"By Scherzo" 

This story is purely fiction and contains explicit descriptions of
some sex and some violence. It should be viewed by  adults  only. 

					Mistress and Slave

						I

Slave was abruptly awaken from his sleep by the sound of metal rapping 
across the iron bars of his cage. As he stirred in the pile of straw that 
was his bed, Slave noticed the bowls of soapy and clear water, sponge, and 
shaving implements that had been left on the concrete floor beside him 
sometime during the night. This was a good sign. It had been a week since he 
had been permitted to bathe, and more importantly, a week since he had been 
permitted outside his cage, and most importantly, a week since he had been 
permitted near his Mistress. Lately his releases from the cage had been 
shorter and further apart. Mistress, he hoped, had plans that included him 
that day.

Excited by this thought, and embarrassed by his accumulated filth, Slave 
enthusiastically washed and shaved himself. Shaving used to mean five 
minutes of running a disposable razor across his face in the morning before 
work; now it meant meticulously ridding himself of every visible hair on his 
head and body. Slave knew how much Mistress appreciated his smoothness and 
took special pride in this ritual.

With no towel to use, Slave dried slowly in the cellar air as he flossed and 
brushed his teeth. Viewing himself in the mirror of the sparse but 
functional bathroom he was provided, Slave was pleased with what he saw. He 
was in the best shape of his life and there was no unsightly hair to hide 
the clear definition of his muscles. Mistress had trained him hard to turn 
his softness into a body to be proud of  - which he was. Slave smiled as he 
thought back to the night he bested another Mistress's slave in a Sumo style 
wrestling match and was permitted to sleep curled up at the foot of 
Mistress's bed.


>From her red velvet chair, Mistress watched her slave ready himself for the 
day's events. She knew that he would be excited and took pride in how well 
she had trained him to look forward to even the smallest of pleasures - a 
far cry from the arrogant, out of shape, businessman who had come to her 
country expecting to be treated like a king just because he was a Westerner. 
Ironic, she thought, that he was now kept as a slave for precisely the same 
reason. Just as he viewed Oriental women (as he once called them) as 
something exotic, forbidden, she too viewed Western men as oddly desirable, 
but more like an unusual piece of furniture or an exotic animal to be 
domesticated.

Mistress observed Slave as he kneeled at the front of his cage with his 
hands by his side, head bowed.

"Look up, Slave" she commanded. Slave slowly lifted his head and took in her 
beauty through the bars.

Getting him to remain motionless for more than five minutes in this simple 
position had taken weeks of training. Before she taught Slave how to prevent 
unnecessary thoughts from entering his mind - that is, thoughts of himself - 
he'd either get distracted and senselessly move or else the pain from the 
concrete on his knees would become unbearable. As Mistress continued to 
observe, she wondered whether he was concentrating on how much he wanted to 
please her or silently worshipping her body. Judging by his arousal, it was 
probably the latter. Wearing the outfit she did that day, that's precisely 
what she had hoped for, although he would still be punished for not thinking 
of her own desires first.

Slave lowered his head when Mistress told him he had had enough.

Mistress rose from her chair and walked over to the cage, her stiletto heels 
on the concrete of the cellar floor announcing her every step. She knew the 
effect this sound had on her slave; she had instilled it him. The healthy 
mix of fear and desire he was experiencing at that moment made her smile.

Slave crawled out of the cage for the first time in a week once she unlocked 
it, wearing nothing more than a studded leather collar, and kissed 
Mistress's shoes. Sticking the point of her left shoe under his chin she 
guided his gaze upward. Mistress knew how powerful and desirable she 
appeared to him from his position squatted next to her bare legs as she 
stood over him clad in a short black leather skirt and matching halter top. 
He would see the softness yet underlying firmness of her calves, thighs, and 
stomach in that order as her shoe raised his chin. After pausing at the 
leather covering of her breasts to imagine their suppleness underneath, he 
would finally meet her own gaze staring down at him and quickly bow his head 
back down if she let him. Slave couldn't bear to look into her eyes for more 
than a moment in this position. Whether it was because he was ashamed of his 
weakness and vulnerability or was overwhelmed by her own power and beauty, 
Mistress did not know. She could find out easily enough if she wanted to, 
but for now was content to let it remain one of the few small mysteries 
Slave still held for her. She allowed his head to bow this time.

"Are you clean, Slave?" Mistress asked.

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you for -- "

"Yes, yes, Slave. Don't bore me with your self-indulgent thank you's today.  
I've invited a visitor over today so don't disappoint me with any of your 
impudent behavior."

Lately Mistress had become vaguely bored with Slave. She still delighted in 
his unabashed adoration of her and desire to please her at any cost, of 
course, but something was missing. Maybe she missed the unpredictability of 
his mistakes and the excitement she felt prodding and pushing his tolerance 
for punishment. Maybe he had become too good a slave if that were possible.

"Yes, Mistress. May I ask -- "

"Enough already. You've become so obvious in your thoughts. It's my niece. 
I've told her of you and she's expressed some interest in meeting you in 
person. I don't think she believes me when I tell her how a once proud big 
businessman from America could over the course of less than six months 
become the docile pet you are today."

"Sometimes I don't believe it, Mistress." Slave thought back to that late 
night he first met his Mistress in the bar in downtown Tokyo his Japanese 
counterparts had taken him to after their all day meeting. Only then she 
wasn't his Mistress, just a tall Japanese lady, 5'7" or 5'8", with jet black 
hair that hung straight down to her shoulders, a subtle beauty in the sharp 
features of her face, and a captivating sinewy physique. He had just sealed 
a deal worth millions to his company and was ready to let the world know 
about it, or at least any beautiful woman who would listen. Sitting by 
herself was the woman who would transform his life.

This was to be his reward. Not knowing whether she spoke English or not, and 
not caring, he approached her with a drink in hand and the story of his 
day's success. He remembered her saying something that surprised him 
(something about how his need for approval from others was tied to his 
desire to serve them), and then like always when he thought back to that 
night, could remember nothing further. What he knew of the rest of that 
night came not from his own recollection, but from that of his Mistress.


						II

Mistress looked over her handiwork with great pleasure. Her captive, 
formerly a businessman of some sort from America, hung naked, suspended with 
his hands tied to a hook drilled into the ceiling of her cellar. His limp, 
sweaty body twisted back and forth, giving him a panoramic view of the bare 
black cellar walls, his cage, and the various apparatus that awaited him, as 
the rope around his hands coiled and uncoiled around the hook. All signs of 
defiance had been drained from him like the poisons from a lanced boil. They 
would, of course, return (her punishments so far were more treatment than 
cure), but with a little less strength each time, until the moment came to 
rid him entirely of that defiance and replace it with an unerring desire to 
obey and serve her. Reaching that moment would take time, she knew, but she 
was patient and he had no choice.

But what if she had erred? He had displayed all the unconscious signs of the 
makings of a fine slave when they first met at the bar, yet many men 
possessing the innate desire to serve a mistress let their own ego stand in 
the way of fulfilling their true subconscious desires. And he certainly had 
plenty of ego. Going on about the great business deal he had landed for his 
big American company. How Japan would be the latest new market for the 
American goods he sold. Yet with each remark, each gesture as he spoke, 
betraying his need to serve. His need to serve her. But if she had 
miscalculated it would all have been for nothing. All the time and energy 
she expended, all the punishments he endured, and she'd eventually have to 
admit her failure and set him free.

Sure, she had dominated men and boys since she was a young teenager and many 
more as a professional mistress (there was no shortage of Japanese men 
yearning to be put in their place), but never before had she taken a man 
captive to train as her full-time slave. Despite her fears, she knew the 
opportunity to transform a man so completely was well worth the risk of 
failure. Her life, from the time she first manipulated an offensive 
classmate into receiving a bare-bottom spanking from her in front of three 
of her friends while he cried in embarrassment, and in more subtle ways even 
before that, had inexorably built toward the challenge before her now.

The captive was as relieved as he could be in his semi-conscious state when 
the rope was finally cut away from his hands and he was lowered, 
surprisingly gently, to the ground. His captor clasped her arms firmly 
around his chest as the rope was cut so that he wouldn't drop suddenly. 
Using her own body as a cushion, she carefully eased him down. The softness 
of her arms and of her breasts underneath their leather covering provided a 
welcome contrast of sensation to the burning in his wrists from the twisting 
rope and the throbbing everywhere else from the beating. How much he reveled 
in the feel of her body those precious few seconds after what she had just 
done to him, how much he wanted to bury himself in her, was inexplicable.

His captor, whoever she was, normally allowed him several minutes to recoup 
on the cold concrete floor before fastening the irons around his ankles and 
wrists and sending him back to his cage. He took this time to contemplate 
his situation. At first during these moments his only thoughts were on 
escape. If he could only regain his strength quickly enough ...

Over time - how much time he had no idea - he thought less and less of 
immediate escape and more of mere survival. Not physical survival. For all 
the punishments inflicted on him, he never really feared that he would be 
seriously injured or endangered in any way. But survival in the sense of 
coping with a new situation that was currently out of his control without 
losing his mind. He had been trained thoroughly at Wharton's and by the firm 
he worked for (did he still?) to resist panicking as a business deal shifted 
in undesirable ways and to look for an opening by which to shift it back. 
This was no different. If he could just analyze the situation deeply enough, 
uncovering the weaknesses in his opponent that inevitably reveal themselves 
over time, he would find the right moment to seize control of this 
situation.

One thing the captive found odd (beyond the painfully obvious) was how 
little concern his captor showed for the police finding him imprisoned here. 
After all, many people could have seen them in the bar together (at least he 
thought they were together; his recollection of the night was still fuzzy), 
and surely his firm would alert the police that he never returned from his 
business trip. But whenever he raised these points to her, she merely 
shrugged her shoulders dismissively or remarked that she guessed nobody must 
want to find him all that badly.


"Back to your cage." Mistress's commands were terse and never included a 
direct address to her captive, since he was just that and thus held no 
status with her. Like everything else, he would have to earn the right to be 
addressed in the commands she issued to him. She stood over him as he 
struggled to his feet, with her long sinewy legs angled so that her feet 
rested shoulder length apart just inches from his head.

The captive silently shuffled back as best he could with the leg irons in 
his weakened condition. After making a weak attempt to clean himself up in 
what served as a bathroom, he lowered himself into the pile of straw that 
was his bed and quickly fell asleep.

When the captive awoke some hours later, his cock was completely erect. 
Although he was still painfully sore across much of his body, it was this 
erection that was now fully occupying his attention. And with his hands 
tightly chained (a second chain was linked to the collar on his neck 
whenever his captor wasn't present, preventing him from lowering his hands 
below his chest), there was nothing he could do to relieve it. More creative 
attempts at forcing a discharge were inevitably caught, and as he quickly 
learned, met with stern disapproval.

It had been this way since he arrived and the lack of release was becoming 
unbearable. Two or three times he experienced nocturnal emissions (for which 
he was punished) that eased the pressure, but it wasn't nearly enough. It 
wouldn't have been nearly enough in normal circumstances and was pure agony 
in the presence of this beautiful Japanese woman who was his captor, his 
tormentress. This beautiful Japanese woman who seemed to take great delight 
in taunting him with her outfits and words. Even the punishments she 
inflicted upon him, during the course of which she might "accidentally" 
brush against his body, often left him aroused.

While there was no set routine to the captive's days, they were not without 
pattern either. Exercises in various forms were demanded of him several 
times a day. He was fed twice daily: a morning meal of rice and hot tea and 
an evening one consisting mainly of various fruits and vegetables, 
supplemented on occasion, by fish or beef. This combination of exercise and 
diet had the pleasant effect of toning his out of shape body. He even began 
to see the traces of his once muscular high school physique.

The punishments seemed to come at odd hours. Often he was roused from his 
sleep just minutes prior to being bound and whipped or beaten. The rest of 
the time he was kept in isolation in the cage which had become his new home 
- his captor his only visitor. Reading material was passed to him through 
the bars to help relieve his boredom: essays on female superiority, fiction 
and non-fiction stories of female domination, and either out of compassion 
or a perverse sense of irony (he didn't know which), sports news clips and 
magazines from the outside world of which he was no longer part.

For several more weeks this was his life. And then everything changed.


						III

"Come out. Your cage is unlocked."

The captive did as he was told and stood uneasily beside his captor, who 
unfastened the chain tethering his wrist irons to his collar. She was 
casually dressed in a white wool sweater, plaid wool skirt, and sandals. He, 
of course, was naked, his clothes having been disposed of upon his arrival.

Mistress had observed her captive's arrogance slowly ebb under her guidance. 
The physical demands, the deprivation, the continual state of undress, the 
isolation, the captivity itself, all had had their affect. She could see it 
in her captive's eyes, the way he no longer looked directly at her, his 
slumped posture when he stood beside her, and his growing quietness.

But was it time? Her instincts told her yes, yet she had no way of knowing 
for sure. Neither did he for that matter. If she were wrong she wasn't sure 
how much longer she could continue with her experiment. Uncertain how to 
begin, she walked slowly around her captive as if pondering an exotic piece 
of art while gathering her thoughts. Standing behind him she asked simply, 
"Are you happy?"

The captive's entire body shook as he laughed for the first time since his 
arrival. Mistress was standing close enough that his skin brushed against 
the wool of her clothes, reminding him of his own nakedness.

"You kidnap me, hold me hostage in a cage in your basement, beat me 
relentlessly, and then ask if I'm happy?"

"What if I offered you an opportunity to improve your situation?" Mistress 
asked. She continued to circle and observe her captive as she spoke.

"How so?"

"If you did things I asked of you, I'd have less need to punish you."

Intrigued by his captor's vague offer, yet wary of her motives, the captive 
asked, "What sorts of things?"

"That's not for you to question right now, but I'll be more direct." Back in 
front, Mistress looked her captive directly in the eye and continued:

"I offer you the opportunity today to take the first steps in your journey 
toward total submission to me. It will be a long and difficult journey, one 
that you very well might not complete, yet rewarding in ways your mind can't 
now grasp should you succeed. And one on which I believe you are now 
prepared to embark. Do you accept this opportunity I present to you?"

Why was she making this offer to him now? Was her resolve weakening? Was she 
becoming fearful of his growing strength? Fearful of his retribution? Maybe 
now was the time to shift things in his favor.

"I accept nothing," the captive announced. "Release me now and I'll give you 
my word we'll never see each other again."

Mistress was not going to let his defiance disturb her. She took one step 
closer - wool once again brushing against his skin - and said, "If you 
decline my offer, I don't know when, if at all, I will find it appropriate 
to repeat it. Give me your answer now."

Without taking her eyes off of his, she reached out with both hands toward 
her captive's chest and began tracing circles around his nipples. Her facial 
expression  was neither threatening nor deliberately seductive.

Something told the captive she wasn't bluffing. He had underestimated her. 
Still, he wasn't ready to make the declaration of subservience she was 
suggesting for him.

"I promise, you'll have nothing to fear if you do as I say," he offered as a 
negotiating stance.

"You have ten seconds to decide or I will rescind my offer." In a relaxed, 
almost gentle tone, she began to count, "10 ... 9 ... 8 ...."

Without warning, Mistress began twisting the nipples she had been lightly 
touching just moments before. Still, her expression betrayed nothing.

The captive absorbed the pain in silence, not sure what to say or do. Only 
his quickened breathing was audible.

"7 ... 6 ... 5 ..."

"I need more time. Please, let's discuss this some more." The pain in the 
captive's nipples was becoming unbearable, yet inexplicably the urge to kiss 
the long, slender fingers causing it was becoming overwhelming. Why couldn't 
he think?

"4 ... 3 ... 2 ... "

"I accept your offer," he blurted.

Mistress smiled. If he only knew what it was he was accepting. She pulled 
her hands away before the American could reach them with his lips.

"Good. Now lie on your back three feet in front of my chair, with your head 
facing your cage." She motioned to a red velvet chair she often sat in while 
observing her captive in his cage.

The captive nodded and did as he was told. Lowering himself to the ground 
was an awkward process with his legs and arms still in irons.

Mistress sat in her red velvet chair with her legs crossed, looking down on 
her new footstool. After kicking off her sandals, she glided one bare foot 
between the base of her footstool's stomach to the top of its head, back and 
forth, almost imperceptibly making contact along the way. The second time 
her foot passed over it's mouth on the way up she felt the press of it's 
lips. A slave would have been punished for taking such a liberty without his 
Mistress's permission, but as an untrained captive still without status, she 
could only smile at his desperate craving for the slightest form of tender 
contact between them.

"In the future I will punish you for doing that without my permission, which 
I will grant either verbally or by tapping my foot twice on your mouth as a 
signal." As a test of his willpower, she left her foot hovering above the 
footstool's mouth.

As one foot traversed its cyclic path, Mistress struck the footstool in 
various spots with the heel of the other one to gauge its response. When she 
heard grunts, she pressed her finger to her lips to indicate silence. The 
grunting ceased. When again there was noise, this time more of a moan, after 
she played with her footstool's erect cock by kicking at it and watching it 
bob helplessly, she covered its mouth and nose with her feet until its body 
heaved for oxygen. With two quick taps of her foot, Mistress felt the moist 
lips of her footstool earnestly kiss and lick its underside while she 
continued to sharply prod the footstool's body with the other. She was 
pleased to have established her first non-verbal command with her captive. 
Seeing the tip of its cock begin to glisten, Mistress announced it was time 
to stop and sent her captive back to his cage.

"You performed admirably as my footstool. Did you enjoy it?"

"I did as I was told. Does it matter if I enjoyed it?"

"Of course not. I just thought pleasing me might bring you some small 
pleasure - you did almost ejaculate back there. In any case, over the course 
of the coming weeks you'll learn to function as various items of furniture - 
footstool, chair, table, floor mat, whatever it is I need. As long as you 
progress properly, I'll have no need to punish you as I have up to now." And 
with a devastatingly seductive smile, Mistress continued, "Maybe I'll even 
release your hands from those irons on occasion.." She left her captive to 
contemplate his future with that last remark.

The truth was, the captive did enjoy serving as a footstool, although he 
refused to give his captor the pleasure of admitting this. He probably had 
his mischievous cousin to thank for the all too obvious erotic charge he 
felt. He was only eight years old the summer she spent with his family to 
her eleven when an inappropriate youthful suggestion on his part one evening 
led to two months of blackmail. Threatening to tell his parents of his 
incestuous desires if he didn't oblige, she had him kiss and lick her feet 
clean at her whim throughout the summer - more than once in front of her 
friends who of course welcomed her offer of his services. Apparently, the 
potent mix of the desire he felt for his cousin and this specific act of 
subservience imposed upon him had a lasting effect on his psyche. Neurons 
never meant to connect now fired in sequence in new and twisted ways. Only 
up to now, aside from the masturbatory fantasies they conjured for 
themselves, they never had the opportunity.

But beyond that, this time the captive couldn't deny the surge of pride he 
felt when complimented on his performance. With his cousin, it was shame and 
desire, desire and shame, that became one in his mind. This time it was 
something more. A ridiculous thing to take pride in, he knew - serving as 
someone's footstool - but nonetheless it was there.

The subsequent weeks of training transpired much as Mistress had explained 
they would that morning. Each item of furniture had its own nuances to 
master. As a chair, the captive was required to maintain perfect balance. As 
a dining table, he learned to accept whatever was placed upon him - a piping 
hot bowl of soup, an ice cold drink - while remaining absolutely still so as 
not to spill a drop. And of course, no flinching at the sight or feel of 
sharp utensils. All of this required him to shut from his mind the 
discomfort of his own body, the feelings of humiliation, and focus instead 
on the job at hand. The job, whose only reward if performed well, would be 
his captor's approval - a complimentary remark, maybe just an appreciative 
smile. This for a man whose appetite for power just two months back was such 
that anything less than closing a multi-million dollar business deal was 
either failure or simply irrelevant.

						IV

At first the captive noticed little change in himself. He was merely 
performing the tasks required of him; improving, despite himself, by sheer 
repetition as he would if shooting endless free throws on a basketball 
court. But there was something else. More than just acquiring a specific set 
of skills (extremely bizarre ones at that!), he was gradually gaining 
control over his body and mind in ways he never previously imagined 
possible. And it was these skills that he would rely on for his escape.


The moment to seize was at hand. Carpe Diem! Having lost faith in the 
police's efforts to find him (maybe disappearing Westerners weren't a top 
priority for the Japanese police), the captive knew it was time to take care 
of matters himself. Despite the explosion of new, and at times pleasurable, 
emotions he was experiencing in his captive state, it was time to return to 
his previous life where he was respected for his cunning and killer instinct 
in negotiating deals affecting thousands of peoples lives, not for his 
ability to hold a bowl of soup perfectly still on his stomach.

The captive listened as the cellar door was unlocked at the top of the 
stairs. He heard the door swing open, followed by the solid "thunk" of its 
closing. He heard the key turn in the lock once again and then the 
unsettlingly loud sound of shoes - no louder, boots, today - striking each 
wooden step as his captor made her unhurried descent. "One, two, three, ..." 
There would be thirteen in all - each step slightly louder, slightly more 
ominous, than the last.

He had been right about the boots - thigh high leather ones. Matching black 
leather shorts and halter top completed the ensemble. The soft contours of 
her stomach which had mesmerized him from the very first time he laid eyes 
on them commanded his attention even now with each approaching step she 
took. Still, he wouldn't allow himself to be distracted from his plan for 
that morning.

"I trust you enjoyed the breakfast I left in your cage. Are you ready for 
your training?" It was a rhetorical question, he knew, but he nodded his 
head anyway.

"Good."

As she unlocked his cage and then the cross-chain to his collar, the captive 
carefully studied the large ring of keys one last time for any clue as to 
which one would be his key to freedom - the cellar door key. As usual, there 
wasn't any.

"Assume your position as footstool," Mistress commanded as she walked away 
toward the stairwell to place the key ring on its hook. When she returned, 
the captive was dutifully lying on his back in front of her velvet chair, 
hands on thighs, as far apart as his wrist irons would allow.

Sitting with perfectly erect posture in her chair, Mistress rested her boots 
on her footstool's stomach. She gradually increased the pressure such that 
had the footstool not regulated his breathing as he had been trained, he 
would have been gasping for air.

"You've learned your breath control exercises well."

Pleased with his performance, Mistress decided to have some fun by batting 
her footstool's cock back and forth between the tips of her boots. She 
enjoyed watching it "wake-up" - becoming firmer with each tap until 
eventually fully erect. Then, as if pressing down on a car's gas pedal, she 
pressed her right boot down hard on the cock so that it lay flat underneath. 
Knowing that holding this position long enough would bring her footstool to 
tears  (a mix of pain, pleasure, and anticipation - she wasn't sure of the 
proportions yet), she waited for the water in his eyes to gather before 
letting up.

Smiling down at her footstool, she said simply in a measured manner, "Not 
yet. Not yet."

Her left boot slid up his torso until it reached his mouth where she tapped 
twice. Clean, was the unspoken command.

The captive diligently licked the dirt off the underside of the boot before 
attempting to shine the leather with his tongue. After several minutes of 
work he did what he knew his captor would never imagine of him - bite down 
on the toe of the boot as hard as he could. Carpe Diem.

"You idiot," Mistress shouted, punctuating her remark with a kick to the 
ribcage. "Do you want me to punish you as I did before your training began?"

"I'm sorry," he nervously replied. "I was carried away by the moment. It 
won't happen again."

"It better not."

Mistress kicked her footstool one more time for good measure before picking 
up a leather-bound loose-leaf folder she kept on a small table beside the 
chair. It contained short-stories from some of her more literate devoted 
slaves. Most of the stories were nothing more than personal masturbatory 
fantasies put to paper that barely held her attention, although she 
appreciated the effort. But a few had true literary value, describing scenes 
that she at times drew upon for inspiration in her own life. If the slave 
were lucky, he would be permitted to act out a role in his own story with 
her. Of course, by the time she had distilled the true essence of the story, 
stripping away the trivial and irrelevant while emphasizing the subconscious 
secrets it revealed, he may no longer recognize it as his own. Whatever it 
was, it invariably overwhelmed the slave as it toyed with his darkest 
desires like a puma with a frightened rabbit.

But Mistress devoted considerably less of her time these days to the slaves 
she saw on a professional basis, focusing instead on the project lying in 
front of her. In truth, she wasn't quite so unconcerned with the police as 
she pretended, only not for reasons her captive could imagine. Although they 
understood little of what she was trying to accomplish, there were those on 
the police force - one small-minded bureaucrat in particular - who would 
love to see her fail for their own selfish reasons on terms they narrowly 
defined. And if that were to occur, who knows how they might twist all of 
this against her.

Flipping through the pages of her slaves' stories as casually as countless 
others that morning were flipping through the pages of their daily paper,  
Mistress caught something out of the corner of her eye that she couldn't 
believe: her footstool was playing with himself in front of her without her 
permission.

"You disgusting pig! How dare you engage in that filthy practice in my 
presence without my permission? I was willing to forgive one transgression, 
but not a second."

Mistress immediately rose and walked behind her captive's head, where she 
then grabbed the chain of his wrist irons and dragged him on his back to the 
area where he had been punished many times before. In short order, he was 
released from his leg and wrist irons, only to be suspended from the ceiling 
hook. The key ring went back on its own hook.

The captive knew to expect a severe beating for his deliberate offenses. But 
he also knew that by drawing on the same mental techniques he learned in his 
training, he would not only remain conscious at the end, but would also 
retain the strength to make his escape in the few minutes before the irons 
were replaced. At least there was a chance he would, and a chance was all he 
had right now. Carpe Diem.

Although Mistress used no special equipment, such as a paddle or whip, the 
beating was particularly savage. Fully-extended kicks to the groin and 
stomach left the captive's body swinging helplessly in pendulum-like 
fashion; slaps to the face spun him with such force that the rope cut into 
his wrists. Funny, the little things people focus on at particularly intense 
moments. The captive found himself amused by the irony of how each kick or 
slap his captor administered, as painful as it was, displayed the perfect 
form of her sinewy body. Her stomach muscles tightened; her legs and arms 
fully-extended were perfectly sculpted instruments of punishment.

And then the beating stopped. The captive, still conscious as he had hoped, 
gathered his thoughts as he swung in irregular paths from the final blows, 
anxiously waiting to be cut down.

"I was going to graduate you today to the next stage of your training, you 
know," Mistress remarked, just slightly out of breath.

The captive said nothing in response.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, yes I have." Why hadn't she cut him down already? What was she waiting 
for? Suspended as he was only further sapped his strength.

Although not convinced, she said, "Very well then."

The moment was near. Carpe Diem.

The captive waited for the knife to slice through the rope, but instead 
heard his captor walking toward the stairs. What was she doing? When she 
returned with the key ring in one hand and the leg irons in the other, his 
questioned was answered. She had never previously placed the irons on before 
cutting him down; why now? Had he betrayed his intentions in some subtle 
way? If she shackled his wrists, it was all over; with just his legs in 
irons, he would still go ahead with the escape.

So it was with immense relief that the captive watched his captor replace 
the key ring on its hook without having manacled his hands. When she 
returned to cut him down, his hands were still free. He had a chance. The 
instant his body struck the concrete floor, he scrambled to his feet and 
half hopped, half stumbled toward the stairs. The element of surprise had 
clearly worked in his favor.

Grabbing the key ring at the base of the staircase, he continued his mad 
dance up the stairs and inserted one key after another into the door's lock 
at the top. Twelve keys. If he hurried, he could try most of them before 
being caught, knowing he was in no shape to fight if he was. The first key 
didn't fit. The second inserted, but wouldn't turn. Should he be trying the 
keys in both directions or move as quickly as possible from one to the next? 
By the time he reached the seventh key on the ring, he was so apprehensive 
of his captor approaching him from behind, it took several frenetic attempts 
to even reach the lock.

"Are you looking for this?" Mistress called calmly from the bottom of the 
stairs, holding a shiny silver key in her left hand.

The captive realized immediately that it was the key for which he was so 
furiously searching, but continued out of desperation to try the remaining 
keys on the ring anyway. Finally, as the reality of his failed escape sunk 
in, he slumped against the door - the only barrier blocking his freedom - 
and began to cry. Mistress tossed the wrist irons up to him and told him to 
place them on, being sure to secure the cross-chain to his collar so his 
hands remained chest-high. He silently complied.


						V

The captive kneeled before his seated captor.

"You know what you attempted was foolish, don't you?"

"This isn't right. You can't just take away another person's freedom," the 
captive said, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes with the back of his 
hand.

"I'm afraid that I can. And as far as the police are concerned, I have every 
legal right in your case."

When this comment was met with an uncomprehending stare, Mistress continued. 
"Do you remember anything about the night we first met?"

"It's all kind of hazy, but I think we were talking in a bar the night I 
closed a big deal for my firm."

"Talking, hardly. You were droning on about your deal, stupidly hoping it 
would impress me. When I didn't respond as you had hoped, you became more 
forward and started pawing at me with your filthy hands. As disgusting as 
your display was, I didn't exactly discourage you at that point. You 
followed me out of the club later that evening expecting a night of 
passionate, anonymous sex. I had other plans for us."

Mistress went on to describe how she made him wait behind a few minutes 
after she left the club and how he then ran after her in the parking lot to 
catch up. She described the scene at her car where one kiss led him to 
believe there would be so much more. How visibly frustrated and angry he 
became when she told him she was leaving and how he clumsily attempted to 
prevent her from doing so. Her ripped dress and cut eye, along with his 
desperate attempt to flee the scene, sealed his fate.

Mistress told him of the assault charges brought against 
him at the police station. Drunk as he was, he was in no position to 
credibly refute them in the slightest. She told him how he would most 
certainly be serving three to five years in a maximum security prison right 
then had she not interceded with a proposal to rehabilitate him herself 
rather than press charges, so he really should thank her.

"A Master's degree in aberrant behavioral psychology, along with my 
professional experience and a well-placed connection at the police station, 
allowed all of this to unfold. By the way, your firm released you, citing a 
morals clause in your contract, when they were informed of the incident. So 
much for company loyalty."

The captive couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Why don't I remember any 
of this?"

"You had so much to drink that night a few pills were all I needed to 
administer when we returned here the following morning to almost completely 
erase the previous twelve hours from your memory. Graduate courses in human 
physiology have served me well in many ways. And before you ask, I knew that 
training you as my slave would be easier at the outset if you were ignorant 
of the circumstances that brought you here."

"Slave? There's no such thing as slavery anymore. This is crazy."

"Is it? Many men have paid me much money to just play-act as my slave. How 
do you think I can afford such a large home here in Japan? This may be 
difficult for you to understand, but I  wouldn't have selected you for this 
experiment if I didn't believe deep down you desired the same thing as these 
men who pay handsomely for the privilege to obey me - only in you, as with 
most men, the desire was repressed under your ridiculously misguided male 
ego. I needed to prove that I could strip a man such as yourself of that ego 
and free the desire - both as a personal challenge, and more practically, to 
expand the pool of potential slaves for women such as myself."

"I still can't believe this."

"It's really not important what you believe, but look at me." Mistress 
lowered her head to mere inches away from the captive's. Placing a finger 
under his chin, she lifted his gaze toward her eyes. "Look at me. I know you 
want to submit to my superior will. You need the security of existing 
entirely under my control. If you resist, you'll only worsen your situation. 
Submit now - completely and without reservation."

"No ... it's not how it's supposed to be."

"Submit. You're not even making sense anymore." Mistress pressed her lips 
gently against his. He desperately wanted to press back, but was too afraid.

"I ... I ... I don't know." The captive's tears returned, only this time he 
was sobbing, his whole body heaving. He didn't know why.

"Submit."

Gazing into her eyes and exhausted from resisting her for so long, he felt 
the overwhelming urge to let go, to submit as she commanded. He felt the 
comfort of her protection, the craving to do whatever she commanded, the 
need to please her, to win her approval. So at that moment he did let go. He 
let go of his own will, his identity, everything he had been up to that 
point. He let go of himself. Carpe Diem.

"Yes, Mistress, I submit. Please take me as your slave."

"Excellent. You have much to learn and prove before I accept you as my 
slave, but at least now you've taken the first step. You are from this 
moment on no longer a mere captive without status, having earned the right 
to serve me as the various pieces of furniture I require, and will be 
addressed by their names in the future."

"Thank you, Mistress. I won't disappoint you."

"As I explained to you before, the journey will not be an easy one and there 
will be times when you'll question your decision. But if you come to trust 
me completely, you'll never regret it."

Mistress unlocked the chain connecting the wrist irons to his collar. "Now," 
she said, looking down at his fully erect cock.

The captive sat still while taking a moment to comprehend what she was 
finally permitting. Slowly, he lowered a hand to the shaft of his cock and 
began masturbating while kneeling in front of her - kissing and licking his 
Mistress's hands out of gratitude. She did not pull them away this time. As 
he neared ejaculation, he again turned his gaze toward her eyes.

"Thank you for your kindness, Mistress," he shouted. "Thank you for allowing 
me the opportunity to serve you. ...I'm yours ... I always have been ... I 
always will be ... you are my Mistress!"

A relaxed smile was Mistress's only response to the captive's impassioned 
proclamations. But with this simple gesture, expressing part amusement and 
part affection, he felt the totality of the power she wielded over him. 
Oddly, this power - her power - like a childhood blanket shielding him 
against the unknown dangers of the night, provided the comfort for which he 
yearned. His entire body shuddered as he climaxed in front of her.