Chapter 3: Dressed Like A Slut

With a sore body, both from the beating and hanging with all her weight taken up by the ropes, Colleen was not a happy camper over the next hour. Perhaps it was intended to be simply additional punishment, or maybe Mistress simply forgot about the slavegirl hanging in the torture chamber, but it was an agonizingly long time before George came in to untie her. She moaned as her legs unfolded and cried out as soon as the ropes were off her elbows, because immediately the nerves all the way from her elbows down to her hands began a painful reawakening. Pins and needles is a mild term for it.

It crossed her mind when she saw the black man enter, to ask him if he would finish off the job begun by the dildo at the hands of Mistress. But by then she was tired, sore and the sexual arousal had worn off. Still, the idea had presented itself to her and held a strange attraction to the formerly very prim and proper young lady. In her mind, it would not have made any difference to her had he done it with the dildo or with his own equipment. She had experienced his size and skill before, also under circumstances where Mistress used them to excite her and then pull away when things got going good.

But she did not ask. Sufficient it was to be taken down from that pole and returned to her cell. She did not even mind when he locked her wrists again in the handcuffs and chained those up to her collar. She settled down on the mattress and closed her eyes.

Fortunately for her, sleep came quickly, or else she might have lain there for a long time contemplating her future – a not very bright future. In the morning, when she had awoken and before Carla brought her breakfast, she had the time to consider that future. Actually, she had little else to do besides think. Over the two months she had been a slave to Master Richard, she had come to understand that boredom was just about the worse torture a slavegirl has to endure. They allowed her no TV, no books, radio, magazines or diversion of any type. Life had become her cell, her shackles, her almost constant nudity, broken only by occasionally being taken out to be screwed by her Master, hurt by her Mistress, and occasionally forced into lesbian sex by their daughter. Not much of a life, really.

The idea that the rest of her life was to follow this same pattern made her want to bash her head against the concrete wall.

So far, her resolve had not wavered much. She wanted to escape. She wanted the pain to end. She wanted to walk along the beach at sunset and hear the seagulls calling. She wanted out. To no longer be a slave. To be free.

What an amazing concept that was. Freedom! Something we all take for granted. You could chose to go to the movie or take a walk or watch the TV. Simple freedom but a real pleasure to one who has had it taken away. Colleen had no freedom. She could go nowhere, do nothing, and not affect what happened to her one single iota.

With her wrists locked in steel cuffs behind her, she lacked even the simple freedom of touching herself. And, strange as it may seem, that was one of the foremost wishes on her mind. If she could just reach around far enough, it would be wonderful. She could use sexual release and pleasure to counter the discomforts of her existence. Maybe it would only be for a few moments, but that would be better than nothing, which is what she had now.

After breakfast was granted her, she was allowed the rare luxury of a shower. Since it was unseemly for someone else to bathe her, her hands were moved around in front of her but still locked in the steel cuffs. And, to assure that she did not take advantage of that kindness, George sat on the toilet seat and watched her. Had she seemed to be soaping that triangle between her legs a little too much, he would have undoubtedly intervened. That was Mistress’ orders.

After the shower, which she stretched out as long as she could, she was taken upstairs into the house proper, a very rare occurrence. There, in a bedroom, she was told to stand in the middle of the room by Mistress. Some clothes were laid out on the bed and, to Colleen’s surprise, she was handed a pair of panties and told to put them on. With her hands joined in front, it was no problem to step into them and pull the thin black material up. It was then she found that these were at least one size too small for her. She said nothing, however. Next came a pair of black fishnet pantyhose. Puzzled by this treatment, Colleen nevertheless donned the clothing when told to. It might have been a strange way to dress but it was better than the full nudity she was accustom to.

For the next part, her hands were freed of the cuffs. George was standing between her and the door, so dashing for freedom was ruled out. She was handed a short vest made thin leather. When on, the bottom of the vest attached with a button, but again the item was too small and forced her breasts to flatten a little and bulge out in the open middle of the vest.

The next item was a pair of hot pants, also of black leather, and also just a little too small for her. It was a job trying to force them up and over her hips.

The final items of apparel were high heeled shoes. The slender stiletto heels were a good five inches tall. Colleen had never worn heels of that height before and had difficulty standing. The black patent leather shoes included an ankle strap, another something Colleen had never seen before.

Mistress watched as her slave dressed herself, handing her the pieces one at a time. When all the clothing was off the bed and on the slave, she smiled with obvious satisfaction.

“Look at yourself in that mirror,” she told Colleen.

Walking on wobbling feet, she went to the mirror and was amazed by what she saw. Gone was the sweet, girl-next-door, cheerleader look, replaced by something you might see standing around on the street corner awaiting her next customer. This was even worse than the tight, short black dress she had bought when she considered turning tricks to make money. That dress might have been simply a fancy party dress, but this was something else. This was a walking advertisement.

The fishnet nylons did look exotic and sexy, as did the high heels. But that vest was tacky, and the ultra tight hot pants squeezed her hips like a lover’s caress. They also were so short that virtually all of her legs was on display.

“Now you look more like the slut you are,” Mistress said in harsh tones. “I think it fits you. Yes, you should be dressed like this more often. Except, of course, when you’re being punished.”

Colleen did not know what to say. It was true that she had been a prostitute once, so she could not deny that part of the accusation. But she had only one customer back then, and he screwed her in more ways than one. Her first experience at “turning a trick” had ended with her being left naked and handcuffed in a cheap hotel room by the man who also took back the money he had paid her. Not a good way to run a business.

Nervously, she awaited whatever her Mistress had in store next.

“Walk around a bit.”

Colleen did, but slowly for fear of falling. She held her hands out to the sides to aid her balance.

“George, lock her hands behind her. She looks like a tightrope walker with her hands sticking out that way.”

George obeyed, and Colleen found herself having a harder time of walking around the room. The deep, soft carpet made keeping her balance harder.

“Add another pair just above her elbows. Looks nicer that way. Now, come on down to the lounge,” Mistress ordered. “I’d like to hear your heels clicking on the wooden floor.”

Colleen found that descending the stairs in those heels was an adventure in nearly falling. Especially without hands to help her balance. In the lounge, the noise made by the shoes on the floor seemed very loud. Colleen could not help but wonder why Mistress wanted to hear that sound.

Repeatedly, she was ordered to walk around the room, occasionally even into another room and return; so much walking, in fact, that she became used to the balancing act needed to stay upright and she was walking almost normally by the time half an hour had passed.

She did find out one thing about shoes with such high heels: they hurt. Her feet were arched so much that she was almost standing on her toes. The human foot is not made to hold that position very long, and she found her arches aching.

As she toured the room under the watchful eye of both Mistress and George, she told herself that, at least, this was better than being whipped. Thank heaven for small favors.

Just when it seemed that Mistress was about to issue new orders, a voice interrupted them from the hallway.