“You asked for a second chance?”  he reminded her.

“Yes…yes…” she cried eagerly, her eyes bright and shining.  “I want to, I do.”

“On your belly, then.  Naked, hands behind your back,” he repeated the earlier, unheeded command.

This time the little blonde rushed to obey, tearing the robe from her shoulders.  Nudity achieved, quite unceremoniously, she went prone on the floor, face first.  It took her a moment of struggle to interlock her wrists, though once she had; she proceeded to lay quite passively, her cheek and lips pressed to the carpet along with her belly, breasts and pussy.

Victor’s cock responded automatically to his blatant act of submission.  He was not intending to arouse himself; he was simply wired that way, made to respond to a female’s humiliation and pain, destined to find his pleasure in total capitulation. Possession.  Ownership.  He’d tried to have women as equals.  For years he’d sought to play by so called normal rules and always he’d ended up miserable, in one broken relationship after the other.  Only in BDSM could he find a home for his natural impulses.

One of the things he had come to terms with was that he could not by nature be monogamous.  While he would only ever own one more slave, Jennifer, he would never seek to limit his carnal pleasures.  Jennifer needed this openness as much as she did.  She needed to know he was having other women and she needed to leave herself open to serving other men at his whim.

Prior to his advent in her life—and he had tested her brutally before collaring her—Jennifer had been a mess of uncontrolled desires.  Men had used her, staking claims over her slave’s body and taking no responsibility for their actions.  They were not Masters at all, but children, dangerous little boys at play with the tools of men.

One such tool was intimidation. Chasey Lamm was at the moment feeling the shock and awe of his masculinity. Women in her position, subdued and helpless often turned up raped, but Victor was not that sort of man. He would take her, all right, but it would be a game of the mind.  He would do nothing for which she did not beg him first.

“You look good like that,” he told her.  “Quite sexy in fact.”

She offered no reply, inducing him to place the heel of his shoe down on the back of her neck.  “You may thank me for the compliment.”

“Thank you,” she sniffed, fighting tears.

He pressed harder, making her kiss the floor. “Thank you,” he corrected her.  “Master.”

“Thank you,” she sputtered.  “Master.”

“Thank you for putting me in my place.  Naked, at your feet.”

“Thank you…for putting me in my place…naked…at your feet.”

“Your sobs mean nothing to me,” he informed her.  “If anything they spur me on to further acts of cruelty, so if I were you, I would pull myself together.”

“Y—yes, Master.”

Victor repositioned his foot, the leather toes in front of her face.  “Lick it,” he said. 

Chasey performed the servile act, already more of a slave than she could possibly imagine she could ever become.

“Have you a blanket?”  he wanted to know.

Chasey told him about the linen closet, down the hall.  He found a suitable woolen one, large enough to cover the woman. Slinging her over his shoulder, he wrapped her in it, disguising her, more or less into the shape of a rolled up rug.  This accomplished, he carried her boldly across the walkway from her house to his.

It didn’t occur to him that anyone might see or what they’d think if they did.  There was a time when he’d have been infinitely cautious about such things, but it was different now.  Was it the girl, he wondered, or he himself?  Was he entering a time of supreme confidence, or did a part of him simply wish to be caught red handed?

Perhaps he was tired of hiding this lifestyle, of giving in, no matter how indirectly to the idea that there was something nasty and perverted about two lovers engaging in a mutually satisfying relationship.  It would be the same as a gay man staying in the closet and being afraid to help his brothers, gay and straight to build a better world.

Then again, in times like these, there was something to be said for staying out of politics. Taking his new slave across the threshold, he locked and bolted the door behind him.

My castle, he thought sardonically.  When is a castle not a castle?  When it’s a prison, he laughed to himself.  My prison. Walls behind which the dominant hides.  He caressed her ass, glorying in its myriad possibilities.  Yes, he was going to have great fun with this one.