PREPARATION FOR TORTURE

By

ABSOLUTIST

“Get ready!”

This had been his command and as such, his words were law: indisputable, requiring instant obedience, even though at times like the present she still desperately wished she could have exerted some control over her fate, those days when she had been her own woman and undisputedly in charge of her actions were long past. Now, she was but an owned female instead; body, mind and soul. She had willingly abdicated from governing her own life, turning over the responsibility for everything she was and had ever wanted to be, but foremost, her happiness, to the man she loved, trusting him to fill the craving void inside her with his love in return.

For the longest time, she had feared and fought her deep-seated need to belong, to be part of something larger than herself, a craving she had correctly identified as impossible to satisfy on her own. Only time had taught her to accept the submissive side of her personality; to gradually give in to its demands, until it had finally taken precedence over the values of independence and self-reliance that were instilled in her by her dispassionately demanding upbringing. It was fortunate that she had met the man who was to become her husband and Master just then, for, accepting him as Acting God of her own universe had brought her that much closer to redemption. Over all, she was quite content with the results of her decision, despite the occasional hardships it had brought. No, she had to be honest with herself and acknowledge her deep-rooted masochism. It was not despite, but rather because of the pain and punishments that being his slave entailed. Of course, some were rather agreeable, but others a lot less so, bordering on true torture. Instinctively, her mind shied away from what later lay in store for her.

She studied her naked body in the bedroom’s large mirror: tall and slender, her training regimen keeping fat and muscles in perfect balance, she would easily pass for 25, or so her husband never tired of telling her. She, being the woman she was, never tired of hearing it from his lips, glowing with pride when his gaze roamed appreciatively, caressing her supple form with his eyes. Only the faint lines around her generous mouth and the knowing look in her pale blue eyes betrayed the additional ten years of experience she’d had with the vagaries of life.

Her attention was temporarily arrested by the bright glitter of the steel rings piercing her nipples. They were not the only sign of his taking possession of her body, nor even the most prominent ones for a small tattoo on her bald pubic mound proclaimed her as his property. As well, her status was far more readily advertised by the sturdy steel shackle that at normally and at all times deeply transfixed the septum of her nose, anchored securely in the steel-grometed hole that had been punched through the cartilage. Currently, however, instead of resting with devastating potential for discipline on her upper lip, it had been replaced by an unobtrusive black retainer, hidden high up within her nostrils.

For this once, being spared the indignity of the nose shackle was the only redeeming aspect of the disdained role she would soon be required to play, but the rest of her mandated and disciplinary ensemble was spread out on the bed. With distaste she contemplated what she privately called her Punishment Uniform for if not by its style, then assuredly by its function, it reminded her of a Nun’s Habit: drab clothing fit to do penance before a thoroughly prudish Supreme Being. Since monotheistic religions by definition left little room for a companion co-equal to God, it was probably only human to ascribe to Him a rabid jealousy, especially those in regard to the carnal pleasures granted his creation, but forever denied to himself.

She turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder to see that thankfully, the marks of her previous caning were fading at long last. She had been anxious about being forced to spend hours sitting on a still-smarting derrière, while denied even the small relief of venting an occasional moan, this enforced by the certain knowledge of dire retribution obvious in her Master’s glare. In hindsight, her spontaneous idea of submitting his beloved notebook computer to a drop test had proven somewhat more than half-baked, especially when it turned out that the casings’ claimed robustness regarding falls did not extend to first floor heights. However, now that her buttocks had sufficiently mended, she could appreciate that her ploy had actually worked: He had apparently deciphered her none-too-subtle message and begun to spend more time with instead of next to her. It was her tough luck she did not always agree with his idea of showing a girl a good time ...

She didn’t at first hear his impatient voice calling out to her from below for, lost in her thoughts, she had completely forgotten her task; allowing herself to fall for her subconsciousness’ ploy of shielding her from the unpalatable prospect of her imminent ordeal.

“What’s taking you so long? Stop dallying! You know, my mother’s expecting us for lunch!”

*****************************

THIS IS PAGE TWENTY-FIVE OF THE FICTION SECTION

FICTION SECTION ARCHIVE PAGE

- HOME PAGE -