by Trent Evans
Perhaps it was all three.
Her sex was burning hot, ready for another kind of torture, a different sort of subjugation, a further imposing of Kosha’s will upon hers.
Then both of his hands clasped her hips, and as she sniffled, humiliated at the mess her face had become, snot running down onto her lips, her eyes awash with tears, her cheeks soaked with them, he pulled her back roughly and she stumbled. Trying to keep her balance, she took her hands from the wall, but he growled at her, slapping a hand against her upper back.
No, keep them there!
Desperately, she touched the wall once more. He pulled again at her hips, forcing her feet back still farther.
Then she understood.
Keeping her hands touching the wall, she lowered her upper body, jackknifing herself until she was in a position even more humiliating than the one she’d just left, until her breasts hung below her, heavy and throbbing, her nipples strangely erect, aching despite the pain coursing through her body.
Or perhaps it was because of that pain.
Her hair hung like a shroud around her, and in its own way, it was almost an illusory shelter, a symbolic comfort to her, a shroud to hide herself from his all-seeing gaze — if only for a moment.
She shuddered at the picture her position painted in her mind’s eye, her bright red, seething ass, the uppermost part of her body now parallel to the floor, her hands pressed to the wall, her breasts like cows udders, swaying in time with her long, wild hair.
She had become degraded, humiliated. A thing.
His thing.
A thick finger played at her cleft, the tip easing between her labia, finding what she already knew was there — her wantonness, the humiliating evidence of the betrayal of her body.
Kosha made a sound that was quintessential male triumph, intelligible across all languages, its meaning universal. That finger coursed lower until it found her clit, rubbing circles around it, pressing to one side of it, then the other, that rough finger circling then worrying the very tip until she was panting.
Her tears started anew as she realized she would surrender to this too. She knew despite her will to resist, despite her declaration that she would fight him… she would succumb to this, that she would be what he wanted to make of her.
One finger, then two pressed inside of her, and she gasped as he pushed deep, deeper, so far it seemed to drive the very breath from her lungs. Stroking in and out of her, the fingertips played at the mouth of her womb at each plunge, making her belly clench, her thighs shudder.
“Please,” she said, her voice little more than a whimper. “Please!”
She didn’t know what the words meant. Perhaps it was the verbal expression of her body’s need, of the want that she could suppress no longer, of the animal response he was drawing from her, whether she wanted to or not.
Knowing what was coming, she shuddered as his fingers withdrew to be replaced immediately by the broadness of his cock. She whined softly as that thick member pressed her tissues aside, her pussy stretching wide, yielding to his hardness until she was groaning with it.
She was still sore from the first time he’d taken her, but it was now an echo of pain, more from memory than actual sensation.
He pressed inside of her as far as he could go, and she stilled, every muscle trembling, her pussy stretched taut around the broad girth of the veined, heavy shaft. Relentlessly, it drove inside, the head battering the mouth of her womb at each advance, the pleasure/pain of it making her grit her teeth even as it drew moans from her lips.
Those impossibly brawny hands gripped her hips as tight as a vice, his deep male rumble sounding above her, more thunder than voice, more animal than man.
He took her then, driving as deep as he could, each time chasing her breath from her lungs, driving the sanity from her mind. She tried to grip the wall with her fingers, clawing at it futilely, her breasts tolling obscenely below her, her entire body shaking with his hard thrusts. It was pain and subjugation and so much pleasure.
More than she ever imagined could exist.
And underlying all of that were her twin crosses to bear — her shame and humiliation.
It was a feeling of being taken in every sense of that word.
And what was worst of all — even as his conquering of her body grew rough, animalistic, even brutal — was that she wanted more.
So much more.
What’s happened to you?
His sounds grew guttural, the grip of his huge hands so strong it became pain, and he pressed himself as deeply as he possibly could, his cock swelling still further, the feeling of stretching now equal parts pain and pleasure.
With his strained groan, the hot gout of his semen bloomed inside her, the seed filling her to overflowing, the sticky liquid dripping down against her inner thighs, a fat, heavy drop splatting upon the floor between her feet.
For a long moment, he stayed inside her, his growls almost continuous now. And then he pulled out, slapping her bottom twice with the heavy shaft of his cock, the sound he made one of pure triumph, the self-congratulating note of the conqueror, the victor.
The captor.
Instead of roughly forcing her to turn around, to look on him, he took hold of her shoulder, squeezing it. But it seemed it wasn’t to hurt her, but rather a way to imprint his ownership, to make her stay, to make her obey, to reinforce the fact that she was his.
His hand worked at her sex again, even as more of his seed poured out, his fingertips slipping through the slickness there. He found her clit, rubbing his semen all over it, coating the lips of her pussy with it, a humiliating reminder that he took pleasure in making her see, feel, and know that he would do whatever he wished with her, simply for his pleasure.
Though she resisted the shaming pleasure of it, his fingers worked her clit with renewed vigor. And no matter how much she fought, she knew she could never resist this.
They both knew he would win.
In a frighteningly short time, she was panting, moaning, his fingers working her sex, driving deep, then touching that throbbing, burning clit. Over and over, he took her higher and higher until finally it was too much. Her panting, lost little shrieks echoed within the room over and over again, heralding yet another victory over her, another possession of his captive, another step on that journey of discovery.
But he wasn’t done.
He kept at her though, and despite the soreness of her sex, the aching and burning, it wanted even more. Her clit was still standing up, hard and throbbing, and he took advantage of that fact.
Again and again, he brought her to that brink, made her look out over the edge — and then hurled her over it.
Finally, he was done, slapping her throbbing, burning ass, his fingers wet, leaving a slick of their combined essence upon her skin, another shaming reminder of her status as his plaything.
And as she stood there, against that wall, her bottom thrust behind her in degrading offering, her breath coming in panting, exhausted gusts, she wondered whether she’d found heaven.
Or hell.
Chapter 16
Life took on a more or less regular — and pleasurable — routine for Kosha and his pet. In the mornings, he put her through every single position she knew, often adding in one or two new ones, just for the pleasure of watching her blush, enjoying the fear and uncertainty clouding her gaze as she struggled to discern the meaning of those new commands. Sometimes he took mercy on her.
Often, he didn’t.
In a welcome surprise, Torval had provided him with a written report of his findings following the examination of Rose. Kosha thought of her as that now, more than a plaything, and at the same time … less.
More animal than human.
As Torval had warned in the written report, Rose increasingly became more and more tired, exhaustion setting in earlier during her exercise routine. At first, he’d ignored it, wrote it off as simply resistance from his strong-willed captive, but Torval’s findings were
clear: unless acclimated to the higher gravity well of Yaanfahr — approximately ten percent higher than Terra’s — she was likely to be worn down by it, over time.
Kosha could no longer deny his friend was right.
So, he decided to institute an exercise program immediately to attempt to help her adapt more quickly. Now, every day after going through her positions that would test both her memory and her willingness to obey — not to mention her fetching, blushing bashfulness — the next several hours would be taken up with exercise.
All of his machines in his own home were much too large for Rose to use, so he forced her to use mostly body-weight only exercises. He was able to rig up a treadmill that would just work for her, though it was still much larger than she needed.
It became a daily routine, usually supervised by him, but occasionally he would watch her via remote surveillance, leaving her alone in the room, chained to the treadmill, marching to its relentless pace.
He took great pleasure in the bounce of her breasts, the sweat coursing down her skin, the way her russet hair — wet with her perspiration — darkened to a silky sienna. At the end of each session, her muscles trembling and spent, he would force her into a further round of her positions, reveling in her humiliation at the blatant display of her sweat-soaked body.
After a few weeks of this, she began to exhibit an increase in strength, her muscles growing sleek, a powerful litheness to her figure that did nothing to detract from her dramatic curves. In fact, they actually enhanced them.
Her confidence seemed to grow with the slow transformation of her body, and her mood and general outlook showed marked improvement.
It was here he that knew he had his best chance to institute the next step in her transformation.
Years before, on a lark really, never truly believing he’d have an opportunity to use them, he’d purchased two rather unique items from a black market supplier — the use of said items for the purposes they were designed something that was not exactly… legal.
As a consequence, they’d been in storage ever since. Once Rose came into his possession though, he’d had them shipped back to his home as soon as he could.
Early one morning while she still slept, Kosha woke up, the Three Sisters still in the sky, the sun just beginning to brighten the horizon. He took the opportunity to add those two items to his living space, tucked away in separate corners, amongst the other furniture. Though certainly visible, they were by no means obvious, especially with regard to their true purpose.
But obvious or not, he knew the instant Rose set eyes upon them, she would know exactly what their true purposes were.
He smiled as he padded back into his bedroom, clipping the leash to Rose’s collar. She barely stirred at the click of the hasp. He yanked briskly on the leash and she roused almost immediately. Though sleep was still heavy in her eyes and she took a quick moment to stretch, she got into position, sitting up on her heels, arms clasped behind her back, shoulders straight.
She kept her eyes down as he preferred now. It helped to further reinforce her position, to drive home the fact that she was lesser, that she was his subject, his possession.
Satisfied she was fully alert, he led her into the living space, the room now brightly lit from the morning sun. Taking her into the first corner, he knew she’d seen it when she pulled up, the leash going taut in his hand.
Rather than scold her though — or perhaps spank her for disobeying the pull of her lead — he simply stood and smiled, drinking in the way she reacted to it, her body suddenly tense, her throat working as she glanced from the cage to him, and back to that gleaming metal enclosure. He’d even had a nice pad made for her that fit inside the cage perfectly.
She’d be spending a lot of time there.
He refused to give her the benefit of the translator. He wanted her to be confused. He wanted her to be uncertain.
Keeping her off balance was part of the fun.
With a click of his fingers, she was back on all fours, those gorgeous big breasts swinging again as he led her over to the other corner and the second surprise awaiting his now trembling, embarrassed, and brightly blushing possession. He nicknamed it “The Rack”, though it was essentially an elaborate spanking bench. It was constructed such that once the subject was bound fast to it, the apparatus had the ability to incorporate almost limitless numbers of adjustments, rendering her body into virtually any position he could imagine.
Its intended use to begin with though was quite simple indeed.
Tonight after their meal, she would have her first session on the rack. But first, he needed to gauge her reaction, to get her to truly understand what was changing.
And that began first and foremost with training those parts of her body that gave him the most pleasure.
But that would have to wait.
So, with a cruel yank of her leash, he led her back over to the cage. He opened the door, swinging it wide as he stood to the side. Gazing down at her expectantly, he wondered if she would understand what it was he wanted. He hoped she would resist, defy him even.
Her eyes were huge, sparkling in the morning light, her lips trembling, her face ashen … and yet, her nipples were as hard as diamonds and the scent of her sex was strong on the air.
Something about this moved her, affected her, aroused her. It was unexpected, but considering her reaction to pain, to subjugation, to even humiliation, it shouldn’t have surprised him.
She was a very special human indeed.
Lucky me.
Miraculously, she advanced toward the cage, though reluctance poured from every pore of her body. They both knew she’d be punished if she refused it. At the threshold, she dared look up at him, her eyes flashing. There was defiance and even anger in there, but there was also another element there, one that he’d been seeing more and more of lately.
Shamed arousal.
This did affect her, and it seemed she registered it in an almost subconscious sense, despite the way it embarrassed her terribly, judging by the crimson color of her face.
Then she was inside, crouching on the new pad he’d had made for it. He closed the gate with a jarring slam, affixed the lock to the hasp, and secured it. Then he stood over her, looked at his prized possession for a long while.
She watched him through the bars, more pale than he’d ever seen her, her pretty face nothing but freckles and trembling, ruby lips, her breasts rising and falling with her quick, distressed breaths.
He reached between the bars and unclipped her leash. She made as if to crawl toward the door, then stopped, looking up at him, her eyebrow raised.
No, sweet girl. You stay.
And then he left her there.
Walking into the kitchen, his entire body was alive with arousal, with a dark pleasure he’d discovered at imprisoning his possession in her little cage. The power of it was something he could never have expected, but it was stirring indeed.
It was time to make breakfast, and he hoped he’d be able to make it without burning himself, daydreaming about his little prisoner waiting for him, alone in her cage of woe.
* * *
The maddening vibrations at her pussy were going to drive her mad.
She’d lost count of how many times he’d taken her to the edge, then just as she was about to reach that pinnacle, that long-sought agonizing orgasm, he’d taken it away.
She couldn’t see anything, of course, the hood pulled tightly over her head depriving her of both her sight and her dignity. The straps binding her limbs wide creaked as she pulled at them, their grip implacable, mercilessly tight. He loved binding her this way now, and it became a regular feature of her afternoons toiling at the pleasure of her owner.
Don’t call him that, not even in your mind!
Though she resisted that too, it was becoming more and more absurd to deny it. Though part of her bristled at it, she’d come more and more to simply accept what was. Wasn’t it the truth?
It had become a new patt
ern, a new favorite of his after her exercises. While her body still dripped with sweat, her muscles quivering and spasming, utterly exhausted, he would truss her up like this, displaying all she had to offer, her cunt, her ass, her breasts laid bare and helpless before him.
Sometimes she’d be gagged or muzzled like a dog. Other times, he would pull a hood over her head, plunging her into her own world of darkness, shame, and twisted, confusing arousal. He’d reduce her to only sensations — and then he’d go to work on her pussy.
Kosha seemed to love bringing her right up to the edge and then depriving her. Sometimes he would chuckle as she whimpered and gasped. At others, he would stroke her chin as she begged gibberish through the gag that often accompanied her hood, begging incoherently for release, for a mercy both of them knew he was unlikely to grant.
Ironically, this teasing torture was often her reward for when she’d been particularly compliant, especially eager to please him during her exercise sessions. This was almost invariably what happened to her, even when she tried her utmost to obey.
It was a sweet torture, but a torture it most certainly was.
Then the vibrating phallus was pressed against her pussy again, teasing tantalizing close to her aching, swollen clit before easing inside the slipperiness of her slit. It was overwhelming, the sensation making every muscle in her belly squeeze. The heat in her sex almost unbearable.
If only he would touch it! Just one second longer and she would fly to glorious, heavenly pieces.
Almost there. Almost there. Oh, God, almost there!
And then as if he’d decided at the very end to take mercy upon her, he pressed that vibrating phallus hard against her long-suffering clit and she screamed into her gag, stars exploding behind her eyes as she climaxed, the long-denied pleasure shattering as it coursed through her, the intensity almost painful.
Her head whipping back and forth as she keened, and she pictured the shameful image of her anonymous, hooded visage, reducing her to nothing but tits, a cunt, and an ass. To him, she was mere body parts, a sexual object, a thing.
