"Helena!" The shouted word echoes rapidly off the barren wooden walls, through the empty, silent corridor, and down the nude banister embraced stairs.  His voice is a scratchy emanation racked with strain, as if suffering from laryngitis, yet forcing volume.  Again, with more urgency, more demand, and more annoyance, the word spits from his mouth, "Helena!"

Through the tensing silence, the soft steps of bare feet can be heard, the creak of a floor board, the rustle of long hair against soft skin, until, there at the end of the corridor, she stands.

Her long flowing black hair falls as gently as the mist of a waterfall.  It caresses the flawless form of her body, her noble breasts looming large and opulent, the black walnut glaze of her enlarged aureola, the impudent rigid nipple commanding masculine attention, her flat stomach, her soft, fine triangle of groomed fur, her sleek muscular legs.  All this beauty glorified by her radiant green eyes, the exploded mounds of her lush red lips, and the child-perfect sheen of her skin.

She stops, suddenly, at the sight of him waiting.  Fearfully, piously, she lowers her gaze.  He does not tolerate the piercing stare of repenting eyes.  She listens intently.  His voice is a whisper of dread.  He pronounces his words slowly, precisely, so every syllable can be heard and understood.

"You, cunt!  How dare you make me raise my voice.  You, who should beckon to my side, await my every whim, dare make me shout for you?"

The intensity of his voice literally paralyzes the limbs of the woman.  Trembling, she lowers herself into a kneeling position.  She could not, dare not speak as that would fuel his rage.  Her eyes never raise.  She watches her beautiful hair cluster on the floor at her knees.  She remains motionless, as the sound of his footsteps come toward her, anticipating the consequences of his rage.  He stops just in front of her, his hand-made leather slippers standing upon her silk stranded hair.  A single tear escapes her eyes and rushes to the junction of her lips.  Without warning, a dangling end of whipcord falls into her view.  An involuntary shiver lightning’s through her body.  His feet move out of her view and their sound continues behind her.  Again, he stops.

Suddenly, both her arms are jerked violently upward behind her.  The upsurge of her arms forces her body forward, crashing her lovely face into the hard, wooden floor.  Her only reaction to the immense pain, a quiet whimper.  However, it is not made quietly enough.  Her arms are forced even higher, sadistically molding her back and arms into an acute angle.

His muted voice again assaults her ears.  "Do I hurt you, my fragile Helena?" Animosity causes a trembling in his throat muscles.  "Do I cause you the anguish that you cause me by yelling for you?!"

Within seconds, her hands are bound tightly together at the wrist.  The coarse braids dig deeply into her unmarred flesh.  A second length is entwined about her elbows, forcibly gnashing them together.  Her back and arms encased in pain, but still no further lament escapes her lips.

Although she maintains her facade of silence, her mental voice cries, "The pain!  Must stop the pain!" She begins directing her full attention to listening.  By increasing the perceptiveness of her hearing, her brain obscures a portion of the pain.  "Concentrate!" A mental command to her body.  "Listen!  What do you hear?" The pain begins to subside as her ears sensitize.  The sound of his breathing, short and spastic, her own heart pulsating, rushing blood and adrenaline, a sound of chain links brushing together.

The mental block is short lived and her concentration is broken by the savage yank on her hair.  The pain of her strained arm muscles, finally released from their upward hold, is replaced with the agony of her hair follicles being ripped from her scalp.  Her hair is being tossed and pushed aside, exposing the clean nape of her neck.  The chain sound manifests itself in the form of a chrome link tether.

She offers no resistance to his harnessing it around her neck.  She remains silent, outwardly.  Her thoughts constitute the full extent of her rebellion.

"Oh, God.  Not that cold chain.  Why did I leave his side?" Her thoughts are interrupted by the inevitable sound of the clasp being seated, a harsh pull on the chain, and now the slow walk down the corridor.  He allows her to stand, although on similar occasions, she has had to crawl to the room.

Only gazing downward, she briefly catches glimpses of his swaying pant legs.  The pace is slow.  A single thought repeats itself in her brain.  "I'm sorry.  Please forgive me.  Oh, please, I'm sorry." But still, no sound.  Just the pleading of her tearful green eyes.

They stop at the adjacent end of the corridor.  He opens the door and tugs harshly at her tether.  The chain chafes her skin.  She responds immediately by entering the room.  She flinches as the indefinable stench of the room invades her nostrils.  It is strange how fear and psychological conditioning can manifest themselves in sensory reaction.  Previous terms, in this cage of a room, have taught her what to expect.  Fear swells inside her.

They move to a corner of the room.  There is no need for her to look up.  She already knows what is there.  Dangling menacingly from the ceiling is a section of nylon rope attached to a pulley.  In the floor, two eyelets are screwed deep into the wood.  They are located about four feet apart with sections of yellow nylon rope also attached to them.

She is stopped next to one of the eyelets, then feels the tether drop.  For a moment, she is allowed to rest.

She hears him walk away from her, across the room.  The footsteps stop.  The hinges of a cabinet squeak lightly as doors open.  There is a slapping sound as leather and rubber brush against each other.  His foot-steps again, returning.  He stops in front of her and she feels the rubber mask being fitted over her eyes.  A band is forced over the back of her head.  The mask is held tightly in place with the rubber snugly fitting the contour of her face.  Blackness.

Her ordeal continues as first her right foot is fastened to an eyelet rope, then her left leg is tortuously spread wide apart and fastened to the other eyelet.  It requires a bit of reorientation for her body to maintain balance.  There is the sound of the pulley moving as the ceiling rope is fastened to her wrists which are still tied behind her back.

"Please, don't!" Her thoughts scream inside her head.  She has suffered this type of punishment before.  "So many times, he's punished my disobedience.  Why is it I don't learn?  Don't I want to obey?"

Once more the sound of the pulley.  To her, a sound comparable to the creaking of an old dungeon rack or the rusting hinges of an iron maiden.  He pulls the rope taut while watching and enjoying her discomfort.  Her arms again stretch into an acute position.  This time, with her legs spread far apart, her upper torso bends low.  Her breasts and hair fall gently forward as her back arches in pain.

"No more!  I'm sorry!" her mental voice begs.  Outside of her brain, nary a whimper.

The stretching stops and she can hear the rope being tied off.  His steps again move to the cabinet.  Now, the combination of pain and fear begin to mount.  "What else must I suffer?" The silent pleading question is answered all too quickly.

She feels his hand caressing her left breast, his fingers teasing it, fondling its fullness, lightly circling the nipple, allowing the hair on his arm to tickle the nipple into hardness.  Confused by his change of tactics, the pulling pain on her arms and the erotic excitement of his fondling causes an explosion inside her body.  She tries to blot the fondling from her mind.  "Concentrate on the pain, his inflicting pain." Even with all her attempted devoidance, her body reacts to his touch.  Her nipples become erect and excited.

As soon as her nipple protrudes outward, the spring grip of a two-pronged clothespin is attached to her aureola.  A new sensation of pain.  And, before the nipple can collapse into the protective skin, it is grasped and stretched downward.  She feels the burning squeeze of sisal cord wrapped tightly around the base of her bud.  The cord is attached to a weight heavy enough to stretch the nipple continuously downward without mercy.

Again, the feel of the cord.  This time at the base of her breast.  Once, twice, a third loop and then the agony of the tightening of the loops.  Her breast balloons to twice its size.  The pain increases many times.  He performs the same ritual on her other breast, this time having more trouble grasping and tying the nipple.

Her head begins drowning in agony.  "I mustn't black out.  I must fight the pain.  Defy it!" The words echo deep in the gray matter of her brain.  But, no matter how hard she tries to fight the hurt, its culmination is overwhelming.

For the first time, her pain is no longer quietly bearable.  She yells out in anguish.  "No!  I'm sorry!  Please!" Her voice is instantly quieted by the searing slap across her face.

His voice erupts in a low whisper.  "You dare cry out?!  You know you are to be punished.  If you make even the slightest of sounds, you'll regret having a voice."

His threat is not idle.  She bites her tongue, choking the air in her throat.  Her only recourse is the friend in her brain.  Her own silent voice.  "I hate it!  Not this much!  Why this much?!"

There is a numbing feeling in her brain.  Helena surprisingly realizes that every erogenous zone on her body has become hyper-sensitive.  To her, pain has always had an alluring quality.  Excessive pain eventually became confused with a form of pleasure, possibly, a surrogate, to tolerate the pain.  She starts to lose herself to the idea.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a new sound, a whirling sound, the mechanical whine of cheap motors.

With all the strength left in her body, she tries to force her vaginal and anal muscles closed.  Try, again and again, try.  But, to no avail.  Her spread position is exposing.  She must resign herself to the truth.  She is his, at his mercy, for his convenience, obedient to his every whim and fancy.

Vibrating plastic is quite impersonal.  Helena suffers the first contact with the cold plastic being, as it is slowly pushed into her entrance.  She feels its palpitating large smoothness being inserted inside her.  Then, a second intruder fills her other passage.  Together, as the motors vibrate, he pushes them toward each other.  The delicate membrane wall separating her channels erupts with the mechanical massaging sensation.  The humming organs quickly entice her sexual desires.  He pushes them deeper and deeper.  The vibrators are no longer alien objects.  The longer and deeper within her, the more alive both become.

The warm glow starting inside her, the pain of her breasts, arms, and nipples all seem to enmesh into a single ache/pleasure.  Her head reels as her mental voice screams.

Now, his hand starts massaging her clitoris, the vibrators erotically stimulating her vagina and anus, the pain interweaving with the pleasure.  All at once, the pressure is released from her nipples as the tormenting weights crash to the floor, the pain subsiding, the pleasure increasing.

The cords holding the roots of her breasts are cut and blood rushes freely to her veins.  He removes the pinching clothespins and gently rubs the indented tips of her breasts, the pain diminishing, the pleasure amplifying.

The vibrators are removed and shut off.  Her arms are lowered and her elbows released.  As she sinks to the floor, her mind begins to drift, to relax, to rest.  Adroitly he bends her ankles back to meet her thighs and straps them there and continues to massage her.

His voice now comes out calming and rewarding.  "Helena, please never make me punish you again." His hands caress her throbbing breasts and nipples.  "You are mine.  You'll always be mine.  You must always obey me." The mask is gently pulled from her eyes.  She blinks at the bright light, then decides to keep her eyes shut.  "I want to take care of you.  I want you to take care of me."

He lifts her into his arms and kindly carries her from the room.  He has made a complete reversal.  His touch is gentle and kind, his voice is soothing and reassuring.

Helena never notices or minds that her wrists and legs are still bound.  A lull has enraptured her body, her very essence.  As he carries her, she buries her face in the silk shirt he wears.  She is at ease.  Lounging in his strong, comforting arms and in the warmth of his body, she listens to him.  His whispery voice is now confident and truthful.  "Helena, I love you."

They enter a magnificent bedroom.  A four-posted, canopy bed with satin sheets and a velour cover awaits them.  He places her on the bed and stands back to admire her beauty.  Discoloring and ruptured blood vessels, evidence of the punishment's toll, stain her beauty but heighten her desirability.

She does not want to open her eyes for fear it will all end.  She can hear his clothes falling to the floor.  The springs of the bed sigh under their combined weight.  His tender strokes cover her bruised and excited body.  His mellow phonics, repeating him-self, "I love you, Helena, I love you."

The weight of his body on hers, his penis in her vagina, his oneness, her oneness.

Quivering with ecstasy, she can only think the words, "My Lord, I too love you."