Prologue

Before she became famous

 

She hung by her wrists in the dark room waiting for her master to return. She had no idea what would happen once he did, but she knew it was inevitable that he would. She sighed, resigned to having to hang until he felt like coming back to her. She wished he hadn't chained her feet to rings in the floor, but he had. The chains held her legs widely separated, but at least he hadn't added tension to them. If she wasn't shackled to the floor she could have done something like a pull-up, and relieved some of the ache in her shoulders. She had used that method before, and while it was hard to do, it helped. He had caught her doing it once some time ago, and although he had never prohibited her from doing it; nor had he ever asked her why she was doing it, from that day on, every time he strung her up by her wrists he chained her ankles to the rings. She sighed again. Such was the lot of a slave.

Eventually the door opened and he entered the room. He walked up to her slowly, drinking in her nudity, savoring every inch. She was used to his scrutiny of her and the scrutiny from other men as well. She drew male eyes like honey draws bears. She was more than pretty and her body was still growing and refining curves where a female likes to have growth and refined curves. Her looks were such that had she even hinted at a willingness to do so, she would have graced the pages of men's magazines and taken the Playmate of The Year without a problem. They might have instituted a Playmate of the Decade award, just so she could win it.

But right now she was a slave, hanging by her wrists in an empty room in a small cottage borrowed for the weekend; one with no neighbors within almost a mile, so no one could hear her screams. She wondered if he would make her scream this time. Usually he didn't, in no small part because he knew she wasn't all that aroused by pain. Sometimes she was; but to get her in that frame of mind he had to time everything just right. It was a combination of creating the right setting, creating the right atmosphere, setting the scene correctly for her with both words and actions, then establishing the right psychological patterns so that she could immerse herself in a fantasy that required the application of pain to keep it "real". It was hard to do, but when it worked, it made sex phenomenal for both of them.

Not that sex with her wasn't always phenomenal, but after he had given her a good whipping, or made her ride the wooden pony for a few hours (sometimes with a whipping then too), it was somehow different. Not just better, but more intense, more personal, more meaningful.

She was a bondage junkie. That, and control. She loved being controlled and having her will stripped from her along with her clothing. The more demanding he was, and the more he made her obey, the higher her passions soared. Being naked, in bondage and ordered to do his bidding was a perfect weekend in her mind. Often, even better than being required to serve him, was being immobilized in inescapable bondage. He tended to prefer her in a hogtie and watching her squirm on the floor, while she on the other hand, loved being pulled into a stringent strappado with her legs held spread apart. She couldn't stay in a bent over strappado for hours like she could a hogtie, but it was great for a while, especially when he would come up behind her and jam himself into one of her holes. Being bent over was perfect for that, especially after he came in her, then moved to the front to make her suck and lick him clean. Then there were so many delightful ways that he tied her, that after being used in a strappado she looked forward to being bound somehow so she couldn't move while they both waited for him to recover.

Now, she watched him as he approached her. He was naked also of course, they were here to be naked and have as much sex as they could squeeze into the hours they had. Tearing off clothing each time was an unnecessary hindrance. And a waste of time. She watched his eyes as they roamed over her body. They settled on her breasts. That was understandable, he was a breast man. And with her as his woman, he was a very satisfied breast man. While he neared her he slapped his palm with the riding crop he carried. His eyes didn't leave her breasts for a few smacks of the crop. She knew what that meant.

They had a few rules in their sado-masochistic, bondage, master and slave games. One of the rules was that when he whipped her he could not mark her in an area where it might be visible once they returned to "real" life. Since it was summer that further reduced the amount of skin available for his use because she loved to dress skimpily. She reveled in skimpy, revealing clothing. Even so, her breasts always remained available for whipping, as did her pussy and ass. But with his eyes focused on her breasts and the crop sending an unmistakable message, she only had to wonder what demands he was going to make. That she would resist was unquestioned. That he would whip her in order to break her was also understood. Yet who would win was never a foregone conclusion. Sometimes she would prefer to remain the defiant, unbroken victim who was used for sex despite not having yielded to his demands. Other times she preferred to be the abject, broken, pitiful, slave used for sex after having been forced to yield to his unfair demands. And sometimes he actually broke her desire to resist without going over a line. She liked those occasions the best. They didn't play the 'break her' game often, but they usually played it well when they did.

Another rule that controlled the outcome of these games was that of a reasonable limit on the amount of pain he could make her endure. When she chose the defiant route and was determined to not yield, he had to know when enough was enough. There was no doubt in either of their minds that if he tried, no matter how much she wanted to resist, given enough pain she would yield. That meant he could make her yield to anything, and that wasn't the goal. The point of the game was to sexually arouse her within a fantasy framework and to have incredible sex during and afterwards, but not to truly break her by torturing her beyond her endurance. So he had to be very aware of how much pain he was giving her and how she was holding up to it. It was all on him. They played without her having a safeword. She trusted him, and if she knew that she could end everything simply by uttering "blue peanut butter roses" or some other equally nonsensical phrase, it would destroy her ability to lose herself in the fantasy, and doing that was critical.

When he reached her he leaned toward her to kiss her on her lips. She turned her head away. Game on. Had she kissed him, it would have been a signal that she wasn't playing. It would have meant bondage and sex, or sex and bondage, but no pain. No breaking her will. Refusing to kiss him was an appropriate response for a prisoner and soon-to-be torture victim. Kissing him was for his girlfriend to do; today she was his unwilling victim and prisoner soon to be tortured and taken however he chose to have her.

"Ah, my sweet, you think to deny me the pleasures of your body? You think that I won't have the pleasure of your lips on any part of my body where I desire them?"

Calling her "my sweet" was a favorite phrase he used when she was being tortured. He thought it conveyed a certain condescending attitude and objectification of her as a sex toy. He was right. Additionally, she had been conditioned to that phrase as a trigger for her to descend into her helpless female role. She didn't giggle, but when he used that phrase for the first time at the beginning of a session, she inevitably had the vision of the silly robot from an old TV show waving its arms wildly, intoning "Danger, Will Robinson, danger." Except in this case it was saying, "Prepare for pain, Julie Jensen, prepare for pain."

She locked her eyes onto his, hoping to present the appearance of a defiant heroine, unfazed by his threats and promises of pain and humiliation. Despite looking at his eyes, she saw his hand rise to her breast where he used it to gently cup it as he hefted its delightful weight. She never saw his other hand with the whip in it drop to his side. He toyed with her breast gently, squeezed her nipple a trifle harder, then brought the tip of the riding crop up fairly hard, striking her pussy. It wasn't horribly painful, so it only elicited a gasp and small shriek from her. The next one, however, rewarded him with a loud scream. After three more, each progressively harder and not a word of demand from him, she had a slightly worried look on her face. This is new. What does he want from me? Why hasn't he told me what I must yield to in order to make the whipping stop?

He hadn't been erect when he entered the room, but he was now. Now standing behind her, he dropped the whip on the floor, grabbed her ass with one hand and positioned himself with the other. Then he began to enter her. He gave her the courtesy of entering slowly and carefully in case she wasn't really ready. It was unnecessary; she was more than anxious for this part of the drama to be played out. She loved being fucked in bondage. Having been warmed up by a quick whipping wasn't bad either.

With his arms wrapped tightly around her, he hugged her strongly while he plunged into her. She sighed deeply with satisfaction. Being taken while helplessly bound was heaven. He rammed into her pussy for a few seconds, then he stopped. He relaxed his arms, drew away sufficiently that he could look into her eyes, then said, "You see my sweet? You are helpless to prevent me from enjoying your charms. You cannot resist me. When I'm done with this pleasure we'll discuss a little business. After I've told you what you will do, then the lips you refused to kiss me with will provide me with the same pleasure that your other lips are now giving me." With her immediate future having been revealed to her, he went back to enjoying the present.

Part of her fantasy character denied her the right to fully enjoy the fucking she was receiving. She was the helpless prisoner being ravaged by this animal, and enjoying his beastly use of her was unthinkable. She would cum another time. After the pain. It would be sweeter then, having denied herself one now. She thought about her future. Discuss a little business... that's when he makes his demands and administers the whipping. I think I'll not give in this time; he seems to enjoy it more when I don't. But I'll let him break me enough to yield to giving him a blowjob. I won't deny either of us that pleasure.

When he finished with his pleasure he picked up the riding crop and without a word struck her right breast. Hard. Harder than he usually did. He proceeded to give both breasts a fairly sound whipping. He had done something similar once in the past; whipping her without making his demands known. He phrased it as softening her up to listening to reason. When he had worked her over more than usual, she realized this was a new game. Delicious. This is a new twist, I have to figure out what he wants. She figured he wanted some response from her, so she thought she would open with begging.

"Please, stop whipping me. I'll do whatever you want. Anything. Tell me what you want." He continued whipping her. She tried harder.

"Please, I'm begging. Tell me what you want me to do, I'll do it. I'll get on my knees and suck your cock. I'll do whatever you wish." He stopped.

"So my sweet, you have decided it's time for you to listen to reason and to hear what's going to be required of you. We have something very serious to discuss." He flicked the tip of the whip against her nipple. Not hard, but enough that she knew he meant the whipping would grow more serious. This was a very new game.

"We have discussed this once already last week and I am not pleased with your reaction to that discussion, so we will revisit the matter."

What the fuck? We didn't play last week, but we sure discussed something. Does he mean that? No, he can't. That was real, not playing. He wouldn't cross the line of discussing something real while he's whipping me.

"You are not going on that tour."

She looked at him in shock mingled with horror. Real horror, not fantasy game-playing horror. He was really crossing the line. As she looked at him, not knowing what to say, her mind was pleading. No, please don't do this... please don't. We have such a good thing together don't ruin it. We discussed this kind of thing; it's an absolute no-no. You can't control my career; I can't accept that from you. And you can't use real pain to make me accept your intrusion into that aspect of my life. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment. If he limits his discussion techniques to arguments and some harmless playing with my pussy with his fingers, that'll be ok. Not fair, but ok. But if he so much as touches me with the whip while the "discussion" is in progress........ She allowed the thought to fade away uncompleted. She didn't want to contemplate that eventuality.

He brought the whip down on her breast five times in rapid succession. Five hard, painful times. She howled in pain as she twisted in her bonds. He told her she needed to be reminded of who and what she was. She was a slave. His slave. He was her master. She needed control in her life and she wasn't as well versed in business and public relations as he was, therefore he knew what was right for her even if she didn't. She had to accept the fact that she must bow to his greater knowledge and understanding and accept his guidance over her career.

Julie was a minor talent in the recording and entertainment industry. She had played a few gigs as a warm-up act for to acts that were slightly higher in the food chain than she was. She had a few recordings playing on local stations, but again, nothing major or of lasting significance. But she was young and very early in her career. Aside from being beautiful with a world-class body, she was talented. She was incredibly gifted with her voice; she was quite intelligent, despite her master's apparent dismissal of that attribute, and she was a creative songwriter and song stylist. She had a very bright future. But beauty and talent don't always equal a winning combination in show business. They were helpful as hell, but luck and skillful management played equally major roles, if not larger ones. So far, she had been managing her own career and had been doing a reasonably good job of it.

A few weeks ago a pretty big name band had been offered her a "B" level slot in an upcoming thirty-city tour. This was a huge step up in visibility for her. Without needing to give the offer a whole lot of thought, she had accepted. She began planning her act. At the first opportunity to do so, she jubilantly announced her good fortune to her master. After discussing it for a while, he disapproved. The band in question was notorious for throwing wild, rampaging parties in the hotels they stayed at, and more than one had been nothing less than full scale, alcohol and drug-fueled sex orgies. Their performances weren't much tamer. They exploited sex and drugs with abandon; were known to have their groupie chicks waiting in the wings, and sometimes on stage wearing next to nothing; and they still tried to screw any and every female traveling with them. But their music was good, they were crown pleasers, and their audience was fanatically loyal. They could do no wrong, and the fans loved them. They were destined for major success and were well along that road. Their bad boy image didn't hurt them either.

Despite their professional success, it was their personal personas that he objected to. His argument for her not going was grounded in two objections. They would try to screw her. She brushed that off with the rejoinder that many men tried to screw her. What else was new? His second argument was that she was being exploited. She had been explicitly told to costume herself sexily. More skin showing was better. Especially leg and breast skin. She deftly batted that argument aside by pointing out that she loved to dress sexily, and many of her costumes already were what they wanted. She had ideas for a couple more before she had been offered the slot and they were all going to be sexy anyway, so what was the problem?

Frustrated at her obstinacy, he switched to her ass. He gave her hard shots on her ass. The crop buried itself deeply in her soft skin, then pushed a line of burning pain still deeper. They had talked about living together and of her becoming his slave on a fulltime basis so he hammered at that point as he hammered her ass with the whip. He angrily told her that her pussy was his exclusively and he would not tolerate the possibility of any of the band members even thinking they could get near it. He emphasized his right of ownership with deep pain delivered to emphasize his points. She writhed, cried, begged, screamed and swore abstinence to all things physical for the duration of the tour, all to no avail. Her tears flowed freely as she swore obedience to him once she returned, but the fact that there would be an absence for her to return from brought another spate of whipping. Her resistance was real, but so were the whip hits. He was whipping her far worse than he had ever done previously. Her begging, pleading, and promises of endless blowjobs all had no effect on him. But they had an effect on her.

She had known that their relationship was over the minute he whipped her breast after telling her she could not go on the tour. Despite knowing it was at an end, she still loved him and hoped to salvage one final weekend of sex and play before casting him adrift. She considered giving in to him and pretending to agree she would cancel her agreement with the band, but her pride and sense of fair play prevented her from taking that step. She would stand by her decision. But she also knew she could not stand against the onslaught of pain he was raining down on her. When her words bordered on incoherent blubbering she managed to clearly annunciate "All right."

He took that as capitulation. She meant it as a prelude to saying the play was at an end. He didn't wait for her to muster the strength to say anything further, he immediately dropped the whip, pulled her into a tight embrace, then used his raging erection to turn things back to sweet and loving between them. He kissed her gently, and lovingly stroked her back as he gently entered her again. She wanted it almost as much as he did, although for far different reasons. She wanted something pleasant to remember him by. More, she wanted time to regain her composure.

The loving worked to some degree. She came, and then so did he. This time her screams were from pleasure and her writhing was an attempt to wring more of that glorious sensation of being filled from her pussy. The tugging on her bonds was not done to secure her release; it was done to reaffirm her knowledge that she was still bound helplessly while he used her as his captive woman. Her love of sex while in bondage was too deeply ingrained in her to be denied over something as relatively inconsequential as the ending of a relationship. She kissed him hungrily, mewed as he mashed her breasts in his hands and begged him to fuck her harder. She was determined to make this last time a memorable one. She also knew that she wasn't going to trust him any further and extend their play and lovemaking into the whole weekend as had been planned. She no longer trusted him enough to do that, and once freed, she would not allow herself to be helpless to him again. She had to enjoy this one for all it was worth.

When it was over she expected him to release her, but she didn't wait for him to make his intentions known. She began to assert her independence by telling him to let her down. He thought she was still playing, so he smiled ingratiatingly, stroked her cheek with his finger, then called her "my sweet" as he denied her freedom. She calmly spoke in a quiet voice and addressed him by his first name as she insisted that he release her. Using his first name was so out of character for her that he was at a loss about how to respond. She took that hesitation to reiterate her demand somewhat more strongly, adding that she wasn't playing and she wanted to be released. This was something she had never done before. He released her.

Without a word she left the room, dressed, and gathered the few things she had brought for the weekend. Not having brought clothes because she knew she wouldn't be wearing any alleviated the awkward necessity of packing. When she had her belongings together she went to him, kissed him briefly on his lips then said "Goodbye. You blew a good thing. Don't ever call me again." She walked out of the cottage; out of his life, and to a certain extent out of her own life. But she didn't know that last part just yet.