Prisoner of Desire
Prologue
He was brought back to consciousness by a searing, piercing pain—the burn of a cigarette extinguished on his back. The smell of something scorched filled the air. The man whimpered pitifully and writhed on the cold floor. He couldn't see Her face—only the elegant blue high-heeled shoes, the sharpness of which his long-suffering body remembered all too well—but he knew that a satisfied smile was playing on Her desirable, full lips.
She, with a haughty smirk, studied her handiwork—the man's back was covered in terrible, in some places bleeding, red stripes from his shoulders all the way down to his buttocks, which in turn were a bloody mess.
She knew that simply reddening the slave's backside would have no effect, as over months of constant torment, the skin on that soft spot had gradually grown accustomed to the pain. Now She had to conduct such bloody sessions all the time to achieve the desired result, yet this circumstance didn't upset Her too much; on the contrary, it amused Her greatly.
Madly in love with inflicting pain, She disliked that the slave would pass out after a few dozen lashes of the whip, forcing Her, who had just begun to get aroused by the process, to constantly revive him… whipping a lifeless body brought no satisfaction. Screams of pain, and especially, pleas for mercy, drove Her absolutely wild—She had no intention of granting the slave's requests, instead setting to work with the whip even harder.
The tormented man knew this too, as pity had never been a pronounced trait of his Mistress, yet he simply couldn't help but beg for mercy in the moments when the menacing lash, whistling through the air, wrapped around his body like a snake, leaving red stripes and unbearable pain. When the slave fell to the floor, She continued her work with the flogger, as the whip was not too convenient for lashing a prone body.
Now, as in most cases, sweating from the physical labor, She simply sprawled in a luxurious carved chair with a soft seat, back, and high armrests, made in the style of the "Renaissance" which She so loved, and, enjoying a pleasant fatigue, slowly smoked a thin cigarette.
The slave on the floor, returning from his otherworldly oblivion, began to whine pitifully, feeling again all that wild pain from which he had only escaped by fainting. He no longer cried, let alone screamed; he had no strength. She didn't gag him during the execution, why bother? No living soul would hear him anyway, thanks to the excellent soundproofing in the torture room. Very often she even, shouting at him, demanded that he scream louder.
— Yes, it seems I overdid it," She thought with a smile. "He definitely won't sit on his backside for two weeks… though who would allow him to at home? And at work… well, whatever he has there, no one cares.
— Well then, dear, I think that's enough for today—Her words reached his ears, sounding as if from somewhere far away.
— Yes… — he moved his parched, blood-bitten lips.
— Good then. Now I love you again, kitty. Go, clean yourself up, we have guests coming over tonight, and I want you to be in shape, otherwise I'm always blushing for you. Everyone else seems to have a proper husband, but you have to be raised like a child.
— Don't… don't worry, sunshine—he whispered hoarsely, exerting enormous effort to pronounce each word—I'll be as good as new by evening…
He himself didn't believe it would be so, however, no matter how bad he felt, he mustn't show it, otherwise the "education" would continue… though it would continue in any case; the only thing he could hope for was a few days of peace. She also understood perfectly well what effort it would cost him, overcoming the terrible pain, to behave freely and casually, as befits a man in his own home.
— But is he still a man at all?
Her lips parted in a triumphant smile, revealing a row of even, snow-white teeth, as she watched him slowly begin to crawl towards the door, his face reflecting the searing pain that echoed through his body with every movement. And yet, one can get used to pain… just six months ago, after such a whipping, he wouldn't have been able to even regain consciousness for several hours, but now he himself marveled at being able to wash up and tidy himself after this. He himself had also transformed—the skin on his body was adorned with numerous scars and burns from previous tortures.
— Looks rather cute," the girl thought to herself, imagining how excruciatingly painful it would be for him to wash. "I should treat him to the flogger again soon, so the wounds don't heal.
— Dear, wash up there. Wash off the blood, and then go to the store, buy some vegetables, I'll prepare a list for you. I'll make a salad for tonight.
Watching her husband, She was suddenly struck as if by lightning. She realized he was starting to get used to it, and that within a year, such entertainment would lose all its color for her. It became clear to Her that the time had come to subject her husband to tortures more sophisticated and far more cruel than whips, floggers, the heels of her shoes, and cigarettes.
She knew how to drive this pitiful creature, into which the once handsome, successful, and self-confident young man had turned, to the point of insanity. She had so carelessly crushed his life and turned it into a real, endless hell.
She derived indescribable pleasure from every second of such a life, knowing that her slave-husband experienced exactly the opposite. The most important thing was that he himself, voluntarily, went along with it, he himself threw everything he had, even his own life, at her feet… A reckless step. No man can know what a woman is capable of when she receives such generous gifts as unlimited power.
She had always been a domineering and cruel girl, but now she sometimes surprised even herself with her torturous ingenuity, trying to surpass herself, and feeling no pangs of conscience at all. Everything was as it should be…
Now he faced a trial that would truly push the boundaries of a slave's submission and suffering as far as was possible.
Her beautiful face froze in an expression of blissful calm, and she, closing her eyes, immersed herself in her fantasies, anticipating unearthly pleasure…
Author's e-mail: Vоlchоnоk@livе.ru