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Beverly

by Master Ivan


The party was seemingly the most straight-laced affair in the world--a couple dozen people, celebrating the victory of a local sports team, with cocktails, music and dancing and the usual flirting and groping in the darker corners. Beverly stood out--her red halter top was revealing, as was her short black skirt, and her 5” heels drew the eye to her fishnet stockings, the clips from her garter belt just visible at the edge of the skirt.

I observed her from a distance. There are things that can be discovered about women in the way they present themselves, things that cannot be as easily deduced from within the distraction of a direct conversation. The angle at which an arm twists as it is held against an object high on a wall--the flexing of muscle groups at the knee indicating physical tension at the thigh and higher--the arch of the back, the tilt of the head, the rotation of the feet when standing--all these and more are significant gauges of the personality and mindset of a woman as well as her current mood. In some contexts, they can even reveal her innermost fantasies and become a means to predict her reactions to unique situations.

And Beverly showed me, in every item on the list, that she hungered for experiences that she had no desire to talk about.

* * *

I carried a pair of handcuffs. After my preliminary look at her confirmed my suspicions, I slipped the handcuffs over my belt where they could be seen, then walked to a place a few feet away from her. As I watched surreptitiously, I saw easily when her eyes discovered them. She registered the subtle evidence of shock on her face, then her shoulders moved--forward at first, as a subconscious protest and defense against the threat from the cuffs, and then back slightly, almost like a subtle submission to the thought of having them locked on her wrists behind her back. And predictably, with the last, her nipples hardened under the brief halter.

I chose that moment to meet her eyes overtly. I smiled at her, then walked to her side.

“Like what you see?”, I smiled to her.

She laughed, then replied, “Typical. Every guy here thinks they’re God’s gift to women. I suppose you’re no different.”

“Perhaps, if it was just my body you were looking at. I don’t think so.”

Her smile slowly left her face, replaced by something else, still undefined.

“Then just what DO you think I was looking at?”

I took the cuffs off my belt and held them out, almost as if offering them to her. “These.”

Having forced a subtle but obvious component of the exchange into the area of the overt, I again watched her face. It was not an expression of being challenged or threatened, but one of embarrassment, having been revealed before other people. I placed the cuffs back on my belt, but left them in her view. I then just looked at her face, wanting her to make the next move.

She had no idea where I was going, and worse, even less of an idea of what she herself was going to do next. Something held her back still, yet she did not simply rebel and storm off. Before the cuffs were even locked on her, she was held prisoner by her own needs.

I placed my arm at her back, reassuringly, and told her, “Your mind tempts you with fantasies on one side and prevents you from fulfilling them with the other. Which side do you wish to win tonight?”

She was uneasy with the question, one she knew was there to set the hook even deeper in her mind. So I provided a deceptively innocent path for her to try as an alternative.

“I’d say you knew little or nothing about handcuffs, perhaps never even felt them before. Here, hold them...” I handed the cuffs to her, and she took them in her hands. I showed her how the ratchet worked, and she pulled them, one cuff against the other, also noting how the two sides could twist against each other as the connecting chain pivoted. She smiled as she examined them, an opportunity for her in a non-threatening context.

“Of course, to really experience them, one must do more than just hold them. You need to know what it feels like for them to hold you.”

Now, her eyes flashed back, feeling defensive. I had moved slowly as we talked, maneuvering us to a point near a wall. With our backs to the rest of the people, I opened one cuff and offered, “Want to try it on?” As her body language reflected her fear, I reassured her, “Just one of them. And the key is right here in my pocket.”

With some hesitation, she nodded. I took her right hand and gently but firmly locked on the one cuff. I let go of the other one. She looked at it, felt it, held the second one and pulled at it to test it and feel what it would feel like to struggle against them. I noted again the way her nipples hardened when she pulled against the unyielding metal. Now, she felt secure, much better able to enjoy the sensations. She smiled, then asked, “Now what?”

The wall was equipped with a series of eyebolts, which had some rope run thru them to support some banners for the gathering. Still smiling, I explained, “Surely, you can’t really feel what it is to be handcuffed when you’re still free to move around. Perhaps this may enhance the experience for you...” I quickly hooked the other handcuff thru one of the eyebolts and locked it, attaching her to the ring.

She gasped, “What are you doing???” I stood by her, and told her, “Now, you can begin to understand the difference. Can you see the difference in how it feels when you are actually locked to a fixed object and cannot free yourself?”

She began to mount another complaint, but I simply stood there smiling at her, reassuring her even as she laid captive in my trap. She relaxed a bit, seeing that I had not abandoned her.

“Indeed, you understand that I have not left you here locked to the wall. You feel secure. Yet, is that not just another form of running from the true depth of feelings you could be experiencing? You really do not get the full effect unless you are held against your will, without being able to release yourself. Can you see that?”

Her eyes lowered, and I noted with interest her right wrist pulling very gently against the wall every few seconds, confirming her captivity. Her skin was flushed with excitement, and I could smell her musk. She nodded in agreement.

“So, obviously, the only way for you to get the complete experience is to be left not only helpless, but alone, without any possibility of freeing yourself, until such a time as someone else chooses to free you.”

I turned and walked away.

Her mouth opened as if to protest, yet not a word escaped her lips. Not only had she practically consented to each step along the way, but her body held her back from any complaints. Now, she began to experience being held under lock and key, unable to escape. Several other people in attendance began to note her predicament and smiled, enjoying the “joke”.

Beverly saw them looking at her. She felt trapped--she WAS trapped. I watched her carefully from across the room, remaining hidden from her view by the other bodies in the way. I knew this would be a critical juncture. Would she panic? Would she become hostile, or call for help?

She did none of these things. She did, in fact, precisely what I gambled she would do--she tried to remain calm and in control, making no effort to summon help. And it showed in her face that she had no hope that people would not notice her situation.

I returned to her side in a few minutes. Surprisingly, even with my return, she made no protests. She spoke without the arrogance that characterized her earlier, knowing herself defeated by the situation, surrendering to my control.

“I can see you are beginning to feel the effects of genuine captivity. You now know yourself helpless, a prisoner, subject to the will of another. And you feel the subtle fear of what more may happen to you.”

She trembled, replying, “Y-yes, you’re right.”

“Does it excite you?”

Her face reddened and her eyes lowered again, as she practically whispered, “You know it does.”

“Then say so. Tell me.”

She looked up into my eyes and told me, “Alright, it excites me.”

I smiled back at her, ready now to take her another step forward on my game plan. I pulled out a small pen knife...

“A captive should not be hesitant in answering a question.”

Her scanty red halter top included a series of thin straps that ran across her decolletage. Using the knife, I cut two of the straps, which resulted in her coverage opening almost two inches and revealing a substantially increased portion of her breasts. She gasped, then asked, “W-what are you doing?”

“I am showing you what happens to a captive hesitant in responding. Be cautious not to protest further--there are more straps that could be cut.”

Her eyes widened, and her free left hand came up to cover herself. I told her, “Lower your hand.”

She obeyed. I walked away again.

I observed the other people in the room at this point. Indeed, their eyes were drawn to her chest. What was already a provocative top, revealing, had become noticeably more revealing with the cut straps. And the others in the room took note. Interestingly, they were overt in their looks, knowing the girl to be helpless. She herself was very aware of their stares, and she did nothing to cover herself again, remembering my order to her.

Over the course of a full hour, I came up to her several more times. On two occasions, she asked me to get her a drink, and I complied. On a third occasion, I refused, walking away after simply saying, “No.” Looking back, I observed that the other people recognized my control in the situation and did nothing for her.

It was perhaps an hour and ten minutes into her captivity that she became very frustrated. I was smoking a cigarette as she began to talk about it. “Really, I need another drink. And I could use one of your smokes, too.”

I smiled, then explained to her, “A captive soon learns to recognize that she has no rights to anything, that anything she is granted bears a price. What do you have to offer me for a drink or a cigarette?”

Her eyes widened as she felt herself yielding up more control to me, feeling a new level of vulnerability. The party had become more risque as the evening wore on, and several of the women in attendance had their tops unbuttoned, revealing themselves. A couple of those wore only panties below the waist.

She reddened again, but said nothing. Once more, I walked away.

I waited twenty minutes, seeing her tension build as others often walked by her at close range, leering openly at her, holding drinks or smokes themselves. She asked them for nothing, and she was offered nothing by them in return. Finally I returned to her, and asked, “Do you wish to make me an offer?”

I lit a cigarette as she suffered, watching me, struggling within herself to avoid the obvious. Finally, she surrendered.

“I-I’ll give you my skirt for a cigarette.”

I smiled as she turned beet red in the face. Her eyes lowered, and I relished the moment as I watched her suffer.

After a long pause, I replied, “I accept your offer. Remove your skirt.”

She used her one available hand, her left, to unbutton the one button holding the skirt on her body. It fell to the floor around her ankles, revealing some highly revealing bright red panties, matching the red of her halter top.

“Hand it to me.”

She bent over to pick it up--and I noted the excellent brief view of her breasts within the top as she did so. The panties had nothing to cover her ass, only a string running up the back. She handed the skirt to me, and I handed her a cigarette, offering her a light. I left an ashtray with her. She thanked me, to which I smiled, then walked away holding her skirt.

She took the ten minutes or so to finish the smoke, then stood there, feeling even more revealed to the others in the room. Now, she could not hide anything by turning her back on the room--if she did, her ass was for all practical purposes naked. And even the front of the panties hid little.

I gave her almost forty-five minutes before I returned to her again. By this time, She would be developing the small aches and pains that such mild restraint would produce, perhaps even a bit of chafing at the wrist. I made small talk with her, commenting on minor events at the party, including who seemed to be hooking up with whom. A couple times, she made small adjustments in her posture to try to cover her body, but I immediately told her each time that she should do nothing to cover herself, unless she wished to be more completely restrained. We had travelled far beyond the brief experience of her just wearing the handcuffs by this time, and I was pleased to see she continued to follow my lead.

I smoked another cigarette during that visit, and neither offered her one nor heard any pleas from her. After I left her for another forty-five minutes, I returned and lit one up immediately. And I also had a drink in my hand.

“P-please...I’m going nuts. I’ve got to have another cigarette, and I really need a drink.”

“Then you can make me an offer, just like the last time.

She moaned in frustration, knowing already I would be absolutely merciless in enforcing the rules I was laying out for her. Finally, she steeled herself and took the plunge.

“I’ll give you my top for a cigarette and a drink.”

I smiled, knowing myself victorious again in a contest in which she had no chance. “You’re haggling, but I will accept your offer.”

She paused, looking down at her top, then noted to me, “I-I can’t remove it with the handcuff locked on.”

“Indeed you can’t. But the top is already ruined, from my cutting it earlier. I’ll just have to finish cutting it off of your body.”

It was a logical argument. She accepted it with a nod. I took out my knife again and cut the two shoulder straps, then right up the front between her breasts. She moaned again as her tits were revealed in full, yet made no effort to protect herself with her free hand.

I picked up the top, then gave her the cigarette. Moments later, I had brought her a drink, and I was no longer carrying her top when I returned. Now, with both the cigarette and the drink to handle with her one free hand, she had dropped to her knees. Later, when both the drink and cigarette were finished, she remained kneeling.

I gave her somewhat over an hour before returning to her again. Now, there was a permanent circle that had formed around her nearly naked body. Most of them men, a couple women, all stared openly at her, enjoying her suffering. Beverly herself simply kept her eyes lowered, remaining on her knees. She made no complaints, and no one offered her any help.

With the audience watching, I came to her again. It was time to take another step forward.

I stood at close rage, watching her as she was held helpless in the gaze of her other friends at the party. She still made no efforts to cover herself, but I did note her scratching an itchy nose.

Standing before her, I told her, “It is time to accelerate your journey now. Give me your consent, now, without knowing what the next step will be.”

She trembled, her nipples rock hard, as she said in almost a whisper, “I-I consent.”

Smiling broadly, I took a second pair of handcuffs out of my pocket. I locked one around her left wrist and locked its mate to a second eyebolt, about four feet along the wall from the one already holding her captive.

She moaned as she saw her remaining hand lost to her. And she reddened again as she heard a few of the people watching her cheer the latest development.

“P-please”, she begged, “I really need another drink.”

“Captives get no privileges. I may have something that will help you to endure, though...”

I tore off her panties. I ordered her, “Open your mouth!” She opened, and I stuffed the brief panties in her mouth, tying them in with a leather thong.

She moaned deeply, feeling her humiliation to her very core as she looked back helplessly. The panties were soaked in her juices when I tore them off, and she would be tasting herself in them for awhile. I walked away once more.

At each stage in her progressive degradation, the audience had moved a bit closer. Now, they got within arm’s reach. And now, they broke the ice and began touching her with their hands. Her arousal climbed, as her moans were audible from half-way across the room. And those watching her and sometimes touching her were also aroused.

Half an hour or so went by, and I returned carrying a tray covered with a small towel. I placed the tray on the floor next to her and knelt on one knee.

“My captive is still not naked enough. Stand!”

She moaned, but instantly stood upright, the handcuffs keeping her arms out from her sides.

I removed the towel from the tray, revealing a small bowl of warm water and a razor.

As Beverly moaned and later cried, I shaved her cunt. Finally, I removed the soiled panties from her mouth, placing them on the tray. I also picked up the ashtray she had been using.

“Kneel again!”

She knelt. I left her again.

Her wrists were far enough apart to prevent her from touching even her face. She could not dry her tears. And she certainly could do nothing to cover her body. Everyone else at the party had, at one moment or another, come to enjoy the sight of her, and most of those had used their hands on her freely. I left her to their tender mercies for a full hour before returning to her yet again.

“Slut!”

She looked up at me, surprised at my mode of address to her, yet unable to refute my observation. The evidence was clear, in her hard nipples and her opened and visibly moist cunt.

“You have aroused a great number of these people. Can you see it?”

She looked. She nodded, as she answered, “Y-yes.”

I took a couple steps, then asked her, “You still feel the need for a drink, do you?”

Again, “Y-yes.”

“Or, perhaps a cigarette?”

“Y-yes, please.”

“Do you suppose a captive is deserving of any comforts whatsoever? That she is owed any consideration?”

She lowered her eyes. “N-no.”

“She doesn’t even have the respect to say ‘Sir’ when she addresses her captor.”

“N-no, ...Sir”

It felt good to hear that word from her for the first time. I knew I would relish hearing it often from her in the future.

“Perhaps I could suggest a way for you to satisfy that oral fixation of yours--and show some respect at the same time.”

“Please, Sir.”

“But--you should also be punished for failing to show proper respect, shouldn’t you?”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“So be it then.”

I took a pair of spring clothespins out of my pocket. I clamped her nipples, one at a time, feeling glorious pleasure at the brief cries that escaped her lips as the pain began for her.

“Now, slut...pick any one of these gentlemen here, and beg them to let you suck their cock.”

She was truly shocked...she cried out, “Oh, God!!”, and moaned for some time. Soon, though, the pain built in her tortured nipples enough for her to be convinced. She called one of the men by name, and begged him, “Please Sir, let me suck your cock.”

There was a round of applause. The proud gentleman stood forward, withdrew his cock and offered it to her mouth. She opened, briefly licked the head, then took him deeply into her mouth on the first stroke.

It took him barely ten minutes to cum, in her mouth and on her face. With her hands locked in the cuffs, she would be unable to clean herself. She licked his cock and balls clean as she felt his cum dripping down her face and body.

As he withdrew, finished, another stood there, his cock already revealed. She begged him by name to let her suck his cock as well. The line formed quickly.

I let her have thirty minutes with the clamps on her nipples, then came and removed them wordlessly. She moaned around the cock fucking her throat at the time, and I am sure the sounds of her pain pushed him over the edge as he came seconds later.

She remained locked to the rings for nearly another two hours, her mouth in constant use. She asked each and every man that used her to do so, by name. And after the first couple of guys were finished, she began thanking them after as well. Eventually, she sucked off every man at the party.

Except for one. As the majority of the people prepared to leave, I stood by her once more.

“Well, captive, do you have anything to say?”

She moaned, uncomfortable in her prolonged bondage, her face and body bathed in cum.

“T-thank you, Sir.”

“For what, slut?”

“For making me your captive.”

“And, does my captive wish to be released, to be allowed to return to her own home?”

Her face showed alarm at this, until I proposed, “...or would she prefer to become a slavegirl, to continue to serve on her knees, to be subject to my discipline, my control, my training, even to the pleasures and needs of other people at parties like this one?”

“Oh, yes, Sir!”

“Then beg your Master to use his new slavegirl.”

“Please, Master, use your new slavegirl, let me suck your cock!”

Being a kind and generous Master, I granted all her wishes. The other party attendees stayed to watch her final performance on my cock, right up to the swallow and clean at the end. I finally released her from the rings, but immediately handcuffed her behind her back for the ride home in the trunk of my car. Her clothes were discarded.

She slept on the floor at the foot of my bed that night, chained by a collar, still handcuffed. I didn’t allow her even a shower until the following morning, after she again sucked me off to start her first day of training. I allowed her pleasure about twice a week, when her performance was flawless, and whipped her freely and kept her denied when she fell short in any way. Soon, her hunger for sucking cock became obvious, as did her hunger for wearing the handcuffs as much as she could.

And once a month, at her own request, she would be packed away again in my trunk, naked and handcuffed, to return to the rings to serve at another party.


Master Ivan

Copyright © 9/18/05
Master Ivan Press