Chapter Three

Week One

Deep in the underground slave quarters beneath Sir Malcolm’s lovely home, Olivia wept and screamed and sobbed as she was dragged towards the forbidding frame of heavy black iron bolted to the floor in the centre of the room. Her brain reeled in terror, for her captors had told her quite casually that the device was the branding frame in which she would be clamped to receive the permanent mark of her slavery to Sir Malcolm. With her wrists still manacled helplessly behind her back, as they had been since her capture, Olivia was no match for the four muscular men, her slave trainers, who forced her towards the terrifying device and spun tight the locking bars to hold her legs immobile, her left and right thighs incapable of even the tiniest movement. Straining every sinew, her long, powerful thigh muscles cording beneath her smooth skin, she moaned in defeat as her legs remained as they had been secured and she was forced to accept the futility of her efforts.

Her eyes, wild with terror, flew over the faces of the four men, seeking for a trace of pity or compassion, but there was none and she realised that, to them, her kidnap and enslavement was simply a job. A job which they intended to carry out, no matter how much she wept and pleaded, or how awful the consequences for her.

The trainer who was to brand her, walked over to the brazier in the far corner of the room and withdrew a long iron rod, its tip bearing the stylised letter ‘S’ and glowing white-hot.

“This will hurt, slave,” he said, not unkindly, “Scream if you wish.”

Olivia stared, mesmerised, at the iron, unable to believe that she was truly to be branded, but as he brought the iron towards her and she felt the intense heat radiating from it, she screamed frantically and wrenched madly at the obdurate metal imprisoning and presenting her thighs.

“Left thigh,” the trainer grunted and thrust the iron against her flesh.

Olivia shrieked in agony, the brand sinking into her thigh and burning its clean, permanent mark into her upper thigh, then her head fell forward as she fainted.

The trainer withdrew the iron and chuckled in satisfaction as he inspected the neatness of his handiwork against the pale curve of Olivia’s thigh, “Sir Malcolm will be pleased with that. Right, let’s get her out of the frame and into her cell.”

The four men carried the unconscious brunette from the room and down to her cell and as one locked a steel chain from her collar to a heavy ringbolt set into the wall, another rubbed cooling disinfectant cream into the livid brand on her thigh, before they all left her alone in her locked cell.

Hours later, Olivia awoke and her eyes went immediately to her thigh, her lips parting in a soft moan of horror as she gaped at the brand etched deep into the firm flesh.

Surely, it could not be?

It was too barbaric to be true.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she faced the shocking truth.

The brand was there, plain for all to see.

Sir Malcolm’s mark.

In her flesh.

Panic flooded into her brain and she yanked and heaved at the steel on her limbs and neck, too terrified to admit what the brand meant.

She could not be a slave, would not be his slave, but her cuffs and chains were too strong and, at last, sobbing, Olivia threw herself down on her bed, her mind filled with fear.

Sir Malcolm had arranged for her kidnap and had had her branded. She lay imprisoned in his cellar and in his chains and could not possibly escape.

Her eyes returned to the awful brand in her thigh. ‘S.’ ‘S’ for...slave...she wondered? Could it be that he really meant to carry out his threat? To keep her as his slave?

To make her the ultimate passion slave?

Exhausted by her experiences and utterly demoralised by her own wild imaginings, Olivia cried herself to sleep, her mind filled with terrible foreboding...

Week Two

Fully recovered from the effects of her branding, required only to be docile and obedient to the orders of her four trainers, Olivia had almost become used to the shame of being kept entirely naked with her wrists invariably locked behind her back. Her initial humiliation at being naked before men had slowly changed to a passive resignation of a situation she was powerless to change.

Even her brand had come to seem almost...decorative.

Until, of course, she remembered how she had come by it, and its meaning.

At least she had not been taken again. Or even aroused.

Which was, to say the least, disconcerting. Almost, disappointing. Considering that she was defenceless and her naked body was hopelessly vulnerable to any depredations her captors chose to inflict on her.

She had not been touched, except to be fed, bathed, or to have the chains which held her captive adjusted and she could not understand it. She had assumed that she would be treated cruelly. Tormented, aroused, even taken again, to demonstrate their absolute power over her. After all, she reasoned, she wore the collar of a slave around her neck and a brand on her thigh.

To her growing confusion, none of these things happened and she felt an odd sense of being cheated, almost as if her captors were punishing her by not forcing her to submit to their sexual demands.

It was a most peculiar and unsettling feeling and she found herself growing increasingly frustrated, almost wishing that something would happen. Several times, Olivia caught herself moving and standing like a real slave, her body displayed most provocatively, as if presented for the men’s touch. On each occasion, she blushed with shame and hastily changed her position, suddenly frightened that they might see and accept her unconscious offer.

To her relief, they seemed not to notice and, slowly, relief began to alter to frustration as her all too available charms failed to elicit the natural and obvious response. Especially when, as part of her training, she was taught how to kneel, spread her thighs, arch her spine and thrust her breasts forward in the shamefully lovely posture of a slave’s submission to her Master.

It was a puzzling and infuriating situation, for Olivia was well aware that she was an attractive woman, not at all used to being ignored.

At night, alone in her locked cell, shameful longings kept her awake far into the night. Longings that she did her best to suppress, with only limited success.

Longings that, with her arms locked securely behind her back, she could not satisfy and which grew stronger with each day that her increasing desires were not met.

Week Three

Obedient to her trainer’s bidding, Olivia walked into a room she had never seen before, a room containing only a long, oak table, its flat surface studded with broad hoops of iron of varying sizes.

Gagged with a large leather ball, her arms, as ever, locked behind her, she could not protest or question as she was ordered to climb onto the table and sit in the centre of the waiting hoops.

Her nervousness, already high, grew higher still as she stared at the metal hoops, realising at once that their purpose was to clamp her limbs and body flat to the table’s surface.

There was nothing she could do, for she was surrounded by her four trainers and any resistance she might put up could be easily overcome. As her wrists were released and she was ordered to her back, she shuddered to the frightening and shamefully arousing thought that she was about to be taken.

Her arms were drawn out and she quivered as cool, hard bands of iron screwed tight at her wrists and elbows, securing her. She gulped, her throat working convulsively as more bands clamped her at forehead and neck and she was unable to raise her head as others tightened over her waist and above and below her rounded breasts.

A massive tremble ran through her pinioned body as her legs were splayed wide, her instinctive resistance easily overcome by the strong hands of her four trainers, until her thighs gaped hugely and she was totally accessible. Hoops at her knees and ankles held her and Olivia whimpered as her most strenuous exertions failed to achieve the slightest movement of her ruthlessly exposed body. Only her eyes could move and as her trainers gazed down at her helpless nudity, she panted for breath, knowing that it would be childishly simple for any, or all of them, to arouse or take her where she lay.

Secured rigidly to the table, expecting to be taken and almost desiring it, Olivia froze as a fifth man entered the room and walked briskly over to stand beside her, his eyes sweeping calmly over the taut curves of her outstretched body.

“Excellent,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I shall begin with her breasts. Prepare her, please while I get my instruments and her rings ready.”

Olivia’s eyes bulged with sheer, stark terror and a muffled scream of sudden, awful understanding leaked past the gag in her mouth. The man must be the Doctor and she knew that his presence in this room could have only one meaning.

Her slim muscles corded, writhing beneath her flesh as she pitted her feeble strength against the iron bands pinning her, but the battle was hopeless. Two of her trainers moved to her sides and Olivia wept hot, salt tears of utter despair and horror, as, in response to the gentle, remorseless caresses of their skilled fingers, her tawny nipples engorged, growing hard and erect despite everything she could do to prevent it, as she was prepared for her first piercings.

Sir Malcolm had told her that she would be branded and pierced, but, somehow, even after her branding, Olivia had never quite been able to believe it...until this moment.

Unable to lift her head, Olivia squinted down her nose, her eyes wide with horror as the Doctor applied a cool liquid to her quivering peaks and then eased a glittering steel needle through the tautened base of each of her nipples, piercing her flesh.

The brief, sharp pain was as nothing to her mental anguish as, with deft fingers, he removed each needle and inserted in its place a gleaming gold ring. Tiny internal locks clicked shut and Olivia whimpered, gaping in sheer disbelief at the glinting symbols of her slavery implanted in, and through, her flesh.

Stunned, the newly ringed brunette could only stare beseechingly at her trainers as the Doctor bent low between her wide spread thighs and applied more of the liquid to the parted lips of her sex.

Again, she felt the brief jabs of pain and skilled fingers on her body and she shuddered as the tiny sound of internal locks clicking shut told her that she now wore a second pair of rings.

To her intense shame, Olivia felt the warm, betraying dampness of love juices at her belly as, unbidden and most definitely unwanted, her body reacted to the awful, but intensely erotic knowledge that her sex, like her breasts, bore the unalterable evidence of her enslavement. The rings of a passion slave, affixed forever in her body at the order of her Master.

The Doctor straightened, “She feels it now,” he murmured, “As all passion slaves do when the rings close in their flesh.”

Helpless in the tight grip of her bondage, Olivia gasped as a fierce heat stirred in her body.

She was, truly, to be a passion slave. One who could no more resist a Master’s touch, or her own blazing desires, than remove the symbols of his Mastery.

Devastated by the searing, unexpected heat of her body’s instant response, she felt her ears being pierced and the insistent pull of gold rings as their weight reminded her of her new and lowly status...as a pierced, ringed slave.

Her tear filled eyes bulged as the Doctor applied his liquid to the insides of her flaring nostrils.

The needle passed, for the final time, through her flesh and she wept uncontrollably as, with a flourish, he inserted the ring through the piercing in her septum and clicked it closed.

Her brain reeled to the horror of what he had done to her.

She was pierced....ringed. Seven times. Seven gold rings glittered in her flesh. Seven symbols of what she was to become, each identifying her as a passion slave and each capable of being used to secure her in whatever position her Master dictated.

She simply could not believe the barbarity of her ornamentation, or of the man who had decreed she must wear such humiliating decoration in her flesh, for she realised at once that, were she to be secured by one or more of her rings, she would be as helpless, as much a captive, as if she were loaded down with chains.

A vision of Sir Malcolm’s cruel, arrogant face came into her mind and she trembled wildly, knowing that her rings could be used, and would be used, in exactly that way. He meant to enslave her fully and she had no hope that he would permit the opportunities presented by her rings to remain unexplored.

As she was released from the piercing table and her wrists locked behind her, Olivia stared in despair at the rings transfixing her body, understanding their significance and their message of her permanent and irrevocable submission.

Taken back to her cell, stumbling and weeping bitterly, Olivia shuddered as her nipples and sex throbbed with continuous and unceasing arousal engendered by the constant weight and presence of her rings. Rings cunningly placed to ensure maximum stimulation at her every movement and which she was, and would be, powerless to remove. Ever.

Week Four

One week after she had been pierced for the rings of her slavery to be fixed in her flesh, Olivia knelt with her naked back to the door of her cell, her spine straight and her face only an inch from the blank brick wall facing her. She could not rise, could not move from the position into which she had been placed, for her nose-ring was locked to an iron eye set into the brickwork and any attempt to move, or ease her stiff-backed posture, resulted in a sharp tweak of pain.

It had been several hours since her trainers had secured her and the aching, miserable brunette knew it could be several more before they returned to release her.

Olivia’s training as a slave, of which this was a part, had begun and this was the fourth time she had been bound and left to suffer in such a way. With her wrists locked behind her and her mouth packed with a leather gag, she had not even been permitted to plead for mercy. Her only consolation, if such it was, was that the position was marginally less awful than the alternative she had been made to endure.

Twice, she had stood with her back to the same wall, her body perched on tip-toe, with her ear rings locked to eyes at a height which prevented her from easing the immediate painful aching of her stretched leg muscles. Aches which grew worse and worse the longer she was forced to hold her position, until she wept and begged into her gag to be let down.

The lesson of those first training sessions was a hard one for Olivia to learn and accept, but learn and accept it she did as her body ached and protested vainly.

Anything, anything at all could, and would, be done to her and her only fragile defence was complete, unquestioning and instant obedience.

Only once, early in her training, had Olivia dared to rebel, refusing to open her mouth for gagging.

Her punishment had been instant and painful.

Overpowered by her trainers, bent over a bar, face down, her ankles tied together to a ringbolt and her nose ring fastened to another, her naked, upraised bottom had been whipped to furious, blazing agony, her screams filling the cellar.

Left overnight and whipped twice more, she had been unable to straighten when finally released.

The second time, when ordered to open her mouth for gagging, she had not hesitated for a moment and the clear message had not been lost on her.

The men were her Masters and she addressed them as such, her demeanour humble and submissive as she obeyed perfectly and immediately any order they gave her.

The memory of her whipping imprinted itself indelibly in her mind and Olivia knew she dared not risk another through a futile gesture of defiance.

Strangely, though, as the days went by, she found herself thinking less and less of the pain of her whipping and more and more of the eroticism of being bound helplessly to receive the punishment her Masters decided she should receive.

She tried to ignore her shameful thoughts, but could not help the arousal they created in her body as she lay in her bed at night, fantasising about strong male hands and lips roaming over her helpless body.

The rings at her nipples and labia had not yet been used to secure her and she had not been aroused or taken, but she knew it could only be a matter of time and she found herself hoping that it would be soon, for her body seethed with a passion grown from her piercings, her obedience, her bondage and her own building desire to surrender to the captors who enforced their will upon her so cruelly.

Sometimes, to her embarrassment, she even found herself fantasising about Sir Malcolm, the author of her misfortune and the planner of her downfall and subjugation.

Tossing and turning in her bed, unable to sleep for the lust coiling in her belly, she brooded on the arrogant Peer, finding herself increasingly drawn to the horrifyingly exciting idea of submitting as his passion slave, despite her detestation of what he had done to her and everything he believed in.

Time and again she told herself that she hated him and that she would never, ever, give in to him, but the thought of being bound in his chains, gagged by his leather, her body held open and defenceless for him and his brutal male strength overwhelming her as he took her and made her forever his slave, was appallingly attractive and Olivia wept and moaned as she fought to retain control of her traitorous feelings.

Olivia was becoming a true slave, knew it and struggled against it as strongly as she was able, but found it harder and harder to resist.