Chapter 4: A Timetable for Domination

I went back upstairs and made myself a coffee, thinking of my slave, of the plans I had made and of “Phantom Bob.”

As the scent of warm Java spread about the kitchen I sat and reviewed the days events.

Months ago, when a real living and breathing Caroline was just a wet dream, I had planned out the first few days with my new slave.

I had foreseen her fear, her anger and her attempts to escape.

I had planned for each in turn molding her reactions and my responses into a mental document I called (with a typical writer’s flare) “A Timetable for Domination.”

It started with the preparation for the kidnapping ebbed and flowed through the snatch and the training and the bondage and the sex to a scene that was painted so vividly in my mind’s eye that it seemed almost real.

Slave and I would enter a fashionable New York night club (dressed in tasteful fetishwear naturally).

I would spy Samantha at the bar and signaling Slave to come close (she always walks two steps behind as a sign of respect for her master) I instruct her to seduce Sam by any means possible. Slave (she hasn’t answered to Caroline in so long she doesn’t even recognize the name) smiles and happily complies, this is far from the worse thing I’ve ever asked her to do and the thought of disobeying never crosses her carefully conditioned mind. Later I would reveal myself to Sam forcing her to do unspeakable humiliating things less I publish the photos of her lesbian fling. The circle would be complete, capturing Caroline to enact my revenge on Sam.

Then using her to get that revenge. But of course that was fantasy and reality wasn’t proving to be that simple.

In my mental timetable things were certain and secure her reactions easy to envisage.

First would be denial, a refusal to face up to the kidnapping and her new position as my sex slave. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to her!

This happened to bad girls who talked to strangers or accepted candy, or hitchhiked.

She had avoided everything that her mother had warned her about and yet she was still bound and gagged, chained up in a guy’s basement and forced to do ... things.

I’d figured this attitude would probably persist for a few days then I expected her to redouble her attempts at escape.

Then slowly would come acceptance and a listless despair.

Finally under the strict domination and conditioning she would adapt and begin to accept her new life as my slave.

I firmly expecting to be able to take her on our fated club date inside of two years.

Yet the “Phantom Bob incident had worried me.

I wasn’t stupid I’d always realized that there would be a degree of variation in my plans once there was a real woman in the equation but I’d been surprised at how little trouble she’s given me overall.

She’d been kidnapped less than twenty four hours, I’d expected more of a fight until she accepted the hopelessness of her situation.

That acceptance was the first step towards truly breaking her.

I’d wanted it to be long and slow so that when it came the despair would be that much greater.

Yet whenever I pushed her she seemed to back down and like a reed in the wind without resistance I couldn’t break her.

I’d expected her to try and signal “Bob” had thrilled with the thoughts of despair that would grip her when she failed and above all had looked forward to punishing her disobedience.

The dirty scheme that had been festering in the back of my mind since I read her mail that morning had started to pull together ideas and plans that I’d reserved for later.

The whole thing was just so obvious, so perfectly simple and yet inescapable that I just had to do it, but for it to work I needed an excuse to punish her.

Over the past few months I’d read a lot of bondage fiction. Every time I stopped off in New York for dungeon supplies I’d included a magazine or two and a few videos for “research” purposes.

One of the real dumb things that these stories tend to say is that there is always a reason to punish the slave. “The slave is always guilty,” is a favorite line, written by a guy whose closest link with slavery is the pittance he pays his models.

In truth you should never punish the slave for nothing, you are trying to impress your values on her, they must always be consistent.

Obedience means reward, even if the reward is something she had as a right in her former life like spending time ungagged.

Disobedience means punishment, you can always substitute a lesser punishment than the one you threaten and you can offer the possibility of redemption or reduction in exchange for some service but in general if she’s bad she’s punished.

The secret (if there is one) is to treat the slave as you would a dog.

Tell her she’s a clever slave when she obeys and always do something in recognition.

Punish or withhold something when she’s bad, but only when she’s bad.

There are guys who beat their dogs constantly, this results in nervous anxious dogs.

Then there are guy’s who beat their women constantly and they have nervous anxious women.

Strangely it’s rare for either dog or woman to run away from such people, I still haven’t figured out why.

In my case I needed an excuse to punish Caroline, any excuse would have done but for whatever reason I needed her to know that SHE was responsible. This could be no arbitrary action of mine she must have done something to deserve it.

It’s a strangely human failing that someone is more likely to do something they wouldn’t ordinarily do in order to make amends rather than to do you a favor.

Right now I needed her apprehensive and willing to please if my new plan was to work.

I flicked on the video camera and watched as she lay on the bed.

I was again immediately hard and as I sat and drank the warm dark liquid I got more and more excited until in the end I was forced to shut down the monitor and think of other things, like photography.

One of the fringe benefits of living with an editor at Vogue is your access to models, designers and photographers.

One of the few people I met through Sam who I really liked, was a talented fashion photographer called Andy Pearson.

Most people probably haven’t even heard of him but if you have ever glanced at the cover of a fashion magazine while waiting in line at the checkout chances are you’ve seen his work.

Andy is a guy’s guy, a big brash New Zealander who came to New York via the far east and a large chunk of Europe.

He is also one of that growing club of Sam’s cast offs.

In fact it was he who helped me pick up the pieces after the wedding was canceled.

I really don’t know how I could have managed without his help and in the process he became my best friend.

If Andy is a great guy he’s a brilliant photographer.

With seeming ease he juggles the twenty or so variables necessary to make a good photo, great.

His pictures make his models beautiful and show off the clothes to maximum effect.

A classic “Pearson” has a spontaneity about it that makes a carefully posed piece look like the kind of shot you would take of your girlfriend on an outing (well it would be if you were a top photographer, and she was a supermodel).

What he does he does so well that at least one magazine calls the cover photo, which is of course the most important in any issue, the “Pearson shot”.

I’ve seen him coax fantastic poses out of young girls just starting in the business then slap down a “difficult” supermodel in successive breaths.

He moves, molds and commands women in a way that few BDSM doms could even hope to match.

In the way friends do we started to take interest in each others work. Through him my interest in photography expanded. I have always prided myself that I am a good photographer, and as my friends have married I have had enough invites “suggesting” that I might bring a camera to confirm this.

Andy however transformed that.

He has a love for the technology of photography and as time went on I taught him how to use computers and he taught me the tricks of the pro’s.

The fusion of our skills produced something that little bit different and was exactly what I would need if my plan was to succeed.

For my plan needed photos, some the cheery snapshots to send to the Conway’s, some more hardcore. Some would have to look very professional, some like they were taken by a talent-less hack.

With all the complexity for a second I considered giving Andy a call and asking his advice.

Trouble was that he loved this kind of stuff and if he could I just knew he would invite himself over.

So in the end I consulted the local yellow pages and found a list of photo suppliers in the nearest town. I would have to use what he taught me and just wing the rest.

I ate a light lunch, one of those pizza bag things that I’d bought with the idea of eating cold on the road.

Needless to say it was disappointing but I suppose it hit the spot.

I checked on Caroline, who was still sobbing on the bed, then locked up and went to the garage.

Inside was a large Chevy van that I’d bought because my main car, a 1958 Triumph TR2, doesn’t have much carrying space. The van was a sort of half conversion, it was carpeted and had a couple of captain’s chairs but with the exception of a largish bench seat on one side everything was removable for maximum cargo capacity.

I backed out, careful to miss both the roadster and the big old car I’d used for the kidnapping.

I looked upon it with some regret, it was a large powerful land boat that had been a pleasure to drive but my safety came first. I had already made arrangements to scrap the car and intended to watch it being crushed so that I was sure that the evidence was destroyed. For now I locked up the garage and headed for town.

The first two photography stores I tried were closed, New England not being as good for Sunday shoppers as some places.

The next had nothing that I needed and I was starting to regret not calling around first.

However eventually, late in the afternoon, I found somewhere that could supply at least my basic needs.

I spent about two hundred dollars mainly on film and paper and got a referral to another shop which catered to the local pro photographic circuit.

The rest would have to wait until tomorrow though I had a hunch that I would have plenty of time.

A quick detour to one of those DIY warehouses got me all the other things I needed.

I arrived home with some apprehension half expecting a police car in the drive. Of course it wasn’t there, the house was undisturbed and a quick check on my guest confirmed that she was ok and was even managing an afternoon nap.

I put on another pot of coffee and started in earnest.

I refrigerated the film and prepped a camera then took off downstairs to ready the “studio”.

I worked most of the afternoon putting up shower curtains and dustsheets to disguise the dungeon walls and cover the furniture.

I set up lights and placed a camera on a tripod in preparation.

Finally at about 7PM I was ready for my model.

She awoke as I came into the room and said something behind the gag.

I freed her from the wire, and checked her bonds, giving her time to get frustrated before removing the muzzle.

She wanted to know what was going on, why I’d left her, what would happen next.

I was starting to wish I could keep her gagged but the plan required that she should be able to speak so without answering anything I took her back into the dungeon.

She blinked as we stepped through the doors, the lights in her room automatically dim to a level that lets the surveillance cameras work but allows her to sleep.

Stepping from that twilight into the glare of the photofloods caught her off balance.

“Master, what’s all this for?”

“For you slave,” I answered innocently, “We’re going to take a few pictures.”

I watched her swallow, her eyes panned around the room to the small table I’d set up near the camera.

I’d put an array of vibrators, dildos and floggers out for her inspection, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what kind of pictures these were to be.

“No,” She said, “I can’t.”

“I slave? I thought we had this discussion last night,” I said, starting to up the pressure.

She paused, her brain going through the mental gymnastics necessary to convert the sentence into a more acceptable form, when she finally spoke I had to admit she’d done a pretty good job.

“Master, your slave, she really can’t ... Please.”

“MY slave can and will do what I order her to,” I said deliberately pouring as much menace as I could into my voice.

“She’s a slut whore, she likes doing slut whore kinds of things.

“Right now all this whore wants to do is jam this dildo up her crack while I take pictures.

“Isn’t that true slut?”

Her eyes filled with tears, “Please...”

I pulled her close and stuck two fingers in her cunt, with her hands still cuffed behind her there was little she could do.

“Isn’t that true!”

She nodded wordlessly, my other hand started to massage one of her latex covered tits and was surprised to find the nipple already hard.

“Why don’t you say it slut.”

“Your slave...”

“NO!” I shouted, “Say this whore.”

“The ... the ... this whore...”

“ ... Wants to jam this rubber fuck toy up her crack until she cums.”

“Wha...”

“ ... Wants to do this ‘cos she’s a cheap painted slut. Who needs to fuck. Anything will do as long as there’s a tool inside her.”

She stood there, mouth working silently, tears once again in full flow.

I continued to massage cunt and tit.

“Does that feel good slave,” I asked watching the confusion on her face, “You know why don’t you? It’s because you’re a whore, you like being used by men don’t you?”

Still silence.

“You wanted to know why I took you? It’s because the first time I saw you I thought, now there goes one hot little slut. I’ll bet she fucks like a train.”

My hands continued but this wasn’t a gentle teasing, this was an all out degrading grope. I pulled her close while burying more of my gloved fingers in her wet pussy.

“I noticed the way you suck whore. You may be a parson’s daughter but you ain’t no choir girl.

“Now tell me, did you get that good playing nurse with the local farm boys or did you have an evening job I didn’t know about?”

I watched her intently, there still wasn’t the reaction I’d expected, she cried, she whimpered but she didn’t fight back.

I needed a method to push this further but I couldn’t think of a suitable way.

“Say it!” I hissed, “Tell me that you are a cheap slut.”

“I ... I’m a chea...”

“This whore!!”

“Th ... is whore...”

“Sexy slave, say it sexy! I want you to pant in out like a bitch in heat! I want you to sound like the filthy little tart you really are.”

I grabbed a huge black rubber dildo from the table and waved it in front of her startled eyes.

“Beg me for it slave! Nice and sexy. I want you to tell me what a worthless whore you are, and how you’ll do anything to have this up your crack.”

She started, stammering to fit all I’d wanted into the sentence, tears in full flow.

Disappointed, I decided to let her finish and snap a few photo’s for the collection in any case.

Now her eye’s were adjusted to the light she had started to scan the dungeon.

Most was covered with dust cloths to hide it’s true nature all except for one corner which I’d been deliberately set dressing so it looked more like dungeons in TV shows.

By that I mean that I’d fastened bits and pieces of bondage paraphernalia to the gridwork on the wall.

There were leather masks, gags, hoods, cuffs and harnesses all strapped to the wall in a hap hazard fashion.

Caroline’s eyes flickered from one to the other deducing each time what they were used for and realizing with certainty that they had been bought to use on her.

Finally her eyes had rested on one harness arrangement that I’d bought on the spur of the moment just before I’d gone to pick her up.

I must confess to always liking the idea of girl on girl action.

One of the contingency’s that had worked it’s way into the “timetable” prior to the kidnapping had been the idea of the capture being discovered by another girl, perhaps a coworker, and my having to overpower and take her too, so that she couldn’t identify me.

It was in truth a fantasy, a wet dream, I cared too much for life and liberty to have risked a casual discovery.

Yet the fantasy had been so strong that I’d even taken along an extra cuff and gag set just in case.

It had also caused me to buy this item on impulse.

The owner of the sex shop had called it a “Lezbo Harness”, simply this is a very long dildo fastened to a pair of strap on leather panties.

One half of the dildo goes in one girl and she uses the second half to fuck a friend and all the rocking back and forth brings them both off.

Lot’s of people wouldn’t recognize one if they saw it, but the strange look on Caroline’s face told me she knew exactly what it was.

I didn’t know what the story was but I could tell she didn’t like it.

Her concentration was broken and she stammered to a halt.

And in that second I had an inspiration.

“Pathetic slave,” I said forcing my face close to hers,” I hope your sister is better.”

“M ... my sister?”

“Yes, Anna isn’t it?” I asked coolly, “Quite a well developed girl for sixteen. She’s obviously a little whore as well. When I found out about her I got to thinking what a wonderful matched set you two would make.

Anna looks like a goer, I bought that harness today so that I could see just how you two would do together. You know sisterly love and all that”

She looked stunned, shaken, I pressed my advantage.

“I know where she lives, know where she goes to school. Being a farm girl you must know just how quiet the country is, how many lonely places she must walk through every day. Compared to you she’ll be easy. Were you comfortable in my trunk? She’s got further to travel than you have so if you have any suggestions on how we can make her more comfortable do speak up.”

Caroline went white, I continued to fondle her.

“Just imagine how ironic it will be that the first your parents will know about your disappearance is when they try to tell you that I’ve kidnapped your sister.”

I smiled and made a dismissive gesture, “You know I think you’re right, we’ll hold off on these photo’s until Anna gets here.”