Introduction

 

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.

 

 

I

 

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.

 

 

II

 

“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.

 

 

III

 

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.

 

 

IV

 

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 and attempted rape 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.