Two For Tam.  

                                               By DemonMonsterDave

__This story is a continuation of One For Emily.

Don't read any further if you're not of sufficient maturity and wisdom to understand that the events, characters and sickness depicted here are only fantasy and should not be taken as real or even greatly dwelt upon.

____

I awoke in the usual pain. I saw a ghost of dawn from the corner of my eye. My body was completely stiff, shivering and still soaked in piss. A short list of my pains would include a general all-over aching from yesterday's long hours of standing, severe jaw pain due to the cruel steel gag, extreme shoulder cramp from the evil hammer-lock which also caused a sharp pain at the front of my throat where I assumed the gag had chafed me, arms, back, thighs; I couldn't feel my hands at all. I began to cry again, softly, with the return of wakefulness. Then, of course, my poor neglected cock woke too, and eased a little my suffering.

I lay there, mostly silent, again desperate to urinate, terribly thirsty, listening for any sounds in the house. Waiting, I suppose, for my torment to begin again. I fell into contemplation of my position, and was not surprised that my thoughts avoided the more unpleasant things I'd been told the night before. I settled instead on the positive aspects of my situation. This soon led to an uncomfortably strong erection, crushed between my belly and the hard floor, clearly unreachable. I wondered when I would have the opportunity to masturbate.

It may have been an hour later, the room fully bright with sunlight and I had been drowsing, yet again having dark dreams which ultimately faded back into my reality.  My jaw was quivering with the cold, disrupting my hearing, but despite this I thought I heard voices below on the ground floor. I felt something stir my guts with icy terror when I recognised that there was a stranger in the house, most certainly the girlfriend. My mind hastily withdrew from too much exploration of this, close as it was to his previous night's monologue, but the fear remained,  deftly converted instead to erotic terror and fuelling another bout of pointless striving cock. I imagined them sharing coffee together after her early morning arrival. It wasn't much later that the voices came nearer, and footfalls pounded up the stairs.

"....I think all night about how we control him," came the first clear words. Her foreign accent, which was unrecognisable to me, whisked the turmoil of fear inside once again.

"I thought you might," my master replied cheerily as they both entered the room.

I couldn't help rolling my eyes to the left, desperate to see this woman. She stood in the doorway,bright red mini-skirt and multi coloured T-shirt, youthful, nice shape, long dark hair, Asian tan and eyes, very pretty, slim, sexy, pink trainers, pig tails, happy smile, intense stare, green eyes. She simply looked, as my master sat again in the chair in front of me. "So, darling, do you like your gift? Happy Christmas." She moved over to him, put her arm around his shouders.

"It's not Christmas, baby," she bit her lip then, considering, "maybe I like, maybe I not."

They looked down at me. She sat on his knee, the chair creaking. She placed her foot close to my face, away from the puddle of drool which was now a goo on the floor. She kissed him, fully, and for a long time. I saw her tongue bulging around his mouth as she kissed down on him. My cock ached as his hand reached up to cup her full breast. I lay there, silently, quivering.

"Pig kiss shoe." Her tone was sharp, unkind and so foreign with associated ineffable morality. I peered up, the collar constricting my throat and making me rasp my breaths.  She looked down at me, cold and callous. Flushed from the long kiss, her nipples were poking at the front of the bright t-shirt. Her pink crossover trainer was out of my reach. She flared her nostrils, her emerald eyes tightening, and looked around for something. Master gave her  a riding crop. I saw not from where.

My mind was a flurry of confusion. She hit me across the back, still sitting on his knee. I screamed from the gag, knowing that it was an inhuman sound due to the ring of steel in my mouth. I was in terrible agony. But my body tried to move itself automatically. A line of fire. My mind became clear, I had to kiss her shoe. I struggled to move. They looked down at me.

Now she smiled. With my legs shackled, and my arms trapped behind me, I had to squirm in the slime like a worm. I wriggled forward, my genitals dragging painfully beneath me, moaning and gagging as the collar tried to suffocate me with each movement.

"Maybe not, " she said, with a grimace of disgust, and pulled her foot away. He hugged her. She laughed.

"I'm hungry for breakfast," she commanded. He looked at her with devotion, his brown eyes soft as I had never previously seen them.

"I'll take you out before work," he said. "Let me just get a nappy on this dirty animal."

She stayed away as he released my feet and arms. I cried out as my arms descended finally, sharp stabbing pains in my muscles. He rolled me over, then donned latex gloves.  He cuffed my hands at my front, again chained to the collar, but the front was a mercy.  He got a fresh disposable baby diaper, rapidly secured it on me.  She stamped her foot with impatience and spoilt self-indulgence, playacting their obvious chosen chemistry; so beautiful framed in the doorway as he worked to get me to stand, then chained my collar to the beam.

I was dizzy now, my throat and mouth totally dry.  My body wracked with the return of the stress position. The chain wasn't tight so I could finally breathe freely.  A long line of drool splashed down my chest.

"I want noodles," she ordered, whirling out of the room, the skirt flaring and sending a direct command to my hopelessly pecking cock.

Hunger added its shout to my woes, an inexplicably sharp pang that would have doubled me over but for the chain. My cock bobbed along mindlessly to the tremors of my pain, and I, far away and disconnected by the emotion and minor agonies in between, was unsure whether from horniness or the need to piss.

"And I want go shopping. I have idea." They had left me.  The line of fire on my back didn't subdue but continued to smoulder.

"Where the fuck am I going to find noodles...." I heard the door slam, two floors beneath me.  My balls ached. Car doors banged. I shivered. Car revving, racing away. I wet myself.

...

This time I was woken up by a hard slap to my belly, just above the wide elastic white of the nappy. She was in front of me, her face inscrutable. She hit me again. I grunted.

"I angry. No noodles. Blame you."

She stared at me. I looked down in real fear. Scared to meet those deeply green eyes or the intent behind them.  She hit me again.

"I will ... torture you," she said.  She sounded excited.  She had taken off her shoes. Her toenails were painted bright pink.  She had cute feet.  "I will torture you less if you good."

She slapped me across the face, and I shrieked a little at the shock and my utter vulnerability. My head rang, and the gag hurt more. She showed me the crop. Then I heard the click as she unlocked the chain from the beam. I was still disoriented as she used it to lead me over to the still drying patch of piss and drool. I followed her she led me by the collar chain, my legs creaking, my hands dangling numb, useless at my chest. I saw there was a bucket and a cloth there.

"You will clean, then you will lick," she commanded, her foreign accent still alien - a sting of apprehension. She sat in the chair in front of my previous night's sleeping area, tapping the crop against her own naked left foot as she crossed her legs.

I dropped to my knees, crouched low to reach the cloth with my hands and dip it in the bucket.  My back screamed in protest at the movements.  I tried to snuffle back tears as I started work.  She watched me.  Drool dripped onto the floor and added to my task.

It took some time, but soon most of the foul-smelling stuff was in the bucket. I had to crouch fully to the floor and stretch my neck over the obstruction of my own hands to lick the floor, but this I did, feeling my cock and balls once again tormenting me from within the uncomfortable hot moisture of the diaper. I dared not look up, feeling true submission and fear of this strange young woman. I could feel her observing me. Little quakes of terror were impossible to hide.

"Stand up," she barked. "Bring bucket." She walked out of the room. I hurried behind her, my body again protesting with stabs of pain, shuffling along with the bucket in my hands. She led me downstairs, which were slow to take with the short ankle chain, and into the bathroom.  It was very bright, large, white and almost sterile after all the mess; I felt very dirty.

She sat on the toilet, tapping the crop.

"Bucket there," she pointed out on the hallway and I hurried to comply. "You shower."

Her tone was so harsh that it played a harmony of negative emotions in me. It was dismissive and cruel and really caused me to think that she may have wildly different ideas about human rights, the value of life, and our cosseted Western idea of freedom.

I carefully entered the shower.

"Cold water. Always," she barked at me. Her face was impatient. I crouched in order to struggle the diaper off, shirking it clear of my legs at the foot of the cubicle. She looked at me with an expression of repulsion. "Shower! Quick!"

I started the water, steeling myself against the shock of cold, which wasn't so bad in fact, due probably to my constant cold state. I hurried to clean myself as efficiently as I  was able in the bondage. It was possible, but an exertion, driven forward by her demanding stare and cold impatience. It took me a few minutes.

"Come," she commanded.

The soft rug felt warm. She marched out of the bathroom, and I rushed to follow her. She led me down the stairs again to the ground floor and into the kitchen. The room felt strange after being upstairs so long. Cold air seemed to breeze over my wet body, and I was very self-conscious about my clear and throbbing erection, this first time I'd really been naked and alone with her. She looked through cupboards, handed me a wad of old newspaper. Then out of the kitchen, back up both sets of stairs to the attic room at the top which had become familiar.

Still silent, and with a stern expression on her face, she led me back under the beam.  She pulled me into position roughly and then cuffed my hands to the beam instead of my collar. It occurred that I could have fought then, if I'd had the mind to. With the collar not being pulled, and my hands somewhat free, I could probably make an escape. I probably could have; I hadn't, and now the chance had certainly gone. She left me for a moment. Returned with coloured glass jars. She set them down on the floor, then spread the newspaper around and under my feet. She left again.

I looked at the glass jars. They looked ornate rather than cosmetic. Again the fear of her foreign ways rooted itself in me, shared a deep stab to my guts with my now groaning hunger.

She returned in gloves, holding a small brush. She wasn't speaking, and I was still unable to. So silence reigned as she worked. The large jar, a red one, was some kind of foul smelling wax, which she splashed all over my body, from my feet to my neck. It had been heated, as well as stinging, and I couldn't help squirming. Then she carefully applied it to my face with one finger, around my wide open mouth, across my cheeks and lower face. It smelled like candles and something chemical. The vapour stung my eyes but she didn't get any in them. Then, without ceremony, she left. I strained to see the label on the second jar as I stood there, aching again, the wax cooling.

She returned with an intent expression and a ball of cloth. The wax had dried by now to a hard solid, rigid enough with the bondage to almost totally prevent any movement.  She stood on tiptoes and started to force the long roll of material into my mouth, it puffed out my cheeks and she continued to pack it in, grabbing my hair and pushing with the heel of her hand and even fitting a lining of it between my lips and teeth.  The remainder she wrapped tightly about my head, around the steel gag, forcing the dry ball deeply into my mouth. Cutting off almost all sound.  I groaned though, soft ... and bringing a smile to her lips as she looked me in the eye.

I groaned a great deal as she gripped cracked edges of the wax at my cheek and throat and peeled it away. It pulled the skin with it until hairs were ripped out, root and all.  My skin screamed at me. I mewled and grunted in return, but could not resist, could only endure. Never having been waxed before, I was shocked by the pain.  Her wax didn't appear run of the mill, of course, and her methodology mostly medieval.

Showing no emotion, and leaving my body red and burning like I'd never felt before, she repeated the process with the second jar and a second brush. I shook and moaned as this new substance was applied to my hot, raw, and apparently totally hairless skin.  This one didn't smell, it stank, so much so that she pinched her own nose and grimaced, slopping the liquid more liberally than before, only taking care when she painted my face with it.  A musty smell of earth and acid filled the room, and our eyes began to tear.  When she had finished, she stepped back,  making a theatrical grin at my growing discomfort as the chemical began its painful work across every part of my skin from my hairline to my feet, saving only a narrow ring around my eyes, soles of hands and feet.  She left.  A new agony ignited across my body.  A deep stinging sensation that stabbed randomly and suddenly all over my body.

"It's oil egg ant," she said incomprehensibly as she returned. I was crying like a baby from the now icy pain which covered me, but through my tears I saw she was carrying an electric floor fan. She plugged it in as she continued to speak. "It kill root your hair so you very ... sensitive and like cute soft girl. In my country we very soft skin, you see?"  She pirouetted, flicking her pig tails.

The cold blast from the fan, in the already cold room and with  the oil drying slowly on me, started me shaking  with the ice of it; and her face as she stood behind the fan, her legs apart, looking at her toy with her expressionless beauty.

Long minutes passed, she simply watching the wind dry me in my frozen terror.  I passed into semi-consciousness for a brief time, something which was becoming common, and when I returned, I saw that she was sitting with her back to me on the floor, her legs crossed, silent and patient for her product to be complete.

But of course,the thought came to me some time later, as she was releasing me, this product may take a long time to complete.

She had me shower again, leading me collared and chained, gave me her own products to use, and then waited impatiently, sitting on the closed toilet, but appearing pleased with my total hairlessness. The water - freezing cold - washed the rawness away with the chemical. My erection had predictably been constant, even when she had roughly torn the dried glaze away from my testicles, stretching the skin out so it became quite translucent, me growling like some animal, it had been almost completely unabated. Even the idea of cold showers was a myth to me personally. So, what had been my long-time favourite appendage, since I'd first learned the wanking trick, was certainly getting exercise today, and the continued state of horniness, unrelenting and unreleased, had set that almost nice dull ache in my balls. Now, as I swung the big old shower handle closed with a metallic clunk, however, my erection had become a rod of iron, suddenly, not just hard, but solid, purple, proud and leaking; seeming even larger due to my hairlessness, and it took a moment for my skin to explain why. 

I moaned slightly with the intensity of the new sensitivity on my wet skin, still dumbed by the wad of material. The feeling confused me as much as it set my prick jutting for the sky. I hesitated before I brought a hand to myself now, but the tether itself brushed against my stomach, dripping still, and each contact sent a jolt through me, setting my totally bald balls bouncing under my now enormous dancing dick. She watched, smiling her evil smile, rotating her foot with her legs crossed.

I stepped onto the soft carpet. I struggled to reach for the towel, but it wasn't my chains that prevented me. Rather, it was the fear that when that downy comfort made contact, as the gentle draught of breeze through the cold house was now doing, I could very well climax, shoot my load against the wall of this small bathroom with this young woman watching, expel my seed without any physical contact but instead from the delightful, electrically erotic yet confusingly new sensations that were racing to my brain and overloading its inexperienced pleasure centres.

I sighed. Frozen I was, my body bent and my naked, bare genitals engorged. She laughed loudly. A short haughty bark of total amusement and derision. She stood, came around me and grabbed the chain, pulled me out of the bathroom.

The cool air that assaulted my wet, totally unprotected skin caused tears to spark in my eyes, and I became concerned that my penis was somehow locked in a bulging maximum, would burst with the power of this new soft and sensitive vulnerability. She dragged me from place to place, like a pet, beginning the endless process of changing me with a good humour and dark cruelty. First, she showed me the bottle of moisturizer out of the pile of fallen shopping bags on the counter in the kitchen, holding it close to my face, as if I was stupid (which I guess I temporarily was, still stunned by each contact to my skin, be it solid or gas, or even promise of such) and she was saying slowly and deliberately: "have this everywhere every day." It took me a moment to comprehend, and the irony of her clear impatience was not lost on me, before I took the bottle she offered, opened it, and contemplated applying the pink fragrant cream to my glowing, shieldless body.

She had taken another object from the pile of plastic and paper, and it was only when she swung it and whipped me across the left thigh, bringing another dulled scream from my gag, that I focused back on her and the riding crop she was again holding. My leg lifted involuntarily, protectively, yet showed the fiery red welt to her and me. The pain was massive, and I began to cry, terrified and hurt and so dreading of another strike against my new softness and vulnerability that I simply lost emotional control, something almost as shocking.  My body froze and my face cringed involuntarily; I knew my lower lip was bulging out like that of a punished child. I had been made into a victim, by this simple loss of hair, and I was too scared to do anything about it. She grinned wider.

My mouth was begging, but my mind was still not able to get involved. Hot tears left trails of erotic feathers down my cheeks. My dick didn't change. If she hit it, it would explode, I was sure.

"You do quick, girl." Her gaze was steely. My head nodded. I bent and began rubbing the cream into my feet, holding in my groans and simply working quickly, emotional control a wild wavering thing held only in place by sheer terror of more pain on my newly baby-soft skin. The welt was still a line of red fire, and my left leg was trembling visibly with the continued burning of the welt, my foot tapping the floor as I stretched against the chains to smooth the cream over my whole body. I felt shocks of guilt, at my now feminine skin - an attachment I could not shake and that hot wired something inside me, reprogramming my brain and cock against my will, and also shocks of perversion  as the real slavery tried to reassert itself, the true slavery of mind that society had placed upon us all, saying that boys have body hair and girls do not, and only overpaid sports stars used products on male skin. Shocks of course, as the cream enhanced the softness and multiplied the sensitivity to levels that threatened to literally overload me. My body, shocked into near immobility by the rebooting brain, had only the terror to keep it moving. I did quick, as she had wished.

Next, I was led back upstairs, led by the threat of the crop now, rather than the chain which  dangled instead, led back up to the second floor and her bedroom, and this was where, for my socially-constructed self at least, things got disgusting.

She had me sit in front of her vanity and stood behind me, tapping the crop on my head, the last hair that remained to me. She opened a makeup case, and chose a bright pink varnish for my nails.

"New colour every few days," she commanded, with frightening ambiguity, and brought the crop down painfully on my crown for emphasis. I trembled, my back was totally exposed, my body was totally exposed. Did I even hesitate before opening the small bottle and clumsily applying the garishly bright colour to my fingernails? I'm not sure. I hope I did. But she didn't react if I did. Just tapped the weapon repetitively on my head as I worked, feeling some layer of my masculine soul being pared away. She ordered my feet done as well, but I couldn't without the chains being released. Instead, she had me lie down on my back with my chained ankles in the air as high as they would go, stretching my wrists down to my cock, and she deftly painted them herself.

Next, she showed me, once only, the process for cosmetics. My face became a more truly horrific sight to me after each step, even as I desperately tried to remember each of her enigmatic commands. In the end, I thought looked like a drag act themed fetish doll, even though the make up she applied was subtle and understated. I still saw the wide round O of my pink painted lips, darkened eyelashes, shadowed eyes and highlighted bone structure as the image of some explicit clown. Upon completion of all the layers, applied with all sorts of tools, she gave me what appeared to be an honestly delighted smile, and seeing my own unguarded repulsion at how I looked, she even seemed to seek to console me.

"Don't worry, baby. You get accustomed to it, every day," she stressed accustomed strangely, and her fake compassion only hammered me down as I struggled not to look at the gender perversion I had become. My dick, though, was a rock.

"Hair will grow," she said quietly, massaging the hair of my scalp, as she stood me up. Then she led me out of her bedroom and back up a level to the attic and the beam. No thought of resistance came to me any longer, so stunned was I by the recent events. My skin was still so sensitive, and felt like the legendary baby's bottom everywhere. No thought of anything past entered my head as I hung from the beam again. It seemed my mind could only now cope with difficult present and threatening future. The stripes from the crop were still burning, and my entire thigh had now become red. I lolled my head in silence. I heard the door slam two floors below. She had gone out.

It was only upon another sudden waking that I knew I'd been dreaming the awful scenes rather than actually experiencing them, and then the real memories overshadowed the nightmare for sheer gut-wrenching nastiness. I looked down at my erection, a constant tent-pole of need, my painted toe nails, so bright and wrong, my soft, smooth body, perk nipples and hairless chest.

She burst back into the room, and I shuddered in fear. She didn't appear threatening, however, wearing only underwear, cute nude bra and matching panties. I didn't know how long I'd been dozing, had no idea of time. Her naked skin was soft, hairless and very enticing. My skin reminded me of its new condition, and similarity, and I'm not sure if my erection had even subsided as I had dreamed. It was certainly reaching for her now as she walked softly towards me. She had two boxes. They were shiny and new. I eyed them apprehensively but couldn't make anything out until she revealed a large rubber collar with a large square block of plastic on one side and a little aerial. She showed me the ring of copper around the inside of it before she wrapped it and tightened it about my neck, above the metal of the first collar. The touch of the rubber on my skin made me gasp with cold and the new tight sensation, and then, as she pulled it in more, I began to gasp also for breath. It was certainly too tight, and I felt myself becoming slightly lightheaded with both collars constricting my breathing whichever way I held my neck and head. I got my first actual fear of death when she revealed a large heavy padlock and clicked it into place at the back. Then she showed me a tube of super glue, and I guessed the rest. She smiled widely, but didn't speak.

She pushed a button on the box, and the collar beeped. She giggled. I groaned, trying to communicate to her that I was about to lose consciousness, and she finally seemed to understand. She went back behind me, then pushed her finger between my neck and the rubber, causing me to gasp and choke behind the tight wad of gag. Then she unlocked the metal collar, dropped it to the floor, leaving me slightly more able to breathe. The large rubber and metal device felt like a constricting snake, exerted a constant pressure on my throat and neck. It did allow me to breathe, but with effort.

"That Gerry's," she said as she appeared back into my view, motioning to the fallen metal collar. "This your. You keep," she said, the smile full and her eyes wide with what I guessed was joy and pleasure of her dominance as she pointed at the large heavy device I wore, with its weight unbalanced by the heavy bulges and then she showed me the remote. "For teach dog. You good dog," she pressed the button, and I thought I had died.

There's no word for the pain I felt, and I blacked out after a few moments, mercifully.  When I awoke I was still hanging there by my wrists with my ankles chained together, the ring gag holding my jaw wide and numb, my body with its various wounds and aching muscles still, and seemingly ever, painted with a new perfect smoothness that plugged directly into my brain its erotic soft weakness. She was pulling the long trail of cloth out of my mouth, and dribbles of my spit brushed my chest. I cringed in automatic terror as full consciousness returned with the memory and feeling of the tight rubber neck-gear I wore. I tried to beg her, as my mouth was finally emptied but my tongue flopped numbly so I couldn't make any human sense through the still present ring. She threw the wet ball of cloth to the floor, and I became aware of the second change she had made while I'd been away in the land of oblivion.

I looked down at it, unable to understand at first. My mouth was still making noises, trying to plead, and I couldn't stop, but now I was entranced by the small clear plastic device I seemed to be wearing on my genitals.

I gasped for breath, the tight rubber at my throat was so cruel that it  required me to clench my jaws to get a real breath, otherwise I could only sip shallowly and carefully somewhat like a landed fish. Clenching my jaws was almost impossible due to the large ring holding my mouth wide open. Thus breathing took on a conscious effort, and together the collar and gag made it impossible for me to look down at all. I could just glimpse clear plastic, and feel only cold plastic tightness around my dick.

My dick! Upon thought of it, of course, it awoke too, the only part of me that seemed undiminished by my ever more desperate situation. It all came back to me in a flood, and even the instinctive terror of the electric collar could be no wall.

Tremendous pain assaulted my poor bulging dick as the plastic device prevented my erection. I groaned half a mangled plea, my tongue at last able to hold itself, as my poor member was stabbed by a million needles, or so it seemed. I started to hyperventilate, terror once again close to tipping me into panic. My skin was sending direct commands to my cock, all of my skin, and my cock was crying and demanding help from my brain, which was temporarily broken. I shook and moaned like a malfunctioning android.

She was waving all the product packaging in front of me, shiny boxes with bright images, grinning her lovely oriental grin. She tossed the one saying electric dog shock collar, and held the next with both hands directly before my staring, gasping, painted face.  I saw the list of features, such words as erection prevention, easy cleaning, perfect for long-term use, and other marketing terms were flickered before me. She tossed it, smiling so widely. I saw a wet patch at her crotch. My dick was trying to be a rock. My mind tried to focus on the idea of a chastity ... thing I was wearing. I groaned with the pain from my penis, trapped in such a tight place and so, so full of blood. The next box said something about male control, and electricity again, and wifi and usb and other jargon I didn't really understand. She tossed it.

I was crying, rasping for breath, trying to beg her but making sounds which even to myself were those of something broken. I glimpsed another large padlock, a massive one identical to the one on my new collar, it swung out from my waist. I wondered had she super glued it also?

She went to the table, retrieved not the one but two small remote controls. My body reacted in automatic and complete dread. My skin seemed to ripple as goose bumps formed all over my smooth body. My cock throbbed in agony, and pulsed constantly against its prison, angry and denying.

"You shut up," she said, and showed me she pushed a button on the larger remote. But this time, the shock came not at my neck, but at my balls, made me cry out again, but was softer, yet in a more sensitive area. I cried. Tried to be silent. Then again, stronger. I yelped. Danced stupidly. I felt myself beginning to panic as she shocked my testicles a third time.

"Stop," she said loudly, following the third jolt of pain.  In my mind, a little voice was begging her on my behalf, silent and useless please no more please please no please don't hurt me again please and so on silent and useless.

As my mind resettled somewhat, it occurred to me that none of the shocks to my testicles had been as powerful as the electric dog collar. I stood, as motionless as I could, watching her as a garden mouse watches the house cat between each sadistic enjoyment. My breathing was laboured from the exertion of the pain coupled with the tightness of the rubber always and ever clasping my throat.

Glee is the only way I could describe her expression, she was dancing a little also, or at least subconsciously shuffling from foot to foot as she examined my reactions to her electrical assaults.

"You no speak!" she screamed suddenly, and if their are such things as psychic attacks I received one. "You no make noise little thing!"  She waved the remotes at me. The big boxy black one, which I feared with atavistic terror, and a slim modern pink one, which said cute, feminine and functional.  I had no choice but to be silent. I looked down, terrified and broken. My bowels were ice, and I was worried about losing control there and fouling myself. A brief image flared in my punished consciousness of the last food I'd eaten, a toasted bacon and mushroom sandwich beside the electric fire, almost kindly cooked and offered.

"You do what I say! Alway!" She was still screaming, her face a livid patch of anger, and her vibration twanging my terror strings. I was simply looking down, motionless.

"You ... you .... obey!" She had the crop again, and the pink control," you no get this!" and she attacked me.

The crop brought rains of fiery agony across my so-sensitive skin, and I learned that by holding a button depressed, she could make the ball agony continuous. I keened like an animal, and she hit me again and again with the crop.

It took a while for me to understand, and finally become silent. She stopped hitting me, but kept the electricity coursing through my balls, keeping me dancing involuntarily, the slim controller casually held between thumb and forefinger. I danced, her puppet on her string.

I was beginning to black out anyway from the exertion and breathing difficulty when I saw her, through teary and misty vision, pick up the black control and zap me into frankly incredible agony, a flash of seconds, and then I was gone.

"Now no chains. Only this," she motioned the crop to me, "and this." She waved the collar remote in front of my face. I had returned to consciousness. I cringed at the thing but didn't cry out. She sliced the crop across my chest without warning. It bit like fire, yet again, and at the point where it crossed other welts I discovered little stars of agonising sharpness, was sure there would be blood. Yet I didn't cry out, had been programmed not to. My dick was on fire in its evil constraining plastic tunnel.

So the chains were removed, but the infuriatingly uncomfortable and painful gag remained, and she released me, and so it continued, and she spent the rest of the day teaching me to obey her intricate whims with her nasty little tools. The collar and chastity device were at least semi-permanent it seemed, but the manacles had suddenly become unnecessary; a blast in my testicles was enough to bring immediate compliance to any of the sick, intimate and revolting things she put me through that day, and the threat of the black remote, with its long seconds of actually wishing to be dead before the sudden oblivion as the tortured heart shut down the paralysed brain.

When she had me lick the floor in the corner of each room, for reasons I couldn't begin to imagine, following me with the crop raised, and depositing more than a few hateful stripes on me as I crawled at her command, I couldn't help but miss him, the young professional dentist I'd met in a contact magazine. I thought about him as I knelt before her and put my ring-gagged mouth to the linoleum behind the dining table in the ground floor kitchen, I thought of the  food he'd made me, and my own shy silence as we ate together as somewhat equals. I licked the carpet in the first floor bedroom - now hers - where I'd slept the first night, and been caned by him with my nappy on for missing piles of ironing.  Not caning me naked had been kind. He had been kind, and now I missed him.

Of course, my original lie about the mythical supreme dominatrix Emily had dulled the experience, at least with a normal human, a Western person at home and respectful of law and human rights; he had not been brutal at all. My lie had blunted the potential experience, but now it had sharpened it, and this young woman, Tam,  had few qualms about such British ideas as potential lawsuits, emotional distress or the aforementioned more civilised ideals. She was a savage, with savage beliefs. She made me kiss the floor of the bathroom, where I'd brushed my teeth after he softly tried to coerce me to fellate him and then relented. She was the real supreme dominatrix, terrifying and impossible to understand, let alone deny.

I was yearning for him as she made herself lunch, had me on my hands and knees with my right cheek always touching her left thigh, working at the counter top and ignoring me and then seating herself at the table at what must have been my seat three days before. She pointed to the floor to her left, and I silently took up the position.  No fried mushroom and bacon today. I stayed still and waited. My skin was still giving me waves of erotic vulnerability, and my almost exhausted mind had begun twisting the idea in my fluctuating consciousness so that as I knelt there watching her eat, I began to dream that I was simply some strip of pain or something, and that became the bacon, burnt and hot and agonised, and my cloudy feelings had opened so much emotion and the truth became that I was her strip of meat to beat and cook and eat and hurt. I was shuddering, cold. I was hurting and terrified. The black remote was set by her plate, I could see it. An imagining branched off from what I was seeing, of me jumping up and grabbing it, running for the front door.

"Hugh My?" she had turned to me and her voice brought me back to reality. I was at once stupefied and horrified. I had no idea what she meant and was not allowed to ask. She smiled then, such a cute curl of self-depreciation that I could see why he so clearly loved her. It comforted me a little, to be true, to see at least some humanity in my tormentress.

"Are you hungry?" My stomach growled. I nodded with caution.  She jumped up quickly, the sleeping gown she had donned earlier flapping in my face and I started, my bladder pounded and my bowels turned to ice again, anticipating attack. But she moved past me into the middle of the kitchen and showed me how flexible she was. She quickly knelt down in front of me but leant back far enough that her face was almost horizontal, and she was back on her feet in a flash, and then seated back at the table.

"Do it here. I feed you like this."

I was angry with myself for being so slow, so dumb with exhaustion and terror. I clumsily attempted her position, my face near her lap the left, upturned. She grabbed my hair, pulled me back. I slid desperately on the slick plastic floor. I struggled into position, with my legs folded under her chair and my the back of head on her lap. She held me there with my hair, which was not long but long enough, and with her other hand she ate another forkful of what she had prepared.

Except she didn't eat it. She chewed it for a while as I looked up at her, the large ring keeping my tortured mouth in its terrible circular grasp. She made an awful sound of clearing her  throat, bent forward and spat the gob of food into my mouth.  My stomach rolled over, and I nearly made a sound. She looked at me. I summoned all my resolve and swallowed what was in my mouth. There was some residue on my face.

"We eat this how, alway, doggie."

She took another spoonful.

After lunch, she continued the spitting games, having me in the same position in front of the big armchair in the living room as she watched mindless TV - my back arched painfully and my head caught between her thighs. The house was very hot, and I was sweating so that my head and her naked skin stuck together, and my back with the leather. She was eating some packets of snacks from her luggage, which was still packed in the hallway.  Some strange snacks which she often chewed but left unswallowed and spat into my open, waiting, quivering, obedient mouth. Spicy tangy fruit. I've never been good at holding my vomit reaction, but the way she kept the remotes close, on her knee, on the chair beside her, or toyed with in her painted fingers taught me another very permanent lesson.

I was in a daze by late afternoon. Panicked yet subdued, distressed and constantly crying.  There is a place called subspace, but for the life of me I could not find it. Or more accurately, she wouldn't let me.

When the door banged and he reappeared, I almost felt a surge of relief.