Part Two: The Locking… Continued

Authors’ Note : Is it blackmail that I’m submitting to anymore? Or my own secret, long denied desires — no, needs — that take me down this rabbit hole of sexual slavery that I explore? How far am I eager to go? — **slut**

***MASTER***

I await my slave a block away from the BART station. This is so I can get a good long look at you as you approach, observing your growing mastery of the public version of your “slave-walk.” Also, just to watch you be you, Kelli — the pretty, petite, raven-haired jewel of my eye. And most of all, to spot whether any of your passers-by catch a glimpse of your ankle-cuffs and give them a double-take. They do. I count three men and one young punkette glancing back at you and down after they pass you. You are dressed in the short-skirted, pink polka-dotted, summer dress I bought you (and nothing underneath, I know), legs bare, sandal pumps on your dainty feet.

And yes, ankle-cuffs.

As slender and attractive a set as I could discover — a matched chrome pair, glistening in the brilliant sunlight. I also see the riot of bangles on your right hand, the single shiny cuff on your left. Looking at your graceful, erect posture and self-assured gait, I can see that, true to your word, you wear my slave-anklets with pride.

When you reach me, you give me your subtle, public “lower-my-eyes, then-my-face” head-bow, before I lean in for a quick peck on your cheek.

What I say is, “Good afternoon, Kelli.”

What I want to say, but don’t, is, Today is the day when I will show you what it truly means to be a shackled and locked slave.

The shop is a one-block walk up Mission, a turn up 26th and one more turn down a narrow side street. Inside, one of the body-artists is at work on a hipster-boy’s upper pec, coloring in the red hair on a portrait of Max from Stranger Things. The other, idle artist, with his tat-adorned smooth-shaved head, is slumped in an armchair playing with his phone. This one looks up, a little puzzled to see the young Asian hottie with the older dude in the suit and tie.

I hand him the card, my exclusive admission ticket. “Vladic is expecting me.”

The guy nods, looking at the card. “Dude.”

He shows us to the back of the shop and through a curtain. Despite the curtain, he takes a precautionary glance back at the front of the shop, before he opens the side door, and gestures us in. After we pass, he shuts the door behind us.

As we descend the steps, you can not help yourself: “Master, what –?” you whisper.

“Shhhh,” I cut you off. “Silence from now on. Not a word or noise will pass my slut’s lips for the duration of this procedure.”

I hear your faint, excited gasp, see the décolletage of your chest flush red. Procedure? you wonder. I can sense the uncertainty and anticipation are making you hot, and I have a good mind to reach under your dress and check… but I prefer to keep you focused.

I go on, “You will keep your eyes down unless instructed, move in ‘restricted slave-walk,’ keep as still as possible, and obey all instructions instantly. My slave likes to obey, yes?”

You tip your face down, and nod.

“Any lapse in your slave-comportment will result in punishment later. By which I mean, the types of punishment I’ve learned you don’t like.”

At the bottom of the steps, I look around to discover Vladic bent over the work-bench, arc-welding the finishing touches on what looks to me to be a wrought-iron head-brank.

“Ahem,” I say.

Vladic stops what he’s doing, turns and lifts the welding hood.

“Peter, I presume?”

********

Moments later, my slut is naked and kneeling on the vinyl bench, trembling slightly at the rattling-steel sounds behind you, as Vladic returns from the stock room and approaches you. You present At-Attention — knees wide, hands clasped behind your neck, elbows out wide — a posture you’ve damn-near perfected — partly due to repetition, mostly due to the fact that it comes to you as naturally as breathing air. I wonder how it feels to you to be naked in front a stranger, at my unquestioned command.

“This is my finest stuff,” says the gaunt, blue-haired, Serbian expat, “before I even put in the custom work. This is going to run you –“

“Please,” I interrupt. “You don’t talk money in front of a slave, not unless the topic is purchasing her.”

Vladic kind of grunts in reply. He is vain, arrogant Eurotrash — but he’s MY arrogant Eurotrash — with that arrogance well earned, frankly, because he’s the best BDSM metal-worker known to me. He comes up behind you and goes to work.

I, in turn, have moved in front of you, but off to one side, watching you react to what is happening to your eager but vulnerable body.

I tell you, “I’ll admit it, slave, you’re not here for what I said it would be, so Master regrets the subterfuge. There won’t be any nipple-piercing today — or, truth be told, ever. It’s another of my principles, actually, that nipple-piercing is just a waste of useful nerve endings.”

The slender, silver steel band fits snugly around your waist and snaps in front. Vladic comes around and performs a brief adjustment to the clasp, then plucks a tiny key out of the joint, which he hands to me. Then he goes back behind you.

I lift the key in front of my slut’s face, let you see it… You know the reason I inspect you off to one side when you’re in this posture is so there will be no confusion about whether you are to meet my eyes. Because yours are alertly straight-ahead. But you make no mistake about whether I want the key to hold your rapt attention. “The key to your permanent chastity belt, slave,” I explain.

Your eyes blink, and I see the thoughts running through your mind. Funny, because those are exactly the questions I am gonna address: “You’re right, what you’re thinking — in the locker room, you’ll either have to come up with some sort of towel trickery or something — or quit the team.”

I chuckle as I watch you react: You hold posture as still as feasible, including the motionlessness of your face and open mouth, but I see a single tear well up in one eye. A moment later, I admire even more the discipline of your expression as Vladic works behind you to fit the spreader-ring between your soft, rounded nether cheeks, work it over and around your anus, and fit it up to the back of the belt with a short, slender chain.

“The gym, that could be easy,” I go on, a lilt of wicked glee in my voice. “Maybe just come and go in your workout gear, skip the shower…. Now, the beach, hmmm…”

You’ve been doing a good job so far, Kelli, but I do note that you shudder a bit as your handler fits the supple, steel front strip of the love-shield to the end of the anus-ring. He starts to bend it up over your mound — brushing your throbbing slit as he does so — you lick your lips, your eyelashes flutter — settles the rubber strips that edge the band over your pelvis, easing it carefully into the creases of flesh where your rounded vulva meets your inner thighs — you feel how flexible the soft silver steel is — working the strip up to the locking clasp in front of the belt.

“… The beach?” I laugh. “You could wear a one-piece, I guess — a fucking tragedy, though, if you ask me — your delicious bare midriff with its lovely navel-jewelry, that’s a treasure I’d encourage you to display. But I have to tell you, even if you went one-piece, um, people would see the configurations of your C-belt standing out under it, like a black eye. So…”

I shrug with mock helplessness, “… Well, I suppose I can buy you’re a few more sundresses..”

I am still holding the key steady in front of your face. It has your mesmerized, glassy-eyed attention. Not moving it from in front of your face, I lift my keychain from my pocket, and clip the new trinket on.

Vladic smoothes the flexible silver metal over your pelvis. I watch you carefully, and I think I can see a hint of sensual reaction from you as you feel the fine wire mesh of the piss-grill settle over your pussy-lips. Trying to be good and obedient and motionless as the Serb screws the steel strip into place. I go on watching as you consider the consequences of this state, running the scenarios of your day-to-day life as a chastity-belted slave.

“And your busty blonde girl-crush roommate, hmm? Deanna, right? How are you going to disguise your steel-enforced submission from someone you share a bathroom with? Or if not, how to explain it?… Your problem, slut, not mine…”

The Serb, finally satisfied with his adjustments to the entire belt, snaps the front panel into the clasp just under your navel. I wave the key in front of your face one last time, and then put it away in the breast pocket of my blazer.

“Slave,” I say seriously, “from now on, you will piss through the wire grate in front of your chastity-belt, and you will shit through the ring fitted between your ass-cheeks. You’ll wear this belt at all times, except when, at my pleasure –” I pat my pocket “– I choose to take it off. That way, your pleasure is permanently under my control…”

You can not help it, you gasp huskily.

“… And every time your slutty, undisciplined mind strays into your own selfish desires… well, that metal will be there to remind you who owns them.”

You sag a little bit in your posture, and I see it is sinking in… how the metal that is fastened and inescapably locked around your nether love-treasures… changes everything.

I say to the Serb, “And the chains?”

He brightens up. “Yes!” he says, before turning to go back into the stock room.

While he’s gone, I continue, “It will take some getting used to, Kelli, pissing and shitting in your chastity-belt. And it’ll require extra work hygiene-wise. That’s on you, keeping your hardware clean.” I move closer. “And your software, hmmm?”

Vladic returns and hands me a cluster of thin steel chains. “Wanna do the honors?”

I step up next to you and let the chains drop in my hand, holding them by the device at the hub of the five chain-strands. I see where the device fits, in the socket just below the locking-clasp in the front of your belt, and I click it gently in place.

“Hands,” I instruct you.

You present them in front of you, palms up. I take one strand of chain and clip it onto the small ring of the manacle on your right wrist, the one buried among the crowd of bangles. There’s no padlock involved here, but the catch of the clip will require a highly specialized jeweler’s screwdriver to unfasten… which is another thing I keep on my keychain, by the way. I clip another chain to your left-hand manacle, then I take the two other lengths down between your legs and clip these to your ankles.

Vladic speaks up, “In case you didn’t notice, the chain socket has its own separate lock — though opens with the same key. You can attach the chains or not, however you want. Or else — look, there’s this hook in back of the belt here, you can gather up the chains and tuck them away when the slave isn’t wearing them — you know, keep ’em handy? But I mean, the bitch has to wear loose shirts or whatever not to have that noticed –“

“I understand, please stop talking,” I tell the Serb.

I look at your dutifully impassive face. You are blushing a hot red. I take the end of the last chain, reach up and clip it into your collar-ring.

I love the sound of the *clink* as the tiny steel hook snaps home.

You are not only collared, as you have been for a week, you are collared and chained.

And now, locked.

I instruct you with a snap of my fingers: Down.

You settle into At-Ease. Relaxed, back on your haunches, hands loose on your thighs, head bowed.

You and I have gotten further in your Training, to the point where I have substituted non-verbal commands for verbal. The word “Down” has been replaced with a single snap of my fingers, the word “Up” has been replaced with a quick double-snap. Over time and with grueling repetition, you have learned to respond to these, Pavlov-ishly, as swiftly and as surely as when I speak words. This time, in the basement of the tattoo parlor on 25th Street, you don’t disappoint me — or fail to impress the Serb, who gives a little grunt at the sight of your perfect, submissive posture.

I command my slave, “Mouth.”

Your chin lifts up, high and proud. Mouth open wide. Tongue out. Beautifully obeyed, slut. I haven’t yet introduced the non-verbal for the “mouth-command,” but I will.

I take hold of the end of your tongue between my thumb and forefinger, and draw it out as far as it will go. You are squirming with anticipation, but at the same time, doing an admirable job of maintaining posture. Your eyes look straight ahead.

But I don’t think that prevents you from seeing, in your peripheral vision, the Serb approaching from your left: Holding a metal device that looks like a hole-puncher, an alcohol swab in a sealed packet, and a silver metal stud.

***slut***

I am shaking inside. Why can not I say or do something about this? This is what it means to be a slave… to be unable to withstand, to allow someone to do things to you without your permission. Up to this moment, it has been a joyful romp of fun and daring. A game. I love games. I am fearless in games, a terror on the court. I challenge bigger and more athletic players and drive past them to the hoop.

But this? This is no game.

“NNGH-nngghhhh,” I whimper, timid in my protest. I do not think Master understands my word. He continues to smile at his obedient slave, as his minion closes in to further violate me.

I look into Master’s eyes and I fearfully shake my head.

Master’s reaction is immediate. His smile vanishes. I purposefully tug against his grasp on my tongue and Master loses his grip. My slippery tongue darts into my mouth and I can speak clearly: “No.”

It is not spoken with strength nor with confidence, but I have drawn my first shaky line that he may not cross.

“No?”

“No more.” I suddenly have my voice back. He is a much bigger opponent, but I will not back down. “I won’t let you. You can’t do this. I have done everything you asked, but not this.”

His pussy cat is suddenly filling with tiger-like energy. I break posture, and when Master does not respond, I struggle to my feet. The metal-worker has become a bystander in our drama, no doubt certain of his customer’s victory. I wonder how defiant I really look, with the chains that have trapped my wrists and ankles.

“Let me go,” my voice now typical, the fear is gone.

Master has stepped back and from his pocket he has removed my phone. He is ignoring me as he scrolls my address book, which makes me angrier, then I realize his plan. Mom! Dad! Your daughter has failed you, but she can not fail herself. She has let him violate and control her body, but no more…

“Save yourself the effort. Speed dial 2: ‘Mom.” It couldn’t be simpler. And you will have destroyed me. Is that what you want? A shell? A pet with no teeth? A slut with a body, but no soul? Three holes? Is that all you want — three holes?”

I am yelling now and he has paused. Dare I push him further, dare I? Am I winning or losing?… Is this even about winning or losing?

“Your slut has a temper,” the metal-worker observes to Master.

Master does not say a word. He has become silent, but he raises his eyebrows and cocks his head as if to say, It would seem so.

He still holds my phone in his hand. We stand at three corners of a triangle and no one moves. I am breathing deeply, ready to fight, but my claws have been cut by these damn chains.

Master shows no emotion. His face is void of expression. I have said all I need to say. The next move is his.

He purses his lips, looks at his assistant, then back at me.

I hold his gaze; my heartbeat is nearly normal.

He sets my phone on a table and turns to walk away!

“Wait! Where are you going?” I shout.

He ignores me and continue towards the stairs.

“Wait, you can not leave me like this!” My voice takes on an edge of panic. He stops again and reaches into his pocket, removing his key chain. I watch as he removes a small screwdriver and sets it on the arm of a chair near the stairwell.

“Wait, what about, about –?”

But he has left the room and the sound of his footsteps up the stairs indicate he is not slowing, leaving me behind, alone…

… and suddenly empty.

To be continued…