"There is nothing I like better than an obedient slave."

You hear your Mistress's voice as in a dream. In your blindfold, you cannot be sure where exactly the voice is coming from. Am I right in front of you, within easy reach? Am I doing something to Marissa? You'd heard the slavegirl whimper and moan softly a few times, in a muffled, choked voice: what have I done to her? What am I going to do to you?

You strain feebly in your bonds, but it's no use. Every part of you is restrained. I've strung you up on my wooden cross. You are grateful, at last, to be off your knees, glad your legs have been reprieved from their long session kneeling on the cold tile of my bathroom, where you submissively obeyed my commands. But the strict bondage makes you feel so helpless, that your soul is in chaos as you listen to me.

"Tonight I'm going to make you more submissive to me than you've ever been."

"Yes, Mistress," you whisper, nervously, shifting in your bonds, feeling their solid resistence to your movements. You cannot escape. You are helpless now. I have placed you in captivity, made all the realer by the thick bonds which confine you. Your ankles and wrists are firmly encased in heavy leather cuffs. I've cinched the buckles just tight enough for you to be conscious of them at all times: they feel like fists closed firmly around your limbs. I locked each one on you, and tied them with steel chains to the hooks on the cross. Behind your ass, I tied two of the huge pillows from my bed: they force your pelvis forward, so that your genitals are prominently displayed in your pants. You looked so cold and pitiful, groveling on the bathroom tile, I took pity on you and let you put them back on.

But was it for pity's sake that I let you wear your clothes? Think about it. Was I motivated purely by compassion?

What do you think?

It is just after midnight, and everyone has gone: everyone but you and Marissa, whom I've brought back with me to my bedroom. The house is absolutely still. You can hear the winds pounding against windows in the distance, shaking them so hard that your own teeth chatter involuntarily.

Suddenly, I remove your blindfold. You blink, adjusting to the light and see that Marissa is lying on a small fur rug just a few feet from the cross. You gulp, watching me kneel down to her, slightly blocking your view as I continue to work on her. You try to peer over my shoulder, but your collar is tied tightly to the cross and you cannot strain your neck without choking.

Sensing your excitement, I turn and laugh to see how excited you look.

"Take a good look," I order you.

"Yes, Mistress!" you gasp eagerly.

"Take a nice long look," I purr. "Soon it will be Marissa's turn to watch what I do to you." I bend down to Marissa and slowly caress her hair. "Won't you like that, Marissa? Won't you enjoy watching Mistress torture him?"

A little whimper escapes through Marissa's gag and she nods her head timidly, blinking back tears as she betrays you. You wince at her betrayal and your mind reels as you ogle the bound slavegirl at my feet. Around her soft throat is a wide, posture collar which forces her neck straight and makes her keep her head still. I've dressed her in a leather brassiere with the tips cut out: her nipples are clamped and swollen red, thrusting through the holes painfully, a short black chain tautly strung between the clamps, so that each movement of her breasts cause them to bite a little deeper into her pink flesh. When you see me tug on that chain, you gasp, imagining those clamps cutting into you. Her full pink lips are stretched wide around a thick, leather ring through which her pink tongue peeps. Her eyes are wide and fearful and when she furtively glances at you, their liquid depths seem to engulf you. Her face is so suggestive now: the mouth forced open into an O, her helpless gaze signaling total submission to whatever may next happen to her. If only you were free now, what would you do to that mouth?

Your pulse races and you try desperately not to have such thoughts, knowing their are disobedient and wrong and that they can only bring you stringent punishment were I to guess them. And you know I always guess correctly. Sighing heavily, you try to look away from the sight of this vulnerable young woman whom your Mistress is torturing. But looking away only causes you to feel even more provoked, because now your imagination fills in what your eyes cannot see. Unable to resist the compulsion to look and see for yourself what else I will do, you turn back to face Marissa once more.

Her ankles are pulled wide apart, locked into a spreader bar. You watch as I wrap, first, scraps of fur around her wrists to protect her sensitive flesh, and, on top of them, thin ropes which I knot repeatedly--small, tight, angry knots which she could not possibly undo herself. I've tied her wrists to the spreader bar. You quiver with dread as much as with desire as I slowly draw the rope tight, dragging her torso up by the wrists as I force her into a hogtie. I secure her wrists to the bar and, when I'm satisfied that she cannot escape, I push her harshly onto her back. Moaning in fear, Marissa rolls onto her spine, helplessly rocking back and forth, her naked holes obscenely riding up and down and up and down until, at last, her body comes to a rest.

"Yes," I purr again, now caressing the dense bush between her legs, teasing the hairs and pinching the lips, "Marissa is going to love watching Mistress torment you."

You watch, fascinated and terrified, as Marissa squirms beneath my rough caresses, her patch growing wet, her naked holes exposed, vulnerable. Your lust seizes you again, more terribly and urgently now. You wish to thrust your cock into any, into ALL, of her helplessly exposed holes. You wish you were down on all fours between her legs, licking her like a thirsty dog, drinking from her glistening sex. Her pussy is so ripe and so juicy and so naked--and it has been such a long time since Mistress has permitted you to touch a woman's sex. You have gone without it so long; you have been deprived for an eternity of that hot, wet organ in which you think all bliss resides. You are so hungry for it--but I control your appetites and I have condemned you to starvation.

The thought of what you would to her if only you were unbound makes you blush from toe to scalp, your cock nearly bursting from your pants. I turn to you just then: I see your condition, and then I laugh. I don't even need to speak: I merely point a long dark red fingernail at your arms and legs, your collared neck, and I smile coldly.

My gestures say it all: you are helpless. You are mine. You cannot do anything unless I will it. You are wholly dependent on me now. You may wish to bury your face between her legs, you may crave relief from the ache that gnaws your cum- filled balls, your lips may be dry with thirst, your whole body may be on fire with sexual need...but you cannot act on your feelings because they belong to me.

Yes. Your feelings are mine to manipulate. Without me, you would not have these feelings. I have elicited them; I have created them; I control them unconditionally. Your desires and sexual needs are pawns I use shrewdly and calculatingly to advance my own cruel game. I will let your lust advance only so far and then I will crush it. I will goad you to crave things you never even dreamt of before, and tempt you beyond all endurance; then I will thwart you and humiliate you and leave you more defenseless than before.

With a violent shudder you suddenly understand that my great and terrible power over you is real, absolutely real, and absolutely unstoppable.

You pant, unable to move, mesmerized by my merciless gaze, and, since I will it, slowly, terribly, uncontrollably, your desire flags. You feel trapped by my gaze like a specimen pinned to a board and you writhe hopelessly in your bonds, your frustration so high that you are at the verge of tears.

I stare at you grimly, silently commanding you to obey my will, wordlessly warning you not to resist me. I do not want you too excited. I want to keep you at the edge. I want to humiliate you. I want to show you that your eager little hard-on doesn't impress me and that those pitiful little balls, hanging uselessly on your thighs, make me laugh. I want to prove to you that no matter how much you may crave sexual release, no matter how overwhelming your physical needs may be, there is still a force far greater that rules you. That force is Me.

Little by little, your desire empties from your brain, flooding from your system, like a fever succumbing to a bath of ice. The same flame which just engulfed you now sinks deep within you, burning your consciousness with the desperate certainty that I will never grant you the pleasure you want when you want it: I will only use you for MY pleasure.

And what pleases me most of all is seeing you suffer at my hands.

I point at you one final time and you hang your head in shame. Your manhood has grown limp. The skin-tight spandex reveals every curve of you. I can see that there's a soft shriveled button where that thick, hungering erection had been. You see my gaze directed between your legs and you feel so ashamed and so naked now in your clothes, hanging on my cross with that flaccid dick visibly sagging between your legs like a roll of putty.

I laugh and stride over to you, then begin to slap your groin.

"You're all soft now," I whisper gruffly, beating your cock and balls with the palm of my hand while you writhe and wail in pain and fear, "look at that ridiculous little dick." I dig my fingers into your crotch and squeeze so hard, you scream. "It wasn't that big to begin with: now look at it." I give you a final smack and turn away. "Useless," I say coldly over my shoulder, abandoning you.

Through your pain, you stare hotly at my back. For the briefest second you hate me. I have unmanned you. I have made you confront your worst fear, your fear of sexual inadequacy. After all, you ARE inadequate now. Even the slavegirl who lies degraded on the floor is smirking at you to see how that thick red rod has turned to useless jelly.

But you cannot hate me for long: your fear cedes to terror and the blood flows back into your cock. What else do I have in store for you? What else will I do to you? What kind of a monster am I?

I will tell you. I am a kind of vampire. But instead of blood, what I will drain from your body is your virility, your pride, your arrogance, your ego. I will pin you down and consume your masculinity in one long gulp. And then you will be freed of it. Then you will be sexless and ego-less, and nothing more than my groveling obedient slave.

Your trembling is so frenzied, the chains holding you to the cross rattle loudly. The noise causes me to turn around and, when I do, I study your face so intently that you look away. You imagine that I will never release you from this sexual bondage, that I will make you my eunuch for all time, that this psychological sorcery is only the precursor to a physical violence which will permanently disable you from ever achieving erection again.

I know. I understand. I sense exactly what you are thinking. I see its text written across your face. It makes me laugh.

"And where would you be without your dick, my pet," I joke heartlessly, "What would you do if Mistress took it away from you, and never let you get hard again?" I hold my hand up in the air and scissor my index and middle fingers as if preparing to snip through your flesh.

You see the excitement in my eyes and it frightens and arouses you so much that you groan as loudly as if I was performing the deed. I saunter back to you smugly, and begin caressing your hair the way I had caressed Marissa's only a few moments ago. Involuntarily, you sigh deeply. Goosebumps rise on your flesh as you delight to feel your Mistress's gentle touch. You have been so hungry for my caress; you realize now that this is the only sensation you crave, that beneath those superficial desires for the naked female bound near your feet, is a stronger, realer need. Your Mistress's warm, powerful embrace is your reason to live.

"Your dick," I whisper slowly into your ear, and the warm gush of my breath sends a floods of tingles down your body, "your dick belongs to me."

I am still caressing your hair with my left hand but suddenly you are swallowed into a darkness of suffering: I have gripped your hair tightly with one hand, pulling back your head. But I've thrust my other hand down inside your pants, and I am squeezing your soft shrunken cock and your fragile balls tightly in my right fist. You howl from the pain of it, and howl again as the pressure in your testicles mounts. "Your dick is MINE," my voice is tense with emotion now. You hear the terrible agitation of my sadistic lust in its tones: "It gets hard when I want it to be hard." I suddenly grasp the top of the shaft, my fingers clenching it like a vice, and pinch the head between my thumb and index finger until you are shrieking and dancing in your bonds, clumsily hopping from foot to foot as your restraints seem to swell around your ankles and wrists. I continue to pinch the head ruthlessly. "I make it hard," I growl, "and I make it soft. It is MINE."

"Yessss, Mistress," you hurriedly whisper quickly through gritted teeth, "it is yours." You don't dare to hesitate, though it requires all the concentration you can muster to form the words.

You think you will lose your mind when I abruptly pull your pants down, exposing you. You hard-on is back, not as full as before, yet even half-erect your interior excitement has doubled. I bend down and bring my lips to the head of your cock then pause dramatically, looking up at you with a strange grin. Your cock swells but you catch your breath when you see me bare my teeth. The hairs rise on the back of your neck to realize that I plan to use those sharp, feral white teeth on the head of your cock.

"No, no, nooooo," you sob in terror. "Oh, God!"

"Isn't this the moment you've been waiting for all your life?" I taunt you cruelly.

I glance up sideways to observe and enjoy your reactions as I fiercely sink my teeth into the head of your cock. You scream in panic, but are too petrified to move. Your scream is so loud and your fear so palpable that Marissa, who has been watching us as if hypnotized, snaps out of her spell to moan sympathetically.

I straighten up and roughly pull your pants back up. "Did you think I was going to bite it off?" I laugh at you both. It amuses me even more to see the frozen terror still on your faces as you contemplate your Mistress. You are wondering how far I will go, how cruel I really am, what kind of a monster I may be.

"Awww," I tease you, casually brushing my fingers through my hair, smoothing it. "Did Mistress scare you? You poor babies," I purr insincerely. You know that I am lying; that this is just another of my callous little jokes; you know I am aroused. There is a fire in my steel-gray eyes and my nipples are as hard and long as bullets under my black latex dress.

I advance a few steps towards Marissa, picking up a short, black leather paddle. "Big scary Mistress scared her poor helpless little sluts." I run the paddle over the palm of my hand, as if testing its smoothness. I pause, and glance shrewdly from one to the other of you. You are still both so frightened, your breathing is ragged. My mood changes again: you can tell how much it excites me to see you wide-eyed with fear.

"I scared the living shit out of you, didn't I?" I ask coolly. Aghast, you both timidly nod your heads and squirm helplessly in your bonds, agitated by my words.

"Well, how nice," I toss my head, still playing with the paddle. "But you didn't actually think I'd ever settle for such a small meal, did you?" I fix my gaze on you and laugh abruptly and you turn crimson with embarrassment. To your chagrin, you can't stop yourself from grinning sheepishly at my cruel joke. Partly you feel ashamed, but mainly you are relieved to find that the head of your dick has only a faint bite-mark on it and no significant damage. Now the pain of it makes it swell up again, and your balls throb yet more painfully from frustration.

"What a pair of pussies I own," I laugh. My voice grows warm again. "What a pair of scaredy-cats."

I take the paddle and run it sensuously over Marissa's thighs and labia. She wriggles, and you hear little muffled moans of arousal drift through her gag.

"Are you my owned pussy?" I taunt her, as I tease her swollen sex with the implement. Neither of you are expecting the blow I suddenly and viciously deliver directly on her cunt.

Marissa's shriek is muffled but still loud enough to send a shiver down your spine as you gasp in empathy.

"You didn't answer me," I say hoarsely, striking her again.

Through the gag, we hear her choking her words. "Yes, Mistress, yes, yes, I am, I am."

It is too late; it is not enough. I am not satisfied. I beat her again with the paddle, blow after vicious blow. Her feet, hoisted in the air, wiggle as she tries in vain to inch away from me, struggling on her back. Her resistence only spurs me on, and I follow her writhing body, then step down hard with my booted foot onto her thigh to hold her in place.

"Trying to get away from me?" I ask quietly. I strike her even harder this time. I hit her again, and again, while her screams rise in a crescendo, until you think the gag must have fallen out of her mouth. But it is only the sight of her pussy swelling from the cruel beating that makes you believe you can hear the screams which surely must accompany such pain. When you see trickles of sweat run down her naked sides and onto the floor, sweat breaks out on your own forehead and a small sob escapes from your own chest, as if you are absorbing a portion of her pain and experiencing all of my punishment.

"Won't you be happy when Mistress uses this paddle on him?" I am speaking softly, calmly, as I beat her twenty times more, raising my arm high and then raining sharp, angry blows with perfect aim upon her distended labia. "Won't you be happy when I make him suffer instead of you?" My voice is as calm and hushed as if we were in a library; a strange, unpleasant smile crosses my lips, and I continue to hit her until you begin to feel faint with fear that I may never stop--or even worse, that, any minute, I will turn my wrath upon you.

"Yehhhh," she whimpers through the gag, unable to bring her lips together to make the sound of an S. "Yehhh, Mi'trehhhh."

You wince at her words, your emotions confused. You know she is speaking directly from her pain and seeks only to escape it, not daring to contradict me. But you remember also how she treated you on the street earlier that night, how she added extra torments to her assignment.

You suspect that, deep down, she does want to see you in pain. Her complicity in your torment both enrages you and makes you feel even more helpless and submissive than before. She is My slave; she is a part of me; and so you begin to fear her as much as you fear My whip; for after all, like my whip, Marissa serves as an instrument to torment you. And you are her counterpart: I use you to torment her as well.

"Hmmmm," I turn pensively to you, putting the paddle down on a table. "I wonder how my slaveboy feels about this. Would you like to see Mistress punish Marissa for wishing to see you in pain? Don't you think she deserves to be beaten for betraying you?" When you turn red, I smile knowingly and continue. "After all, she is hoping that I thrash you so thoroughly that I wear myself out, using you as the whipping post to relieve my sadism so that when I at last return to her, I will only have energy enough to cuddle and caress her and give her pure pleasure." I pause dramatically. "With nothing left for you except the throbbing agony of your bruises." I study your face carefully. "I think my slaveboy wants to see my little girl beaten for being so greedy and indifferent to his suffering," I say slowly, reading your mind.

You hang your head in shame. "Yes, Mistress," you whisper, "please beat her."

Marissa gasps and though you turn a deeper red, ashamed, you also feel a spark of exultation to think of watching your Mistress hurt her in even more evil ways.

I am playing each of you off the other, like a submissive duet, torturing one until the other reacts, using you to excite her and her to excite you, forcing each of you to yearn for one another, to be jealous of one another, to wish for each other's torment, then letting you see how futile your desires are.

I go to the table and pick something up. Both of you whimper when you see me slowly pull it open to reveal a shining metal blade. Again, you both writhe in your bonds: Marissa tugging helplessly against the spreader bar, you straining helplessly against the cross. "What a pair of wigglers," I say coldly, stepping up to you. I show you the knife, running my finger over its blunt edge, then lightly testing its sharp tip. "This will do," I say. I crouch down and carefully insert the knife under the ankles of your pants, blunt side pressed against your skin.

You barely breathe as the knife shreds the fabric with a sibillant noise, like a snake's hiss. I cut and cut, moving slowly up your leg, inch by inch, until the fabric hangs open in flaps. Then I do the same on the other leg. The only sounds in the room are the sounds of breathing and that ominous hiss as the knife does its work. Now both pants legs have been sheared up to the tops of your thighs. I stand up straight and look at you. Your eyes are searching my face, silently pleading please don't hurt me, Mistress.

"You'd better not move now," I warn you in a harsh whisper. I hold the knife up and move it around so that it catches the candlelight and glints in the dim room. Both of you stare at it, riveted. I bring the tip of the knife to your nipple, and press it in until you sob. Then I lightly run it down your belly, leaving a fine, thin, pink scratch on your skin.

"You won't move, will you?" I ask.

"N-n-n-ooo, Mistress," you stutter, distressed, "No, I won't!"

I laugh. "I didn't think so." I place the tip of the knife now just under your scrotum, and tease your balls with it. You can barely feel the scratching through the fabric but just seeing the knife there, in your Mistress's grip, makes you swoon.

I work the knife under the fabric at your thighs, and now I cut with complete concentration. I work so slowly you think that hours are passing. I cut the fabric away from your balls, leaving the seam intact. Then I slide the knife dangerously around your stiff dick. At last, I rip through the seam with a rough flourish, and your genitals tumble out. If not for the pillows behind your ass, you would have tried to pull back: but you are forced to maintain this humiliating position, with your hips thrust forward. And now your genitals are completely naked and displayed.

"Do you like Mistress's knife?" I run the blunt edge over your lips so you can taste the metal.

"Yes, Mistress," you gasp. You think this little scenario is over and you sigh, relieved. But I am not done with you yet.

"Good," I say, "I'm so glad you like it." I lay the blade flat against your balls and the cold steel sets you trembling again. "Careful!" I warn you in a throaty voice, "we wouldn't want to have any accidents, would we?"

At this, Marissa moans. You shoot her a fearful look and see that despite her terror, she is enjoying this. A lewd, hungry expression fills her eyes and she is pressing her pussy against her bound arms, exciting herself. The sight of her trying to cum while Mistress is using the knife on you makes your thoughts race wildly. Does she wish it was she instead of you on the cross now? Does it excite her to see you humiliated and tortured? Is it Mistress's incredible power over you both that is making her squirm with desire? Or...or...is she hoping for that accident to occur?

Your thoughts come to an abrupt end when you feel a stabbing, prickling pain in your testicles. You groan loudly when you see that I have pressed the tip of the blade lightly into the sac: I draw it up slowly, right to the head of your cock, again leaving a barely perceptible pink scratch on your fragile skin. Then I lightly jab the tip into the head repeatedly so that it feels as if you are being stabbed by a hundred tiny pins.

"Oh, God, Mistress!" you wail, unable to control yourself, "Oh, no, please, no, please! I can't....I can't....."

"Can't what?" I say in such a cold, harsh voice, that your heart sinks to your feet. Have you disappointed me? You can't tell: the look on my face is unknowable, mysterious.

Abruptly, I drop the knife to the floor, and walk back to Marissa. You are partly relieved, partly distraught: what if you HAVE disappointed me? For an instant, you want to beg me please to come back and to use the knife on you again, to do whatever I want to do with it, to make you suffer even worse torments, all torments, if that's what it would take to please me.

Silently, I lean down to Marissa, removing her gag. You watch helplessly, still debating whether to beg me to hurt you, while I grab her long hair and pull her by it, swiveling her body around on the rug, until her head is pointing towards you. Her eyes are liquid and heavy, as if she were intoxicated with sleep, the lids drooping. A thin sliver of saliva drips from her mouth. She stares up helplessly at you and your eyes lock: a sensation like the sharp edge of that knife stabbing deep into your groin courses through you, so intense is the vision of her degradation and submission just then. She is your double, your twin in torment. Everything that is happening to her is happening to you.

I glance at you. "You were a good boy," I say, as if I'd read your mind. "I'm pleased with you." A profound wave of relief washes over you, followed by an intense wave of love and devotion and gratitude. You wish to throw yourself at my feet and lick them humbly, thankfully, ecstatically. You see the look in my eyes and despite everything, you detect the kindness and love underlying everything I do.

I look from one to the other and smile gently. "But the night has only begun," I say softly, like a mother talking to her beloved children, "All of this was just my way of preparing you for what is to come."

At this, you both shudder convulsively, as if lightning had struck you both. Although we are three, although we are bonded together by an intimacy so intense that we seem as one, each of us inhabits a different and solitary reality. I am your Mistress, your Queen, your Owner. I look at you both, bound and helpless, and know exactly what I am going to be doing next, while you can only guess and imagine and dream. My sexual power radiates from me so intensely that, in your delirium of excitement, you half-believe there is a halo surrounding me.

Marissa is moaning on the floor, lost to her excitement, unable to speak, her beautiful face covered with sweat, her long hair tangled, her thighs trembling with desire, as she waits restlessly through a minute which stretches out like an endless day. I put my booted foot squarely between her legs and grind it into her, harder and harder, while she thrashes helplessly beneath me, now thrusting her hips desperately, trying to cum. There is no need to gag her or blindfold her now. All her senses are focused on her Mistress's boot. She has forgotten where she is, she has forgotten who she was before she came here, she has forgotten that you are there. In this moment, she is nothing more than the all-consuming need that rages in her cunt. She feels that if she cannot cum, surely she will die of her longing; and she knows that, any second, I could remove my boot and leave her to scream and plead and sob for me to take care of her--and all in vain. Her agony of lust so affects you that you are petrified that I will abandon her just when she is ready to cum, that I will ignore her abject pleas and condemn her to frustration. Your cock grows so hard and thick at the thought, you feel faint. I look at you while she struggles and I smile coldly.

In another moment, I will be beside you again; in another moment, it will be your turn again. You will be the pawn and I will force you to suffer; in another moment that expression of helpless lust and utter submission, that mindless desperation for satisfaction, that haunted acquiescence to My power that you see in Marissa's eyes will be in your eyes. It is an expression of absolute obedience and abject servility, And you know, then and there, that the moment which is coming in just a moment, the moment you have been waiting for all your life, will come soon and that, very soon, you too will be plunged into that abyss of unconditional surrender.