The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Discipline and Reward

A Love Story

Disclaimer: Standard “free porn” disclaimers apply. If you are too young, or don’t like pr0n, or just aren’t into my kinks ... go away.

Copyright Notice: © 2013-2017 Baltimore Rogers () All rights reserved; this story is not to be reproduced in any form for profit without the express written permission of the author. This story may be freely circulated only in its entirety and with this notice attached.

Synopsis: For millennia she had fought all comers, and prevailed. But how can she fight against her own dreams ... her own desires?

On Formatting:

  • I use guillemots («») with italic content to denote unspoken thoughts, of which there are a great many in this story, e.g.: «I’m thinking of a number between one and ten.». My apologies in advance to native or fluent French readers.
  • I also sometimes use italics for emphasis, to denote onomatopoeia, or to denote foreign language words. My italics wear lots of hats (ugh), but which hat should always be clear from context. En garde!
  • I sometimes use variations of typography to denote typewritten or handwritten content. Where allowed by the site hosting the story I will use either a specific font class or an image. Where not otherwise allowed I will use monospaced, indented/centered text.

    This is your official typewritten notice that this is an official typewritten notice.

Chapter 1. In which our heroine has a disturbing dream

Air Marshall Curtis Prestridge, Commander of the British forward base on the Mediterranean island of Crete, really didn’t have time for this foolishness. The Hun was practically knocking at his door, and that daft Lieutenant Wilson was on the telly from the guard post wanting him to talk to some young local girl.

Eavesdropping though I was, I couldn’t help but find it annoying (yet again) that in his head he pronounced it “leftenant”. I know there is no love lost between the French and the British, but that’s no excuse for going out of their way to mangle every French word they import into their mongrel language.

“Please, Sir,” the lieutenant pleaded on the phone, “You have to come see this. A woman, Sir! She-she brought back Simon, err, Flight Lieutenant Tremaine. Sir, she flew!

Simon Tremaine was one of Prestridge’s finest young officers. The senior officer had been sad when the man had not returned from his reconnaissance mission two days back. Fortunes of war, wot? He was, of course, happy to have the boy back, but something about the lieutenant’s frantic tone set the base commander’s teeth on edge.

“Steady on, lad,” replied the base commander, “Is Tremaine alright?”

“Oh, yes sir,” said the young officer, “His plane crashed, bumps and scrapes and whatnot, oh, and his left arm is a bit dicky. But he should be fine in a few weeks. We shipped him off to the infirmary.”

“Right then,” said the commander, breathing a bit easier, “And his crew?”

“Sorry, sir. All lost in the crash. But sir, the woman—”

“Blast it, Wilson,” growled Prestridge, no longer able to hide his annoyance, “we’ve lost one of our best bomber crews and you’re prattling on about some female. So she can fly. What’s so bloody amazing about a woman pilot? Some of the RAF’s finest trainers are women!”

“No sir. You don’t understand. She was just ... flying. Without anything. No plane, no wings, no Flash Gordon rocket-pack, not even much in the way of clothes—bare arms, bare shoulders, bare back, bare legs, like some sort of pin-up girl in a swimsuit—beg pardon, sir. Carrying Simon in her arms like a child, she was. I saw her as she came in, but I was so shocked I couldn’t utter a peep. When she landed she startled Hawkins, sir. He ... well, sir, he shot her.”

“Ah. Poor lass. But wait ... you wanted me to talk to her, right? Did Hawkins miss?”

The Royal Marines officer sucked air sharply as if personally affronted. ”No sir, not a chance! Begging your pardon, sir, but Hawkins is my best marksman, cool as a cucumber when under fire as well. Sir ... you’d best just let me tell you.“

Prestridge heard Wilson draw another deep breath. “When she saw that Hawkins was raising his rifle she moved quick as the devil’s own cat. She turned her back to take the bullets for Simon. Hawkins had already loosed three rounds by the time I yelled cease. Beautiful pattern too. Tight cluster of holes right between her shoulder blades.”

On the phone, Prestridge heard the lieutenant pause and draw a slow breath, as if trying to figure out how to continue.

“Except, well sir they weren’t bullet holes. They were bullets, little pancakes of hot brass and lead. She flexed her back a bit and they peeled off and fell to the ground. Her hide was less marked than a tank would have been after such treatment!”

Prestridge was still having trouble parsing what his subordinate was saying.

“So you’re saying she flew without wings and stopped three rifle rounds with her bare skin?”

The lieutenant sighed audibly. “Yes sir. That is precisely what I am saying.”

“Well then, Wilson, I suppose I simply must meet this remarkable young lady.”

* * *

What ensued was the most incredible night of the senior officer’s life.

At first, he thought that it must be some sort of grand joke. The woman was beautiful and voluptuous, but couldn’t have been more than twenty, no more than a child really. She was clearly a local girl by her coloration and facial features. And then there was her, ah, attire. Burlesque dancers wore more clothing, and less garishly colored besides that.

But she spoke the King’s English perfectly, with an Eton accent even. And her bearing was noble, regal. And her eyes. There was something about her eyes that forced him to take her seriously. He was reminded of his last posting in Britain, before shipping off to Crete. A few of the royal family had come to “rally the troops” before their deployment, and he had somehow wound up briefly entertaining young Princess Elizabeth. From the outset he’d tried to joke with her as he did with his own daughters, but she would have none of it. She was there for a serious purpose and behaved as such. Friendly, but with every bit the gravitas of the King himself. Even so, his memory of the majesty of young Elizabeth’s bearing seemed but a shadow of the majesty projected by the girl standing before him now.

He should have thought her mad, prattling on about “Immortal Amazons”, and “Greek Gods”, and “Gifts of Power”. But he could not deny that she could back up everything she said. Her demonstrations of speed, strength, toughness, magic even—what else do you call it when someone rises up in the air before your eyes and flies around the room?—were beyond dispute.

But what she wanted from the Base Commander was even more amazing. She wanted to fight the Nazis, but not as some lone vigilante partisan, and not as some Mata Hari spy. She wanted official sanction as a warrior, a place in the Allied command structure.

“I’m a soldier,” she said, “I don’t want to act on my own, like some foolish gunslinger. I want to act in concert with my fellow soldiers. You have seen my powers, and there are more besides these, but I know that I am only one soldier. I need your army as much as you need my power. Find me a place. I will fulfill whatever role I am given to the best of my ability, as a cog in the greater machine.”

Prestridge was flummoxed. He was happy that the girl did not want to strike out on her own because he was quite certain he would have no way to stop her. But the idea of a woman in combat ... there was simply no way this would pass muster on the home front. This whole situation was political dynamite far beyond his pay grade. But he had years of experience to guide him. He knew when to bump a problem further up the chain.

“How far can you fly without tiring?” he asked her.

“As far as it takes.”

Prestridge rousted his staff clerk, young Corporal O’Reilly, and began dictating a letter of introduction for the young lady ... to Allied Command in London. Of course, he did not just want to dump this problem, this amazing opportunity, in someone else’s lap and run for cover. He owed his superiors his best take on how to handle things. After another two hours of thought and dictation, he handed her two envelopes. The first, the aforementioned letter. The second was fixed with the Top Secret seal and the title: “A Proposal for Project: Majestic”.

She was on her way before the dawn broke.

* * *

It had been a long day for Cynthia Royal, Amazon Warrior Princess. You would have known her these past seventy-odd years by her call sign: Majestic Woman. For over twenty-four hundred years before that, she was known to a select few simply as Kynthia.

Where was I? Oh yes, long day. She had foiled two robberies, one at a bank, another, oddly, at an army munitions depot. And she had answered a Legion of Heroes call to deal with yet another two-bit supervillain, a weather-maker whose grandiose name she couldn’t even remember right now. She, Magic Lamp, and Sea King had stopped the villain from generating a series of category five hurricanes aimed to level the entire US eastern seaboard.

The outcome of the supervillain encounter was never in doubt, but it was still hard work for all three of them. I had been piggybacking along with her all day; I knew she was tired. Of course, she had no idea I was there, or that I might even exist. Air Marshall Prestridge never knew about me either, even though I monitored him daily until Crete was overrun by the Nazis. I guess you could call this eavesdropping part of my “super power”, but I don’t really think in such terms.

But we are talking about her, not me. And I had to hand it to her. She made it look easy. When I was only in the middle of my third millennium, I wasn’t nearly as accomplished as she was. Of course, is hard to compare cases. My third millennium was a long long time ago.

But, impressive or not, even superheroes get tired, and Cynthia was worn out. So she put on some comfortable night clothes, not particularly sexy, alas, and slipped between the covers. In no time at all I could see that she was deep asleep, lost in her dreams. As is normal for dreams, hers were fragmented, a miasma of images, feelings, desires, fears, all logic-free and without narrative, very loosely tied to events of the recent past. As is normal for a person who lives a life of danger, Majestic Woman’s dreams were violent.

I decided to strike when her dream had her naked except for her tiara and boots, in the grip of a giant blue fist generated by Magic Lamp. Except, in this dream Magic Lamp had the face of Ares, her sometimes nemesis, a rogue “Greek God”. If you knew what I know, you would know why I used those quotes. In any event, none of that had been my fault. Her true dreams were her own. But it was a perfect opening, and so I took it.

It was a simple three-body in-place swap. I have been doing them for much longer than there has been written language. First I swapped with my slave girl, Annette, then from inside the girl’s body I swapped with Majestic Woman, then from Majestic Woman’s body I swapped back to “my” body—actually a male slave, Greg, that I am riding right now. This left my slave girl and Cynthia in each other’s bodies, and me back where I started (that’s the “in-place” part). Call it another part of my “super power” if you must. In fantasy or science fiction stories, this is often called “mind swapping”, but of course from my perspective, my “mind” is always with me, so I have always thought of it as “body swapping”.

Hence this wonderful tableau: Cynthia lay before me naked. Her knees were on the floor but spread apart, her lovely rear raised high, her head and her bountiful chest bowed down to touch the floor, her arms stretched out before her, palms raised in supplication toward me. The slave girl I chose for Cynthia to occupy was a virtual duplicate of Cynthia’s own body, though clearly without her powers or physical training. I had worked seventy-odd years to breed such a duplicate from within my slave herd: those piercing brown eyes set in that beautiful face, that flawless Grecian olive complexion, those wild cascading black curls, that amazing hourglass figure, topped with those huge yet firm mammaries, bottomed with that generous heart-shaped, um, bottom.

Since this body belonged to one of my slaves though, there were a number of “bonus features” that were not in Cynthia’s own body. For example, even if I had not had the slave masturbate to the edge of orgasm before the body swap, this female slavebody would be very sexually aroused. There would be no way she could help it. The apartment was permeated with the smell of my male slavebody’s pheromones. And there were other aspects of temperament associated with this body that would work toward my interests and against Cynthia’s.

Now it was time for me to deploy another “power”: seed thoughts. I can plant them, but I can’t make the receiving mind believe them. I use this ability carefully, sparingly; it can backfire. Remind me to tell you about Isaac Newton some time. In any event, there is always some risk, but I didn’t think this seed would fail me:

«I must be dreaming.»

The seed was planted. She eagerly accepted the thought as her own. She wanted to believe it.

She was sprawled worshipfully before me. She was more horny than she had ever been in her whole multi-millennial life. She thought she was in a dream. So far, so good.

* * *

At the risk of interrupting whatever ... activities you might be engaged in at the moment, I should probably explain myself, lest I confuse you beyond reason. Well, best to begin at the beginning, right? I, as I think of myself, was born approximately twelve thousand years ago somewhere in Eastern Europe or Western Asia. I think.

Sorry, that’s the best I can piece together at this point in time. We didn’t exactly have GPS smartphones back then. There were rolling forested hills, green meadowy valleys, and snow-capped mountains in the far distance. That help any? Not surprised. Hasn’t helped me either. Anyhow, the body into which I was born lived a mere fifteen years, but I live on.

My name was Jovan, and, like every other young man I knew, I was a hunter. In point of fact, at the tender age of fourteen summers, in only my second summer of hunting, I was the lead hunter for my village. I always seemed to know where the herds and the predators were. I always seemed to know which animals would be easiest to cut out of the herd. And, perhaps more importantly, I knew the other men. I knew their strengths and their weaknesses; I knew their thoughts and their impulses. I knew how to meld these men into a team.

Of course, I was not yet at the peak of my physical prowess, but neither had been my predecessor. The lead hunter before me, my uncle, had been an ancient man of thirty-seven summers. His mind had been sharp; his experience, invaluable. But he was old and his wind was failing him. Over the years he kept leading shorter and shorter—and hence less and less successful—hunts. When I took over, our fortunes improved dramatically.

So I was a leader, a provider, a good and—in my way—strong man. And I was in love. Although I had known Navya all my life, suddenly she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen: long, tangled sandy brown hair atop a perfect heart-shaped face, a beautiful shy smile, and at eighteen summers, all the bodily charms a stone age man could want.

Furthermore, I knew—knew—that she wanted me too. I knew she saw scrawny Jovan as a man who would one day lead his people. When she smiled and batted her eyes at me with outward innocence, behind the eyes I saw avarice. It disturbed me, but I had to admit that the things I felt about her were not altruistic either.

Even so, the cunning I saw behind that pretty face froze me with fear. Spear in hand I could face down a charging elk, but I could not face Navya, No matter how much I lusted after her. Fourteen was still fourteen, even back then.

Of course, the other men gave me no end of grief about it. I remember the playful taunts of my older brother Eevan. “We wonder that you can see our thoughts, magic boy”, he teased, “but when you look at Navya, every man can see your thoughts ... We see them rising up between your legs!“

This, of course, brought gales of laughter from the entire hunting party. I marched stoically on in silence, ears burning red. I was the leader, but a leader among friends. Some days I was the joke, some days the joker. But this was my team, my hunt, my world, and it was a good one.

It was in the spring before my fifteenth summer that my life changed forever. We were following a herd of goats on the hillside—yes, it’s not all aurochs and mammoths; sometimes it’s goats—anyway, we were hunting goats. I was crouching behind a rock about the size of a small table, reaching my mind into the herd, looking for the easiest kill. The rock that hid me had probably stood there for endless eons, but it chose that moment to give way. I tried to jump to the side, but it caught me anyway, crushing my foot.

Eevan carried me all the way home. I was screaming in pain, then moaning in delirium, and finally, mercifully, I passed out. In the village, our old wise ones treated me as best they knew how. When I awoke Eevan was there.

“You scared away the goats,” he joked, but his eyes reflected my pain.

In my pain I tried to joke back, “I guess even I can’t see into the mind of a rock.” Yeah, we were a laugh a minute.

My foot was mangled beyond recognition, and soon it was infected too. For about a month, no one was sure whether I would live or die. Navya came to see me every day. Her words were hopeful, but inside she was saying goodbye. She thought I was dying; she never said it, but I knew. So I stopped wanting to know what she thought, and so I didn’t.

After all, it does take me some act of will for me to penetrate a mind. And really, it was just as easy not to “hunt in others’ heads” while I was in agony. I was a bit ... distracted.

Slowly, though, I got better. By Midsummer, I was standing with the help of a stick. By Leaf-fall I was hobbling around with an improvised crutch, trying to find some way to be useful. I even tried to help with the women’s work, but the women just shooed me away like the child I had once again become.

Eevan took over the hunt. I was happy for him; he was a good leader. But I didn’t see much of him after that. Even when he was in the village, he was avoiding me. I saw Navya almost every day, but the pained look on her face told me I still didn’t want to know what she thought, and so I didn’t.

I actually did look in her head once when she was with me. She had seemed distracted, so I wanted to know what she was thinking about. Big mistake. She was trying to figure out which bachelor to set her sights upon now that I was useless to her. I vowed I would never read her mind again. Ha! Never say never, right?

One day not long after that, Navya found me alone in the bachelor’s hut (yurt? yaranga? tipi? lodge? The word we used wouldn’t mean anything to you). She told me that Eevan was back from the hunt and wanted me to meet him at the falls. I knew exactly where he meant, even though Navya didn’t. There was a rocky outcropping overlooking a nearby waterfall that had been a favorite haunt of ours as young boys.

I hobbled away from the village and struggled up the path to the cliff’s edge as best I could with my crutch. Eventually, I dropped in exhaustion and pain next to my big brother, happy to see him, legs dangling over the precipice, watching as the river fell endlessly onto the rocks below.

I saw the pain on Eevan’s face as he began.

“Jovan,” he said, so serious, and stopped as if searching for words. So I looked into his head to see what was bothering him.

And then ... I knew.

I knew Navya has declared her love to Eevan (whatever that really meant). I knew Eevan loved Navya (Truly. I was seeing his innermost thoughts, after all). I knew they were going to share a home and a life and children, and that this is what he had come here to tell me. In that moment I hated my brother. It was the boulder, not Eevan, that had taken my life, my standing, my woman from me, but he had been more than happy to step into my place. I wanted to kill him. No, I wanted to be him. A stabbing pain blossomed behind my eyes, and I passed out.

When I awoke, I sat up, but something was different. I looked down at my two perfect feet, attached to a larger and more muscular body than the one I knew. I felt the full beard instead of my own boyish face. And then I saw ... me.

The other me had also fallen unconscious, but was wakening. My other self looked up at me, clearly confused.

“Jovan?” he asked.

It was the last thing my brother had said to me before we blacked out. And even in that higher, reedier voice, my voice, I knew it was my brother, speaking to me with my lips, looking at me with my eyes. And I was looking right back at him, with his eyes. I was still confused but I remembered my pain, my anger.

Eevan had the life that I wanted. Eevan had the life that I deserved. But now ... now I was Eevan.

Grabbing my frail and crippled former body, I looked my older brother in the eye and threw him off of that cliff.

* * *

But enough about me ... where were we? Oh yes, that Fabulous Femme, that Amazing Amazon, that Luscious Lady, that Super Slut. Majestic Woman—well, a woman with Majestic Woman’s mind—lay naked and prostrate before me. Of course, she didn’t stay that way, more’s the pity. She shook her head slowly and rose unsteadily to her feet, disturbed by her nakedness but still certain she was dreaming.

“Whoa, Cynthia girl, this is a bad one,” she said, shaking her head, trying to take in her surroundings.

It was clearly a man’s apartment, a large, luxuriously appointed one. As she turned to take in her surroundings she saw the spotless, well-lit kitchen. Further, a wall of windows, ceiling to floor, displaying an outdoor patio and a sweeping city skyline. It wasn’t a skyline she recognized: Portal City, or Cosmopolis, or Carthage City ... or London or Los Angeles or Singapore for that matter. But it was clearly “civilization”. Turning further yet she saw a massive entertainment center, a giant wide-screen displaying ugh a football game. Completing the circle she saw the front door, the hallway to the rest of the apartment, and, apparently for the first time, me.

The slave body I was using at that moment was my current favorite, Greg Wolfe, a large man with short blond hair and a close-trimmed, sandy brown beard; she could see that I was clearly much taller than her and solidly muscular. She watched me lounging on a huge white sofa watching the game.

Instinctively she tried to cover her nakedness. As she looked at me, lightly touching her breasts and her sex, she could not help but notice the hardness of her nipples, the hairlessness of her groin, and the dampness between her legs. Looking at me she felt a twinge of ... desire?

That confused her: «No, that can’t be right!»

My slave had done an excellent job of preparing this body; I had felt it myself as I passed through during the body switch.

Most women, upon waking up to find themselves naked before a physically imposing man, a stranger, would feel at least a touch of fear ... but she’s Majestic Woman. Besides, I was clearly not threatening or even noticing her. Now she was more convinced than ever that she must be dreaming. Normally men couldn’t take their slimy eyes off of her. Now here she stood naked and this ... gorgeous ... man couldn’t even take his eyes off the game.

“Excuse me,” she said, somewhat tentatively.

Ah, that was my cue.

“Get me a beer, baby bitch.”

No eye contact. Still watching the game.

Cynthia went from zero to boiling in an instant. She was no longer using her arms as fig leaves. Now she was holding out her fists in a fighting stance. Except, her arms looked ... thin, no bulging biceps or muscular forearms. She looked down her body, voluptuous breasts but no hard pectorals beneath them, flat stomach but no hint of washboard abs, sleek, sexy legs but no hard muscle. In fact, no hard muscle ... anywhere. The only hardness she saw was in her nipples, standing out from her breasts like two reddish-brown rubber bullets.

Now angry and flustered she snarled, “Exactly who do you think you are? And who do you think I am?“

I finally turned to look at her.

“Well,” I said as if explaining to a child, “You’re the naked slut standing in the middle of my living room, and I’m the guy telling you to get me a beer. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Beer.”

Flashpoint. The trained warrior was moving, but, she felt sluggish, slow. Screaming her battle lust, but, her voice quavered.

Already I was standing, ready for her attack. Her fist came for my jaw, but I was already grabbing her by the wrist and spinning her around. Her back slammed hard into my chest, knocking the wind out of her. As she bounced back, I pinned both of her arms behind her with one of my own.

As she recovered her breath she began to buck and kick wildly trying to escape my grasp, but I anticipated and countered every move. Even as she struggled I heard her inner voice trying to calm herself, «It’s just a dream, a nightmare.»

It was time to plant another seed. I was hoping this thought would occur to her on her own, but it was okay. She’d been a bit busy since she woke up in my apartment.

«He doesn’t know who I am! He doesn’t know I’m Majestic Woman!»

For a moment she stopped struggling in my grasp. The thought appealed to her pride.

«This thug doesn’t know he has subdued a superhero.»

The thought made it easier to submit since no one would ever know that “Majestic Woman” was captured with such ease. Easier to submit, maybe, but she didn’t. She still had her pride and renewed her furious but futile attempts to escape my one-armed grasp.

Grabbing a handful of her wild, jet-black hair, I jerked her head back. Again, she paused. Her chest was heaving. She looked up and back into my eyes, still furious but now silent.

Looking down at her I calmly whispered the word that would soon make her knees weak with terror. Just one little word that really didn’t sound so frightening at all:

“Discipline”

* * *

After dropping my little sound bite into Cynthia’s lovely ear, she and I were off to my training room. It was just a simple two-for-two swap with my waiting slaves already there, but for Cynthia, it was a TV scene cut. Out of the frying pan and into the dungeon. The surrealism of the sudden change of scenery reinforced her belief that she was dreaming ... only dreaming.

My training room has an ambience intended to evoke the ghost of Torquemada. There were whips and chains, bludgeons and branding irons, pincers and thumbscrews and racks, all tastefully decorating the torchlit dark stone walls. But they really were just decoration. Part of the idea of the training room was to make the threat of discipline ultimately more powerful than the discipline itself. I don’t actually use the crude methods on display. Oh, to be sure, I do use torture, but I torture efficiently and effectively, not extravagantly.

When most people imagine torture—and believe me, they are fortunate only to imagine it—they imagine pain. But pain, if used, is just a means to an end. What I am really trying to produce is fear, a specific and directed fear that I can use as a lever to move a human mind in the direction I want. I’m good at this. I’ve been doing it for a long, long time.

That doesn’t mean that I rely on old-fashioned methods. Like most modern practitioners of the, ah, “art”, I rely heavily on waterboarding. It’s very effective. It engenders a truly primal fear of drowning. If done correctly, it causes absolutely no physical harm. And, unlike most pain-based torture methods, the subject has no way of building up any sort of mental tolerance. That is to say, when using pain as the medium of torture the subject’s mind and body can ultimately become “pain fatigued”. It becomes harder and harder to get the fear you want out of the same pain-producing stimulus.

However, if there is anything that the human body absolutely has to do, it’s to breathe. The mind really can’t trick itself into believing the “not breathing” is acceptable. It really is the simplest and most effective means of torture yet invented. So unless you just like pain for pain’s sake—you sick fuck—waterboarding is the way to go.

So, back to the training room. Cynthia found herself in my delightful little dungeon, completely restrained, legs apart at a small angle, one hand over her hairless cunt. The other arm was locked at her side holding a small cylinder with a thumb button on top.

The surface supporting her was “form-fitting” and comfortable. Although it was metal it was not cold. The restraints, while completely, err, restraining, were padded and, again, comfortable. I didn’t want anything to distract her from what I was actually doing to her.

With her head pinned down, giving her a limited view of herself, and the dim light besides that, she hadn’t yet noticed her current body’s pale northern European skin. Her now-blonde hair was tied right against her skull, so she couldn’t see that change either. But she couldn’t help but notice the change in me.

I was present in my “dungeon master” slavebody. This slavebody is also large and muscular, but normally he is completely hairless except for brows, lashes, and a black Van Dyke—the visage of evil incarnate. However, in anticipation our “guest of honor”, I ordered him to grow out his hair, to keep his facial hair down to a stubble, and to dye it all blonde. It’s not a perfect match, but as I leaned over her, the differences were small enough to fit within her conception of the “dream”. Cynthia still saw me as the same man from the apartment.

She was lying at a downhill angle; feet higher than head. The restraint table was hinged to rotate—roughly along the axis of her spine—one-eighty and lock, so I could put her face up or face down at a moment’s notice. Beside her head were clips to hold the water hose (which was at that moment running noisily into the drain grating below her head), and a towel (which was dangling down loosely at the moment, out of her sight). She was wearing a ball gag with a front clip release, not because of some fetish—although my dungeon master and his wife are into that sort of thing; that’s how he became my dungeon master, after all—but because I wished to speak uninterrupted. Cynthia made her anger known anyway, but it was muted enough that I could speak over her.

“In your left hand, you have a signaling device, a clicker. The button is on the top. I have taken the liberty of super-gluing it to your hand so that you do not lose it. I am rather a fan of the Socratic method, so I will ask you questions or make statements that require a response from you. When you wish to cooperate you may press the clicker. Satisfactory responses may be rewarded. Unsatisfactory responses will be punished. Shall we begin?“

With that I removed the ball gag and wrapped the towel over her face, ignoring her angry screams, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t possibly get away with th-urrgle-gurgle—”

BRAP! I sounded the universal game show “wrong answer” noise and deployed the water hose. Majestic Woman clearly knew what is going on. She understood how waterboarding works. She was as composed as she could be while seething with rage. Ultimately that didn’t make the technique any less effective. Ultimately she had to inhale. She tried, failed, panicked. She tried to cough out the water flooding her throat and nose to no avail, the wet towel held it all in. I was waiting ... waiting ...

Click-ick. In a well-practiced motion, I flipped the table, allowing the towel to fall from her now downward-facing face.

She coughed the water out of her airways and began a long string of curses, in Greek.

BRAP! Flip. Cover. Hose. Wait.

Click-ick. Wait.

Click-ick. Wait.

Click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick. Flip. Cough-cough-cough.

“You said that you’d—". BRAP! Flip. Cover. “Nooooo!” Hose.

As she drowned helplessly I spoke. Casually. Conversationally. This was nothing to me. She was nothing to me.

“I said to click when you are ready to co-op-er-ate. You apparently don’t know the meaning of the word.“

She began continuous clicking again, but I was in no hurry and continued talking over it.

“Furthermore, I never said that I would stop when you clicked. I stop when I feel like it. Your discipline session is not going well so far. I suggest you try something different. Are you ready to cooperate?”

Flip. Cough. Silence.

“I said, ‘Are you ready to cooperate?’”

More silence, then she whispered, “Yes.”

Only the certainty that her defeat was anonymous cushioned her shame.

“Yes, what?”

“Look you bastard ... " BRAP! Flip. Cover. “Oh, no ... NAAGH!” Hose, needless to say.

Click-ick. “Just a reminder that you are pondering the question, ‘Yes, what?’".

I waited while she stewed ... and suffocated.

Click-ick. Flip. Cough.

“Yes ... sir,” she croaked.

BRAP! Flip. Cover. Hose.

“Ooo, so close.”

I think you get the picture of the ... physical aspects of this repetitive process, so from this point I’ll just recount the conversational elements.

Click-ick. “Please don’t make me ... " BRAP!

And may I just interject at this point how much I love that word “please”?

Click-ick. “Yessir, yessir, yessir, yess—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “I don’t know what you wa—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “Please, I can’t—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “Yes ... m ... m ...”

The suspense was killing me.

“... My Lord.”

Well, clearly I was going for “Master”, so I almost buzzed and drowned her again, but instead a warm feeling crept over me. I rather liked “My Lord”! It had sort of medieval, feudal ring to it. I remembered “feudal” and smiled; good times. The bitch had actually exceeded expectations!

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Believe me, the game show surrealism actually served my purpose. Every little bit convinced her more and more that this was a dream. But I won’t deny that I was enjoying myself too. But work or play, every little capitulation brought me a step close to my true goal and thus required positive reinforcement.

“Good girl! You may pleasure yourself.”

Her hand twitched above her snatch.

“Wha?”

“Oh, surely I don’t need to train you to masturbate, do I?”

“No, I’m not gonna—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “Dammit, I’ll never—” BRAP!

“What should you do when I reward you?”

As one might expect, our heroine was reluctant to jill herself off in my presence, and continued through several cycles of ever-weaker protests, until ...

“I should accept your reward.” Exhausted, defeated, she began to touch herself.

“Stop! ‘I should accept your reward’, what?”

My Lord!” she shouted, “I should accept your reward, My Lord!

Fear and shame suffused her being, but so did ... arousal. Sexual arousal. Sexual desire for me, her tormentor. And she hadn’t even touched herself yet.

Ding! “Better. You may begin.“

Her hand began to rub her sex, or so it appeared. Oh, the devious slut! She was trying to fake it; she wasn’t even touching herself.

“My, my, it appears that I will have to train you to masturbate after all. I do believe contact is central to the exercise. Am I right?“

“Yes, si ... My Lord! Please ... I’m doing it now ... My Lord!”

True to her word she began to see to her pleasure in earnest, inwardly moaning «Great Hera, when will I wake up?»

Now that we had established a baseline of reward and discipline, things progressed a bit more quickly. Her slavebody-driven desires—to obey, to fuck, to submit—were keeping her off balance and aiding my task. After less than a minute she began to strain against her restraints. Soon she was moaning softly. I have bred my female slavebodies to stay on the cusp of orgasm for a long, long time, and to defer control of orgasm to their man. I was tempted to just let her wear herself out trying to crest the never-ending hill of pleasure, but I was impatient to continue.

“Stop.”

With a long moan, she reluctantly pulled two fingers out.

«Oh, Gods! Don’t make me stop.»

Silence. “What do you say when I reward you?”

“Th-th ... Thank you, My Lord.”

“Good girl.”

Thinking this was another reward, and eager to finish what she had started, she began to touch herself again.

“Uh-uh-uh,” I admonished.

Hand trembling, she stopped. Very good.

“Now, having established who I am, we should explore who, or rather what, you are. What are you?“

Fear pierced her. «Is he trying to break my anonymity? Expose my secret identity?»

“Um, I’m just a normal woma—” BRAP!

Immediately she was clicking feverishly, anything to end the helpless nightmare of drowning. But I took my time. I needed to establish context.

“I don’t want to hear from you what I can see with my own two eyes. I want you to describe what you are ... to me.”

Even as she suffocated , relief swept over her. «He’s not trying to unmask me.»

But that relief was followed by the most burning shame yet, as she realized what I was demanding of her, clearly based on what I had already been calling her.

“I’m a ... a ... I’m a ...".

She stopped . I was willing to give her a bit of time on this one. I could feel her crumbling on the inside. «Don’t make me say it! Hera, forgive me!» Besides, she was almost desperate to give attention to her throbbing cunt, still on the cusp of release.

“I’m a bitch, My Lord.”

I let the shame and the need within her marinate in silence, but I wasn’t done.

“And?” I prompted.

“I’m ... I’m ... a slut, My Lord!” She spat the words out like she was expelling something vile.

“And?”

“I’m ... w-w-w-weak. I’m needy.” Fear stabbed her as she realized she almost forgot—“MY LORD!”

“Needy?” I asked.

“I’m ... I’m ... AAAAH!”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but I knew she would. She struggled, she fought, but finally the dam broke.

“I’m horny, My Lord. I’m horny! I’m a horny bitch, a desperate, yearning cunt, a needy, whining child. I ... I ... please, My Lord!”

Now she was in free fall, within a bottomless pit, plumbing the depths of need ... and fear ... and shame.

“We’re almost there. You’re doing very well. Now, what are you ... to me?”

This one she got with no further prompting at all; she was cast adrift, hopeless. Pleasing me was the only solid ground she could find.

“I’m your ... OOOOOOH ... your ssssslave, your ... toy, your plaything. Use me now, My Lord!” she screamed. But she was thinking «Fuck me now.»

She was certain that this was what I had been building up to. She was certain that I would take her, rape her, quench her burning need.

Ding! “Good girl. You may resume.“

“I ... What, My Lord?” she begged, confused. «He’s not gonna fuck me?»

“Pleasure yourself, slave.”

With a shriek of ... everything she had inside: fear, shame, lust, bewilderment, surrender ... she dove back into her sopping hole, wondering why I didn’t take her, helpless, broken, literally begging for it. Soon she was again whimpering and moaning for release that was so, so close.

“Stop.”

She screamed! But she stopped. There was an audible sucking sound as she pulled her trembling hand out of herself.

“Please, My Lord, PLEASE!”

“We’re almost there. How should you greet me?”

“I ... uuungah ... What, My Lord?”

“Earlier today when you came into my presence, you stood before me and said, ‘Excuse me’. That hardly seems like an appropriate way for a slave, a slut, a needy animal, to greet her Lord, now does it?”

“No, My Lord ...”

“Well ...”

Fear was building, her pulse, quickening. She didn’t know what to say. She knew she would be punished. She said the only thing she could think of.

“Hello ... My Lord.” BRAP! Click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick.

“Greetings, My Sovereign Lord!”

BRAP! Click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick. “I love you, My Lord!“

BRAP!

Over the clicking, I sneered, “I don’t want your ‘love’, idiot twat!” But inside I was surprised. Where did that come from?

She was desperate. She’d say anything, if only she knew what to say. I gave her the seed, and she clung to it like a literally drowning woman.

“How ... how ...”

Burning, deep shame was offset by primal fear and unquenchable need. But something about that seed thought was ratcheting up her already unbearable arousal.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?” she mewled. She was beyond shock at the words coming out of her mouth. She didn’t even recognize herself anymore.

“Very good. Good girl. You may resume.”

Her hand dove into her cunt once again. In no time at all, she was again at the edge of cumming, but somehow just couldn’t quite get over the hump. She’d never had this much trouble getting herself off before. I needed to time this carefully. She had to learn: All discipline would come from me. All reward would come from me. All release would come from me.

She watched in horrified fascination as I took out my huge, stiffening dick. To her shock, I laid it across her upper lip, right against her nostrils. The smell was overpowering her, the male presence that she needed to have to send her over the top. The moment was almost there. Gently I said, “Cum for me now, my little baby bitch.” Immediately she erupted into an earth-moving orgasm, screaming then moaning then whimpering, her rock hard nipples rising and falling with each ragged breath.

She was confused.

«Did I need his permission to cum?» she wondered. «What has he done to me?»

Even so, she found herself truly grateful for the orgasm.

“Thank you ... My Lord,” She whimpered between gasps.

“Are we ready to try again?”

“My Lord?”

“Are we done with your discipline now? Are you ready to return?”

“I don’t understa—,” she started.

And then she remembered the penthouse apartment where this nightmare began. Her nightmare was not over yet. But somehow, even despite the fear, there was a warm feeling building within as she thought about what I might demand of her—and how wonderful it would feel when she obeyed.

“Yes, My Lord.”

To be continued in Chapter 2. In which our heroine prepares a light repast