Owned and Owner

by Anneke Jacob

  Until the next time.

  Really, he left me no choice. You can’t drive a poor girl to the edge over and over, and never let her fly. And it wasn’t as if I was expected to be self-controlled. No one gave me a parental lecture and told me to use my willpower. We’re not talking rational persuasion here. We’re talking animal training, cause and effect, operant conditioning. I was supposed to learn that certain activities got me punished, so that I wouldn’t do them anymore. Well, I guess I did them less, so maybe a psychologist would say it worked. I don’t think my master or his staff were satisfied, however. Because the behavior involved so much pleasure, so much potential release, that there was no way they could completely extinguish it.

  At least, so I thought at the time.

  My master spent all of one evening teasing me almost out of my mind. My hands were tied up behind my back with the strap that crossed between my breasts. He spent what seemed like hours, sucking and pulling on my nipples, both of them at once; of course he knew what that did to me. I remember he had me face down over his lap for a long time, playing with the labia rings, before he began inserting objects into my ass. I could never control my hot humiliation when he did that. The whipping came later, when I was so deep that pain meant profound, out-of-control arousal. He kept a dildo in my ass as he whipped it, and I got so close, so close… When he stopped I cried, writhed in my restraints, begged him with every kind of body language I knew and some kinds I didn’t know I knew. He laughed at me.

  He fucked my mouth in a leisurely way, pulling on my nipple rings, then for the first time used my ass to come. He was huge, and it hurt, but the worst part was that I couldn’t come. A touch would have done it, one touch to my clit, I was so filled up, so swollen. Every part of me was quivering on the edge, every pore filled with sex, nothing but that, no mind, no thought, just screaming desire centering in my cunt, my empty cunt, and my swollen, abandoned clit, the rest of me stimulated past bearing.

  He came inside me, hurting my breasts with his big hands, emptying himself in my welted ass. Then he laid me on my back, my ankles tied to bedposts. I was still crying and clenching, but I couldn’t come that way. He went away for half an hour or so, and gradually I calmed down. The juices that covered my cunt and thighs cooled against the air, like lava drying on a mountainside. Inside I was still molten and shaken with tremors. Then he came back with something metallic in his hands.

  There was a belt that went tightly around my waist. It felt cold and I shivered. There was another band that came up between my legs. This time I shuddered with pleasure as it pressed tightly to my still-swollen cunt, but there was no actual contact with my clit; an inside edge pressed all around the area instead. I felt my master fiddling with my labia rings, and then there were some metallic clicks.

  He released my ankles, and pushed me down to my knees on the floor to give him my usual tribute of kissing his feet. I felt the new restraint with every move. He stood me up, and examined the belt closely. He pushed me into different positions and checked it again. Then he chained my collar to a ring on the wall, released my arms from behind my back, and left.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. I wasn’t wearing mitts. Surely I could get past this new thing and stroke myself. I was still virtually as excited as I had been before, and the tight metal bands were oddly arousing. I could think of nothing but coming; punishment was immaterial. The shield over my pubic bone came up only a little over my fur, where the waist belt attached to it on a diagonal from both sides. I tried to slide my hand down under the shield, but it was too tightly curved over my pubic bone; there wouldn’t have been room for a piece of paper, much less a hand. I felt round the band between my legs. It was weird to feel the hardness there, instead of my soft cunt. There were little openings, but none that I could feel myself through. The band continued up between my ass cheeks, but it was just a smooth, narrow rounded rod there, and not quite so tight. I opened my legs and tried to slide a finger under the band, but was stopped by the inside edge. I tried harder, and was stopped more thoroughly by a painful pull. My labia ring was caught, I thought – I’d just have to wiggle it loose – but no. I realized with a jolt that both the rings were inserted through slots in the metal band, and were locked there. There was no way to pry my cunt away from that band. I spent twenty frustrated minutes trying, going at it from every angle, and then I gave up, crying.

  When I looked up, there was my master, looking thoughtfully down at me. I stuffed my fingers in my mouth in a pathetic attempt to hide the evidence, sobbing even harder. When I finally looked up at him again through my tears, his eyes were glinting with sardonic amusement and delight. He saw my expression, gave me one of his rare smiles, and cupped my cheek in his hand. Then he whipped me hard, all over, front and back, actually raising my level of arousal if you can believe it, and making me so sore the next day that I could hardly move.

  In the next little while I tried every way I could think of to come with that belt on. I tried to use the belt itself, pressing myself against the floor in my kennel, or attempting to shift it back and forth against me when I thought no one was looking. It fit too tightly, though. It was so well constructed and cleverly designed that nothing gave me enough stimulation to orgasm. Even when he tormented me further by using the belt to lock dildos into me, I was helpless. I squirmed, I wriggled, I pushed up against things. I rubbed my nipples until they were sore, hoping to get off. I couldn’t do it.

  One night Garid led his slave crawling on a leash into his screenroom, where he made her sit on the floor in front of his chair. He did not usually let her watch the screen, but this time he wanted her to see the show.

  It was a medley of clips of her trying to masturbate while wearing the belt. He had to force her to watch and not turn away; he felt her tears dripping on his fingers as he held her head. There she was, shiny metal round her loins, squeezing and writhing, squirming and humping, in one vain attempt after another. She was even making noise in one of them, banging her metal covered pubis against the floor in her frustration.

  By the time the tape was finished she was heaving with sobs. The moment he let go of her she threw herself face down on the floor at his feet. Garid let her lie there for a while. He was grimly amused at her distress, aroused by her humiliation, and a little surprised at her level of shock. Had she really thought he wouldn’t notice? Apparently she still thought she could disobey and get away with it.

  Or perhaps the little creature was so desperate to come that she had stopped thinking of consequences. Since he had discouraged her from thinking at all, she could simply be acting on instinct. Which would certainly account for her recklessness. He enjoyed the frustrated frenzy he had captured on tape, and he doubted that punishment would really make her stop, at least not for quite a while. Punishment was fun, but often unsuccessful with this bad creature; she misbehaved every chance she got.

  He leaned forward to look at her, and she cringed; of course she knew she deserved a beating. Garid had plenty of evidence now that the belt prevented orgasm; his control wasn’t in question. Still, her disobedience could not be ignored, however cute.

  So he strung her up by her wrists and punished her pretty thoroughly, with flogger, whip, and cane, while playing the tape on a loop in front of her. Whenever her eyes were open, between blows, she could watch as she debased herself. Some of the marks from that punishment lasted for weeks, and he made her sleep for three nights with huge dildos in her cunt and ass. Since she was humiliated by anything up her ass, he made sure he spent a long time on that one. He fastened her down on her hands and knees and greased it and pushed it in and out and around, shoved it in deep, watched her face redden and tears form. When he was done he spoke the phrase she knew so well: ‘Bad jeedy!’ and watched her weep and hang her head.

  The first long period with the chastity belt was rough. The constant arousal had been present anyway, but now I had to get used to having no hope at all of satisfying myself. After the episode where he showed
me the tape, I was afraid even to wriggle when I was alone, for fear of more punishment. After a while the rules got clearer: helpless wriggling and ineffectual pawing at my crotch were indulged (with evident amusement), whereas any more serious attempts to get past the belt were treated with severity. It wasn’t often that I was in any position to make a real attempt, of course. I did try poking a bit of straw into the urine hole once when I thought no one was looking. That was when I found out that the hole didn’t lead directly to me, but went through the complicated shield on an angle, preventing any access with objects that I was likely to get hold of. Unfortunately a piece of the straw broke off, and was discovered the next time the belt was removed. I remember being suspended upside down for that beating, which seemed to last, off and on, for hours. And I was almost never allowed out of my mitts after that when my hands weren’t tied. Generally speaking, however, I was able to exhibit my frustration without earning more than sniggers.

  Although there were strategic openings for washing, and it was designed to allow the usual toilet functions (at least without the butt plug), they took it off most days to clean me. If it was my master who did this, the procedure amounted to serious erotic torture. My hands were tied above my head in the shower while he removed the belt, soaped and rubbed me all over, stroked my soapy cunt, rinsed me thoroughly with the shower head, dried me off, and then lovingly oiled the bits held captive by the belt. With a touch here and a stroke there he would slowly bring me to the brink of orgasm. I would be breathing fast, but trying to restrain my moans, in the hope that this time he wouldn’t stop. Still, of course I was unmistakably trembling, nerves stretched, begging. Then, smiling, he’d reach over for the cleaned belt, close it tightly around me, and lock it firmly once again. The sound of the lock snapping shut was almost guaranteed to make me sob or wail. Sometimes I cried, sometimes I screamed, sometimes I even kicked (and spent the next few weeks dragging around heavy ankle weights). Mostly I learned just to hang there and whimper while he locked the belt and then played with my nipples.

  After a while constant arousal became the norm for me. I almost forgot what coming felt like. More than ever I needed any touch, no matter what kind. The endless teasing was my master’s right. My orgasms, I finally began to realize, did not belong to me. I had no right to them. I belonged to him, all of me, including my responses, including any pleasures I might have. My body wasn’t mine – why had I thought my orgasms were mine? They were his, and they were denied.

  Garid could see his pet relaxing her hold. She stopped struggling when the belt went on, accepting the inevitable with shudders as the metal touched her, hanging her head and relaxing her thighs. Sometimes she still cried a little, but she was all the more eager to take him in her mouth. She would lean against his thighs afterwards, and rest her head on his lap. If her hands were free she clung to him, her arms around his hips, while he stroked her hair.

  One evening he looked down between his thighs at her. She was pressing her cheek to his damp and semi-flaccid cock, giving his thigh little kisses, her arms locked together behind her back. The tight leather harness she wore restricted her breathing almost as much as a corset, and the straps circling her breasts thrust them forward, twin tight goblet-shaped mounds, the skin smooth and shiny. The chastity belt disappeared between her legs, where it locked to her wet and needy cunt, and held dildos in both her holes. He leaned over and stroked her buttocks, bisected by the thin rod up the back of her belt. There were plenty of marks, some recent and some older, he stroked the rounded beauty of them. She sighed and snuggled closer to him. He straightened up, pulled up on her breasts and began playing with them, pushing the swollen mounds together and flicking the rings up and down. She closed her eyes and then opened them again. She looked at his stiffening cock and opened her mouth almost involuntarily, moaning, her tongue reaching for it slightly. The dildos had been locked inside her all day, and she had accumulated a heavy weight of arousal, deep and multi-layered, complex in the crosscurrents of sensation, from breasts to cunt, from filled mouth to filled ass. He could sense that this was no longer something she expected to have resolved.

  He picked her up and laid her supine on the bed. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked her. This usually meant that he intended to use her asshole, but occasionally he used her cunt without letting her come, by numbing her first with an anesthetic. This time he drew the belt and both dildos out of her and toyed with her for some time, stroking her inside and out, watching her carefully for any attempt to take control. He saw none. She lay passively, accepting everything he did with moans and gasps, but no thrusting, no reaching for more. She was trembling, and he slowed his stroking for a while, then sank his mouth to her nether lips, gently tonguing her anywhere but her clit, moving his tongue and then not moving, then moving again and listening to the rising sound of her voice. Then he rose over her, gathered her up and shoved his cock into her soaked, slippery opening. Her eyes opened wide in shock. The surprise was almost instantly overtaken by the first convulsive orgasm. She screamed as the orgasms racked her, one following another so quickly she could hardly get her breath. He gripped her body like a vice, like an owner. When he finally accelerated his thrusting and reached his climax she peaked, lost her voice, and passed out.

  Garid watched his pet carefully over the next weeks and months. At times he could still sense manipulation, resistance: the subtle drive of muscles under her own command, the guerrilla flash of eyes half hidden behind their lids. Her voice would carry a barely perceptible undertone, an urge to accomplish her own secret will and not his own. Gradually, though, this slipped away. More and more often her trembling flesh fit perfectly in his hands, malleable and yielding.

  Mostly he would just accept her acceptance, let her surrender and suffer. Once in a while he would surprise her.

  It was hard enough just getting used to moving in the belt, especially when they exercised me. They had always forced me into some form of physical activity, anything from fancy treadmills and exercise machines to locking me to a long bar on a post and whipping me around in circles. Well, actually, they whipped me on the machines, too. I had been sedentary for a long time in prison and on the ship, and at first it was pretty easy to exhaust me. They always seemed to push me further, get a little more out of me than I thought I could possibly endure. The whip was a fair motivator, of course. And sometimes they would reward me with pats, even the occasional nice rubdown.

  I noticed that they were careful to put my joints through the full range of motion every day and to make me stretch. They came up with some fairly ingenious racks and pulleys for the purpose. The difference from longer-term bondage was that I was only kept in the positions long enough to stretch the muscles, and not long enough to cramp and tense. They’d hang me from my hands on tiptoe, pull my arms up high behind my back, pull my legs wide apart, force me to stretch my hamstrings, and all slowly and inexorably, without undue force. Then would come the real exercise.

  I can’t describe the sensation, my body locked and forced and punished into activity. Fastened by the wrists and neck into the treadmill, my mouth stuffed with an air hole gag, I struggled with my restraints and my weak muscles, each sting of the whip producing a little shot of adrenaline. The frustration and strain in my thighs conveyed a tension to my cunt, often teased with a small dildo and tightly pressed by the metal belt. The dildo in my rear was almost always there also, making me feel dirty and bad and hot and invaded. Inevitably the friction and stress made me achingly aroused. There was a frantic quality to each session, a rising and overwhelming helplessness as I struggled until I was exhausted, worked up and sweating and desperate, and then struggled some more. The whip would become more and more insistent, driving me on, the whole region from my waist to my knees feeling congested, heavy and hurt, suffering with strain and need. I was beyond thought; I was part of the machine, a cog built into it, forced to motivate the mechanism, my lack of choice not relieving me of one frantic instant of exertion.
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  There were more playful times, too. Sometimes they just chained my collar to a long cable on posts that ran the length of the yard, and encouraged me to trot back and forth. Given the distance I was able to tease a bit, stop out of their reach, and then dance away again. I only did this when it was Pav or Arleben, of course; I tried it once with my master, and the consequences weren’t worth it. But the others, especially Pav, would indulge me a little in my naughtiness. In the end they always pursued me until I got a good run out of it. There was no escaping them when they really wanted to catch me, naturally, and if I was too bad, Arleben at least would punish me.

  It’s odd, but Arleben’s punishments were more likely to make me ashamed of myself than were the much more severe ones from my master. I think it was because they were simply another chore for him. Arleben administered beatings disinterestedly and almost mechanically, and his cock didn’t press against his clothes while he did it. His slight frown conveyed that I was a bad and stupid animal who was wasting people’s valuable time with her misbehavior. After such punishments, if I could, I would whine and push my head low against his leg, to try to show him that I was sorry. His disapproval sometimes took a while to abate, particularly when he was busy. He would always forgive me in the end, but he never got fond of me the way Pav did.