliated 24/7. Her thoughts frequently turned to her family, to her parents. What must they be thinking, be feeling now, knowing their daughter had vanished off the face of the earth? And the University? Her sudden departure must have caused some concern, although he had informed her that he had taken care of that little detail. She hated him all the more for the smug, casual way in which he'd let this little snippet of information slip, as if he controlled her whole life, even her life before her capture. She had no way of knowing whether or not he was telling the truth, but there was no way she could check, so stringent were her boundaries.

Her days were now controlled and governed by that deep quiet voice, the frightening array of restraints and the punishments that emerged from deep within that labyrinthine mind. This man, this infuriating calm, persistent bastard, who never tired of his lessons, his discipline.

Even now in the confines of a supposedly secure room, she was unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. She had been restrained on her back, her wrists encircled with soft sheepskin-lined institutional cuffs, which were chained to the tubular steel headboard of the bed. Her ankles were similarly confined. She was covered by a blanket, but was otherwise completely naked. Thankfully he had installed some heating or she would have been able to add hypothermia to her worries. In deference to the fact that this was a rest period her gag was a simple three inch wide strip of duct tape sealing her lips closed, more of a reminder that her voice was also his to give. He hadn't wanted a choked slave on his hands so her mouth was empty, but the tape clung tackily to her skin and pressed her soft lips tightly together.

The final touches to her night attire were a butt plug that was firmly nestled between her bottom cheeks and a hard plastic dildo strapped deeply inside her pussy. These too were a reminder - that all her orifices belonged to him. They were uncomfortable but not desperately so, however they were his instruments, the symbols of her captivity, of her loss of freedom and loss of choice. The less than strict bondage was bothering her even more tonight and, exhausted though she was after a hard afternoon on the exercise dick, or rather bike, she couldn't sleep.

Her mind was whirling. She was increasingly afraid that she would be worn down, willing to do whatever he wanted if he would just let up, but she knew this wouldn't be enough for him. She had to submit herself freely and truthfully, not just for the sake of an easy life. She wondered if she could do that, to sacrifice the cornerstone of her turbulent life, her very being, to become his slave?

But there was more to her anxiety than that thought: although he had stimulated and mildly tortured both her anus and pussy over the past months he had not had raped her even though she was at his mercy. For that courtesy, she accorded him a grudging respect, but that made the thing that had recently been so unsettling even harder to accept - that she was so incredibly aroused. Despite her best efforts, part of his training was beginning to seep through hairline cracks in her mental block. Unwilling though she was to admit it, her constant state of restraint stimulated her like nothing else ever had before. It had occurred to her to wonder what kind of slut she was becoming and she hated herself for succumbing to her baser instincts this way, but was finding it harder and harder to resist. Her body was calling her mind a liar and she was desperately uncomfortable with this concept.

Strapped down and caned or spanked, screaming into a ball-gag as her ass blazed crimson; she had found herself becoming wet on several occasions, and a strangely detached, almost euphoric feeling in the aftermath. Tugging futilely at ropes and cuffs, straining against shackles, flexing her arms inside the warm embrace of a single-glove, or the feel of leather strapped tightly around wrists and ankles, the solid weight of a gag in her mouth, her ass and pussy filled, they made her senses jangle and her body explode into life. Except, it wasn't for her benefit, it was for his, and that was the one thing she abhorred.

And so, her determination had grown. He was not going to reap the reward of seeing her slowly but surely yielding to her desires. She had been denied her life, her freedom and her self-respect, so she was going to deny him his satisfaction. It was tough but she would endure, like she always did, and she would win!

So now, like many nights recently, when he left her alone, when she had some, albeit minimal, measure of control, she was testing her limits again. These stolen moments of self-absorption were now the primary focus of her day, where she dealt with her primal feelings on her own terms, and in doing so, gave herself that much more strength to endure the following day.

She tugged fitfully at her bonds, her wrists twisting in their fur-lined restraints, moaning quietly into the tape gag and deriving a tingling thrill from the soft "mmpphh" sounds. Almost automatically, she began to gyrate her hips, wiggling and grinding and forcing the inanimate lump of plastic deeper inside her, to slide gently against the slick walls of her vagina and brush tantalisingly against her engorged clitoris. Her hardened nipples rubbed against the coarse blanket, sending a jolt of pleasure through to her brain and causing gooseflesh to erupt at the slither of wool against her silky skin. There would be trouble for this, this wilful enjoyment of her own body, if he found out, but the - thankfully dark - sheet was usually dry by morning, and this was one act he possibly never even suspected her to be capable of.

Waves of pleasure surged through her body, and she revelled in them, moaning louder and with more urgency. She shifted and settled the butt plug in even deeper, and felt the dildo snuggling into her pussy, both intruders inflaming her senses. She pulled back again and forward, building up a steady and insistent rhythm, lubricating the dildo with her own streaming fluids, the huge phallus teasing and tormenting her with its penetration until she was a-buzz with desire. Her breathing had grown heavier and more ragged and air was forced from her nostrils in lieu of her tightly sealed lips.

The chafing of her ankles against their cuffs, the fur lining tickling and titillating her prickling skin even as their snug grip prevented her from bringing up her knees only served to inflame her further. Her heart pounded against her chest as if desperate to escape, and her mind was emptied of all but the hot red flames of need, the conglomeration of all the glorious wonderful sensations rampaging throughout her body. Her chest heaved; her breasts swelling against the blanket as she tried to manoeuvre the dildo in as deeply as she could, to cause the maximum friction. She was lost in herself now. This was her moment, not his, her orgasm, not his. HER body NOT his. She was going to enjoy every last drop, every iota of feeling.

Perspiration bedewed her forehead and her wiggling body as she groaned and moaned and stimulated herself into a frenzy. The climax, when it came, was like none she'd ever experienced before. It virtually tore her body apart with a steady and increasing series of shockwaves. White hot lines of pure pleasure radiated out from her pussy and seeped through every nerve in her body. The rush of endorphins to her brain had her weeping with happiness and fulfilment, as she bucked and squirmed, pulling at the restraints and screaming into the tape gag, which gave way under the pressure and peeled away from her face as her lips were forced apart. Her cries rent the still, warm air of the tiny room, as every muscle grew taut and her mind screamed with ecstasy.

The little red light in the corner of the room blinked steadily as the iris of the lens beneath contracted and focussed on the writhing figure on the bed, watching with unfeeling detachment as Tara flopped back onto the mattress, totally spent.

Chapter Six

The teams trotted off the field for another change of mount and a much needed drink. Dominic, too, rose from his seat and murmured a “be back in a sec,” to the Dowager Duchess who looked mildly scandalised at this apparent show of disinterest, even though many others in the crowd were doing exactly the same. She found it necessary to sit through anything and everything for as long as it took, very much like she imagined the Queen had to do. It was just as well that she had a bladder of cast iron really.

Dominic walked unhurriedly away from the edge of the field and up to the club's pavilion. It was a standard clapboard building, smothered in glossy green paint that, although fairly recent, contrived to give it a dilapidated air, something much beloved by the English. He ascended the three wooden steps to the porch, and passed through the half-glassed door to the small cream-painted panelled entrance lobby, which smelled slightly of must and old polish. To one side was an oak-framed glass display case, agleam with silverware from the club's past exploits on the field. Next to this was a green panelled door bearing a shining brass sign marked “Office”. To the right the door to the kitchens, and straight ahead the entrance to the teams' changing rooms. Dominic looked thoughtfully at this door for about thirty seconds then walked purposefully towards it.

“Excuse me, sir?” A thin, birdlike elderly gentleman, with a beaky nose and stringy white hair dangling limply from the back of his head, but smartly attired in blazer, striped club tie and sharply pressed grey slacks, had just emerged from the office. His watery blue eyes were slightly narrowed behind his rimless spectacles but his voice was just hovering on the fine line between polite and haughty.

Dominic turned and looked at him. That “sir” was a bit too disdainful in his opinion…

“May I help you at all?” Still the same air of forced politeness, but with an unpleasant edge, like Dominic was obviously up to something.

Dominic smiled inwardly. “Dirty old bastard,” he thought, knowing the old fool had leaped to completely the wrong conclusion, that Dominic was heading for the changing rooms, and by doing so was just projecting his own lecherous ideas onto the visitor. “No thanks,” he replied mildly. “I'm just looking at the bulletin boards.” he nodded towards the cork-board screwed to the wall next to he changing room door. “Unless you want to read it for me?” Then he grinned wolfishly, not being able to resist. “Ohhhh, you thought I was heading for the changing room?”

The old man's face coloured, and Dominic knew he'd hit home. “You're from London .” It was a statement, with disapproval obvious in the reedy old voice. Disapproval which translated, not just from London , but a particularly seedy London housing estate.

Dominic sighed, he had heard this tone a lot in this stuffy social climate, and was beginning to get a bit sick of it. He knew from painful experience that his acquired accent was easy to dissect and pigeonhole by those from the Home Counties. Any trace of roughness in the voice was instantly equated to some Cockney low-life. Though there were differences between East and North London accents, most people couldn't tell them apart. “I'm the 4th Duke of Malmsbury,” he replied, ice in his voice, and was gratified to watch the old bloke shrink by several inches, obviously reducing his height to match his social station.

“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he muttered, and retreated back into his office again.

Feeling somewhat cheered by the encounter, Dominic approached the notice board and skimmed over future fixtures, fund-raising pleas and a neatly-written white card offering Persian kittens for sale until he found what he was looking for, the team roster for today's match. There, number 4 - Tara Gordon. Now, he had her name, maybe he could just find out a little more about her, and then…well, one step at a time…

***

Tara mopped her flushed face and swigged down most of a litre bottle of water in one go. It was freakin' HOT out there! Not as bad as summers at home, but a slow baking heat, with more humidity than she was used to. There wasn't much time in the intervals but time enough to attempt to cool down. The other girls were discussing tactics with Mark, their manager. He was trying to bring a touch of reality to their understandable excitement.

“So, fine, you pulled one back, but let's not get over-excited, my little treasures.”

Catherine Johnson told him to fuck off like the well-educated young lady she was and landed a punch on his arm. He grinned. He just loved winding them up like that. “Seriously though, they don't have the same kind of skill as you lot do, and so they are going to try and sneak something, like they did before.” he glanced over at Tara . “Don't let it bother you, love, you learned from it, that's the main thing. “

Tara smiled gratefully at him. The girls had been a little patronising about her error, and she had wondered if she was going to get chewed out or not. Mark tended to get a little excitable about these things…

His answering smile faded as he went on. “But, that little push forward you started to make later on could have cocked up the whole thing. Whenever the rest of the team is in the other half, I need your arse riveted to that goal, understand?”

She nodded, her mood evaporating. She could see from the looks on the other girls' faces that they were still to be convinced of her usefulness to the team. That rankled, and she knew she had a lot of work to do to regain their confidence, more apparently than a good save and assist such as she had pulled off in the last period. She sometimes wondered if it was the fact that she was a) foreign and b) not one of “the set”, that distanced the others from her. There was little time to worry about it though, as it was time to head out for the fourth period. She strapped her helmet back on and, stretching her legs a bit to ease out the cramp from sitting in one position too long, she followed the others out.

As they crunched down the gravel path back to the stable area, they passed the front of the pavilion. There was a man standing there, who looked like he had just exited the building himself. Tara glanced casually at him as she passed, however, just as she was about to let her attention slide away from him, she realised that his gaze had locked on to hers, as if he knew she would look at him and had been waiting to make eye contact. She gave him a polite smile, but he did not return it. His face was impassive, but the eyes seemed to be attempting to scan her soul… With difficulty, she tore her own gaze away from him and went on her way, shrugging inwardly. Maybe she had an admirer, and a pretty good-looking one too…and then her mind returned to the more important matter of the next period.

***

He smiled. She was even more beautiful close up, and her smile was the most dazzling thing to light up his life for a very long time. It appeared that she'd been rather struck herself, at least for a moment, however if he was in any way right about her, she would be careful not to show too much interest, to feign indifference. Some people used that as a shield for their true feelings - he wondered if she was one of them.

***

Once again the ball was thrown between the two ranks of women on horseback, and the fourth period commenced. Tara was delighted to be reunited with Days of Thunder, and the pony seemed to pick up that emotion, for he was even more good-natured and responsive than ever. And how he needed to be!

Norton broke away immediately and Hannah Chakravarty seized upon the ball, making a quick shot to goal. To the huge relief of Thurlingham, it went wide, leaving Tara to bring the ball back in play, and knock it back out of the danger zone with a neat nearside forehand shot. For an intense five minute period the ball was pushed from one side of the ground to the other, finally going out of play within 30 yards of Norton's goal.

As the umpire threw in the ball once again, it was flicked out of the line-up by Saunders of the Norton team, who followed it up to circle round the pack. Then, with a half shot from the boards at the 25-yard line she claimed another goal before ten seconds had registered on the clock. Tara had not been in any way to blame for this, and like her team-mates had been left standing by the speed and ruthlessness of the play. Yet, from somewhere deep within, the sense that she was somehow not worthy of being part of this team and MUST prove herself beyond all doubt had started to smoulder.

***

He caught it instantly. He had retaken his seat just as the next period had started and witnessed the lighting-fast goal. Even he could see that the goal had been a tribute to the skill and reflexes of the Norton team-member and not due to any error on Tara's part. But yet…there it was - a deep, almost palpable resolve. The desire to serve, the NEED to be accepted, to be part of the team. Oh yes, she was showing potential all right, and not just as a good polo player. Something had changed – that shared glance, although it may have meant nothing to her, had kick-started his senses. More than ever, he felt he knew her. There was no sound logical basis for this at all, but he *knew* he had somehow linked to her. The match no longer mattered to him at all; he was no longer the Fourth Duke, he was the One who watched, who waited, assessed and noted the behaviour of his potential slave. This wasn't a game any more, it was a test, and if she passed, then, one way or another, she would be…his.

Chapter Seven

The water dripped…drip drip drip…it dripped incessantly, and it was slowly driving her mad. There were times when she found herself concentrating on that endless dripping noise, even counting the drips, if only in order to take her mind off her other troubles. And these were numerous: she had utterly lost track of time for instance – she may have been there hours or days, she didn't know; she was in continual pitch-blackness, with never a chink of light to relieve it, not even when he visited. She had no idea how he knew where to go and what to do when he got there. She was beginning to think that he was Omnipotent and Omniscient, which of course was the idea.

*drip drip drip*

Sweat poured off her pain-wracked body, and pooled inside the garment she was wearing, increasing her discomfort to levels of slow, exquisite torture. She had been strapped and zipped into a tight latex sheath, with only her head sticking out. The sheath included a single leg-piece, into which both her legs had been crammed, her anklebones grating together, and her knees and thighs further welded together by the stickiness of her sweat-drenched skin. The rubber was so form-fitting that the crotch of the garment had almost been sucked up into her pussy, but this was in no way erotic. It clung to her shaven mound, giving her the unrelenting sensation that she was being cupped and groped by a warm clammy hand. Her arms had been fed into the garment's internal sleeves and were pressed tightly to her sides. It clung suffocatingly to her stomach and her breasts, so that she was beginning to lose track of where Tara ended and her latex skin began. Lastly it was buckled up around her throat like a collar, a hateful reminder of her enforced servitude. Although the room was cool, inside that rubber skin she was literally stewing in her own juices, and she hardly move in its clinging grip.

*drip drip drip*

Her muscles were cramping - she tried to stretch, to tense them up and relax again, but this gave little relief. She was a sportswoman, and her muscles were not used to this kind of inactivity. He had kept her limber enough, with the positions into which she was frequently restrained, and his nightmare of a gym kept her fit, but this complete immobility was beginning to tell on her body. Her back ached from lying on the hard stone floor, the hot sticky dampness from her sweat and other fluids soaked back into her skin which chafed excruciatingly as it rubbed against the latex sheath. Her jaw alternated between a fierce ache and total loss of feeling from the oversize ballgag that had been forced into her mouth, and her throat was constricted. For some reason that she could not fathom she had not expired of thirst and her mouth although tasting foully of rubber, was not all that dry.

*drip drip drip*

A scuffling sound, staccato, a whisper of movement, but it awoke her from dream-haunted slumber. Sleeping had not been by choice, but her body had long since wrested control from her frightened mind, and had dragged her down into her only possible refuge. Even there, there had been no peace: her dreams were fragmented and twisted, and she was trapped, she was buried alive under tons of damp earth, peaty and clammy to the touch. She tried to call out and the earth trickled into her mouth, filling it to the back of her throat, and still it pressed down, harder and harder, forcing her to swallow to avoid choking to death. The earth filled her throat, her stomach. It filled her veins and her lungs. They had buried her living body and left her there forever, trapped but conscious, weighed down by the terrible heaviness, but alive, to spend her days and nights as a living corpse until the madness overwhelmed her mind, and she screamed silently into the darkness for eternity…

*drip drip drip*

Her eyes snapped open, but the dream did not fade…dark, clammy, pressing, clinging. What was real, what was dream? A scuffling sound…was it in the dirt of her grave, were there worms, insects, waiting to feast on her body? These thoughts flashed through her terrified mind in an instant, but the feel of the hard stone floor beneath her aching muscles, the rubbery taste in her mouth brought her back to some semblance of reality. Scuffling…rats? Spiders? Her ears strained to hear, but the noises were gone. She wept silently, tears coursing down her face, leaking down around the collar of her prison. How long could she last? She didn't want insanity, but knew that her mind could not stand much more of this torture. She could no longer feel her legs or her arms. She felt disembodied, yet anchored to one spot. A frightened tired mind with no home or form. She was so alone, cut off, with only her own terrified thoughts and dreams. Hell wasn't burning lakes, or other people – this was Hell.

*drip drip drip *

Then he was there again, with no noise, no warning of his presence. There was only his warm sweet breath against her cheek as he whispered in her ear: “No control, no self-discipline...I grant you the privilege of some movement, so that you can sleep more comfortably, and you betray my trust. You used this body…*my* property, to give yourself pleasure, a pleasure for which you did not have my permission.”

Her body was rigid with fear inside her shiny rubber prison. His deep voice was cold and contemptuous, and there was an undertone of...danger...in it. She tensed in her broiling cocoon as his strong fingers gripped her chin, pulling her face around to the side. The whispering started again, into her other ear. “I have tried...I have tried to teach you, I've tried to instil discipline, I've tried to make you understand that your new life can have its rewards as well as the pain or punishment. But those rewards are earned, they are not…stolen, as you have *stolen* your orgasms. You are a thief, my slave, and thievery should always be punished.” His grip abruptly loosened and his presence was gone once more.

*drip drip drip*

She was going crazy here - sleep was now a rare and elusive event – not only due to the dripping water, but there had been other sounds in the darkness too, a kind of *slithering* noise like something dry rasping across stone. Her logical mind, what there was left of it, refused to accept the fact, but her subconscious screamed “snake!” at her. Rats and spiders she could bear, as she was pretty sure they would leave her alone, but she loathed snakes and was utterly terrified of them - but what would a snake be doing in a cellar somewhere in England? Didn't they only have adders over here in any case? However, try as her rapidly diminishing logic might, the fears steadily grew. She was lying on the floor quite unable to protect herself and, with her terror magnified by the darkness, she imagined they were all around her, coming closer, ready to slide over her tightly-wrapped body or her face. Dry scales, abrading her skin, coiling around her neck, squeezing and squeezing...and it was then, as those horrors gripped her mind and turned it upside down and inside out, that she screwed her eyes shut and screamed into the dark, into that enormous rubber ball lodged behind her teeth. Her voice gurgled around it, a lost, pathetic sound that soon disappeared into echoes, which only reinforced the notion of a dank medieval dungeon, where she would rot forever...

*drip drip drip*

And then he was there, his cool hands running through her matted and sweat-soaked hair. Her eyelids snapped open again, her eyes vainly darting from side to side in the deep velvety blackness, trying to locate him. She gurgled out a scream once more as his fingers coiled around her hair and pulled it savagely, but the scream turned into a choke, as fluid caught in her throat and trickled down her windpipe. She began to panic, thrashing impotently around in her all-enclosing bondage, desperately afraid that she would choke to death. The memory of her dreams flitted through her mind, choking, lungs filling…

Then there was a sensation, a loosening of the gag-strap, and the colossal sphere of rubber being gently but steadily tugged, engendering a new fear, that her teeth would break under the pressure. However, the smooth ball finally slipped over her teeth and popped out of her mouth like a cork, followed by an explosive series of coughs. She felt herself rolled on her front, her breasts squashed into the hard stone floor as her back was pounded until she gained control of her breathing again. She lay there helplessly, close to hyperventilating, unable to shake off the feeling of being crushed, tightly constricted as her body was in that rubber skin. The blood rushed in her ears and her heart pounded against her rib-cage. She tried to cry out again, to beg for release, but her quick shallow breaths and tight chest would not allow her the necessary air to do so. She felt her arms tingling, her head starting to spin, or was it the room spinning? It was so black, she was so disoriented…she couldn't breathe...her lungs wouldn't inflate anymore.

Mercifully, she passed out.