Drunk (3)

She didn’t remember being unlatched from the sawhorse device, nor being hosed down to get the shit splatters from her body.

She woke up laying on a strange kind of table.  Thick straps fastened her upper arms to the arm support, and the same for her thighs.  The table was obviously designed for restraint. She felt a strap around her throat as she tried to sit up.

“There is no moving.”

The clipped voice spoke with a sharp bite. It was not the  man she was supposed to call Sir. This man was tall and pencil thin. He had been squatting between her legs. Now he rose to his full height, glowering down at her.

“She’s awake?” There was Sir’s voice. He was sitting in the shadows.

“Yes, and wiggling.”

His voice came from the darkness.

“You must lay still for this process. Remember that bad girls …” he let the words drift out into the room. “Well, let us just hold to the thought that thus far, you have not been treated as a bad girl.”

Her belly ached, her asshole throbbed.  She had been slapped, drained, and vibrated to some of the most intense orgasms in her life. Her breast ached where he had repeatedly caned it. This was how he treated good girls? Despite it all, surprisingly, she felt a coil of desire between her spread legs. She shivered on the table and the man between her splayed legs slapped her pussy.

“No moving!”

There was a buzzing hum and the sudden, unexpected sting of a needle. She arched. Tried to arch. There was a thick belt around her middle holding her tightly to the table.

“Wait.”

There was a creaking from across the room. In a moment she could see him walking towards her. His unsmiling face scared her.

“perhaps you need a reminder about being still.”

She could not see what was in his hand. The sudden swat against the bottom of her foot almost tickled, until the shock of the blow ran up her foot to her brain.

“GOD!” she yelped.

He hit her foot 9 more times. She was sobbing when he was done. The pain on the bottom of her foot was incredible.

“This is not a ‘bad girl’ punishment, this is a learning tool. Bad girls get far, far worse than 10 swipes. Now, lay still.”

“yes, Sir.”

Her voice was quiet but audible.

The buzz began again and she kept still. The sting on her inner thigh was painful. There was a pattern. Buzz, sting, wipe. Buzz, sting, wipe.

A tattoo.

The bastard was tattooing her? She wanted to leap up and protest but fear held her silent. Fear, and many thick, tight straps.

“This is the second step in your training. Your body is cleansed, and you will continue to fast today. Tomorrow you will feed from a specialized diet to nurture your body back to full health.  Now, you are being marked as one of my girls. You won’t leave this place until you have earned the mark of Q…but for now you will feel it and remember, as it heals and transforms your smooth white thigh; so too are you  being remade…still essentially you, but better.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that, really. But apparently she didn’t have a choice. She was desperately afraid of what would happen if she crossed the line and became a “bad” girl.

She wasn’t certain about how she had come to be here, yet a few hours here had felt like an eternity. And despite the fear of the unknown to come, the taking of her body and the promises of “transformation”, for the first time in forever, she felt a sense of purpose.

She wanted to please Him. that funny, frightening, little man called Sir.

Damned if she knew why.