Tears were beginning to well up in Isabel’s eyes, but she nodded, dutifully resisting the urge to turn her head. “Ehhf, Wihfwehf.”
“Good. You know what to say. Say it.”
“I iih a vaahv giwh. Weev heeh fe oo fe a goov giwh, Wihfwehf.” I’ve been a bad girl. Please teach me to be a good girl, Mistress.
“Well done. And I will indeed teach you to be a good girl, Isari. Let’s begin. And remember, lose count or forget the appropriate mantra and you’re back to ten strokes per demerit.”
Without further ado, the crop came down once again on Isabel’s left ass cheek, and the erotic fire flashed outward from the sting. A gasping breath broke forth from Isabel’s nose, and a helpless mewl from within her throat, but her discipline held. “Uuh. I wiw hruff.” One. I will trust.
Again a swish in the air, and again the crop descended, this time on her right ass cheek. The helpless mewl came unbidden again, and the explosive breath through her nose harder, but she recovered. “Hoo. I wiw oh-ay.” Two. I will obey.
Back the swish and sting of the crop came to her left ass cheek, just a hair above where the first two strokes had fallen. “Hree. I wiw hruff.” Three. I will trust.
Right again. “Howh. I wiw oh-ay.”
Mistress Lanfear continued with Isabel’s discipline, slowly, deliberately, in near-perfect rhythm. There had been times in their summers together when she had deliberately mixed up her strokes when Isabel had earned a spanking, to keep the summer-haired dancer guessing and off-balance, but this was not one of those occasions. The perfect rhythm helped the pain and pleasure blend all the more effortlessly, without interruption. Isabel was sweating, panting mess by the twelfth stroke, gasping, and pleading through her gag, and worse yet, the headaches that warned of another power surge were building rapidly—but she never lost count and never faltered in the simple alternating mantra that her mistress had established in their very first session of their very first summer, to mitigate her transgressions.
“Hwewf. I wiw hruff. I wiw oh-ay. Fhanh hoo, Mihwehf, hif awahmheh haf wurmf uhr weffom!”
Mistress Lanfear began releasing Isabel from the wrist and ankle restraints. The spreader bar and the ankle restraints still attached to it fell to the carpeted floor with a thud and a muted jangle. The tethers and the cuffs attached to them retracted into their alcoves. “Good, Isari. Maybe you haven’t fallen out of training as much as I feared. And I’ve missed that sound so, so much. But as thrilling as your gag-talk is, I want to hear your final act of contrition without this in your mouth, too. I’m going to take the gag out now. And I want the first words you say to be repeating what you just said. And Isari? Make me believe every word.”
That last sentence was a deep cut for super-fans of the Wheel of Time books; it was a line said by one of the sul’dam assigned to break and train one of the main characters of the books, who had been captured and collared by the Seanchan.
The part that Mistress Lanfear had forgotten to mention, and that was definitely not in that scene in the books, was that as her left hand began unbuckling the gag strap, her right hand found Isabel’s slick pussy and engorged clit, and began caressing it, ever so slowly. The smell of arousal was so thick in the air that Isabel could taste it on her tongue. Even standing bound like this—perhaps because she was—she was all too close to the edge, and her mistress was riding her at a gallop with no fences.
The gag came loose in Mistress Lanfear’s hands, and the words came immediately to Isabel’s lips. “Twelve. I will trust. I will obey. Thank you, Mistress, this damane has learned her lesson.” She quivered, about to burst out with more of the same objections that she had raised so many times already tonight. This time, though, she had surrendered, or been reeducated, enough to understand that her mistress was fully aware of what was going to happen, and that clearly wasn’t stopping her. Also, between the headaches and the wet fire already burning between her legs, which her mistress’ adept fingers continued to stoke, she doubted she could have made the slightest objection sound like anything but a plea for mercy that would only encourage Mistress Lanfear. Would only encourage both of them, honestly.
“Good. Trust and obey, marath’damane. Lift your hair.”
Isabel forced her sore arms to obey and lifted the golden curtain off her neck. There was no doubt what was coming now, and she knew the first touch of it had a good chance sending her over the edge.
“Mistress, the headaches …” It was half a gasp, half a prayer, and sounded exactly like the teasing plea for mercy she had predicted it would. “You know what’ll happen …”
“Oh no, Isari. And neither do you. But it’ll be worth it either way.”
At long last, Isabel felt the cold feel of metal around her throat, and the collar that had been waiting for her all this time closed with a soft click that echoed in her mind like thunder. It was, as it had appeared to be, nothing resembling a typical cosplay replica. It was heavy, heavier even than stainless steel, thick, and had to be two inches high, enough that no one wearing it would ever forget its presence, especially if they tried to look down.
She was Isari, the collared damane of the Wheel of Time’s most brilliant and insane superfan, once again.
The click of the collar closing brought her right up to the edge, but did not quite send her over, because at that moment, things got even stranger, even by the standards of someone whose orgasms had been high-energy environmental hazards for almost four years now.
An entire overlay of new sensations descended upon her, somehow familiar even though she had never felt anything like it before. It was clearly a feeling of arousal, too, similar enough to her own to be recognizable as nothing else, but still unlike she had ever felt when she was aroused, unlike what she was still feeling from her mistress’ maddeningly slow fingers between her legs. Like an aroused spirit had suddenly decided to inhabit her body, not that she had any clue what that would actually feel like.
“So much better. I was tired of calling you marath’damane. Now, damane Isari, tell me: How are your headaches?”
“They’re … wow, they’re uuuuhhh, oh my God …”
Mistress Lanfear had finally begun increasing the pace of her finger on Isari’s clit. And while her headaches weren’t gone, there was suddenly definitely something different about them. They were still there. Still strong, in fact. But if before they had constantly pulsed angrily like caged monsters, they were now suddenly hesitant, as if they had a new warden five times harder than their old one. They didn’t bother her like they had a moment before the gleaming silver collar had closed upon her neck.
“That’s what I like to hear, Isari. Now, remember, trust, and obey. Only two more things you need to do now. First, close your eyes.”
Isari closed her eyes. Mistress Lanfear increased the pace of her fingers still more. They were careening towards the edge again now.
“Are they closed?”
“Yes, Mistress!” Isabel’s breathing barely qualified as breathing anymore. She was panting.
“Good. Keep them that way. Second. Kiss me back.”
Mistress Lanfear spun Isabel around once more, and then her hand was firmly knotted in Isabel’s hair, and their lips met for the first time in more than two years. The thick, luxurious fabric of the front of the sul’dam dress slid teasingly along Isari’s naked front, including her upright nipples. And that impossible second set of sensations within Isari, suddenly more aroused as well flooded through and over into her, like it was kissing her as well from inside herself, or like she was kissing herself on the lips and loving every moment of it.
The prison bars within her disintegrated in a blaze of pure, wild ecstasy. She mewled and screamed and writhed and clenched her thighs together around her mistress’ fingers, fully intended to never let them go. She tossed her head backward with a stronger, undulating scream as the power surge burst forth from within her and screamed at the ceiling. She half expected to see it already falling on her as the leading edge of the tsunami blasted her eyes open, swirling and surging around her. There actually was something different about the ceiling, but nothing she had anywhere close to the brain cells to spare to figure out in the throes of the fullest, most unrestrained orgasm she had enjoyed in four years.
Mistress Lanfear pulled Isari’s hair, forcing her head even further back and sending yet another adrenalin spike into the blazing release surging within and around her. “Eyes shut, damane!”
Isari snapped her eyes closed again, but if her mistress had ordered her to be quiet, too, at that point, she would have been completely unable to obey.
“Keep cumming, Isari. Hold nothing back. Go. Let it all out,” Mistress Lanfear’s fingers continued to work.
Isari needed no urging. So deep in subspace, having so completely outsourced every single thought about consequences at this point, and the accursed headaches somehow mercifully under control, she no longer cared if she burned the entire neighborhood to the ground. Even when she had snuck back to the darkened shores of Lake Allatoona in Red Top Mountain State Park, where their lives had changed all those years ago, she had felt the need to be furtive, had held back, mentally and physically, afraid of starting a forest fire or something worse, allowing herself just enough release to take the edge off. And she had been so terribly, desperately alone. Here, with both her mistress’ collar and undivided attention on her, she no longer needed her own unsteady boundaries. She had better ones. Or she didn’t even care if they were worse ones. She didn’t need to care. All she needed to do was trust. And cum. She needed that even more, and she seized the opportunity with a maniacal fervor. Her orgasm went on, and on, and on, somehow amplified and extended by the strange new sensation that Mistress Lanfear’s a’dam had brought with it.
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