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Amy was lost in a pleasantly erotic dream when she was rudely awakened by Tattoo-guy dumping a bucket of ice cold water over her prone body. She jerked awake, groaning as her various aches and pains awakened with her.
Rolling over, Amy looked up at Tattoo-guy silhouetted in the doorway, blinking at the bright light from the room beyond.
"Time to get up, Fucktoy." He said, leaning forward and pressing his thumb to the lock on her collar. The high-tech lock sprung open and Tattoo-guy tossed the collar aside, then dragged her out of the cell by one arm. Amy stumbled behind him, groggy and disoriented.
Tattoo-guy released her arm and while she rubbed her face in confusion, he bend over and snapped a leather cuff around her ankle.
Amy looked up at him in confusion, tugging on the short length of chain with her leg, then sighed in resignation and folded her arms defensively over her bruised and swollen breasts.
Tattoo-guy thrust a bowl of oatmeal in her hands, "Eat." She complied, her stomach growling as the now-familiar scent reached her nostrils. She gobbled it down using her fingers, completely ignoring basic etiquette and manners. Emily Post would be horrified, she thought absently as she licked the bowl clean.
When she was finished, Tattoo-guy took the bowl and used a rough cloth to wash her face and hands, as though she were a child incapable of doing it for herself. Amy did not protest, seeing the futility in such a gesture. After he finished, Amy reached up and tossed her long hair behind her back. It had been quite awhile since it had been washed, and she disliked the feeling of the dirty hair on her skin. While she was preoccupied with this gesture, Tattoo-guy kicked her behind her knees, causing them to buckle and Amy to fall gracelessly, landing with a thud on her kneecaps. She winced and rubbed them, adjusting her position, but did not get up. After yesterday's caning, she had decided to simply obey until she could come up with an escape plan. She figured it would probably be easier to escape from Mr. Johnson's house than this place, so she would try to trick them into thinking she was a trained slave, and hope she would be returned to Mr. Johnson, not sold to someone else...or worse.
Footsteps echoed in the room, signalling the arrival of another tormenter. Amy shifted her position a bit more, then straightened her back and folded her hands neatly on her thighs and looked up at the new arrival.
Sir stood in front of her holding a whip in his hands. It was basically a wooden handle, worn smooth and shiny, with a metal ring at one end; attached to the metal ring were half a dozen wide leather straps. Beyond that, the implement was unadorned.
"This is a slave whip, Fucktoy." Sir's voice was calm and authoritative, and he offered nothing by way of a greeting. Amy figured that slaves did not typically merit a proper greeting.
"You will receive much information today on the way a slave should behave. These are instructions you will not receive again, so pay attention. If you forget anything I tell you from here on out," Sir waved the whip in the air in front of Amy's face, "This will be your punishment. Understand?"
Crossing her arms in front of her breasts in a defensive pose, Amy nodded silently.
"Good, lesson one: When you are spoken to by a man, you reply 'yes Sir' or 'no Sir.' If it is your master, then 'yes Master' or 'no Master.' All women who are not slaves are referred to as 'ma'am' unless you are told otherwise. Understand so far?"
Amy nodded again.
"Apparently not, because I didn't hear anything."
Tattoo-guy pushed Amy abruptly forward so her face was on the ground, since she was on her knees, this put her ass right up in the air, and with her arms crossed over her chest, she didn't have a chance to slow her fall, so her cheek hit the tile with a loud smack.
"This position, Fucktoy, is called the slave's kiss, and is one of several traditional positions of punishment. When you think you are about to be punished, you should assume this position as quickly as possible."
"Yes Sir," Amy replied, though her words were muffled by the cold tile floor and garbled by whimpers of pain and humiliation. With her ass up like this, her privates were put on vivid display, not to mention the vulnerability of her ass, already sore from whippings and a brand.
Sir gave each luscious globe four strikes with the slave whip, and Amy cried out every time the leather made contact with her flesh. She had no way of knowing that this punishment was light, and that far worse was to come.
After the whipping, Tattoo-guy pulled her back up into a kneeling position by her hair. Tears streaked her pale cheeks and her nose was red from crying.
"Now, do you understand, Fucktoy?"
Amy sobbed out loud, but managed to say, "Yes Sir."
"Good girl. Now, let's continue."
The lessons went on for hours, Sir and Tattoo-guy instructing Amy on the different positions she should stand, sit, kneel and even sleep in. She learned that every motion she made should be beautiful, for she was to become a living work of art. A thing of beauty to be admired and used by men as they pleased. Every time she didn't respond to a command or instruction with a prompt "yes sir" she was flogged, and by the end of the session, Amy was completely exhausted and her ass glowed a brilliant red, especially around the still-healing brand.
"That's it for now, Fucktoy. Make sure you thank me properly for teaching you how to be a proper slave," Sir said calmly, standing a few feet away and absently toying with the whip.
With a defeated sigh, Amy put her hands on the floor and crawled over towards Sir, then forced herself to press a kiss to his shoe, "Thank you, Sir, for training a poor, stupid slave-girl how she should act."
"Good girl. I'd say you have earned your supper tonight." Sir gestured to Tattoo-guy, who went over to a microwave on the counter and warmed up yet another bowl of nourishing oatmeal.
When Tattoo-guy set the bowl in front of her, Amy kissed his foot and thanked him without having to be told, then ate the meal as she'd been instructed. Kneeling on the floor, she held the bowl in both hands, and drank the oatmeal from the edge, making the action as beautiful as possible. None of the gobbling she'd succumbed to earlier.
"Good girl! Now, you may rest." Sir set the whip aside and actually petted her on the head like she was a dog.
"Thank you, Sir." Amy replied, too tired and sore to make even a token protest.
Tattoo-guy freed her ankle, led her to her cell, locked the collar around her neck and shut the door behind him, leaving Amy once again alone in the dark.
Her blanket was still damp from it's earlier soaking, but Amy didn't mind. Frankly, the cool, wet fabric felt fabulous against the fiery pain in her buttocks. Curling up in the soggy material, Amy dropped off to sleep almost immediately.
When she awoke, Amy had a throbbing headache. Sitting up, she gingerly took stock of her various injuries. She had a nasty-looking bruise on her cheekbone, but it didn't really pain her. The rest of her body was covered in welts from the caning and vigorous application of the slave whip. The brand was healing well, though, and didn't really bother her much anymore.
Gathering her courage, Amy pushed herself up off the floor, grabbing the sink for balance. After making good use of the toilet, Amy used the bar of soap and wash cloth on the sink to wash up from head to toe, even lathering her hair, then folded her sheet neatly and sat down on it beneath the sink.
Feeling clean and refreshed, Amy began to contemplate the events of the previous day while she finger-combed her hair into some semblance of order.
She'd been taught so much, she wasn't sure if she could remember it all. But Amy knew, now, that her very survival depended on her complete obedience. Sometime between the lost argument with Sir during her waxing and the evening's lessons, a wall somewhere inside Amy had crumbled, and she had lost the will to resist these men.
They were all bigger and stronger than she, and it had been clearly demonstrated to her that they could end her life at any moment, should they deem it appropriate.
No, until she could formulate an escape plan, it was better to just go with the flow, and pray she could keep her sanity.
With her hair straightened, she braided it so it would be out of the way for the day's humiliations. There was really no point in doing otherwise. Amy didn't have anything to tie the end with, so she left it loose and hoped for the best.
Though the cell had thick walls and had originally seemed soundproofed, but Amy was beginning to be able to detect when people were in the room outside. The floor would subtly vibrate with footsteps, and Amy felt those vibrations now, gradually growing stronger. Instinctively, Amy moved into the corner farthest from the door and watched apprehensively.
She didn't have long to wait, Tattoo-guy opened the door and made the hand signal for Amy to kneel in front of him.
Quickly, though something inside her still protested loudly, Amy did so. She knelt before Tattoo-guy with her back straight, eyes to the floor submissively, knees properly spread and her hands clasped behind her back.
With a small sound of approvaly, Tattoo-guy unlocked the collar. "Come."
It was a firm order, and Amy obeyed, crawling behind him on her hands and knees.
She was lead to a pair of stools, one low to the ground, the other up higher. They were of such a height that the person on the lower stool would have their face in the crotch of the person on the higher stool
Amy hesitated, filled with apprehension when she remembered Tattoo-guy's promise of the previous day. Was she to begin this sexual training so soon? She'd hoped to come up with an escape plan before then!
However, Tattoo-guy grabbed Amy firmly about the waist and plopped her down on the higher stool. He pushed her knees so they spread wide, then strapped her ankles to either side of the stool, making it impossible for Amy to close her knees and protect her suddenly vulnerable sex. Without her pubic hair, she felt even more naked, and she whimpered in fear.
Ignoring her, Tattoo-guy grabbed Amy's wrists, holding them firmly in one hand while he cuffed them together in a single leather strap with the other. He then attached the strap to a metal hook hanging from the ceiling and flicked a switch that slowly shortened the chain until Amy's body was stretched taut. Finally, he attached a soft leather belt around her waist, making sure it was very snug. The belt had two long chains coming from either side, and those were pulled down, so her butt was firmly seated on the stool, and locked to the floor. After making a few adjustments, Amy was firmly strapped to the stool, her breasts and pussy bare and vulnerable. Groaning in frustration and fear, she could only watch as Tattoo-guy wheeled over a small tray that held a variety of needles and machinery.
Sitting himself on the lower stool in front of her, Tattoo-guy began to clean Amy's tender sex with several alcohol swabs. As he worked, he talked. "This shouldn't be as painful as I can already tell you're thinking it will be. But, if you want to scream go for it, there's no one else here right now. I prefer to work alone, you know. If you get too loud, I'll just turn on the radio."
He gave Amy an almost charming grin while pulling on a pair of latex gloves, then began sorting through the sterile needles on the tray. Selecting one, he bent over so his face was between her wide spread thighs. His warm breath on her most sensitive skin caused a most embarrassing reaction on Amy's part, and her cheeks turned bright red as moisture began to accumulate on the stool beneath her sex.
Tattoo-guy began to gently probe Amy's pussy, moving it this way and that, then he grabbed her clit firmly between his thumb and forefinger, and Amy squealed as he suddenly punched the needle right through. The squeal, though, had been more of surprise than pain, because Tattoo-guy had been right. It really hadn't been all that painful, not compared to the caning she'd gotten the previous morning.
"See? Not so bad, now keep keep still, quit clenching your muscles so I can do this properly."
Amy did her best to comply, wincing when he pushed a metal bar through the fresh wound. After screwing the balls on either end, Tattoo-guy leaned back to survey his work, smiling in approval. The whole operation took only a few minutes, and the pain was minimal. He clearly knew what he was doing.
Stripping off the latex gloves, he put on a pair of fresh ones and began swabbing Amy's nipples.
"Please...no..." Amy whispered, watching helplessly as he selected two slightly larger needles and stood up so he could see better.
Tattoo-guy didn't comment, he had after all given her permission to make noise. Pinching the nipple on her right breast between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled it gently back and forth, causing it to shrivel into a hard little knot.
More fluid collected on the stool between Amy's thighs, and she tried to squirm free so she could close her legs.
She was so tightly restrained, Amy's struggles only amounted to some tensed muscles, and Tattoo-guy ignored her as he calmly jabbed the needle right through her nipple.
Amy gasped but it didn't really hurt all that badly. Just a little prick, a pulling sensation as he slid the ring in, and it was over. No blood whatsoever.
He repeated the procedure on the other side, and her clit and nipples now decorated with pretty silver jewels, Tattoo-guy again stripped off his gloves.
This time, he picked up a marker from the tray and began to draw a design around her thighs. It was two simple bands made up of feminine lines and curves that went all the way around her thighs midway between her sex and her knees. Amy studied the design on her thighs, then raised her eyes to Tattoo-guy. "What are you doing?"
He gave her freshly pierced nipple a vicious twist and Amy shrieked. "What do you call a man who is not your master?"
Sobbing at the pain that lanced through her chest, Amy corrected herself. "I'm sorry, Sir. What are you doing, Sir?"
Nodding in satisfaction, he returned to his artwork. "I'm designing your tattoos."
"Tattoos?" Amy echoed, half in fascination, half in horror.
"Yes, tattoos. All slaves have tattoos."
Moving around her back, he drew another design on her ass, opposite the brand. Moving up higher, he drew another, much larger design between her shoulder blades, then drew bands around her upper arms that matched the ones around her thighs.
On her back he'd designed a round, stained glass window. In it was her master's name, the name of this training facility, the tattoo-artist and the men who were responsible for training her - a sort of advertisement for their services. Most training facilities did this, some tattoos were large, some were small. Amy's was about six inches wide, average for an expensive pleasure slave.
The little drawing on her lower back had been requested by Mr. Johnson, a kitten stretching with it's front paws way out in front, tail and butt high in the air. The design was used to signify her slave-name, common for pleasure slaves, not to mention it was an artistic representation of the feline version of the posture of punishment.
Other tattoos would follow, on her arms and shoulders, probably her stomach and lower back, these used by her master to keep a record of her service, both the bad deeds and the good would be written on her skin for all to see. Slaves do not have secrets.
Having finished his design work, Tattoo-guy released Amy from the chains and stool, then led her by the hand to a padded table nearby. "Lay on your stomach," he instructed.
Obediently, for disobedience would mean more pain, Amy climbed on the table and settled onto her stomach, her head pillowed on her arms, thighs pressed together.
"Comfortable?" He asked, running a hand along the silky soft skin above the back of her knee.
"Yes sir." Amy replied quietly, burying her face in her arms and fighting the urge to slap that unwanted hand away from her body.
"Good, you're going to be in this position for awhile."
Tattoo-guy tugged Amy's arms out from under her head, then cuffed them to the table beside her body, so she lay in the position that is commonly used for back massages. He lay a pillow beneath her cheek so her neck would not strain, then cuffed her ankles to the table. Finally, to keep her from squirming too much, he secured a strap over her neck, one over her waist, and two over her legs.
Tattoo-guy prepared his equipment efficiently before starting first on the kitten tattoo. "I'm going to start now, Fucktoy, so be prepared, it will sting a little. Try not to jerk your muscles around or you'll ruin the design."
Amy bit her lip and steeled herself.
Tattoo-guy watched every muscle in her body tense up and rolled his eyes. Instead of pressing the needle to her ass, he gave it a sharp slap and her muscles jerked, then relaxed in response. "Just relax, the more still you are, the better it will look and the sooner it will be done."
"yes sir." Amy replied meekly, all the while seething inside.
The tattoos on her back took hours. The one of the kitten was quick, about half an hour total, and it really didnt' hurt all that badly. The large one between her shoulder blades, however, made her groan and bite the pillow as Tattoo-guy mercilessly traced his design. Once he had outlined everything in black, he took a break and had a snack, resting his tired arms and eyes.
Amy could smell his heated up soup and the sandwich, and her stomach growled, reminding her she had not eaten since that morning.
Tattoo-guy ignored her completely while he ate, then unstrapped her and led her by the hand back to her cell. "Thank me for making you more beautiful, Fucktoy." He ordered.
Amy squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip and took a deep breath. "Thank you Sir, for making me a more beautiful slave." She said, her tone and posture completely that of an obedient slave.
"You're not showing me your gratitude." He commented.
Amy immediately dropped to her hands and knees and kissed the toe of his dirty shoe, then assumed the position of a slave, kneeling with her hands clasped behind her back, thighs spread, back straight, eyes to the ground.
"Good girl, you're starting to remember. And you were pretty good for all the piercings and tattoo work today, so I think you've earned a little treat."
On the floor in front of Amy he set a bowl with several carrot sticks, a couple slices of cheese, a couple of apple slices, two rolled up slices of turkey and a peppermint candy. Beside it he set a small glass of water.
For days now, Amy had eaten only oatmeal twice a day, and those fresh fruits and vegetables looked so delicious, she almost dug in right away. Instead, she leaned over the plate and glass, careful not to disturb them, and again kissed Tattoo-guy's shoe. "Thank you Sir."
"Eat so I can put you away and go take my nap."
Amy thanked him again, then dug in, taking care to make every bite beautiful, chewing everything thoroughly.
When she was done, she drank the water, then handed Tattoo-guy the empty dishes, thanking him again.
"Remember this, Fucktoy. Bad behaviour is punished, but good behaviour is rewarded. Now, go on in and get some rest."
As the days stretched into a week they became almost routine. Every morning, Tattoo-guy would come and fetch her. First, she ate a bowl of oatmeal, then she brushed her teeth and showered, all under his supervision, of course. Once she was finished, he would inspect her for cleanliness, then he would begin to work on her tattoos.
Painstakingly he colored in the circular tattoo between her shoulder blades until it resembled the Rose Window at Notre Dame cathedral. Then he moved on to the designs around her arms and thighs. It took the entire week, working four or five hours at a time, for him to complete original designs.
Amy grew used to the burning sensation of the tattoo equipment, and held still without having to be strapped down by the end of the first week. Most of the time, anyways.
After he was done working on her tattoos for the day, he would give her a treat if she had behaved, or her regular oatmeal if she was naughty, then she went in her cell to rest for a few hours. Amy quickly caught on that Tattoo-guy was easy to please, and simply holding still and not making too much noise while he worked was usually enough to earn her a treat. There was only one day that she did not earn a treat, when Tattoo-guy was working on the band around her right leg and hit a fresh welt. Though she had tried desperately to hold still, her muscles bunched and her entire leg jerked, leaving a long line that Tattoo-guy had had to work into his design on both legs and earning her a flogging.
After an afternoon nap, Tattoo-guy again fetched her and she was put through her paces, learning all the postures and positions. There was a great deal of etiqette involved in being a slave, and it took awhile to learn and remember everything she needed to know.
After several hours of training under Sir, Amy was given another bowl of oatmeal, then it was in her cell to sleep for the night.
Though she strove to obey to avoid any more floggings, occasionally she would not obey quickly enough or not adopt a posture properly and earn a stripe or two from the whip.
As the week progressed, though, she received fewer and fewer floggings.
Amy counted ten days since she had arrived, though she wasn't sure how accurate that was, since there were no windows, no day or night.
She was even beginning to think of herself as "Fucktoy," not Amy. Her mind was now divided, half finding a strange contentment in submission, the other half, the half that was still Amy from America, the foster child and student nurse, rebelled constantly. That voice, that had been so loud when she first arrived, was growing quieter by the day, though.
Amy/Fucktoy's life had become wonderfully simple and she was finding less and less to hate about it. No longer did she find crawling on the floor or kissing shoes degrading, it was simply part of her life now. Something that was proper and kept her ass welt-free. And, Amy/Fucktoy found a great deal of joy in making every motion she made beautiful. It made her feel deeply feminine, more like a woman than anything ever had.
No longer did she mourn the children she would never have, the nurse she would never become or the plans she had made for her life. No longer did Amy/Fucktoy dream of escaping slavery, though she did still dream of escaping this place of training. Now her dreams centered around that halcyon room she had seen through the bars of a pet carrier where those beautiful women had lounged and around an enormous black man before whose feet she found herself longing to kneel and accept his collar.
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