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Stop! Please read www.deviantart.com/kurvykate/a… and then
www.deviantart.com/kurvykate/a… Done that? OK, off you go......

Obviously if you’ve kidnapped someone you need to keep quiet about it. Not only is that socially unacceptable, there’s always the risk that some busybody is going to take it upon themselves to try to rescue the victim. My kidnapper’s only hope in kidnapping a potential sex slave was to train me as far as possible before anyone found out. We agreed that in the role play this is based on I would not be fucked because then that would become the point of the kidnapping. Sex slave and fuck toy are not necessarily the same thing!

I wanted to turn the opportunity into an exploration of the universe of kinky possibilities available to us and graciously my playmate agreed. Therefore my training, instead of brutally hammering obedience out of me by thrashing me to within an inch of my sorry whore’s life, became a subtle process of both cerebral and sexual manipulation.

After keeping me locked up for several weeks, he found it significant that when I wasn’t shackled, I didn’t try to run away. I found it just as significant to discover that when I was allowed to move freely I didn’t want to. Of course the respite was wonderful. Just to be able to twist and turn in another direction for a while was sweet relief but I found I missed restraint.

As my conditioning advanced I spent longer and longer without a gag, initially employed to shut me up. I felt this defined our relationship, our deal if you like. Payment for my treats through my sexual exploitation involved his choice of the ball gags he loved. His fantasy demanded those and so I accepted them but I also fulfilled my role as his slave by accepting I deserved punishment if I spoke anyway. He soon found a use for my empty mouth and the fact that I swallow impressed him immeasurably!

He humorously quipped one day that he might stuff the dirty knickers I was wearing in my mouth and tape them in. Did he expect me to be horrified? I must have had “Oh fuck, yes please!” written all over my face because he did it and to teach me a lesson I suffered it for several hours. My willingness to impressed him too and consequently during my time, my special treat time, I would be gagged like this.

We needed our deal only some of the time and for the rest his control over me and my submission to it felt like heaven. We became so comfortable with each other that only when we heard a knock on the door were we shaken back into the realisation that what we were doing might not be normal.

In those cases I would scramble down the basement stairs to hide and wait, listening to the muffled voices of the intruding, decent, normal life carrying on as usual outside his house. He’d call me up when the coast was clear.

Sometimes I was trapped down there by his unknowing friends. They’d stay until the small hours, drinking and laughing, leaving me lonely, feeling bleak and as outside the party as I could possibly be. I missed my lost social life then, I’d had friends once. Would it always be like that? I must say the thought of it made me feel condemned and the fun would fade for a while. Then one day he said “I’ve told them I’ve met someone.”

He meant he’d told his friends that he’d found a girlfriend and had been thinking about introducing me to them. Would this mean I would be asked to play a normal love interest and take my place in his social circle, clothed? No, it wouldn’t. His closeness to his two most faithful and trusted friends and their respect for each other meant he felt the time had come for honesty and he would introduce me just as I was, his whore. I’m sure he was as apprehensive as I was. I heard them come into the house on the evening in question. Consistent with some silly, half arsed bollocks about meeting me as the hired help from an employment agency, and therefore not kidnapped, I would dress up as the maid. As if a real maid would look like me! She wouldn’t be gagged for a start, or handcuffed. I on the other hand would be in character, nothing hidden and with no opinion.

Some minutes after his friend’s arrival he called me up the basement steps. When I got to the top he joked “This’ll be interesting!” as he strapped the smaller house gag round my head. I looked forward to it in the scared witless, heart pounding, lump in my throat way I look forwards to most things these days.

My appearance was one of those occasions where you tell someone that no matter how shocked they imagine they’ll be, they’ll be shocked worse. I’ve no idea what his friends already knew about me. One of them laughed and the other was disabled speechless, slack jawed in astonishment when I walked into the room.

I was shown to the middle of his sitting room where I was surrounded by the three men. After he sat down I chose to face my tormentor, feet apart, the back of my little skirt clear of my knickers and my cuffs in full view of his friends behind me, just like I always should. Doing that might have been one of the most intense experiences of my whole life. I watched him watch by breasts riding my ribs as my chest heaved. “Is this what you want?” I thought. How proud of me he was!

As you can imagine the atmosphere was tense an awkward. His friends were uncertain how to behave and I could tell he wondered if bringing me out of the basement had been a good idea. Just to give me something to do and get me out of the way so my initial impact could settle down he ordered me to make coffee for them. “But she’s handcuffed!” one of his friends cried. He joked “You’re not in a hurry are you?” and explained the kitchen was organised to take into account my reduced domestic capacity. “She’s handy elsewhere!” he laughed. Did I do everything he asked of me? “Absolutely, instantly and without question.”

Usually I carried only his coffee from the kitchen and it amused his friends to see me make three trips, bringing a single mug on each one. I held them by the rim instead of the handle to keep them as level as I could but still only dared to fill each one three quarters full, because spilling coffee was a punishable offence. Inevitably, by the law of averages, I splashed some on the back of my thighs and got my knickers wet.

You’ll have some insight into the little details which make a subs life such fun when I tell you I couldn’t put the mugs down. Instead I waited, backed up to him whose coffee it was so he could take his mug from me. If he didn’t I waited longer, offering him a close look at my arse. I’m sure at least one of his friends might have been wary of how I’d carried his drink, my sticky fingers handling the china he would drink from. “Don’t worry, she’s clean.” my tormentor said. Really? I wouldn’t call me that!

I felt Friend No1 take his mug then playfully brush drops of coffee off my leg and test the texture of my thin, frilly dress. I suppose he must have looked at his host to make sure doing so was OK. “Yeah, touch her if you want, be my guest!”

Friend No1 asked me to turn round and I did. My training led me to assume that even now I would need to be available sexually so I placed my feet accordingly, adjacent to the side of his chair, thus positioning me comfortably reachable over the arm. He seemed awed by the sight of my breasts through the lacy chest panel of my uniform. Clean? I felt as filthy as hell!

By a simple piece of tricky self psychology I believed I should not protest for my tormentor and allowed myself to be groped through my underwear while Friend No2 stared at me both aghast and astounded by my appalling behaviour. He still stared though, transfixed by me. There are standards, however low, and No1 did not compromise my ultimate integrity in his present company. Had we been alone I’m sure I would have been worse than precarious.

“Check this out.” my tormentor announced and ordered me onto the carpet on my hands and knees. I demonstrated how compliant and submissive I was in a number of humiliating and disgraceful poses and positions and put on the show I expected my tormentor required of me. By the time all the coffee had been drunk all three men were at ease with thinking of me as an incorrigible slut and the room’s consensus was that my tormentor was indeed “You lucky fuckin’ bastard!”

That relaxation, that broken ice and my tormentor’s relief at his friend’s amazed acceptance of me gave me the permission needed to believe I might be able to push my luck. In crawling around on the carpet I deliberately failed to maintain my spacial awareness, apparently, and made it look like I’d accidentally drifted too close to Friend No1 again. I adopted slave pose whatever it was, kneeling with my feet either side of his, facing away from him with my head on the floor. I tried hard to gift him more than just the perfect view of my womanhood.

I glanced at my tormentor. Gagged or not I still had enough expression left to show him how wicked I felt. He raised his eye brows and shook his head at my scandalous recklessness. Did he see me think “Consequences? So what? I don’t care!” I knew such shamelessness would cost me dearly, good!

Something touched my crotch. I lifted my head just enough to look between my swinging tits, and under my belly to see Friend No1 had placed his foot against me so that if I wanted to I could have rocked my hips, an action which would have polished his shoe with the fabric of my knickers, had they been dry enough. So I did.

I felt him push harder, so did I and what there was of the light hearted joking stopped as all three men realised I was smouldering. Through my hair I caught a glimpse of “Don’t you dare fucking come!” on my tormentor’s face. Warned, I stopped moving, I had to.

Friend No 1 didn’t want me to stop and kicked me, a gentle punt in the rose to encourage me to carry on. I enjoyed feeling indignant and cursed “You bastard!” thinking it for myself. I understood replacing his foot where it had been meant “C’mon, get on with it.” I love obedience, I’m helpless when I’m bullied.

Friend kicked me harder each time I stopped and the last time he knocked me forward, scuffing my face on the carpet and shaking my hair enough for my tormentor to notice the force of it. I’m not talking about a full on volley here, just a serious enough thump in my genitals to make me not want anything worse. I saw concern on my tormentor’s face but he said nothing, he just watched me, intrigued to find out what would happen. I started it, this was my own fault, dirty slut that I was.

Of course it hurt but the thought of how badly I was being treated made the pain erotically irresistible. I tried to hide. I kept my head down, tried to control my breathing and desperately struggled to keep still. I deliberately ruined it, eventually crawling out of Friend’s reach, red faced, dizzy and panting after I’d come in spite of fighting not do. I don’t need to tell you I didn’t get away with it and I suffered without mercy when the debt was due.

Had it been punishment my tormentor would have played being pissed off with me and I’d have played contrition. I still suffered punishment. It happened if I dropped something or broke crockery in my heavy handed, handcuffed and mostly futile attempts at the duties of a real maid. Of course my incompetence cost me but it wasn’t like the debts I paid for my treats.

We settled on thinking of my tormentor’s half of our deal like this, as my debt, as he allowed me to show him the real depth of my depravity in order to make me pay for it later. I think he felt that since I’d asked for it, I should really get it and debt was often terrible. He couldn’t believe how far I would go and I was a festival of surprises.

After I’d behaved like the animal I felt, I remained on the carpet making an exhibition of myself for the boys to look at until they went home. My tormentor’s friends looked forward to seeing me again and No1 asked if, next time his shoes needed polishing, my tormentor could make do it. “Can I borrow her for a bit?” he laughed. Maybe I could be hired at so much per hour? What a funny joke that was!

I heard them leave and the final comment shouted over a shoulder down the street, ”She’s fantastic!” So the evening went well then? When my tormentor returned to the sitting room I was still on the floor, not yet having received further instructions. He looked down at me and asked “What the hell was that?” I knew he meant the shoe polishing.

He stood with his hands on his hips and “I can’t believe you did that!” on his face, not exasperation, more “That was incredible!” To show him I’d wanted to do it I shuffled towards him on my bum, watching him smile at me approach. He could tell I was plainly up to something.

I spread my legs either side of his, lifted my hips as I held myself up on my cuffed hands and sat on his feet. I meant “I’ll polish your shoes too.” He was wearing slippers but that didn’t matter because in truth I was polishing me.

I imagined how I looked, gazing up at him, pleading ”Please let me do this?” through my fallen hair, my breasts moving against his legs as I ground my crotch onto his feet. From that angle I must have looked all legs, tits and submission, I hoped. “OK, don’t tell me you love me. I’ll guess!”

Shoe polishing became yet another one of my special treats and I was allowed to do it whenever Friend No 1 came round. He would walk through the front door looking for me if I was too busy to meet him in the hallway. Ever the humourist he adopted a “Go on then if you must.” attitude to it and my eagerness inspired him to joke that my attention was a lot like having his leg fucked by a terrier. From where I sat, on his shoes, I could see clearly what it really felt like! I’d feel breathless with excitement at the thought of him letting me degrade myself in this way and we shared an unsaid understanding that it wasn’t all I wanted. If we could get away with it, if my tormentor happened to be distracted elsewhere, I’d hold myself spread for a token kicking, a beautiful, shameful punt in my aching rose. The humiliation was exquisite. I’d feel so deliciously depraved the disappointment was awful if it didn’t happen. I knew they talked about it because sometimes I’d be deliberately stepped over and ignored, left needing on the hallway carpet in an act of pure malice, bastards!

Kicked or not the simple fact that I wanted it ramped up the numbers on my kinky invoice and I’d sleep mummified, or trying to, with the teeth rattling, mains powered Hitachi massager taped securely into my bindings, plugged into the wall through a timer. Ten minutes every hour? You have no idea how difficult that is to cope with, all through the night!

To be continued in www.deviantart.com/kurvykate/a…