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I’m growing harder and harder. I unbutton my fly, grasp my cock, and stroke myself until I explode, sending my cum flying through the air.
Finally, I can’t make myself wait anymore. I flip the switch and watch her dance on her tortured feet.
Her screams pour into the raw center of me, stroking it obscenely. Even though I came mere minutes ago, I’m hard again and I can barely hold myself back from dragging her over to a bed to fuck her violently. She hasn’t earned it yet, though. I will never, never take a woman who isn’t begging for it.
All too soon, her eyes roll back in her head and she passes out.
Then I unchain her, drag her over to a bench, and dump a bucket of ice water on her head. She wakes up with a strangled scream, flailing wildly.
I look down at her. Her face is white and drawn with exhaustion and terror. The look in her eyes…it’s the look of wounded prey when it’s cringing away from the killing blow and has no fight left.
“Your name is no longer Tamara. You know why? Because you’re fucking nobody. I own you. You’re my toy. So your name is Toy. When I call you by your name, you acknowledge it instantly.”
That breathes some life back into her. She convulses, struggling to sit upright, but she’s so weak that she just falls off the bench and lands on the floor with a thud. I leave her there.
“Oh no!” she wails. “No! I’ll call you Master! I’ll never think that you’re not my master again, never! Just let me keep my name! It’s the last thing I have from my mother. Please let me keep my name!”
Then I see the look of horror and realization on her face. She swore she’d never beg to call me Master. And now she’s pleading for the privilege.
I haul her back over to the chains on the wall, and she cries all the way there, weak little mewling noises. She sags on the chain, her legs quivering.
“What’s your name?”
Her head is lolling and her eyes aren’t focused. “My name is Tamara Bennett!” I remember those words well, because they are the last defiant words she says to me before she breaks.
I can’t believe she’s lasted this long. She’s a wonder. She puts the men I hunt to shame.
Almost done now.
I fetch a riding crop and slash across her stomach with all my strength. Her screams are weakening, her eyes wide and hopeless, as I move up and down her torso, splashing agony across her tender skin. I have to give her credit—she lasts a lot longer than I expected.
I keep whipping her.
She passes out again.
When I bring her to with another drenching bucket of water, it’s a different woman whose dazed eyes are staring at me. Her mouth is slack, her muscles limp. She’s a hollowed-out shell, waiting for me to fill her with whatever I see fit.
“Ready to dance on the plate for me again?”
“Noooo…” Drool leaks from her mouth.
“What’s your name?” I hold the whip up, and she just gapes at me stupidly and rasps something. “I can’t hear you.”
There’s no fight at all in her as she mumbles, “My name is Toy, Master.”
The fierce triumph that roars through me almost makes me come on the spot. “What’s your name?” I yell again.
“My name is Toy, Master!”
I slash her breasts with the whip. “Louder!”
“My name is Toy, Master!”
I keep whipping her until the front of her body from tits to crotch is livid red. I make her rasp out her submission again and again, until her voice is hoarse and it’s agony for her, and then I make her scream it some more.
Then I do the cruelest thing I’ve ever done. Far crueler than the whipping.
I break my rule and I lie to her. It’s necessary. She needs this is as much as I do; she just can’t appreciate it. She can’t hold on to hope anymore. That hope, it’s harming her. It’s making her do foolish things.
