He can see her tremble as he draws circles around her stomach, her fingers twitching from uncertainty if he is actually cutting her or not. Fear builds within her. Quietly he leaves the room again, leaving her to wonder. Is he still there? Did he cut me and is just letting me bleed?” These questions play on her nerves and put her sanity in jeopardy.
Finally the IV bags are empty and her breasts are fuller and firmer and far heavier. After removing the needles, he grabs a breast one in each hand and checks for firmness and pliability and verifies that their new size meet his requirements. Oh yes, as he slaps them he estimates they went from a measly 36C to a DDD. Each nipple is fully accessible. Pulling, twisting, and squeezing her tits, she grimaces from the pain, and he smiles.
This is what it is all about. This is what gets him off. Total control. He is going to shape her into every man’s greatest fantasy when he is finished.
Again he leaves her alone with her thoughts of what will be next now that he has sized her tits to his liking.
“Will I be left here all night? Will he release me from this chair? When he does release me what will happen? Are my breasts to his satisfaction? Will I be punished if they are not?” So many questions with so many possible answers.
She cries out to an empty room, “Please, Master, fuck your slut. I need it so bad. Please I’ll give you the best fuck you’ve ever had.”
Three hours of sensory deprivation and audio reconditioning is having an effect on her. Shrouded in blackness, the sounds that have filled her mind are no longer a turn-off, the desperate screams from women being used or tortured, between her sadist’s fear-inspiring voice foretelling of her future, along with the loud cracks of leather as it collides with flesh, none seem to instill tension and fear. Actually, quite the opposite.
Her crinkled forehead is now smooth, her mouth shaped into a perfect oval, perhaps trying to coax his cock to penetrate her. Two large well shaped mountains rest on her chest and jiggle as she struggles to breathe with the nose clips. Considering how heavy her perfectly shaped tits are, neither droops, not even a millimeter.
Her hips begin to sway and grind onto the butt plug. She has grown accustomed to the size so he inflates it several more times and she moans; the pain of her sphincter stretching further interrupted her concentration on the audio tracks. He estimates her opening is probably spread about three inches now.
A pool of liquid arousal has grown significantly on the chair’s seat, rivulets of moisture steadily tricking from her body with each passing minute. Her clit has grown into an explosively large angry red knob. If he simply touched it, just lightly brushed his finger across her clit, the resulting orgasmic vortex would consume her completely.
Detrimentally so.
It would not be just a single massive orgasm, judging by the size of her clit. No, it will be a long series of orgasms, each more volatile than its predecessor with one blending into the next and the next. The likelihood of her recovering all of her wits, actually, recovering at all from such an orgasm would be slim to none. She would be out of service for hours after such an experience.
That is not to say that he would want her to recover. After all, he is, by nature, a sadist first and foremost. He has trained many slaves, mostly for other clients. And he is good at this.
The difference is that this is the first time he has trained his own personal slave. This means that he must rebuild her for his likeness, his preferences, his pervasions, not his client’s laundry list of expected outcomes.
Most of his training will be exceptionally painful and challenging for her as he slowly guides her into unprecedented levels of debasement, degradation, and debauchery.
Building her addiction to pleasure this soon in the process would be a strategic mistake. It gives her hope and hope boosts her confidence, undoubtedly setting back her training by several days. He has seen it occur with new Doms.
The only hope he wants her to have is hope that she pleases him.
This is a one-way journey; a rite of passage for her. These first 48 hours are the most crucial and also challenging because he must break her down until she is exhausted, desperate, sexually over stimulated. She will hit bottom, transitioning into a blubbering piece of nothingness, unable to think or make a single decision, totally dependent on her Master to tell her what to do next. Even simple tasks like satisfying her thirst, it will not occur to her to simply fill a glass of water for herself.
Then and only then can he re-shape her into his slave, his slut, his personal whore. When she is fully reconditioned for his pleasure, she will beg to do absolutely anything for him, of course, ever most in the background, she will have hope … hope that if she succeeds in pleasing him, she may be rewarded with a rare orgasm.
Condensation from the cold saline and the warmth of her breast tissue shimmers on her magnificent twin mountains. He cannot take his eyes off them, watching in wonderment as they tremble slightly with each breath she takes. They truly are a sight to behold. Unable to contain himself any longer, he clutches them, squeezing each like fresh produce to check firmness and pliability. Both are heavily engorged, her flesh pulled taunt with the nipples stretched flat at the tips. He smiles as she cringes from the pressure his is applying, yet does not pull away.
Tiny moans escape from her throat as her back arches to push her tits into his hands for more attention. Tiny blue veins flutter just beneath the surface of her pale skin, lightly decorated by speckles of dark blue to angry purple bruises from his earlier whipping.
What is missing is her long thick pencil eraser-shaped nipples. He must have her nipples back; he enjoys tugging, sucking, and otherwise torturing them. Releasing her from the chair, he leaves her blindfold, nose plug, headphones, and butt plug in place. Grasping her breasts like you would hold two large cantaloupes, he tugs her upwards until she stands. Her legs are shaky from sitting for several hours bound to the chair and her center of gravity is off with her newly engorged breasts. She teeters forward and leans against his body for support.
Attempting to lure him into fucking her, she tentatively reaches out in search of his cock tucked away in his jeans; she is desperate for an orgasm. Stepping away from her, he smiles as her hands flail just short of actually making contact with his body. Grasping her arms, he roughly folds them behind her back and tightly binds her wrists.
Unable to resist, he grabs each breast again and fondles them with pride. These are his creation, his tits, shaped and sized his way. And he loves it.
Time has taken its toll, her mind nearly devoid of even a single remnant of her previous life. All conscience thoughts now have a singular and absolute focus … the throbbing in her clit, the stimulation of her breasts, the drooling of her cunt, the widening of her anal cavity.
The growing inability to think straight or logically is hanging by a tenuous thread and her above average intelligence makes her keenly aware that this is happening. Yet she is helpless to stop this torturous descent into an inner world where animalistic needs, raw animal lust takes precedence even above her need for food and water.
The expressions on her face tell the devastating story after only four hours. She does not know it yet, but she is a long way from her future-defining moment and instead believes she is simply going mad. She is not that far off … the constant deep, deep throbbing steadily propels her down a one-way journey to hell. His hell.
Brutally jarred back to the present with his belt across her backside, she realizes that he is leading her, no, dragging her by the rope tied tightly around her tits. When did he bind her breasts?
Again he pulls the leash, leading her forward with each tug. Following more out of survival, she blindly puts one foot in front of the other knowing that any wrong step will result in Master’s belt. The room is not that large, yet he leads her in so many directions that her head spins, opening and closing doors along the way.
Frightening thoughts plague her as he leads her somewhere or is it nowhere? Ten steps forward. Six steps to the right. Eight steps forward. A door opens and cold air rushes around her body. Seven steps to the right. A door closes. Twelve steps forward. Five steps to the left.
Blindly following his lead as fear and confusion builds within her. “Where is he taking me? What is he going to do next? Is he going to put me on display to hotel guests in front of the large window? Is he going to take me to another room where other people are waiting to use me? Or is he just mind-fucking me and dragging me about the room with no real purpose in mind?”
Fifteen steps forward. One foot in front of the other. Her breasts hurt as he tugs the rope drawing her closer to the next step, whatever the next step entails.
Feeling the softness of the bed against her legs, she falls forward, but he is fast. Grabbing her tits, he presses his fingertips into the firm but yielding tissue. Lifting her upright, he spins her around and pushes her face-up onto the bed. Moans of agony escape as her body weight pins her bound wrists into the mattress.
With absolute clarity and from out of nowhere, a rational cohesive thought screams inside her head, jarring her back to sanity with bright lights and alarms flashing,
“If he binds me to this bed, my chances of escape will be permanently non-existent.”
There is absolutely no doubt that this man, her new Master sadist is not role-playing as she originally believed. He is everything he said he was. He is for real and this is not a game for him. This is real life and he is going to change her reality to his.
She must escape and not just physically escape from him. She could have bolted as he walked her from corner to post. She had an opportunity to run or at the very least call out for help. No, her imprisonment , although physical, is exponentially more devastating to her psychological and emotional well-being.
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