Peppermint Ch. 06: A Facial at Last

Peppermint Chapter 6

This is the sixth chapter in the Peppermint series; for context it is suggested that the preceding chapters are read first. As always, text messages sent by Jack are shown in bold type; messages he is sent from either woman are shown in italic.

This chapter features harsher treatments than Jack has previously inflicted on Aimee; it verges on CNC in places and explores dark themes and sadomasochistic actions and psychologies. Please remember that Aimee is a willing participant in these, has agency and a safe word and derives a great pleasure from having serious physical pain inflicted, being verbally degraded and experiencing fear, jealousy and sexual violence. All characters are fictional, consenting and present by choice.

It is night. The cold autumn air wuthers through the rows of containers in the storage yard, bringing a heavy mist with it. The vapour condenses of the sides of the steel cuboids, running down the corrugations of their sides and dripping to the rough tarmac of the yard. I wait, patiently. I am always patient, able to hold back the impulses and spur-of-the-moment decisions which seem to govern the lives of so many people. This patience is borne out in the process that is approaching its conclusion here, tonight, in this unusual setting. Everything is ready and silence reigns. I reflect on the events that have brought me here; the relationship I have with you, strange as it may be in the eyes of many people, and becoming your protégé. Of course, you have accepted that I have the necessary skills and attributes - I have provided evidence of this to you on several occasions and have been told that my apprenticeship is coming to its end. I will soon claim my reward for staying the course and meeting your always-high expectations and standards.

I think of the slut that I have been entrusted with. She belonged to you and was operated solely by you until you invited me to partake in one of your sessions together. Therein, we had inflicted pain and humiliation on her to a degree which many people would have found abhorrent, but that the slut found unspeakably erotic and arousing. You had showered her with orgasms, after all, and the pain and derogation she had suffered served only to heighten the intensity of these. Following the session you had given her to me with the instruction to bring her to my own heel, to force her into being not your slut but mine. She had willingly accepted this and had shown a remarkable desire to hurt, degrade and humiliate herself at my instruction. She had publicly exposed herself at a major London landmark, masturbated semi-naked on Hampstead heath, bitten and bruised her body on video and begged me to hurt, humiliate and fuck her like the cheap whore that she needed to be. She had presented me with images and videos of herself making herself orgasm, travelled on the Underground in states of obvious sexual fatigue and described herself to my work colleagues as "Jack's slut" before detailing how she behaved at my behest. She had verbalised her desire to fuck me, her desire to fuck you, and her desire to feel the white-hot jealousy of passively watching me fuck you whilst we verbally degraded her.

To someone who didn't understand this relationship it may well have seemed monstrous to treat a person in this way; however, you, she and I all know three things that they might not; one, it was at her request that I treated her like this; two, she had, and continues to have, the option of using the safe word ("peppermint") at any time and all activities instantly ceasing; and three, that her resilience, strength and fortitude in the face of such treatment had been nothing short of awe-inspiring. Anyone can survive a slap across the buttocks but to subjugate oneself to the will of another and inspire and accept the sexual mistreatment they deliver, time and time again, without breaking role, using the safe word or refusing to continue was exceptional. To beg for more, as she had done, to push the envelope so far in the quest for self-discovery was beyond admirable. As I have stated before, the power in these relationships oftentimes resides with the bottom, not the top.

I have marked her skin in many ways. I have left bruises, welts and contusions. Some of these I caused with my own hands, but the majority have been inflicted on herself as she carried out my instructions. I consider the abstract that I may have damaged her psyche but dismiss the notion. Any psychological damage that she has suffered happened long before I, or even you, were part of her life. She is a successful upper-middle class woman who works in forensic accounting for a financial firm in the Square Mile; she comes from a wealthy family who showered her with affection, love and an expensive private education. One could offer many theories as to why her tastes ran to such extremes, and maybe an equally expensive psychotherapist could unravel and explain them, but as far as I am concerned that is her business and not mine. I could make her tell me, I suppose, but somehow that seems far more of a violation than slapping her across he breasts or spanking her backside with a ruler ever was. It could be simply that she revelled in the powerful dopamine rush that comes with such interactions. Whatever it is that drives her thusly, I will wait for her to tell me in her own time if she chooses.

For now, the far more interesting prospect is the culmination of our project. I have kept this last part secret from you, going above and beyond your instructions. This is a calculated risk, as your insistence on your orders being followed is carved in stone; however, you have also showed scorn for the predictable and unimaginative when the execution of those instructions is concerned. As I see it, I have met your high standards with my previous actions. I will now exceed those standards and maybe even redefine them in my own manner.

I could have waited inside the container. It would have been warmer, for one thing, and drier, but also more predictable. The interior of the container had been modified to suit my purposes, including two action cameras that were remotely linked to my phone. I would be able to see anything that happened inside whenever I chose. I have tested everything and am confident that this evening will transcend everything that has come before it.

Glancing at my watch, I see that the time is a few minutes before a quarter to ten. I have told her to be here at ten o'clock on the dot, dressed in a certain manner and bringing a variety of items with her. I hear the faint hissing of the iron rails that heralds the arrival of the train that she will be on; the tracks lie just over the high steel fence and run behind the yard in which I stand for another mile or so before arriving at the station platform. From there I have instructed her to take a taxi to the entrance of the 24-hour supermarket whose car park adjoins the yard. From there she is to walk to the yard, locate the relevant container and await my instructions. The train rattles past me, a welter of noise and light in the fog, and then it is gone. A few minutes later I see a car's headlights sweep around the supermarket car park. The car stops briefly and then makes its way back onto the main road and heads back into town.

Deep in the shadow of a bare sycamore tree I wait quietly and patiently; this elicits memories of waiting in the gulf of similar shadows during a previous interaction. Similar to that occasion I think myself into invisibility, my dark clothing and peaked cap conspiring with the blackness to ensure that she will not see me. She is most definitely not stupid, though, and I know that she will know that I will be watching her as she arrives. I hear footsteps approaching the gate. There is a pause whilst she enters the code I have sent her on the keypad beside the wicket that is set into the locked main gate; I check my watch again and see that it is two minutes to ten; close enough. There is a click and the scrape of hinges as she enters, closing the wicket behind her. I watch as she moves slowly down the rows of locked containers, looking for number 37, the unmistakeable tresses of her gorgeous dark brown hair plainly visible in the light thrown from the LED floodlights that switch on as they detect her movement and follow her along the concrete apron. I know her well enough to know that she will not be scared. Other people might be, in an unfamiliar and imposing locations such as this, alone and in the dark, but she will not be. She knows that I will have everything in hand and that her safety will be assured. In this she is correct; a reconnaissance of the yard before darkness fell has ensured that I know we are the only persons present.

She pauses before number 37, and I see her glancing around despite herself, for a few moments. She reaches forward with her right hand and tugs at the un-padlocked handle of the right-hand door. There is a muffled shriek of complaint from the locking mechanism as she works at getting it open, spilling light from the interior before stepping through the door and pulling it to behind her. I remain hidden in the shadows but open the remote camera app, selecting the one I have placed at the rear of the container, facing towards the doors.

I see her looking around the container, taking in the large wooden frame that I have built inside it. Quickly though, she sees the sheet of paper bearing printed instructions that I have left on the small table inside the doors. She picks it up and begins to read aloud, just as I have specified.

"One; take off your coat and hang it on the hook to your left, place the items from your bag on the table and then place the bag under the table." Her voice is soft and accepting; this shows she is in role and will be completely obedient to my instructions. I watch her as she shrugs off her expensive black double-breasted woollen trench coat and turns to her left to hang it up. I drink in the sight of her, for underneath she is semi-naked, wearing only her kitten-heeled shoes, her signature black hold-ups and a black silk lingerie set. Her silver belly chain and necklace glint in the muted interior light. She stands with a pleasing posture, feet together, back straight and shoulders squared. Her shape is most beguiling, curved and voluptuous. She begins to take items from the bag and arranges them neatly on the table, her breath condensing in the near-freezing air inside the container.

"Two: take off your shoes and place them beside your bag." She does so, bending from the waist and keeping her legs straight whilst she does so. Her hair sweeps across her left shoulder and hangs down to the floor as she leans forward and the swell of her upper breasts surge forward under the influence of gravity, barely staying within the confines of her bra. She removes first her right and then her left shoe and places them under the table.

"Three: take the two leather wrist cuffs from the table and buckle them to your wrists." This is quickly and efficiently done. The cuffs are solidly made, stitched and riveted together using steel slugs. A steel D-ring protrudes from each.

"Four: kneel on the floor over the cross of tape. Take a picture of yourself in this position. Text Jack to tell him who, what and where you are after sending him the picture." Through the eye of the camera, I see her moving into the middle of the unit and watch as she kneels down carefully before taking and sending the picture. A few seconds later I feel my phone vibrate. I ignore it for the moment as she has one final instruction to read out.

"Five: switch off your phone and place it on the floor behind you. Remain kneeling and await further developments. Keep your head bowed and your hands behind your back.." She turns off her phone and carefully places it behind herself, before clasping her hands behind her back and settling down to kneel more comfortably, her buttocks resting on her feet.

I begin to move quietly, walking quickly but carefully along the apron to the side of container number 37. I keep my phone in my hand, using the app to switch to the camera's infra-red setting before operating the clunky light switch which plunges the interior of the container into darkness. Through the crack of the door, I hear a slight intake of breath as she realises that the evening's activities are beginning. I check the camera app and see that she is still kneeling in the same position, as instructed. Before I pocket my phone I look at the message that she sent.

The picture shows her face and upper torso, her make-up done just as I like it, eyes enlarged with kohl and mascara, her lipstick a very dark vivid red. Her face looks directly into the camera, the shadow of her cleavage a canyon below, the darkness highlighted by the chain of her silver necklace upon which, I know, there is a small silver heart engraved with the words "Hurt Me." Her skin is lightly tanned despite the season and is flawless and free of witness marks from our last session, a dozen days having passed, allowing her time to heal. She looks incredible, wanton and hungry. Underneath the picture is the following:

"I am Jack's slut. I am his to do whatever he wants with. He can treat me however he chooses. I will do whatever he wants me to, no matter how humiliating or degrading. I am kneeling in a storage unit waiting for him. Aimee."

Well, Jack's slut Aimee, I think, let us begin.

I step quickly through the doors of the container and pull them close behind me. Using the light of my phone's torch I see her kneeling on the floor a few metres inside the unit, unmoving. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a drawstring bag made of thick blackout material and a steel karabiner. Without acknowledging Aimee's presence I whip the bag over her head and fasten the drawstring tightly. A gasp of fear escapes her, which I also ignore. I snap the karabiner through the D-rings of the shackles, pinioning her arms behind her back. Once she is immobilized I return to the doors and ensure they are completely shut, slipping another short length of chain around the handles and padlocking it before using the interior switch to turn the lights back on. I pick up Aimee's phone and place it in the pocket of my jeans before turning my own phone's torch off, stowing it in my jacket. During the next few minutes I busy myself by preparing the equipment that I have brought and installed, as well as that which arrived with Aimee. A look over these items serves to inform me that Aimee has prepared well. For example, one of the items I instructed her to bring with her is a silicone tentacle dildo; she has brought a fearsome-looking example in dayglow green and black, covered in suckers, that must easily be half a metre long and easily 15cm across at the base.

Throughout these minutes Aimee continues to kneel silently. I look at her, taking in the sheer beauty of her body, curved and supple. Her head leans forward within the bag, redolent of its position the moment I first laid eyes on her in your basement all those months ago. Her skin remains free of goose-pimples despite the cold; I imagine that adrenaline must be providing its own heat for her. She is tall for a woman, and strongly built, the voluptuousness of her curves underpinned by a musculature that is gym honed. Seeing her kneeling silent and obedient as I make my preparations, I know that she will be anticipating the suffering through which I will put her tonight. The silence between us will be causing her apprehension, and I am happy to let the tension mount as I go about my work.

When I am ready, I speak, standing in such a position that the cameras can see Aimee unimpeded.

"Aimee, you will remain silent until I tell you otherwise. You are here tonight so that I may use you to impress upon Deborah just how far I have brought you. Together we will show her the extent to which you can subjugate yourself to my will. The activities and processes I have planned will cause you intense pain; they will be beyond what I have, and you have, inflicted upon your body before. You will accept the pain, degradation and humiliation that I administer and you will, at my direction, hurt, humiliate and degrade yourself. Part of this session will be recorded so that Deborah may see exactly how far you have come and appreciate that I am a hundred percent in control of you.

"As always, you will have your safe word. Should I hear you use the word "peppermint," all activities will cease. Nod to show that you understand." She nods, the blackness of the bag twitching forwards as she does so.

"Do you want me to treat you like the cheap slut that I know you to be?." She nods again, her eagerness apparent even through the fabric of the bag.

"Good. Do you want me to hurt, humiliate and degrade you sexually for my own entertainment and that of Deborah?" A third nod. "You will now stand and we shall begin."

Aimee rises slowly, unable to use her arms for balance, and stands in silence. I watch the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes.

Acetal, or polyoxymethylene, is a high-density, low friction engineering plastic. I have a rod of it, 10mm thick and a metre long, with a paracord loop passing through it 150mm or so from one end that I slip over my right hand so that I may maintain a solid grip. The other end I have rounded over into a hemisphere. I move to stand at Aimee's right-hand side, with her in front of me and at my left, a ninety-degree angle between our positions. With no warning I bring the heavy rod around in a wide arc and smash it into the skin of Aimee's abdomen, just above the delicate links of her silver belly chain. There is a resounding impact report and Aimee drops squealing to the floor in shock and pain. My research online has suggested that other materials such as carbon fibre or bent cane will deliver a blow with a higher stinging component, but that acetal will transmit the force of the blow more directly into the body mass rather than its energy being dispersed into the skin. I now have my own empirical evidence of this, I muse.

I listen to Aimee's piteous snivelling as she cries quietly to herself. I note, however, that she does not utter a single syllable. The blow, however cruel, has not tested her strength and resilience to anything like their limits.

"Get up, slut. I did not give you permission to move. You wanted to be here, remember - you want this." She slowly collects herself and rises again to stand in more or less the same position. I manoeuvre her roughly onto the exact same spot, the rod swinging from my right wrist and clattering against her shins and knees. I can see a weal of dusky bruising already starting to form on her belly and I run a fingertip across it, feeling the heat that radiates from it.

"Stop that ridiculous crying, thank me and ask me to do it again."

She forces her breathing under control, straightens her posture and in a trembling voice speaks her first words of the evening: "Thank you for beating me, Jack. Please hit your slut again."

I pause for a few seconds, savouring the moment, and watch as she tries to quell the desire to flinch away from the impact that she knows is coming. Seeing that this time she is forewarned and able to tense her stomach muscles in anticipation I swing the white plastic bar again, the harder second impact landing across her navel with another firm smack. She shrieks in pain again but this time is able to remain standing, although she is forced into a stoop by the pain of the blow. Her feet beat a tattoo of pain on the dusty floor and she begins to cry again inside the hood. I lean the acetal rod against the inside of the unit and wrench her upright, my grip uncaring and loutish.

When she is positioned to my liking I undo the drawstring of the bag and yank it off her head, stuffing it into the pocket of my donkey jacket. Her eyes squint against the harshness of the lights and her previously immaculate make-up is already ruined, the carefully applied lipstick smeared by contact with the fabric of the bag and the remains of her kohl eyeliner already tracking down her cheeks, driven by the tears she has cried.

"Are you my slut, Aimee?" I growl, my voice low and menacing.

"Yes, Jack. I am you slut, your whore, and I need to be treated harshly," she replies, a tremor still present in her voice.

"Good. We have only just begun." I pick up the acetal rod again, tapping it contemplatively against the upper of my right boot as I walk slowly around Aimee. I run a hand over her buttocks as I pass behind her, feeling her flinch in anticipation of another caning. "Not yet, slut. However, you should know that before this evening is over I intend that, amongst other things, you will not be able to sit comfortably for some considerable time. Does that knowledge excite you?." I continue my circuit of her as she replies.

"Yes, Jack. Knowing that you are going to hurt me makes me wet for you." Her voice is steadier this time, smaller and indicative of her subservience.

"Good. You now have a choice to make. Breasts or buttocks?"

Immediately Aimee answers "Please, Jack, spank my arse." I stop behind her and gaze at the smoothness of her skin, the scoop of her back and the firmness of her musculature.

I breathe quietly for a moment or two before I say "I am going to ask you a question, slut. If you answer it correctly, I will administer ten strokes. If you are incorrect, I will administer twelve. It will hurt you either way. You will have ten seconds to answer. If you do not supply me with an answer we will end the session upon the count of ten. Nod if you understand."

She does so, and I ask her if it is possible to make the number 27 using the numbers 1, 2, 4 and 8 when only using basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. I begin to count aloud, slowly, the menace obvious in the low growl of my voice. I have reached four when Aimee speaks.

"It isn't possible to do so using those digits without assuming that one can juxtapose them; 48 minus 21 or 28 minus one would give 27 but neither of these is a true solution using mathematical principles." She is of course correct; it had taken me several attempts to work this out prior to this evening to identify what Aimee, with her mathematical and logic skills, could identify within moments, despite being restrained, aroused and in pain.

"You will remain silent and in position while I administer the strokes. Eight will be by hand and the final two with the rod. Lift your hands up out of the way." I raise my left hand and smash it into the firmness of the left buttock, Aimee stifling a yelp as the pain explodes across the skin. Three more blows follow it before I turn my attention to her right and repeat the process. Aimee breathes hard through her nose, determined to remain silent, and ensures that her feet remain on the mark despite the considerable forces applied. I pause and examine my handiwork; the skin is red and inflamed below the silk of her underwear. I move into position on Aimee's left-hand side, raising the acetal rod and selecting the site of the intended impact. Aimee breathes deeply and closes her eyes and I marvel privately as to her total commitment to this process. I land a stinging blow across both buttocks, making her writhe in agony, her body shaking with barely suppressed sobs, a white line showing where the hardness of the rod landed on her skin. The second impact is even harder, and lands in exactly the same position as the first.

Aimee cannot help but take a step forward to try to remove herself from the pain. I fling the rod into a corner and grab her by the hair, forcing her to her knees again and wrenching her head around until she has no choice but to look me in the eye.

"I told you to stay still, Aimee. How shall I remind you that you are to do as you are told?." When no answer is forthcoming I shake her head roughly, the fingers of my left hand enmeshed in the softness of her gorgeous hair. "Answer me, slut! I am not here to play around."

Aimee gasps and then hesitates for the merest moment before appearing to make up her mind. "If you slapped my face it might remind me, Jack. Please, slap my...."

Before she has finished speaking I have slapped her hard on both cheeks, the left with my right palm and her right with the back of the same hand. It is one continuous motion and the force of the blows causes her to slump to the floor, rocked and disoriented.

"Thank you, Jack. I will remember to do what you instruct." Her voice is thick and slightly slurred, and I wonder if I have damaged her, but she manages to lift her head and give me a small smile, so I assume that she is uninjured.

"Take a minute to steady yourself, Aimee. We will continue shortly, as I have many more activities planned for you. I assume you do not want to use your safe word?"

"No, Jack, I don't. I'm your slut and will accept whatever you want to do to me." Again I find myself privately marvelling at her inner strength and resilience. Whilst not being enormous in stature I am physically very strong, and the force of those slaps must have been considerable; I am impressed that they alone have not caused her to tap out. Before long, Aimee appears to be ready to continue, so I direct her to stand and remove her knickers. She does so, sliding them down her thighs and kicking them to one side. The welts on her backside are already a livid purple, I note with approval, matching the marks on the curve of her stomach. I take my phone from my jacket pocket and take a series of souvenir photographs before removing the karabiner from the D-rings on her cuffs, allowing her arms to return to their normal position along her sides.

"You have had your fist taste of pain, Aimee. It is time for you to feel a little pleasure. However, being the nasty little whore that you are, you will not get to experience this in isolation; you will use your fingers on your clit and you will degrade yourself verbally by telling me what you want me to do to you as you masturbate. You will, of course, refrain from achieving orgasm; you have a long way to go before you will have earned that privilege. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Jack, I understand. I will finger myself while I tell you how I want you to hurt and humiliate me." So saying, she allows her right hand to slip between her thighs, covering her mound with her palm as her first and second fingers begin to stimulate her clitoris. She sighs and rolls her shoulders slightly as the sensation begins to build. I watch her carefully, noting the pleasing way in which the upper portions of her breasts sway with the movement. I am hungry to see them in all their glory but restrain myself for the time being; I shall enjoy them all the more later for the wait.

"Jack, I'm so wet... I'm a cheap slut who needs to feel humiliated in order to truly experience pleasure, pleasure that I know I'm not worthy to receive. You have no idea how much shame I feel when you treat me like your plaything, denying me choices or options. It burns me up to stand here in front of you nearly naked with my makeup ruined and my fingers inside my whore cunt. I need this humiliation so that I can truly belong to you. If you were nice to me I'd get bored, but you always seem to know how to make me feel like a true slut. I need you to treat me like dirt, Jack. I want you to torture my fat tits, ruin my nipples and force your cock into my throat. I want you to fuck my mouth, my tits and my cunt and fill me with your sperm whilst telling me how much of a worthless slut bitch I am. I want you to fuck me like you hate me and tell me that you'd rather be fucking Deborah than me, telling me how she makes you feel, what she does for you. I want you to deny me orgasms over and over until I'm unable to do more than beg you to let me make myself come. I will do anything you want me to, hurt myself in any way you want and keep asking you for more. I just need to be your fuck toy and will do whatever it takes to make that happen. If you want me to, I'll fuck anyone you tell me to, whether that's Deborah or Cleo, or even a group of strange men who just want me to suck them off until they cover my face, hair and tits in come before walking away and leaving me filthy and humiliated."

By now she is beginning to approach orgasm, her breathing deepening and causing her breasts to rise and fall animatedly as the skin on her chest begins to pinken with arousal despite the cold temperature inside the container unit.

"Stop touching yourself, slut," I bark. "You are already too close to orgasm. Should you fail to follow my instruction to refrain from climaxing until I give permission, I will end the session immediately." As much as I would be disappointed to do so, I privately add. A whimper of dissatisfaction dies in Aimee's throat as she begrudgingly removes her fingers from the cleft of her sex. Her need to orgasm is strong, but the pleasure she derives from being denied is stronger.

I move to stand in front of her and run the fingers of my right hand up her left arm, across the hollow of her clavicle and up the pillar of her neck, tracing her jawline. Her lips part in anticipation and I tease them with the tip of my index finger.

"Close your eyes, Aimee," I say quietly. She does so, anticipating how I will slide my finger into her waiting mouth. Instead, I slap her again, a full swing onto her left cheek with the palm of my hand that spins her from her mark as she cries out in pain and shock. I grab her by the throat and shove her back onto the taped cross, and then quickly replace the karabiner between the shackles of her wrist cuffs, pulling her shoulders back and thrusting her breasts forward.

"Aimee, you will stay on your mark until I tell you otherwise." My voice is low, menacing and quiet. "Do you like it when I slap you, or are you going to give in and use the safe word?"

"I fucking love it, Jack. I love it when you hurt me. The pain and humiliation are intense and I think it could make me orgasm if you did it often enough. I won't use the safe word."

"I don't care, Aimee. Now, stay on your mark and stay quiet." I retrieve the acetal rod from where I threw it and instruct Aimee to take the paracord loop in her teeth. "Lean forward until the other end touches the floor; keep your legs and knees straight. You will maintain that position until I return. Do not think to cheat - I will be able to see the cameras' feeds and will know if you move." Without waiting to see if she has understood I exit the container and close the door behind me. I take my time as I walk behind the container unit and open my phone, sending you a message to say that you should expect a surprise over the next few days. I contemplate the near-silence of the yard for a moment or two and then duck back into the container and shut the doors again. Aimee is still in position, her back bent and arms thrust behind her, tremors of effort showing as she fights the urge to stand up. Her legs, back, neck and jaw must be aching severely by now. It is of no concern to me - she will be hurting much more than this by the time I am done with her.

Aimee does her best to watch me as I prepare the equipment I need, but her vision is hampered by the need to have her head tilted forward and the pain that she is in. I hear her breathing steadily through her nose with the effort of maintaining the stress position as I bring a large HDPE water trough from where it was placed neatly against the back wall and place it on the floor in front of her., taking a five-litre plastic jug out of it and placing it to one side, out of Aimee's eyeline. Like the water in the drum, the water in the jug is at the ambient temperature and very cold to the touch. In my thick donkey jacket and cap, I am warm enough, Aimee, naked other than for her bra and holdups, must be becoming chilled. Again, no matter; she will be colder still very soon.

Keen to move proceedings along, I take the acetal rod from between Aimee's teeth and lean it against the wall. She is gasping now with the effort of standing in the crooked stress position and I direct her to stand upright, again removing the karabiner from the cuffs and slipping it into the pocket of my jeans. I motion her to stand upright and she does, groaning in gratitude as her aching muscles protest at the change in position. Despite the cold her skin bears the first sheen of sweat, the perspiration brought on by the effort of standing in such an uncomfortable position for so long.

"Remove your bra, slut. It is time to begin to test you in earnest," I say. "You will then suck your right nipple until it is hard, at which point you will repeat the process with your left. I take it you will enjoy this?"

"Yes, Jack," she says as she begins to remove the silken bra, slipping the straps over her shoulders and onto her upper arms before reaching behind herself and undoing the hook fasteners. "I love sucking my nipples for you because I know how much you enjoy seeing me doing it and I know how much of a slut it makes me look." I remember your comment about how a woman who is happy to suck her own nipples shows a pleasing lack of shame. Aimee removes the garment entirely and drops it to the floor beside her knickers, before raising her breast in her hands and directing the nipple towards her mouth, hungrily sucking it between her lips and running the sparkling tip of her tongue across it, flicking at the silver ball-ends of the piercing bar. She makes appreciative noises as she does so, bending to the task with selfish delight. I watch her beautiful face soften as she enjoys the sensations, her eyes meeting mine and the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She is correct in that I very much enjoy seeing her nurse herself. She pulls hard with her lips, nibbling gently at her own flesh until she feels that her nipple is erect enough before dragging it from the vacuum of her mouth with a slight popping sound. She presents the nipple for my approval, and I nod once. She repeats the process with her left breast, using both hands to lift the considerable weight. The right nipple protrudes into the cold air of the storage container, the aureole puckering. She looks incredible and the beast of temptation flicks its tail at the thought of forcing my penis into her cleavage and making her titfuck me to my own orgasm. Nevertheless, I remain motionless and continue to observe as this older, worldlier and more experienced woman sucks her nipple at my behest. She is beginning to moan softly to herself now, the excitement returning as she gnaws on her own breastflesh, her beautiful hair hanging over her right shoulder and making its way down the curve of her belly.

"Stand in the trough, slut. Close your eyes and hold your breasts up for me." The instruction takes Aimee by surprise, and reluctantly she ceases her sucking and takes a step forward, putting both feet carefully inside the confines of the plastic and shutting her darkened eyes.

"You will not move, Aimee. You will remain where you are, in this position. Understand?" My instruction could not be any clearer, nor my voice any more dispassionate.

"I understand, Jack," she says, confident that she is safely under my control.

I reach for the plastic jug, and without preamble pour a good half of the water over her head, forcing a shocked explosion of breath from her as the cold envelops her immediately. Her skin instantly develops goosebumps as the freezing rivulets make their way down from her scalp, along the soft skin of her neck and onto her torso. Her nipples, already turgid from her sucking, jump to readiness as the fingers of cold snake towards them, rush around the contours of her breasts and then down her arms and stomach before making their way to the ground where they are confined by the trough. Somehow, though, she manages to keep her stance and her eyes remain closed, although the lids flicker crazily for a few moments as she fights the natural reaction to open them and avoid another drenching. I command her to describe the sensations she feels.

"Fuck, Jack, I'm fucking freezing," she stammers through chattering teeth. "It was cold in here when I was dry and now I'm....." I cut her words off by slowly pouring the remaining litres of water slowly over her breasts, watching as the stream of water splashes onto her skin. I concentrate it on her cleavage and watch as her nipples bunch even tighter as her body contacts its capillaries and directs her blood to her core in an attempt to retain what heat it can. She groans, the thin, reedy sound of her distress filling the interior of the unit. "Fuck, fuck, Jesus...."

"Open your eyes and stand with your arms by your sides." She does so, a look of bewilderment crossing her features. She begins to shiver as her body's heat causes the water to evaporate, further cooling her skin. I watch her, my head cocked slightly to one side. How different she looks compared to her usual exquisite presentation. Her hair, no longer the usual waterfall of shininess, is plastered messily to her scalp, neck and shoulders. The last vestiges of makeup are just visible on her face, which is twisted into a scowl of discomfort, the kohl and eyeliner just grey shadows on her cheeks. She tries to control the chattering of her teeth by clamping her jaw shut, but I can still see the tremors in the muscles of her neck. Her hands open and close in spasms as she fights to hold them by her sides.

I take a few paces to the small table and pick up a coiled leather belt, perhaps 40mm wide, and she follows me with her eyes. I see her shoulders drop fractionally as she realises what must be coming next.

"Ask me to warm you up, slut," I utter. She stammers, the chattering of her teeth making speech difficult.

P-p-p... please, J-j-jack, would you warm me up?."

"With great pleasure. When you are warm enough, you will ask me to stop and move onto the next activity." Aimee nods, the best she can do to communicate her understanding, her eyes wide with fear.

I slap her hard across the breasts with the belt, and she screams in agony. Normally she would be capable of swallowing her screams, but in her shocked state she is both more vulnerable and far less resilient than usual. I command her to be silent and deliver another lash, bending my elbow to the task and slapping the belt across her left nipple. Another scream, slightly quieter than the former, issues from her lips and she begins to cry in earnest. I hit her again, this time vertically, the leather licking across the heavy flesh of her right breast and transferring its energy into the quivering mass with vicious efficiency. I keep working, watching with satisfaction as the wet, puckered skin of her breasts takes on an angry scarlet hue as I work them over, contrasting with the blue tinge that can be seen on her lips. In all, I deliver more than two dozen blows, ignoring Aimee's tears, setting her breasts on fire with pain. I have almost forgotten that I told Aimee that she would decide the duration of this treatment, and am brought back to reality when she gasps "Enough, Jack! Please....." I lower the belt and survey the vivid, reddening weals on the skin of her bosom.

"Fucking beg me, Aimee. Beg me to stop." I am enjoying pushing her so far and part of me wants to continue to deliver the scorching slaps; however, as she has said before, I am the master of self-control and so I resort to making her humiliate herself for my enjoyment.

"Please, Jack, I know I'm a worthless slut whore who doesn't deserve your kindness, but please don't whip my useless fat tits anymore. I'll use them to make you come instead, if you want, or let you fuck my mouth and shoot your sperm onto my face. Please, Jack - I'll do anything you want."

"Do you need to use your safe word, Aimee, or are you willing to give yourself to me even further?" I ask, reflecting that the physical ordeal she had undergone and is still experiencing has been more extreme than anything I have inflicted upon her in all the time I have known her. However, I have underestimated her strength once more; she takes a deep calming breath, holds it and slowly exhales, standing straighter before answering.

"No, Jack. I won't use the safe word. I am your slut and I will see this through. I just hope you are finally going to fuck me, and use me like the cheap, desperate whore you know I am. I want you to own me, mark me as yours, and treat me as degradingly as you choose."

"Are you cold, slut?" I ask.

"Yes, Jack, but if it pleases you to see me like this then I am happy to be cold." Her lips are still blueish and her teeth chatter slightly as she speaks. She remains standing still as I bend down and scoop up a small quantity of the frigid water in the jug from between her delicately-arched feet. She watches in trepidation as I stand and grip her by the hair, spinning her to face away from me and dragging her down into a kneeling position, her spine bent backwards until she faces the steel ceiling.

"You have a choice, Aimee. Either you endure what I am going to do next without uttering a word, and then be rewarded, or you fail and we finish our activities. Which shall it be?" There is no mercy or even interest in my voice, which is as dispassionate as I can make it.

Despite the fear on her face Aimee voices her desire to continue. As soon as she begins to speak I begin to slowly pour the water from the jug onto her face, filling her eye sockets, nostrils and mouth with the cold liquid and causing the panic to rise in her. She thrashes against my hold of her hair and half whimpers, half chokes in desperation, but begins to master her fear and coughs as much water as she can from her airways, stilling her body and tilting her face to meet the steady stream of water, her inner strength surprising me yet again. The water is cold on my left hand and wrist as it courses down through the thickness of her hair and makes its inexorable way back into the trough. Despite the onslaught she manages to overcome the instinct to panic, and, when after twenty seconds or so the water runs out she opens her eyes, breathing hard and coughing occasionally. I release her and order her to stand.

"You look like a drowned rat, Aimee. Look at you, what a state. Do you enjoy looking like that?" I ask.

"No, Jack, I don't like looking like this at all. I like to look nice for you, and I know how much you like me to look good, so the shame of standing in front of you like this is huge, but I enjoy the humiliation of it. I know you'll have to punish me for looking such a mess, but I will enjoy that too, whether you hurt me physically or by making me humiliate myself for you." She keeps her eyes downturned and is fighting against the cold.

I nod, once, and instruct her to step out of the trough and stand on her initial mark. She is shivering uncontrollably now, and in order to stave off hypothermia I walk to the rear of the container and unhook a duffel bag from where it hangs on the wall. I return to Aimee and hand it to her, telling her to empty it and use the items inside. She upends the bag and falls gratefully on the contents; a black towelling bathrobe, a matching towel and a coarse woollen blanket. I watch as she shrugs her way into the outsized robe and gathers it around her frame, belting and tying it around the narrowness of her waist.

"You can leave your holdups on; you look whorish in them. Wrap yourself in the blanket; sit in the chair and use the towel to dry your hair." I point to the rear of the container where a single vintage wooden classroom chair awaits, facing the right-hand wall. She moves towards it and I lean against the container wall and watch as she arranges the blanket carefully over the back of the chair and leans forward to towel her hair dry. The weight of her breasts pushes pleasingly against the softly constraining fabric of the bathrobe, and I glimpse a muted flash of silver as they roll against each other under the influence of the movement of her arms. When her hair has dried a little she sits on the chair, tucking her feet under herself and pulling the blanket over her shoulder. I plug a small electrical fan heater into the container's internal power supply and set it on the floor in front of her, angled slightly upwards to ensure that the warm air plays over her. Within a few minutes she has ceased shivering, and the colour is beginning to return to her face.

"Tell me something about yourself, slut; something I don't know," I say quietly.

Aimee considers for a moment, before replying softly. "I have an IQ of 122 and a master's degree in forensic accounting from George Mason University in Arlington, Virginia."

"Good. Something else about you, now."

"I have fucked many more women than men. I like to be dominated and humiliated by women more than men, usually. Women want to get inside my head and find out what makes me tick, but most men just want to get inside me, come, and then tell me how they are the greatest lover I've ever had."

"And me, Aimee? What do I want with you, do you think?," I ask, a trace of amusement finding its way into my voice.

"I think you want to use me to discover your own power, Jack. You have a better understanding of what I want from a submissive relationship with you than other men have, and you work hard to give it to me." She seems on the verge of saying more, but, glancing up quickly at my face, she bites back any further insight and drops her gaze to the worn plywood floor of the container.

We sit in silence for a few more minutes, the only sounds being the whir of the heater's fan and the drip of rain onto the steel roof of the container. I ruminate on what she has said. She's correct, I suppose, in both her prognosis and choice of words. I do want to use her; use her for my own gratification, and to show you what it is that I can do thanks to your training and manipulation. That she is willing to be used, hungers to be degraded and hurt, is the ultimate titillation.

I break the silence. "Are you warmer now, slut?"

"Yes, Jack, I am getting warmer now." She replies. I push myself off the wall and retrieve her bag from where she left it, handing it to her and standing in front of her. She nods when I ask if it contains a hairbrush.

"Brush your hair, slut. Take your time and do a good job; as you say, I like you to look your best, to start with at least. Be aware that we have only just begun the evening's activities; remember that you can use your safe word at any time. All you have to do is say the word "peppermint" and we will stop everything and you can go home." Aimee merely shakes her head once and begins unwinding the towel from her head. She takes a large paddle brush from her bag and begins running it through the dampened sheen of her gorgeous dark brown hair, allowing it to spill in front of her as she runs the black bristles through it, caressing and teasing out knots, re-arranging and tidying it. She works unhurriedly, carefully, and I realise that the amount of work she must go to in order to prepare herself for me is considerable. She is naturally beautiful, but I also realise that she has read me well, and tailored her appearance based on, and exceeding, the instructions I have given her regarding her appearance in the past. She knows what I like and has played to it. Once more I reflect that the majority of the power in our relationship lies with her. I may be the top, but I am subject to her subtle manipulations of my tastes and desires just as she is subject to obeying my will; the only difference is that she has the option of using a safe word. I have no such luxury, I realise.

I continue to watch and muse as she finishes brushing out her hair. It is plain that her relationships with you and I are very different. With you, her relationship is more transactional; she pays you well, and you give her what she needs. With me, it seems that I give her what she needs but the entanglement is deeper. I curse myself for not having had the vision and foresight to predict that I would be manipulated during this process. The question, of course, was by whom was I being manipulated? It wasn't Aimee, so it must be you. By letting me exert a power over Aimee, you were able to retain a degree of control over me. I decide there and then that I would change my choice of reward; rather than just fucking you I would fuck with you. Not enough to anger you, but enough to remind you that I am the master of my own mind.

When Aimee has finished brushing her hair she sits, the brush on her lap, the silence total apart from the hum of the fan heater. I ask her if she has her makeup in her bag; she replies in the affirmative, so I direct her to wipe away the last traces of the previously ruined cosmetics and re-apply it. As she reaches into her bag again, I extend my right hand forward and grip her firmly but gently by the chin and tip her face upwards towards mine. "You will do this naked, Aimee. You seem to be warm enough now." As I release her, she nods and shrugs the robe down over the lightly-tanned skin of her shoulders, exposing the generous swell of her breasts, before standing and discarding the robe entirely, sitting again and retrieving various items of makeup from her bag. I watch her, my gaze travelling over the firmness of her curves; she is voluptuous and yet carries no spare weight. My eyes linger at the tops of her expensive hold-ups, delighting in the contrast between the black lace and the tone of her skin, which is now dry and free of goosebumps. The flatness of her stomach, encircled as it is by the fine links of her ever-present belly chain, rises above the smooth folds of her sex. The cold water seems to have limited the inflammation of the skin on her breasts, the capillaries contacting under the rapid drop in temperature, although I can still faintly see where the belt impacted. Her nipples jut from the rounded breastflesh, dark and hungry as sin, spiked by the silver bars of the piercings that were done at your command. She looks into a small compact mirror that is held in her left hand, her right moving with the surety born of daily practice as she applies eyeliner and lipstick to her beautiful face. To point out how attractive, how tempting she is, even to myself, seems gauche at best and foolish at worst.

I resolve that once she has re-applied her makeup that I will order her to masturbate herself to orgasm; she has earned her first of the evening with her fortitude and strength. A few more minutes pass in silence as I watch her calmly completing her task. That she was weeping with pain and cold not long ago seems to have left no upset in her; she trusts me to keep her safe even as I am inflicting this pain on her. Eventually she finishes and places her makeup back in her bag. I retrieve the acetal rod from where it still leans; Aimee eyes it with a combination of fear and delight.

"Listen to me carefully, Aimee. I am going to watch as you masturbate. You will have the freedom to do this in whichever way you choose and will do so until you climax. You will remain on the chair and will describe the sensations as you touch yourself. Before you orgasm, though, I will deliver five strokes of the rod; you will choose where the impacts are to land. Do you understand me?" My voice is steady, level and commanding. Upon hearing it Aimee reflexively sits straighter in her chair, her shoulders pulling back and her breasts pushing forward.

"Yes, Jack, I understand. I will make myself come for you, describing how it feels. I will not leave the chair and I will ask you to use the rod on me."

"Begin then, slut."

Immediately Aimee begins to circle her clit with the middle finger of her right hand. She lifts her left foot up onto the seat of the chair and reaches her remaining hand underneath it, sinking the middle and ring fingers into her sex and leaning her forehead against the knee.

"Fuck, Jack, I love doing this. The shame of wanking myself off in front of you is huge, but I love it. My fingers feel so good, both on my clit and inside myself." She continues to probe herself with the fingers of her left hand, spreading herself wider for better access and tipping her pelvis forward. "Look, you can see my fingers moving... I want to come for you. I want you to see me at my most intimate moment and humiliate me for masturbating in front of you."

I continue to watch, externally impassive if not internally. "Please Jack, use the rod on me." She removes her right hand from her centre and wordlessly lifts her right breast with it, proffering me the flesh. I swing the rod quickly, slapping it into the lightly-tanned skin and glorying in Aimee's scream.

"Oh Jesus, that really fucking hurts!" she exclaims, rubbing the site of the impact and then pulling at the nipple. At no point does she stop fingering her vagina, I realise approvingly. A red welt slowly appears on the breast and she tips her head forward, lifting the sullied flesh to her lips and kissing it gently. She licks along the welt and then appreciatively sucks her nipple for a few seconds, popping it wetly from her mouth before continuing to speak.

"I'm such a fucking slut, Jack. I love sitting here with my fingers inside my slutty pussy while you watch me. My fingers feel amazing... I'm going to make myself come for you soon. I hope you like seeing sluts finger-fuck themselves for you." She continues to stir herself, dropping her right hand back to her sex and pushing three fingers inside herself, looking me in the eye as she does so.

"I want you to fuck me, Jack. I want to feel you inside me, ramming your penis into my cervix. I want to make you come in me, or on my fat tits, to make me your whore. I want to kneel in front of you while you stand above me and stroke yourself off all over my face. Fuck, I'm close, Jack. Please hit me again, on the arse this time." She lifts her bruised right buttock off the chair and I slap the rod hard against it, making her cry out in pain. To my surprise she immediately asks me to do it again, so I repeat my swing, landing the rod with a vicious crack just below the where the previous strike landed. Aimee sobs in pain, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes, yet she keeps working, returning to sit fully on the chair, her heels shoulder width apart on the dusty floor of the container. Her arms frame the heaviness of her breasts, setting them shaking as her biceps push against them.

"Both tits, Jack -I'm imagining watching you fuck Deborah and making her scream in delight. I need you to hit me across both of my tits while I wank myself off at the thought of the two of you together. I'm just a useless, selfish fucking slut who needs to feel the jealousy as she watches Deborah orgasm on your penis. Please, Jack - now!." She sits straighter in the chair, the flesh of her breasts spilling over her upper arms, offering me their bounty. I slash the rod across them, a solid thud sounding through the still-warming air of the container and being immediately answered by Aimee's howl of pain. She has one hit left, and I wonder where she will choose to take it.

The welling tears begin to spill from the corners of her eyes, the first damage to her new make-up showing as a dark trail down her left cheek. Nevertheless, she continues to masturbate as per my instructions.

"I'm so close, Jack. I'm so close to coming. My fingers feel amazing inside me, and I wish I had more hands so that I could play with my nipples at the same time. If you hurt me again I'll come for you." She climbs up to kneel on the chair, facing away from me, and I anticipate that she wants me to slash the acetal rod across her buttocks or shoulders, so I raise the rod in readiness for the blow; I am surprised when she turns her head to the side and asks me to step around the chair and stand in front of her.

"Aimee, you do not give the instructions here, you know this," is my reply through gritted teeth.

"Please, Jack. I have an idea. I'm so close and I want to come. I want you to hurt my nipple and I need the back of the chair to do it in a way that I think you'll like." As she speaks she circles her clit slowly, keeping herself just on the edge of orgasm with her left hand, her teeth biting the corner of her lower lip, fey and wanton. Intrigued, I walk slowly around the chair until I am facing her.

"This had better be good, slut."

She moans softly and raises her left breast in her right hand, manoeuvring the darkness of the nipple until it rests on the plywood back of the classroom chair.

"It will be, Jack, I promise. Please hit my nipple with the rod. The pain and humiliation will be unbearable and I promise I'll come for you like a good slut. I'm so turned on that I'm shaking. I just need to come.... Please, Jack?" With a show of her incredible resilience she looks up at me before slowly and deliberately closing her eyes, placing herself entirely at my disposal. I raise the rod.

"Okay, Aimee. You will climax on the count of three. One... Two... Three"

The blow lands with a loud thud-smack, impacting the back of the chair as much as her nipple but catching the dark flesh cruelly between it and the hard plywood. Aimee's scream rings off the steel walls of the container unit as the pain, pleasure and humiliation conspire to push her into a devastating orgasm. She paws madly at her wounded nipple, crying and screaming obscenities, simultaneously making her fingers a blur as they over-stimulate her clitoris. A small spray of fluid gushes from her sex and onto the seat of the chair and onto Aimee's calves. She shudders in delight, riding the waves of orgasm that crash over her. I watch as tears pour down her face, ruining the recently reapplied kohl and dragging it down the perfection of her cheeks.

"Whose slut are you, Aimee?" I ask, my voice betraying none of the triumph that is coursing through me.

"Fuck, fuck... I'm your slut, Jack," she stammers through her tears, "Fuck, it hurts so much. I'm your slut and I love it. I just want to be here with you, humiliated and in pain, coming for your enjoyment like a cheap whore."

"Good. You will rest for a few moments now whilst I gather the necessary items for the next stage. You will suck your injured nipple while you sit on the chair." I walk towards the table near the front of the container, watching her as she arranges herself carefully on the chair, seeking to avoid any undue pressure on her bruised buttocks. She is in profile, her right-hand side towards me, the LED lighting harsh on her figure. She lifts her breast to her lips and takes it gently into her mouth, sucking at it firmly despite the bruising that it already showing on the skin behind the areole. She holds the mass of the breast in both hands, squeezing it carefully between her slim fingers, appreciative noises sounding quietly in her throat. I wonder if this is her greatest pleasure, as it seems to calm and soothe her like nothing else does. I think back to the first time I saw her, in your basement room, performing this same act on herself following a huge, forced orgasm, a contented look on her face and her demeanour still and calm. She shows the same focus now, stimulating herself quietly and slowly.

A switch inside me is activated at the sight. It is time to stop playing with her and actually deliver what she wants. I pick up two heavy steel clamps and the luridly-coloured alien tentacle dildo along with a strip of black fabric blindfold. Aimee seems unaware of my movements, engrossed as she is in her self-gratification. I stride to where she sits, grab her by the hair and yank her head upright, causing her to drop the breast and shriek in pain.

"Stop that, you selfish little slut." My voice is cruel and sadistic. "Put the blindfold on and beg me, on your knees, to hurt you." I fling her head downwards and she drops off the chair and onto the floor where she scrabbles to put the blindfold in place. Once it is tied she kneels up and takes a deep breath.

"Please, Jack, hurt me" she asks. I do nothing.

"I said beg, you stupid slut. Beg me like you fucking mean it."

"I'm sorry, Jack. Please hurt your stupid whore slut, even though she is too worthless to deserve it. Humiliate me for my pathetic mistake, I beg you."

I slap her brutally hard with the back of my right hand, full across her right cheek, knocking her to the floor. "I said beg, you stupid whore! Stop fucking whinging and actually beg me to hurt you!"

There is no sound other than her soft sobbing.

"Want to use your safe word, slut? You just say it and this will all be over. Come on, admit it, you've had enough." She raises her blindfolded eyes towards me and shakes her head minutely. I marvel again at her fortitude in the face of the unexpected violence. She lowers herself in supplication, right to the floor, bending at the waist until her breasts pool on the rough plywood sheeting. She keeps her face downward and speaks in a small voice:

"I'm a worthless, pathetic slut, a silly girl who just craves your approval, Jack. I'm undeserving of your time and attention, I know, but please, I ask you humbly, do whatever you like to hurt and humiliate me. Use me as an object, not a person. Make me come, make me cry, make me sore... I don't care what you do as long as it's painful and humiliating. Video what you do to me and send it to Deborah so that she can watch it and see me in my shame. Please, Jack. I'm begging you to treat me like the cheap slut you know I am."

"That's better, slut. I will grant you your wish. Kneel up again properly and attach these to your nipples. I will record what we do from here so that Deborah may see what a deplorable state you are." I drop the steel clamps by her side and take my phone from the pocket of my heavy jacket, opening the camera app and starting the recording. The jacket I hang on the back of the chair. Aimee rises to her knees as I do so and fumblingly begins the process of attaching the heavy clamps, one to each nipple, finding it difficult because she cannot see. She screws the thumbwheels tight, forcing the jaws into her flesh and whitening the puckered skin of her areolae under the pressure, grinding the flesh of the nipple between the jaws of the clamps and the silver bars.

I address the camera nearest to me: "Good evening, Deborah. As you can see, I am in the presence of my slut. She has begged me, quite literally, to hurt and humiliate her for my own enjoyment and to make this video so that you may watch. So far, she has endured freezing water, slapping and verbal humiliation. She has sucked her own nipples, directed me as to where to hit her with a plastic rod and masturbated herself to orgasm. She has screamed in delight and in pain, as well as weeping with fear and humiliation. I believe that we are now ready to begin the next stage. As you can see, she is blindfolded and wearing nipple clamps. I hope you enjoy what is coming next. Aimee, you will not speak until I tell you to."

I order her to reach out in front of her, which she does slowly, as if anticipating blows. Instead, I roughly shove the gross form of the tentacled silicone dildo into her outstretched hands. "Stay in that position and fuck yourself with it until you climax. Say not one word." Again, there is nothing but contempt in my tone, regardless of the ever-growing admiration and awe that I hold this woman in. She has so far taken everything I have thrown at her and literally come back asking for more. In my heart I know now that of the two of us, she is by far the stronger.

Aimee straightens up as far as she can, pushing her knees outwards. She feeds the thinner end of the tentacle inside herself and pushes in as much of the silicone as she can, filling herself until I can see her belly bulge slightly behind its silver chain. I watch as the suction cup pattern disappears between her exposed vaginal lips and hear her groan quietly to herself in satisfaction. Being soft and pliable, the dildo adapts its shape to fill Aimee's vagina, matching the contours of her inner walls and squeezing into every last available space, finally stopping when approximately half of its length is inside her.

She begins to move, slowly at first but with increasing vigour, fucking herself with the toy, using deep strokes to withdraw and replace the silicone inside her. Faint sucking sounds issue from the voids of the suction cups as they pass in and out. Initially Aimee uses both hands to perform this task but after a few minutes lets go with her left hand, leaving the right to continue alone. As she fucks herself she rocks her hips back and forth, bouncing her heavy breasts and their attendant steel clamps against her chest. She lifts her left breast towards her mouth, forcing skin between her teeth and biting down onto it until she screeches in pain. The breast falls from her teeth, a purplish witness mark evident even in the harsh lighting. She repeats this with the right breast, holding it for a longer time between her teeth and tipping her head backwards to stretch the skin, all the time continuing to fuck herself. I know, of course, that once Aimee has been allowed to climax once, she will not be far from others, and it is not long before she is gasping and moaning, frantically straining the skin of her breast, her right arm a blur as she plunges the dildo in and out as fast as she can. Now she reaches across the flatness of her stomach with her left middle finger and uses it to stimulate her clitoris, moving it in rapid circles. Her breath comes faster as she releases her breast from the grip of her teeth and she throws her head back and howls in ecstasy as the orgasm takes her.

"Keep going, slut," I order, "Go faster; you haven't finished yet." She obeys, continuing to pump the luridly coloured tentacle in and out, hammering her fist against her pubic bone as she rams the dildo into herself at an even greater speed. Her chin drops to her chest and with every movement of her arms the heavy clamps bounce and swing on her painfully bracketed nipples. I step closer to her and without warning slap her hard across the tops of her breasts with my open right hand. This rocks her but she regathers her composure immediately and continues pushing herself towards another climax. She is panting hard now, a flush of scarlet working its way up across her decolletage towards her neck. I know it will be a matter of only seconds before she comes again, so I grab her by the throat and clamp my thumbs around her windpipe, shaking her roughly. This is enough to drive her over the edge and she choke-screams her way through the orgasm before I pull the blindfold off and drop her roughly to the floor, where she kneels panting and coughing, her chest heaving, for a few moments as I watch her impassively.

"Keep the tentacle inside yourself and stand up, slut," I instruct, before turning to the camera once again. "As you can see, Deborah, this slut will do whatever I command her to do. She loves to come for my amusement, and if I hurt her in the process, she loves it all the more. Slut, explain yourself to Deborah."

"I came to you a slut and a whore, Deborah, and you made me even worse before you passed me onto Jack. Now I spend every waking moment dreaming of him hurting and humiliating me, marking me and fucking me, soaking my skin and hair in his sperm whilst he hurts my fat tits and slaps my whore cunt. I fucking love being your slut, and his. It makes me come, the way he treats me. I love the shame of fucking myself in front of him. I want the pair of you to fuck me until I pass out after humiliating me for hours." As she speaks, Aimee climbs unsteadily to her feet, aftershocks striking her as the mass of the dildo moves with her. She holds it inside herself, the face with the suction cups facing outwards, pressing them against her clitoris. The bite marks are evident on her breasts, sullying the perfectness of her skin deliciously.

"You will now clean the tentacle, Aimee. You will suck it clean and then fuck your throat with it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Jack. I will suck the taste of myself off it and then fuck my throat. I hope you'll enjoy watching me choke on it."

She raises it to her face and begins to run her tongue over the textured surface, making appreciative sounds as she does so. Either she genuinely derives pleasure from tasting herself or does such a credible imitation of doing so that I cannot tell, even if I cared. I find the sight incredibly erotic whichever is the case. She works her tongue and lips into every part of the detailed moulding, sucking and slurping, asking "Do you enjoy seeing your slut sucking her own come, Jack? I love doing it for you," before bending again to the task.

Presently she embarks on the next stage of her ordeal. The tip of the tentacle disappears between her lips as she tilts her head back and feeds the tapered shape into her throat. I direct her to kneel again, and she drops down with alacrity, sinking to her knees whilst coughing slightly as the silicone pokes at the back of her throat. A guttural gluckgluck sound accompanies this, and I see her stretch her mouth open as wide as she can make it, steadily pushing the lurid silicone into her throat. She breathes deeply but carefully around it, taking care not to trigger any gag reflex she may still have. I watch, fascinated, as the muscles in her throat relax and she feeds more and more of the tentacle into her mouth. She pauses momentarily, tips her head back another fraction and begins to fuck her throat, gently at first but with rapidly increasing speed and force. Thick, gooey saliva is pumped over her lips and begins to slide across her chin and down the length of her neck. I notice that she has built a rhythmic sequence; for every five partial withdrawals she makes, she pushes the dildo between her teeth six times, so that slowly, gradually, the mass of silicone makes its way down her ravaged throat. I watch in amazement as she reaches the point where the taper has become too wide to fit between her teeth, yet still she shoves at it, using both hands to cram the toy deeper into her throat. She finally has to stop when two-thirds of the plastic tentacle has disappeared. Her breathing has stopped, and I can see that she is fighting the urge to remove the obstruction. No way, I think, not yet. I step forward and seize her around the throat with one hand, feeling under my fingers the mass that prevents her from drawing breath. I use the other hand to push on the base of the dildo, squeezing another few millimetres into her mouth. Her chest heaves as she fights the waves of panic, and bubbles of sticky saliva escape the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her cheeks to drip slowly into her hair. Her face is now purpling rapidly as her red blood cells cry out for oxygen. It must be close to a minute since she last drew breath. I revel in the power I hold over her - at this moment, I realise, it is literally that of life or death. If I chose to, there is no way she could prevent me from allowing her to slowly and agonisingly expire from asphyxiation. The thought is both repulsive and intriguing.

I wait until Aimee's eyes are shaking in their sockets and she is struggling not to panic before I slowly and deliberately withdraw the tentacle in one motion. As soon as she can, Aimee draws welcome winter air into her lungs and begins a lengthy coughing fit, slumping to the floor, face covered in her own drool, hacking and choking. I give her thirty seconds or so, walking to the table at the front of the container and dropping the saliva-slick rubber onto the table, and order her to kneel upright. She complies, obviously with difficulty, and begins to wipe the thick saliva from her face.

"So, whore; how was that?" I ask, my tone unkind. "Surely a mouth like yours has taken enough stretching and been fucked enough times that you'd barely notice this pathetic little object?"

Her voice is ragged and unsteady, but she looks up at me, holds my gaze and says "It hurt, Jack, and I nearly passed out. I wish it had been your cock that had been choking me, and that you'd filled my throat with your sperm until it ran out of the sides of my mouth and covered my face."

"If you continue to impress me, slut, you may yet find that wish granted," I say, and her eyes light up with delight. "Maybe. I don't know yet. It depends how much more you have in you. Do you have enough left, Aimee? Do you have more to give?."

"Of course, Jack. I will do whatever you want, and you can do whatever you want to me. Hurt me, slap me, use my hair to wipe up your sperm from my face... Whatever you want. I want to give myself to you completely."

"Good; have you any words for Deborah regarding that last little vignette?" I ask, pointing at the camera.

"Deborah, I wish you were here to see this in person. You could have stood behind me, reached down and twisted my nipples as I sucked on my dildo. I've fucked myself with that dildo many times whilst fantasizing about you fucking me. To have you here, helping Jack to ruin me would be amazing. You wouldn't even have to fuck me - just slapping my tits and calling me degrading names while I choked myself on that tentacle would have been incredible. I hope you're enjoying watching Jack push me harder than he's ever done before. I'm going to do whatever he wants in order to please him, and please you. I want to earn his sperm, and have it drip off my face and onto my tits and stomach."

"How many orgasms have you had this evening, Aimee?" I ask, even though I am fully aware of the number.

"Three," she says, "three huge orgasms, Jack. You've made me come like a whore for you, screaming and begging, and I fucking love it. Will you make me come again? I want to come for you until my legs won't hold me up anymore. Please, Jack, make me orgasm for you again." If I could have written her a script the differences between it and what she is now saying would be insignificant. She is mine; she wants nothing but to have me stimulate, denigrate and humiliate her until she loses control.

I look at the camera, imagining that it your eyes into which I stare. "You see, Deborah? This slut is mine. I have broken her to my will. I am ready to claim my reward. Be ready." I use the app to switch the camera off. I know that there's a chance you will not be impressed by my demeanour at this point; however, I also know that you have been coaching me in getting what I want in the way that I want it, and serving you notice that my reward for completing my apprenticeship will involve me being in control of you will perhaps be a timely reminder to you that I was given more or less complete freedom to choose that very reward.

"Aimee, stand up. It is time to move forward once more. I will warn you now that this next stage will hurt you a lot. If you wish to use your safe word, now may be a good time. I estimate that we have half an hour left, so not long, but it will be intense and you will be in lasting pain by the end of it. Do you want to use your safe word now and save yourself that torment?"

Aimee stands, naked other than her hold-ups. "No, Jack. I want you to fucking ruin me. I didn't come here to disappoint you."

"Excellent. Now, you need to make a choice. You can either leave the nipple clamps on or we can remove them now." I watch Aimee's face as she tries to decide which to choose; she can obviously tell that either way her nipples are soon going to be the target of even more excruciating pain..

"Let's take them off" she says and begins to unscrew the heavy clamp that's been biting into her right nipple for so long. She winces and gasps as the pressure is released and a delicious, pained expression crosses her face as she rubs at the distended flesh, now well-bruised by the evening's activities. "Fuck, Jack, that hurts.... I love it." I reach for the remaining clamp and pull it as far from her chest as I can, stretching the skin and flesh of her left breast whilst shaking the clamp up and down. "Fuck, fuck, fuck - that's painful!," she stammers.

"I'm sure it is, whore. That's why I'm doing it. I enjoy hurting your nipples, you see, nearly as much as you enjoy me doing it. Ask me to twist the clamp."

"Please, Jack - twist the clamp. I want to feel my nipple burn with agony," she responds, her voice tremulous and fretful, and I know that as much as she will be anticipating that agony with delight, she is also beginning to find that her capacity to take pain, physical pain at least, is greater than even she may have known; her breasts in particular have taken a serious amount of abuse throughout the evening, but she is able to absorb it and even now ask for more. I do what she asks, turning the clamp through 360 degrees and pulling on it lightly as I do so. Her teeth snap together, and she sucks air in through them, but does not complain or cry out. I unscrew the thumbwheel, releasing the twisted nipple and watch as she claps a hand over it. "Oh my god, that hurts so much. Thank you, Jack. Thank you for hurting me, for turning me on and for letting me orgasm for you."

In reply I walk Aimee over to the rear of the container where the wooden frame awaits her. I raise her hands, first her right and then her left, clipping the slave cuffs that adorn each wrist to waiting shackles by the D-rings that are riveted to the leather. Aimee's arms are held aloft, exposing her body in its helplessness. Her feet reach the floor easily enough, but there is strain on her arms that lifts her shoulders higher than is comfortable. Her breasts weigh heavily on those shoulders, their various weals, contusions and bruises livid and vulgar in the harsh LED lighting. Fleetingly, I find myself wanting to kiss her mouth, but I refrain from showing the weakness of emotion. Instead, I slip the drawstring bag out of my jacket pocket and place it over her head again, drawing it tight around her throat. "Aimee, I am now going to whip you repeatedly with the tentacle dildo. You have the choice of where the blows will land - on your stomach, your thighs or your breasts. Which is it to be?"

"My thighs, please, Jack" she replies, a slight wobble in her voice. She is tiring now, but determination still drives her. I stride to the table, pick up the tentacle and experimentally lash it against the insulated wall of the container. The report is surprisingly loud, and Aimee flinches, the metalwork of her restraints squeaking slightly at the movement.

"Thighs it is, Aimee. Now, the second choice - five lashes with the dildo alone, or ten lashes and an orgasm to follow?" This is a cruelty, as I know she will not be able to resist the lure of the climax. Sure enough, without a second's indecision, Aimee chooses that latter course. I remove my jacket, standing in my boots, jeans and sleeveless black t-shirt, hanging my jacket off the corner of the wooden frame.

The first lash lands with a stinging crack across Aimee's thighs, halfway between her sex and her knees. Her scream is followed by sobbing, and immediately a vicious red mark forms where the fast-moving silicone has expended its energy on her soft skin. The second blow lands just above the knee on her right leg, and the third in the same position on the left. She is crying properly again now, weeping in pain and fear as the blows land. By the time I have delivered eight lashes she is slumped, held up only by her wrists, like a carcass on a butcher's hook.

"Say it, whore. Use the safe word." My words are a taunt, but also there is a small part of me hoping that she will take the offer and allow this to be over. I marvel at her fortitude and resilience again, wondering if I am truly pushing her or whether it is her that is testing me, probing my limits, finding out how far I will go. There is a snotty gurgle from within the hood and her head shakes, only once but clearly nonetheless. She forces herself back to her feet and draws in a long breath, filling her lungs and setting her position more solidly.

"You owe me two more, Jack" she says quietly but clearly, so I acquiesce, landing the two remaining lashes in quick succession right at the top of her thighs, making sure that the lick of the silicone tip reaches around to the underside of each buttock. "Thank you, Jack," she snuffles, standing upright. "Now, can I beg you for that orgasm, please? What do I need to do?"

I do not answer but drop the dildo to the floor and kick it towards the front of the container, stepping forward until I am only millimetres from Aimee's body. Despite the cold she is now clammy with stress-sweat. She senses my closeness and shuffles her feet apart a little, hoping that I will touch her. Her moan of gratitude when I do is worth all of my recent misgiving about the way I have treated her, and I am startled to find her soaking wet inside when I slide the first two fingers of my right hand inside her. My thumb reaches for the hard grain of her clit and pushes against it as my fingers curl upwards towards her G-spot, exploring the ridges of her pelvis from within. How, I wonder, can she be so aroused when I have visited upon her nothing but pain and stress since she last orgasmed?

I stimulate Aimee's Gräfenberg spot with my fingers and press the ball of my thumb firmly onto her clitoris, using my left hand to pinch and squeeze the flesh of her right breast, rolling and pulling at the mangled nipple. She gasps and moans inside the darkness of the bag, clearly trying to prolong the sensations. After all I have thrown at her, all the pain she has endured, she is still aroused and hungry for the orgasm I have promised. I synchronise my movements with hers, keen to reward her fortitude with an intense orgasm. There is silence in the container for a few moments, other than Aimee's quiet moaning and the squelch of my fingers moving inside her. Presently I feel Aimee's racked body begin to tense itself under the approaching climax, her breathing growing louder and more ragged. I dig deep, increasing the pressure of my fingers, and she throws her hooded head back and screams my name as a warm gush covers my fingers. She thrashes against her restraints and sinks down until her weight is taken fully on her shoulders again. I slowly remove my hand from her sex, listening as she sobs and moans in the grips of a prolonged orgasm. "Fuck, fuck fuck.... Fuck, Jack, that was intense," she manages to say at last. "Oh my god, that was good."

"I know, Aimee. I could tell from your whorish moaning and screaming." I pull her until she is standing upright on shaking legs and remove the bag from her head. Underneath it her face and hair are sweat-streaked, her makeup by now completely ruined once again. If only she knew how alluring I find the sight of eyeliner ruined by tears... She looks me in the eye, briefly, before dropping her gaze and examining the network of weals, contusions and bruises that adorns her lightly tanned skin

I decide that the time has come to enter our endgame, so I tell Aimee to stand with her feet shoulder-width apart. "We are nearly done for tonight. Before the final act, though, I am going to slap you some more, as I find it very pleasing. You may choose where I slap you and how many impacts you would like to receive. I will, of course, decide on how hard the impacts will be, but you may rest assured that they will hurt in inverse proportion to their number."

She is nervous but answers me instantly, her voice clear and strong. "Two on each side of my face, please. I want to be a good whore for you, Jack. I want you to fuck me so, so badly. I need to feel your cock inside my whore cunt, so I think if I ask you to slap me, to hurt me, you'll be more likely to fuck me, even though I'm such a mess."

"How are you a mess, Aimee? Describe yourself to me," I order, noting that she is already winding up to verbally degrade and humiliate herself for me.

"I'm a disgusting, humiliated whore, Jack. The skin on my thighs, buttocks, stomach and breasts has been damaged, leaving me covered in marks and bruises. My breasts are more bruised than they've ever been, and my nipples are ruined. They will take weeks to heal. My makeup is all over my face, despite me having re-applied it after the water torture. My limbs are aching and my hair is sweaty and tangled. I don't know how you can look at me in this state. I know how much you expect me to look nice for you, Jack, and you must think I'm a disgrace to myself and to you when you see me like this. The shame of looking such a mess is huge, but I love the humiliation it brings, just as I love the pain you have inflicted on me physically."

"I see. And what, Aimee, is to stop me finding myself a smarter, better-presented whore?," I mused. "After all, whores are easy enough to come by. I could ask the lovely Deborah if she has any other sluts who need to be treated harshly, I suppose. What do you say to that?."

"You are in charge here, Jack, so you will do as you please. The thought of you using another woman like you've used me fills me with jealousy, but if it your wish to abandon me and take up with some other slut, that is up to you. But...," she hesitates, unsure of continuing.

"But what, Aimee? Tell me" I order.

"But I think you know how hard it would be to find someone who could push themselves as far as I can, someone who could go this far without using the safe word. I'm sure there are other women out there who would let you slap them, or pinch their nipples, but are any of them as devoted to being your slut as I am? I doubt it, Jack. Deborah gave me to you for a reason, and that reason is that I promised to be your slut and to do everything you demanded. I believe I have done that, and that you'd struggle to find another woman who could give you such devotion in the face of your cruelty."

I consider her words, the, without warning, slap her hard across the face. "You've convinced me. One," I grunt. I slap her again, on the opposing side, before she has even had time to cry out, the impact throwing her against the rough-sawn wood of the frame that her wrist cuffs are still attached to. "You have been a good slut, after all. Two." I am breathing hard with the effort of the slaps. Aimee has stayed standing but is rocked sideways, crying again at the violence of the blows.

"Fucking stand up straight, you manipulative bitch!" I spit, and she straightens her body, regaining her usual, considered posture, breasts pushed out and shoulders back. "Where was I? Oh yes, there are other sluts out there, no doubt, but you are a special type of whore, who really gets off on this sort of treatment, aren't you? As she begins to nod the third slap crashes into the left side of her face and I watch as she wobbles on her footing. "Three," I snap. I then pause for a moment, watching Aimee's tears.

"I need one more, Jack. Four slaps was what I asked for," she says, her voice small and subdued by the overwhelming impacts. Amazingly, she tilts her right cheek towards me, offering it to the force she knows is coming, though she keeps her eyes downturned.

I do not reply, but gaze at her reddened cheeks and watering eyes. She is totally within my power, at least in the physical sense. I am painfully aware that I am in her (and your) power in just about every other way. You, through Aimee's neediness, have manipulated me to the point where I have to perform, I have to give her what she wants, and have to put myself further in your power by doing so. I know that you do nothing without careful consideration and cold reasoning, so I assume that you must know that I would come to this realisation soon, and exact my revenge through my reward; even when I claimed my prize it would be at your doing...

For the merest fraction of a second, I am tempted not to slap Aimee, but to punch her, to let my frustration and indignation take control and crash my knuckles into Aimee's upraised cheek. I am a strong man and would undoubtedly cause damage beyond the superficial. However, as Aimee herself has said, I am the master of self-control, and I fight that urge down, moving to stand very close in front of Aimee and tapping her gently, almost caressingly, on the right cheek with the fingers of my left hand. She doesn't even flinch, but her eyes flicker towards me and the ghost of a smile plays on her lips for a moment before she suppresses it and tips her head forward again.

"Time to give you something you want, Aimee," I say as I reach up to unclip the clips that bind her wrist restraints to the wooden frame. "Gather up your things, tidy yourself up and get dressed. Put on your bra and the dress that I instructed you to bring with you." Aimee looks confused, and is on the verge of speaking, but changes her mind, safe in the knowledge that I will not renege on a promise. "You will also bring me the knickers and hold-ups you were wearing when you arrived; do not put them on - I have another use for those."

Aimee moves unsteadily towards the door of the container. When she reaches the table she begins to gather her belongings, placing them into her bag, from which she withdraws a beautiful, floor-length, high-necked velvet dress. I watch as she carefully shrugs her breasts into her bra, wincing as the ravaged flesh touches the firmness of the padding. I cannot miss the gasp that escapes as she carefully (but not carefully enough) tucks her livid, haematoma'd left nipple into the dark cup, and I feel a twinge of regret that I instantly supress. I watch her step into the dress, the black fabric closing and encasing her as she slides her arms into the sleeves, the crushed velvet hiding and obscuring the damage I've inflicted on her skin. She shrugs herself comfortable inside the garment and begins to brush her hair again. Carefully she teases out the knots and tangles, and when this operation is complete, puts her gorgeous brown locks into a simple ponytail. She uses a wipe to remove the remains of her make-up from her face, and is about to begin re-applying it when I signal her not to. She nods and slips her naked feet into her kitten-heeled shoes instead.

"Put your coat on, Aimee. We're leaving," I order, pushing my arms into the sleeves of my own donkey jacket. Aimee puts on her tailored woollen trench coat and buttons it up under her breasts, leaving the top few buttons undone so that I can see the slim silver chain descending under the neckline of her dress and into the dark of her cleavage.

I push open the doors of the container and step outside, Aimee following close behind me, her bag slung from her right shoulder. She holds out a dark handful of material - her nylon hold-ups and silk knickers. These go into my jacket pocket without comment. If Aimee wonders what I plan to do with her underwear, she gives no sign. I turn and push the protesting locking mechanism of the container into its closed position, withdrawing a heavy, tamper-proof lock from my pocket and securing the doors; I decide I will return in a few days to empty the container and dispose of anything incriminating then. Once the doors are locked, I turn wordlessly and make my way towards the compound gate, Aimee tottering after me, her muscles and bruises protesting.

We leave the compound and walk the short distance to where my car is parked. I unlock the vehicle and direct Aimee to get inside. As we drive away, Aimee asks if she can ask me some questions. I agree, limiting her to three.

"Firstly, Jack, I thought you said you would give me what I wanted, which I thought meant that you'd let me blow you, or maybe even fuck me. Was I wrong?" The merest tremor of uncertainty creeps into her voice as she asks this.

"No, Aimee, you are not wrong. We haven't finished yet. I just want the final act to take place somewhere particular. Have some patience, slut. You'll get what you want," I answered, keeping my tone level and emotionless. "Second question."

Aimee nods to herself, mentally compartmentalising the fact that before the night is over, she will have at least partially achieved her goal, yet not responding to that realisation outwardly. "If coming here tonight was the last instruction on the list you gave me, does this mean that you won't see me again? Am I just a means for you to get to Deborah?" Although she tries to keep her tone light, I can hear the faintest trace of desperation in her voice.

My answer is simple: "No. I see no reason to end our association." She nods, almost imperceptibly, sitting in the passenger seat with her hands folded demurely in her lap. I feel a tension dissipate, despite her outward lack of response. "What is your last question, Aimee?"

"My last question is why? Why do you do this with me? I know what I get out of it, but I can't see what's in it for you."

"What's in it for me? I get to treat you however I want, whenever I want. That's enough."

There is silence as we head back towards London. The roads of the Home Counties are nearly deserted at this hour, so I keep my driving fast and smooth as we approach the capital on the A10. Even at this time, London is still awake, and the nighttime traffic increases the closer we get to the centre. I slow, staying within the speed limits and switching at Whitechapel to the roads which will allow our southward osmosis towards the river. Eventually we approach Bonnet Street, where Aimee lives. She looks at me, questioningly, but knows better than to query my intentions again.

I motion her to get out of the car and we walk the few hundred metres to the Royal Wharf Pier, the scene, seemingly so long ago now, of my first unaccompanied adventure with Aimee. I had lured her here, allowing her to think she was meeting you, and then ambushed her, forcing her to submit in fear to my will, before allowing her to realise that her "attacker" was the very man she had been desperate to bottom for. Aimee walks slightly behind me and to my side, her steps once again measured and regular despite the ordeal she has been placed under tonight. I look back at her face, washed by the harsh sodium lights of the city, and see nothing but faith in her eyes. For the thousandth time I am amazed that a woman of her grace, her beauty and her status would allow herself to be topped by a rough-handed factory worker. Then again, I think, maybe that's part of the appeal. I guide her down to the elbow in the long arm of the pier and lean my back against the glass barrier, listening to the heave and rush of the river as it pulses underneath us.

"Well, Aimee, it is time. Get on your knees." The command is quietly given and almost pathetically gratefully received. She obeys immediately, eyes alight with anticipation. I run the index finger of my right hand along her jawline as she looks up at me delightedly. Her hands reach forward hesitantly, curling behind my thighs.

"You will blow me, Aimee, right here and now, and I will mark you as mine with my sperm. You will return home with it on your face and in your hair. I will photograph and maybe video you for my own enjoyment. Do you understand?." My voice is again its harsh, unflinching tone. The time for doubt is over. I know that, whatever else, whichever complex agendae have led me here, whoever and whatever I have had to challenge and satisfy, I am now going to take my pleasure as selfishly and as crudely as I want it. Not only that, but Aimee will provide it for me, willingly and without question.

"Yes, Jack, I understand. I will endeavour to satisfy you to the best of my ability." Her voice, in contrast to mine, is soft, gratitude-laden.

"Before you begin, I have something for you," I say, reaching into the pocket of my jeans and withdrawing a small leather envelope and handing it to Aimee.

"Something for me? You don't need to give me gifts, Jack - I'm your slut; you using me is reward enough." Her words say one thing, but her tone quite another. She carefully opens the press-stud and upends the envelope into her palm.

The ring that drops into her hand is crafted from pure silver. She lifts it carefully, gazing at it, watching the lights that reflects from its flawless curve. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, wide with delight, as she sees the words "Jack's slut" engraved on the inner surface.

"Oh, Jack, thanky..."

I cut her off, brusquely. "I don't need thanks, Aimee. You will wear that ring on your right hand at all times. Do you understand? It must remain on your person unless in exceptional circumstances." She nods and slides the ring onto the third finger of her right hand. It fits perfectly, as I knew it would, and Aimee holds her hand up for me to see it. The ring had been made by a discrete and capable firm in Covent Garden to my exact specifications and had cost what I considered to be a fortune. The sound of my zip draws Aimee from her reverie, and she reaches for my penis as I pull it free from my underwear, pushing my jeans down my thighs. "Suck it," I say, and Aimee plunges it into her mouth, the warmth of her throat enveloping me as she forces my flesh past her tonsils and into her throat.

This is not the first time my penis has been in a woman's throat. It is not the first time that it has been sucked with enjoyment, even. There have been times where a woman has shown particular skill - and pride in that skill - in pushing me deep into her throat, accepting the invasion of her body and revelling in the sensations it gave me. There have been times when it has been obvious that fellatio is not a favoured practise for a particular woman, but she has felt duty-bound to perform it (at least until I have suggested that she stop and we find something more mutually satisfying). However, it becomes apparent that I have been unaware until now of just how proficiently the task can be performed. Even you, Deborah, who allowed me to fuck her throat to the point of rawness, did not bend to the task with the delight, enthusiasm and gratitude that Aimee applies.

From the instant my glans passes between her lips I know that I should have allowed her to fellate me much earlier in our relationship. She slams her face into the muscles of my abdomen, forcing the length of my hardness deep into her throat, and holds that position for approximately ten seconds, before partially withdrawing me, taking a breath and gazing up at me with faux-innocence. Again, she moves forward until her face is pressed into my abdominal muscles, gurgling with enjoyment as she pulls my thighs and buttocks towards her. She repeats these actions, twisting her head slightly to the left and right, squeezing my hardness with the torque distortions of her neck muscles. How she refrains for gagging I have no idea, but she is a master (mistress?) of her technique and keeps this reflex, assuming she still feels it, under her control. She pushes herself so far onto me that I can feel the teeth of her lower jaw scraping against the skin of my scrotum as she moves slowly backwards and forwards. I let her continue, riding the sensations that her ministrations are giving rise to. I sigh and grip a fistful of the hair on the right side of her head with my left hand, my fingers wrapping themselves deep into the dark tresses. I match the movement of my arm to those of her head as she slides her mouth snugly along my shaft, keen not to disturb her rhythm. In addition to her sucking, she makes swallowing motions, the peristalsis gripping my penis and tugging it deeper into her throat, working the muscles beneath her tongue in order to stimulate the sensitive underside. My right hand slips my phone from my pocket and I take burst images of her as she sucks; ten, maybe a dozen. For good measure I thumb the video setting, capturing a minute or so of footage of her kneeling on the jetty's concrete deck in the harsh sodium lighting, inhaling my penis and moaning, purring and growling her enjoyment as she does so.

I find myself wondering if I should instruct Aimee to expose herself, but decide that this is unnecessary; after all, she has had what she wants from tonight's encounter, and will be expecting nothing less than for me to take what I want now. I could, I know, force her on all fours to the deck of the jetty and fuck her aggressively from behind, and she would make no protest, but the part of my mind that remains controlled and analytical knows that for me to give in to my baser instincts will disrupt the power dynamic that we share. No doubt Aimee would enjoy the penetration, but no, at this moment, I decide, the act that we are committing is about me taking from her. As with all of our interactions, this is what she knows, expects and wants. She desires nothing other than to be used in whichever way I see fit.

I slide my phone back into my jeans and grip Aimee's head tightly with both hands, stopping her movements. "Keep still, slut. I am going to fuck your throat. All I want you to do is remain unmoving." I don't bother to wait for a reply but begin to hammer my flesh as hard as I am able into her willing throat. I grind her face into my stomach, unconcerned as to her comfort, before pulling her head right back until my glans dances between her lips and then plunging the entirety of my penis as far inside her mouth as I can. I yank her head backwards and forwards, pushing long strings of saliva from the corners of her mouth; these dribble glutinously down her chin and drip onto the swell of her bosom, soaking obscenely into the crushed velvet of her dress. Her breath comes in gasps as I withdraw, and she gurgles and coughs around my shaft, her eyes white and rolling, tears leaking from her commissures and down her makeup-free cheeks.

My orgasm, despite my best efforts, begins to make its intent clear, and I know that I do not have long left. Despite my hunger to shoot my sperm into Aimee's stomach I decide that she can endure one last further humiliation, so I withdraw fully from her mouth and listen as she gasps and hawks the thick, stringy hypopharyngeal saliva from her mouth, allowing it to drool down her chin and deposit itself onto the already-damp upper reaches of her dress. She gives a final cough and wipes her chin and lips with the back of her left hand, looking up at me with a hint of weariness in her expression.

"Aimee, you have done well. You will now wank me off, begging for my come as you do so. I will ejaculate of your pretty, slutty face. Do it now." I am reconciled to the fact that I have gone as far as I can without giving in to the need for my own orgasm, and now it is time to do for Aimee what I did for you during our first encounter.

Aimee snuggles into the naked skin of my thighs, crushing herself into their muscles as she reaches up and takes me in her right hand, pumping and squeezing my spit-slicked penis that rears above her upturned face. "Fuck, Jack, you've pushed me so far tonight. I want to be your slut forever and be available to you whenever you need to get off. I want you to paint me in your come, to mark me as your whore by covering me in your sperm. I need you to humiliate me, to give me what I deserve, to treat me like I want to be treated. I'm a desperate, whorish slut who needs to be degraded, humiliated, slapped, hurt, fucked and come over. I want you to own me, control me and use me however you want. Please, Jack, I'm begging you for your sperm; come on my slutty face and give us both what we want. Make Deborah jealous, Jack - cover my whore face!" Her hand is a blur, her voice a needy music in the darkness. My hands, knotted in her hair, twitch as I fight the rising tide, and Aimee looks up at me, meeting my gaze one last time.

I shudder, snarl obscenely and give in to the crescendo, white-hot fire cracking across my nervous system as rope after pearly rope of sperm bursts from the head of my penis and splashes stickily onto Aimee's gratefully accepting face. It seems unending, streams of it spraying across her features, pooling in her eye sockets, running wetly down her cheeks, and sinking into the darkness of her hair. She doesn't break her rhythm, continuing to force more and more seed from my body. It hangs in gooey threads across her lips and cheekbones, dangles in pendulous stalactites from her jawline before giving in to gravity and falling to besmirch the blackness of her dress. Aimee smiles, strangely coy, as she runs the ball of her thumb along the underside of my cock, ensuring that the last gelatinous globules are forced from my tip and onto her waiting lips. The tip of her tongue slips past her teeth as she uses it to draw my final offering into her mouth, where she swallows it slowly.

I shudder one last time and step back a single pace, away from Aimee as I pull up my jeans and underwear, stuffing my subsiding hardness into my clothing, breathing hard as I do so. I order Aimee curtly to remain where she is. "I'm going to take more pictures of you, slut," I utter raggedly, "and I will send them to Deborah so that she can see the progress you've made. She will know that I own you beyond any doubt she may have harboured." The harsh orange light adds a macabre cast to the images that I take, carefully composing each to show Aimee's despoilment to maximum effect. She remains kneeling, eyes upturned and clouded with my slowly congealing sperm as I pace around her, searching out the ideal angles in which to portray her. I ensure that I capture as much of the scene as possible; my sperm on her face, her dress and in her hair, her delighted, febrile expression and the lust in her tired eyes. She is truly a remarkable woman; who else would place their trust and (to an extent) fate this readily into the palms of another's hands - to commit degrading sexual acts in a public - though deserted - place and revel in the humiliation of the aftermath being documented so thoroughly?

"Tell me how you feel, Aimee," I order, switching from stills to video.

"I feel.... Complete. Satisfied. Owned, Jack," she says quietly. "I feel like I am truly your slut now. The feeling of your come on my skin lets me know that I have been used, been owned. Even though I've had so many orgasms tonight and I'm in so much pain, making you come on me has turned me on so much. I want you to fuck me so much..."

"All in good time, Aimee. Have I not already rewarded you?"

"Yes, Jack. I'm sorry I'm such a selfish, greedy slut. It is a privilege to have been allowed to suck you off and make you cum on my face - I'm very grateful. I would like you to fuck me but I must be patient."

I smile briefly to myself and stop recording. "Stay on your knees, Aimee. I am going to send the last video to Deborah, along with a message that I intend to claim my reward soon. To that end, I may have a use for you before too long." My fingers select the video clip and within seconds I can see that you have seen the message, and, I assume, are viewing it. I find myself hoping that you are unaware that there will be more footage to be edited subsequently, and that watching Aimee jerk me off onto her face will be nothing compared to the footage from inside the storage unit. In my mind I feel the final piece of the puzzle click into place. That footage will come in useful soon.

I look down at Aimee, exhausted, defiled, humiliated and yet, somehow unbeaten. She kneels on the deck of the pier, eyes downcast, breathing steadily. My sperm covers her face, hair and chest and yet she seems more beautiful, more resilient and more... powerful, somehow, that can be concisely described. When this process began, I believed that I was the focus of the power and that I was manipulating Aimee. Now I am sure that, whomever is manipulating who, Aimee has more steel in her than you or I. I am also now completely sure that it was not Aimee but I who is being manipulated; you have led me here using my own naivete and lack of worldliness, thinking only that you were training me to follow in your footsteps, not realising that I was, at the beginning at least, just as much as a pawn as Aimee, but less aware of it. So, Deborah, this is why I choose to use what I have learned against you.

I wait, patient as ever, for you to respond. When you do, it is obvious that you approve, at least, of the mess I have made of Aimee: "Well, Jack, you've certainly used our little friend hard, haven't you? She looks and sounds fatigued, exhausted even. And what on earth could that be on her pretty face, I wonder? You are, as I keep saying, quite the dark horse, are you not?".

I order Aimee to stand and turn to leave knowing that she will follow. As she says, she is now completely in my power. I grimace to myself, knowing that the next time I see you, Deborah, you will be in my power also. The hunter will become the hunted.