Chapter 6: Paper Chains

When the alarm went off the next morning I felt compelled to get “medieval with it’s ass”.

Yesterday had been too long, my physical and mental exertions with Caroline too intense (and the wine too potent) for me to get up just yet. So I drifted in that strange twilight between sleep and reality and started to dream...

I woke with a start, cold but sweating. Scared, confused, I had the weird feeling that I’d just had a bad dream.

Since childhood I’d been unable to remember my dreams, even the nightmares. I racked my brain but it was gone, leaving a creepy feeling behind.

My shaking hand found the remote and turned on the TV.

I punched up Caroline’s cell my half conscious mind afraid of what I might find there.

Much to my relief she was as I had left her.

She was still dressed in the leather lingerie, still masked with her hands strapped behind her.

I watch uneasily, looking for an indication that something might be wrong but she slept deeply even snoring a little and after a few minutes I accepted that she was OK.

I did a quick personal audit. I was thirsty, the taste in my mouth and the suggestion of a headache convinced me that I’d had far too much wine. I stumbled to the bathroom and stuck my head under the cold tap for a full minute. After the first thirty seconds I even remembered to turn it on.

I’ve never been an excessive drinker, I am what is best described as a “depressed drunk” beyond a certain point I’m no longer having fun.

Still I’d never had the shakes before, and though I could rationalize the incident as a combination of bad booze and bad conscience it had left me with an uneasy feeling that I was missing something important.

I popped an aspirin and a couple of vitamin pills. Before taking a particularly long shower.

I dressed and though still a little woolly remembered to get Caroline’s pills from the bathroom before heading downstairs. I wrapped the pills in tissue paper and placed them in my pocket. Then I padded into the kitchen and started making breakfast.

While I was waiting for the coffee I punched up Caroline’s cell again.

She lay on her side, her mouth slightly open and she was drooling a little as she slept.

It looked as if I wasn’t the only one who would wake up with a headache.

I watched her as she slept. Just last week she had been struggling to make enough money to save her apartment.

Now she was dressed like a whore, tied up in some guy’s basement. I wondered what her dreams were like? One thing was clear, the “honeymoon” was over, the breaking of Caroline was about to begin.

So far it had been a promising start. After three days of captivity Caroline seemed to be adjusting well.

I was especially pleased with her obedience.

Not only was she less trouble than I expected but it seemed to take a lot to make her disobey me.

She was learning very fast, her use of the words MASTER and SLAVE was far beyond what I expected at this stage and the adjusting of her sentences to avoid the personal pronoun was well underway.

As a cock slut she was exceptional, and though I could take no credit for her technique I was more than happy with her obedience and enthusiasm.

Now I needed to push things further, towards my goal of a completely submissive and obedient slave.

Although I wanted to accelerate matters, I wouldn’t take things too fast. I still needed to watch her despair as I robbed her of her identity and destroyed her independance. The first part of the great game was now ready.

The first step was to destroy that one tiny flicker of hope, the possibility of rescue and to make things even better she would help me!

Sipping my first coffee of the day and with breakfast well underway I headed downstairs.

Slipping into the darkroom I recovered the photos.

I’d had rather more wine than I’d intended and though I hadn’t been drunk I was a little concerned that I’d processed the films before I had a clear head.

I’d half expected to find everything ruined but in fact I’d done a pretty good job.

Photos of Caroline hung from all of my drying lines.

Caroline as young professional on her night out, Caroline as slut, Caroline as sexy mistress, Caroline as leather slave...

I selected the best ones then went back upstairs.

A quick look at the cell showed her still asleep so after checking the progress of the toast I went to my office.

Probably the best part of computer journalism is the access to new and interesting equipment.

Manufacturers are well aware that the endorsement of a well known columnist can boost sales significantly.

One of my editors has eight computers at home only one of which he actually paid for (and that was at a substantial discount).

Over the years my stated interest in graphics had resulted in a variety of equipment, most of it state of the art at the time.

My current scanner is on long term loan from a major Japanese company.

A 48bit color drum scanner with a clever sheetfeed mechanism and a ten thousand dollar price tag.

It was intended for publishing and photo process houses but it was also perfect for my needs.

I loaded the pictures into the sheetfeed and setup the computer to dump each successive scan into a working directory on my network.

I hit start and the machine sprang to life weaving the invisible chains that would tie Caroline to me forever.

I took breakfast in my office surrounded by the material from Caroline’s box. For now I set the diaries aside and concentrated on her recent mail and the letters she’d stuck to her refrigerator door.

Almost immediately I got a real find, an unposted begging letter home to mommy. No real news just brief and to the point “wire money or I’ll be evicted.” The writing was very neat especially considering the difficulty of the subject.

As a hunch I sifted through the box looking for the pad and envelopes that matched the letter. Opening the pad I found I’d hit paydirt.

Caroline seemed to work by writing a rough draft first then copying the final version out neatly. She left the originals in the pad, giving me names addresses and a basic understanding of her writing style.

Just then I saw a slight movement on the monitor. I realized she would be awake soon.

I’d been deliberately keeping her hungry since the kicking incident, still she’d been a good girl in the photo session last night so I figured I owed her breakfast.

Returning to the kitchen I started into making a smaller version of what I’d just eaten all the time watching the monitor.

The food was almost finished when I started to see the first real signs of life from my slave.

I went to the closet and pulled out a couple of those Styrofoam coolers you get at gas stations.

I’ve often wondered why it is that no matter how much you spend on a cooler you always forget it when you really need one.

I must have five or six of the disposable kind which I keep siting around “just in case” and yet I always forget them too.

However for once they were proving useful as I loaded foil covered plates into them.

I made a flask of strong, sweet coffee then headed into the dungeon.

The room was still decked out as a photographic studio. Drapes covered the furniture and the rings and other restraining points on the walls were covered by blue shower curtains. Soon I’d have to rip it all down but first...

I poured some sweet coffee from the thermos into a plastic cup and headed for the cell. Caroline was awake and trying to swing her legs over the end of the bed. Her groans told me that the hangover was just starting. I put the cup down and helped her upright.

“Feeling a little fragile?” I asked.

“Urggg,” She said, which seemed quite apt at the time.

I put the coffee cup to her lips and she drank greedily. I stopped short of letting her finish it all and set the cup aside.

With some effort, as her legs were a little unsteady, I helped her over to the toilet.

On the way we passed the mirror (not glass obviously) that I’d screwed to the wall.

She caught sight of her masked reflection and paused for a moment as if mesmerized.

I looked but could not see what fascinated her, in the end a slap on her bare buttocks persuaded her to hurry along.

There is a certain humiliation value associated with watching someone use the toilet. She squatted over the pan really wanting me to go away. I just smiled sweetly and watched what she was doing with great intensity. Worse was to come as she couldn’t clean herself with her hands still bound.

Though ungagged she had some difficulty asking for my help.

While she figured it out I retrieved the coffee and took the pills out of my pocket.

I didn’t let her see them until they were under her nose.

“Take these.”

“W ... what are they?”

“What are they MASTER!” I corrected, “In answer to your question, they are aspirin for the headache.”

She seemed unconvinced.

“Look slave if I wanted to poison or drug you I could do it anytime. Now, do you want them or not?”

She opened her mouth and I popped them inside using the remainder of the coffee to wash them down. It was only a little lie, one was an aspirin, the other was a contraceptive pill, one of which would form part of her daily diet from now on.

Then while she was still thinking how to ask, I stripped off a glove, bent her over and cleaned her up.

She blushed as we reentered the “studio”, memories of last night still obviously fresh in her mind.

I had her sit on one of the covered tables as I replaced her shoes with her usual high heeled boots.

A butterfly vibrator held in place by a pair of snap on panties (to wake her up a little quicker) and she was almost ready to start the day.

I pulled her head forward so that I could get at the buckle of the leather mask and found her strangely resistive.

“Please master...”

“You like the mask slave?”

She nodded and looked down avoiding my eyes.

“Why slave?” I asked genuinely puzzled.

She remained silent kicking her heels against the leg of the table like a shy schoolgirl.

“Answer slave!” I said pressing on her crotch and increasing the butterfly’s stimulation of her bare clit. She gasped and shuddered a little.

“Please master ... It makes me ... feel sexy.” She seem embarrassed. I was sure that there was a blush hiding behind that mask.

“Not good enough slave, but I’ll do you a deal.

“You can keep it IF you can give me a good psychological analysis of why you need it.”

Her shocked eyes peered out from behind the soft leather.

“Well slave? You were a psych major, you should be able to give me a good technical answer.”

Her eyes filled with conflicting emotions, her mouth worked silently.

She wasn’t an accomplished liar, I’m sure I would have come up with some bullshit in her position and it was obvious that the anonymity the mask offered some attraction to her, perhaps a way that Caroline the reverend’s daughter could distance herself from the slut I was turning her into.

Yet I also felt, as I watched the struggle behind those pretty blue eyes, that this was an ancient demon she was fighting, not one that had surfaced in the past few days, traumatic as they were.

In the end she didn’t speak so I removed the mask and pulled her over to a chair.

I retrieved some rope and a collection of other bondage bits from the cabinet and returned, quickly retying her wrists and body to the chair frame. I increased the number of ropes until I had what I needed.

Caroline the Republic heroine was back, though in far kinkier underwear than was usual in the thirties. Bound to a chair in the villains hideout she struggles against her tight bonds.

Of course some things had to go. Her collar and the remaining bondage jewelry was replaced by a simple costume necklace and earring set that were more in period. Reloading the camera and quickly positioning the lights I started to snap away.

The first couple of shots I had her smile at the camera as I took her from several different angles.

She looked great.

Her blond hair fell on her naked shoulders and framed her face.

Her arms were visible, bound to her sides by rope wrapped tightly around her body and the back of the chair.

Her wrists were bound with cord to the chair’s underframe leaving her gloved hands in plain view.

One set of ropes pushed her tits up firmly against the cups of the leather corset.

Her long legs had to be pulled back quite a way so that I could tie her booted ankles to the legs of the chair.

This exposed the creamy white surface of her uncovered thighs framed as they were by the stocking tops and leather garters.

This also seemed to push the butterfly harder into her clit for after a few minutes her eyes rolled back and she groaned loudly.

I gagged her, brain and heart in bitter conflict. I had originally intended to just tie a cloth loosely over her mouth in the unconvincing way seen in many films.

Yet my master’s pride couldn’t bear the idea of a photo of a slave of mine with such an obvious fake.

So in the end I compromised.

I stuffed a sponge ball into her mouth and duct taped it firmly in place.

I used the white tape (I have every color) and after tying the cloth tightly over the tape it was impossible to see.

I took my shots.

Caroline still looked like a Republic heroine, gagged in a stupid movie way but when I looked at the photos I would know that she had been firmly silenced up to my usual standards.

Next I untied her from the chair and removed the boots.

I tied her arms and legs as I had the day before, clinched rope around ankles and knees with a matching set for wrist and elbows.

I wrapped some more rope above and bellow her leather covered tits to bind her arms behind her before removing the gag.

I’d found before, that kneeling she was at a perfect height to service my engorged cock, which was by now pressing painfully against my leather pants.

Without saying a word I unzipped my fly and shoved my dick into her face.

In three days Caroline had already accepted her role as my cockslut, no other commands were necessary. She licked and sucked, teased and tormented as I started knotting the length of cloth. When I seized her head she finished me off, deepthroating and sucking with the same wonderful mind numbing intensity she had shown the first time.

One thing seemed clear, one day I had to find the guy who taught her this trick and thank him personally.

I came and came, noticing in a strange detached way that she swallowed every drop.

Sam, though she gave great head, would always spit it out afterwards which had left me feeling dirty and awkward.

Caroline swallowed it greedily and I realized that my cum was the closest thing Caroline had to a meal in the past few days.

Pushing her head back I forced the knotted part of the cloth into her open mouth using the tail ends to tie it tightly in place.

Then I ordered her to smile, hard with her mouth gagged so tightly but not impossible.

I took smiling shots of her kneeling and sitting down then I had her struggle in as many differing positions as I could think of.

I finished off the film with her screaming into the gag, her face contorted and mouth straining against the cloth muzzle.

She was left panting on the floor, I waited until she had recovered her breath and then picked her up and took her to the table.

I sat her down and she waited quietly, bound legs tucked gracefully under the seat of the chair while I unpacked the food.

I sat her on my knee as I had the day before but this time I pulled the gag from her mouth and started to feed her by hand as you would a favorite pet.

This was probably not lost on her, but by now she was so hungry that she would accept even this indignity.

We finished with pancakes and syrup which she seemed to really enjoy. After the pancakes I had her lick the syrup from my gloved fingers.

Then I picked up the gag and forced the knots back behind her teeth, before tightening the knot behind her head.

She gave me her “Bambi in the headlights” look and chewed on the gag as she tried to say something. I smiled then pulled her tits free of the restraining leather.

As before I spread a little syrup in her nipples and began to lick and suck it off.

She moaned and more muffled sound emerged from her gagged mouth though it was unclear if she wanted me to stop or wanted more. Her nips however had no doubts, standing out hard and firm as my tongue danced over them.

It was time to up the stimulation a little so I started to press the butterfly against her clit feeling her body stiffen and tremble.

More unintelligible sounds erupted and she started to rub her gagged mouth against me as she had done the day before. Without breaking my rhythm I reached up and pulled the knot free.

For a few seconds she just gasped and then she panted out, “Please...”.

I stopped and looked up, her face was flushed, her breath came in sort pants. She was attempting to avoid my gaze but I brought my fingers to her chin and eased her head back until her eyes met mine.

“Please what,” I asked, “Please stop, please continue, what?”

She didn’t say anything.

Every other time I’d fucked her she’d been gagged and all I’d ever heard was her muffled cries. This time I meant to know if they were of agony or ecstasy.

Her eyes were full of doubt and some strange kind of fear but above all need.

That need shone out from behind those embarrassed blue eyes and finally her mouth echoed them “P - Please fuck me master!

“The ... This whore needs to be fucked!”

I smiled, now I had my answer but I intended to play a while longer.

I bent down and licked again, enough to ensure she was kept on the brink but no more.

“Please master...”

“Want to cum slave?”

She nodded silently, I pressed the butterfly a little harder smiling at her startled gasp.

“Well slave if you want it you’re going to have to do something for me.”

She glanced down at my crotch, it was obvious from her expression that she felt she’d done enough already, that the blow job was payment for bringing her off.

I just smiled.

The idea had formed in an instant.

If she wanted this orgasm, and I could tell that she did, I wanted something personal in exchange.

I wanted her first sexual encounter to be described in graphic and lurid detail.

I would link that first time, good bad or indifferent, with her begging her kidnapper to fuck her.

This was an act of violation as real as anything physical I could do to her.

My mouth watered with anticipation.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions slave. Answer them for me and I’ll see you right.”

She looked into my eyes.

By now she was panting she was so close, she just nodded and looked away.

“How old were you when you had your first fuck.”

She hesitated, I had no way to verify her answers but I was betting that she would have difficulty lying effectively while she was this turned on.

I began to stroke her, upping the general tactile stimulus while keeping her erogenous zones as they were. My hand moved quickly over the leather of her panties and came to rest on the inside of her thigh which I gently caressed.

“Six ... sixteen.” She panted.

I let my hand stray a little closer to the buzzing butterfly.

“Did you have an orgasm?”

She shook her head and moaned.

Right now all she wanted to do was cum. Still this was interesting information. She was almost nineteen now, so the next question was obvious.

“How many orgasms have you had slave, approximately?”

To be honest I really didn’t want to know the answer. I suppose I saw this as just another embarrassing question, a stepping stone before I forced from her the story of her first clumsy fling with some farm boy. So when she answered it came as quite a shock.

“F ... ff four or five,” She gasped.

That was low, I’d expected at least a dozen in nearly three years and there was always masturbation.

“How many did you have before you came here?” The question popped out without me thinking about it. I had also started to unconsciously fondle her again and she was now very close.

“Twice...” She shuddered as she said it, drawing her breath in explosive bursts.

“Who was your first,” I demanded realizing that I didn’t have a lot of time.

She stammered, gasped and trembled.

“You will tell me slave!”

She didn’t answer so I reduced the stimulus.

She felt the wave of the orgasm dying. “Please...”

“I need an answer cunt,” I said viciously. “No answer and I know a horny little slut who’s going to be very disappointed.”

Her hips moved up suddenly as she tried to brush her crotch against my departing fingers. She whimpered and pleaded but the orgasm died.

I made it clear that all I needed was a name.

In her position I would have lied but she just sat there and cried.

In the end I got fed up of the noise and gagged her, refastened her collar and went to the wardrobe.

As much I liked Caroline in strict bondage, I had always known that I couldn’t keep her like that forever. She would need at least some freedom of movement if she was to stay healthy.

This left me with a problem not so much of security (locked in a soundproof cell she was equally helpless bound or not) but of ownership.

She was mine, mind and body.

Bound as she had been the past few days Caroline hadn’t really had much chance to fuck herself.

Now I intended to enforce my ownership of her sex with leather and steel.

Chastity belts are usually large clumsy things with huge menacing locks and countless straps. Part of this is for effect, like having a large heavy door, and part of it is the “one size fits all” mentality of the ready to wear suit.

By contrast Caroline’s device was made to measure.

It essence it was really a pair of heavy gauge leather panties that was fastened to the waist with a narrow leather belt.

The sections of leather near the base of the hips had been modified so that a drawstring would pull them tight around the wearer’s thighs in a similar way to plastic diapers.

A formed plastic section rested on the hips and made a dome over the wearer’s pubic area so that the victim could not bring herself off by rubbing the panties against herself.

As an extra touch the designer had covered the plastic former with the same leather as the rest of the pants and had added an indentation that suggested pussy lips.

Once on they looked like a large pair of leather briefs pulled tight over a woman’s hole.

The victim however could not gain access to her clit for stimulation and as an added bonus a thin brush attached to the indent on the inside would prove maddening as it teased the clit just enough to keep the victim frustrated.

There was a stiff matching corset which of course denighed access to the breasts.

Once on it looked like a soft corset with the woman’s nips pressed hard against the leather but as with the pants the “nipples” were parts of a plastic former used to isolate the breasts.