"Good morning, cunt." Madam Tortoor’s cold greeting is accompanied by a sneer of biting contempt.
My guard jerks at my collar-chain to encourage my response. "Good morning, Mistress," I answer softly. Since dignity is all that I have left now, I must protect it in the only way that I can -- by doing my best to ignore the cruel indignities that are continually inflicted upon me.
Naked and in spitefully degrading bondage, I am on my knees in the breakfast room of my state-appointed guardian’s villa. This is part of my daily routine: being brought from my cell to be taunted and abused by the woman who was formerly my chief social rival in Carthage.
Madam Tortoor must have used all the influence she could muster in Rome to secure her appointment as my guardian after my husband was executed for treason and I was consequently condemned to perpetual state slavery. Well, life for me consists of endless mortification and grinding torment under her sadistic reign. Only my dignity remains to me, when I can hold onto it, for my body is completely under her dominion.
With my wrists shackled sternly behind me and a short chain linking the heavy cuffs locked about my ankles, I am under my guard’s close control. He holds a short leash clipped to the high iron collar that has been riveted permanently about my throat. I sit erect on my haunches, thighs apart and shoulders back so that my bare breasts jut outward shamelessly. I have learned that even momentary failure to hold this pose will invite more discipline.
My tormentor leans forward to look down at me. "Have you recovered from last evening’s games, you wretched slut? You certainly put on an educational show for my friends . . . at last they saw what kind of a whore you really are."
I respond automatically, "Yes, thank you, Mistress." But I shiver at the awful memory. The "show" she refers to began with my being forced to run an obstacle-course in the garden several times in heavy bondage and weights, spurred on by the guards’ whips, for the amusement of her dinner guests.
My arms had been cruelly doubled inside leather shortgloves and my legs were hobbled at both knees and ankles. I was also encumbered by a thick iron bar strapped down my spine from the back of my collar to my crotch that held my torso rigid. The obstacles included low fences that I had to get over, several barrels through which I had to crawl, and a balance-beam that I had to shuffle across.
Needless to say, I could not move as quickly as the guards demanded, nor could I keep my balance on the beam for very long. So their whips got a good workout and I was in constant agony. After squirming and stumbling through the course a third time, my bondage was changed so that I could perform some other humiliating "tricks."
With my neck secured in a low stock and my wrists chained to my ankles, I was forced to give oral service to a large mongrel dog until he climaxed. Finally, bound in a taut spreadeagle over a barrel in the center of the garden, I was slowly and artfully raped by Ubbadu, an African dwarf.
I cringe inwardly as I remember my shrill cries of pleasure.
Certainly the worst thing about this durance vile, even worse than the chains and the whips, has been Mistress’s relentless emphasis on increasing my sensitivity to erotic stimulation. By now, only seven months into her horrid regimen, my body has become exquisitely sensitive to sexual arousal, and my inability to control its carnal demands leaves me open to endless humiliation. She has found a broad portal through which my dignity can be crushed at any time.
The training has been rigorous. I have found that Izaak, her chief torture-master, is abundantly skilled also in the art of heightening a woman’s sexual hungers. With my legs spread wide by chains, aphrodisiac crèmes and powers have been used to make my clit acutely sensitive to even the gentlest stimulation. Secret oils have been massaged into my breasts until I shriek with lust. My nipples have been smeared with a crème that induces a terrible itching and makes them stiffen under the maddening irritation.
Under Izaak’s direction, I have been impaled daily upon one of a wide array of incredibly tantalizing dildos and then forced to march or crawl about in heavy bondage until I reached climax again and again. Sometimes, both lower entries have been used. And under threat of severe punishment, I have learned to use my mouth to bring hot pleasure to anyone, male or female.
By means of these and other abominations, I have been perversely taught that the whip can bring pleasure, and that rich bodily satisfaction is near whenever I am closely bondaged in leather and iron. Thanks to Izaak’s obscene schooling, my sexual stamina has been marvelously extended as well, making it possible for me to undergo hours of the lewdest exercises in perversion and shame without reaching final satiation. I shrink from the knowledge that my body’s constant thirst for physical pleasure has come to define my entire being.
Because my flesh has at last been rapturously victorious in its battle against my womanly modesty, I become half-crazed with a mixture of horror and excitement whenever I learn that my vulnerabilities are to be exploited anew. My mind recoils from what I know is to come, even while my body trembles with greedy anticipation. The very sight of a studded leather bodystrap is enough to set me panting now, and my loins grow hot and moist whenever the silver D-rings are inserted through the tunnels that have been bored horizontally behind and below my throbbing nipples. What more horrid punishment could a woman undergo?
But I am subjected to such abuse every day, and yet I live. The intense sexual delights that fill and thrill my body cannot be evaded, despite the terrible humiliation that accompanies them. It is really my mind that suffers, even more than my body. Surely Mistress knows that.
She smiles down at me generously. "I have planned something special for you today, Lady Gwynda. After your training hour with Izaak, I’m going to take you with me to the market for some shopping. Won’t that be fun?"
Shopping? I am speechless for a moment. God knows what new debasements this will entail. Then, automatically, I mouth the required words, "Thank you, Mistress."
"Good," she replies. "I want to get some new articles for your, ah, wardrobe, and we want to be sure they’ll fit. Izaak will of course put you into the proper outfit for the occasion."
Leaving me to frown with anxiety, Mistress rises and bids me adieu. My guard yanks at my leash again and I must lean forward to touch my forehead to the floor as I have been taught. Only when she has gone am I allowed to resume my kneeling position. Then I must struggle to my feet and stumble after my guard to the training room.
Today, Izaak announces, I will first ride the wooden horse while his muscular assistants keep it in motion. This is simply a great oaken log suspended in the air by chains at either end. It has a "saddle" carved into it that is far too narrow for comfort, and I see that it has been equipped this morning with a monstrous horsehair-covered dildo standing up in the center. I inspect it warily at first, and then with growing carnal interest.
After removing my hobble, his assistants hold me firmly and force my legs wide apart. Izaak rubs a powerful aphrodisiac crème between my thighs, massaging it into my private parts until its itchy heat has aroused me. I can hear my husky breathing growing louder. Other hands seize my breasts and buns to stimulate them with tantalizing pressures, and I feel my nipples becoming thick and stiff.
Moments later, after I have been thoroughly prepared for the dildo, I am hoisted over the horse and gradually lowered so that I can take the beckoning rod into my ready puss. I hate the carol of hungry delight that comes from my throat as the thing’s scratchy thickness stretches and pleasures my womanhood. I twist my head from side to side frantically while the guards bend my legs double and strap them at the sides of my "steed," ensuring that I cannot escape the brutal penetrator.
Finally, my arms are freed from behind me, only to be lashed tightly at my sides so that I cannot use them for balance. Izaak adds a smear of the awful crème to each of my nipples, making them itch horribly, and then tells his assistants to put the horse in motion. In succession, they make it trot, canter, and then gallop, and my torso swings wildly, helplessly, while I endure the steady pounding and wrenching at my groin.
Naturally, my body responds avidly. Although I bite my tongue at first, the rough stimulation soon forces me to acknowledge its delicious effects. "Ahh... yes, Yesss," I grunt, and then, louder, "Unnnhh, ahh, more--mo-o-oore!"
My artificial steed responds immediately with more energetic motion. I clench my knees against its sides as my body is whipped back and forth. The dildo reams me violently, something that would be acutely painful if it were not for my frantic need for still more stimulation. I shout for more action, wishing frantically that I could grab my throbbing bosoms to assuage their hunger.
At last I reach my first climax of the day. My body stiffens and I arch my back under the welcome torrent of rapture that rises in my cunt and spreads marvelously through the rest of me. Rough hands grip my breasts, answering my unspoken plea, and my mouth opens wide in a howl of brutish gratitude.
Under such goading and such primitive pleasure, how can I worry about a mere shopping trip later in the day?
Before I can recover from the orgasm, the guards have freed me from the horse and set me on my feet. My loins ache from the pounding they have undergone, but at the same time quiver with echoes of the fierce pleasure that has been engendered there. Izaak stands before me with a thin smile.
"Next, Lady, we will use your mouth. Ubbadu, your little black friend from last night, is in need of, ahh, oral service, and we have arranged for you to provide it." He pauses and nods to a guard, who leaves the room. Then he tells me, "If you fail to satisfy him within five minutes, you will suffer additional discipline. Do you understand?"
I nod mutely. To go down on the muscular dwarf who raped me last evening will be humiliating, but I can do it. Secretly, in fact, I find that I am hungry for the taste of his meat. A moment later, Ubbadu is brought in on the end of a leash fastened to his nose-ring. He is naked and in severe restraint -- arms strapped wrist-to-elbow behind him and legs held apart by a hamperbar locked between cuffs above his knees. He moves clumsily.
I cannot take my eyes off his incredibly long, thick cock, which is already showing signs of arousal. He may be a dwarf, but his equipment is that of a giant! Despite his awkward shuffling, I can see his gap-toothed grin. Clearly, he has been told what he can expect.
To my shocked surprise, Ubbadu’s back-bound arms are freed and instead his wrists are chained together before him. The extra freedom he will have with his hands promises more misery for me. Then the guard stations him with his back to a post and secures him there with straps at his throat and waist. His enormous black rod continues to thicken and rise until it is standing out stiffly before him. Although I know that I should despise myself, I lick my lips in anticipation.
First, though, my own bondage must be changed. I kneel on command and Izaak locks a short chain taut between the center of my hobble and the front of my constrictive leather corselet so that I cannot straighten my legs. The chain cuts up across my mons. I know that by raising my hips from my heels and arching my back, I can make it dig in between my lovelips -- and that despite the shame, I will use this maneuver to assuage the frustration that will certainly come.
Then Izaak forces my arms into a single-glove behind me. He laces it up until its constriction has drawn my elbows firmly together in the center of my back and crushes my forearms against each other down to my wrists. Luckily, I have been subjected to this form of arm bondage often enough so that my muscles are used to it. Automatically, I twist my shoulders to make my bosoms shake. They are still wonderfully sensitive because of the crème and the earlier horseback ride, and much in need now of further stimulation.
I am told to crawl over to Ubbadu’s post. The stinging touch of a whisk quirt across my shoulders encourages me, and in a moment I am on my knees before the drooling, crooning dwarf. His organ awaits my attention.
I lean forward, lips parted, and take it into my mouth. It is thick and salty-tasting and throbbing mightily. Then his manacled hands are at the back of my head, forcing me closer and closer. I can feel his dick probe at the back of my throat, almost making me gag. But I suppress the urge and begin to work my jaw back and forth. Ubbadu groans with pleasure.
I run my tongue roughly around his great rigid column, hoping to bring him to climax right away. I exert as much suction as I can. I nip teasingly at its base. I clamp my lips about him and shake my head. He groans again.
Then I hear Izaak’s voice, harsh in the primitive tongue of Ubbadu’s people, telling him something I cannot understand.
At once, Ubbadu’s hands leave my head and he tries to pull his rod away too. I cannot allow that! The devilish Izaak undoubtedly has told him that he will be punished if he cums too soon, thereby setting up a desperate contest between us. Certainly, one of us will be severely disciplined, no matter how our forced union concludes. I renew my erotic assault, determined that I shall not be the loser.
I am not surprised, then, when the dwarf begins to hit him himself in the face with his own shackled fists. He is frantic to avoid cuming, I can tell, for surely the pain he is inflicting on himself is meant to distract him from my attentions. But I will not give up. I force my face closer to him, trying to swallow his marvelous prick entirely. He groans and strikes himself again.
Then I close my teeth gently about the base of his organ, teasing and threatening him at the same time. He clubs his chin again and I bite harder. He grunts in pained reaction. Once more he hits himself, and once more I bite, this time even harder. Eventually, he gets the message.
Then, almost reluctantly, he puts his hands behind my head and pulls me closer to him. It is clear now that I will win this contest. I am also eager to bring him to climax out of my own wanton lust, and my lips and tongue inform him of this brazen enthusiasm. He gets the message as well, and soon he is working his hips back and forth in the age-old rhythm of love. I close my lips about him and worry his dick with my tongue while I suck even harder.
A few moments later, the dwarf surrenders to me. I can feel his body go rigid with excitement, and then there is his shuddering groan of relief and a great rush of gism into my mouth as he explodes in rapture. There is no climax for me, but at least I can rise up until my hobble-chain is taut between my lovelips and provides me a small hint of pleasure. I pull away from him, moaning with unsatisfied need while I savor and gulp his semen.
Quickly, his rod goes limp and he covers his face with his hands. Then my oral victim shrieks in horror. Turning my head, I see another guard grinning and holding up a monstrous butt-plug. It is obvious that this will be Ubbadu’s punishment for succumbing to my oral talents.
It would be gratifying to see it forced up his pudgy rear end, but my schedule will not allow that. Instead, the chain holding me in a kneeling position is removed and I must mince after a guard to the chamber where I will be outfitted for my journey to the market with Madam Tortoor.
First, though, he explains that Madam Tortoor plans to exhibit me at another feast this evening. She has ordered him to create something special for me. Thus, he has designed a new bondage outfit that he wishes to try out before preparing me for the marketing trip. I nod, gritting my teeth.
First, my arms are freed and then doubled and laced into a pair of shortgloves that hold them harshly bent, each hand hard against its shoulder. Then fingerless mitts of strong, thin leather are pulled down over my hands and secured to my wrist cuffs, crushing my fingers into useless fists. My arm bondage is completed when the guards fasten a long wooden rod across my shoulders and stretch my doubled arms out along it like outthrust wings. They buckle slender straps about it at my shoulders, elbows, and wrists to hold my arms motionless in this pose.
My crotch is Izaak’s next target. Today it will be the straddle-jack, a wooden bar about two yards in length that is equipped with a thick six-inch dildo standing up from its center. While my legs are spread apart, the device is positioned between my thighs. Then, as two guards raise the nasty thing, I must accept the dildo into my body and wait while the bar is secured horizontally by straps pulled up from it to the front and rear of my corselet. The straps are made taut and I hiss with excitement as the tormentor’s generous diameter stretches my womanflesh.
With this apparatus fastened up so tightly between my legs, I am acutely sensitive to its position. If its forward end is pushed down, I must bend forward to accommodate the dildo’s movement, and if the rear end is shoved down I must lean backwards. And it occurs to me that any hip movements I make in seeking relief from sexual hunger will be obvious because of the jack’s movements. It is truly a fiendish device!
To make things even more uncomfortable for me, Izaak then directs the guards to fasten thin chains from the ends of my shoulder-rod to the rear of the straddle-jack, and to tighten them until no slack remains. A turn either right or left will exert an upward pull on the jack’s rear end, forcing me to lean forward immediately. It will be much wiser, of course, to hold my torso quite rigid.
Tiptoe sandals for my feet come next, open-toed and equipped with stiletto heels that will keep my balance constantly at risk. And my new hobble is fastened not between my ankles but between smaller cuffs locked over my great toes, an arrangement that will ensure real pain whenever I accidentally try to overstep the hobble’s limit. Its 12-inch length will restrict me to the quick, mincing steps that are required of a slave.
Surveying me with satisfaction, Izaak says thoughtfully, "Madam Tortoor is indeed kind, Lady Gwynda. She has ordered that you not be gagged during the feast, so that you may converse with her and her guests. I am sure they will be interested in your opinion of your new outfit."
I bite my lip. There are times when even a brank is preferable to the freedom to speak, particularly when all the questions I am forced to answer can only accentuate my humiliation.
Izaak goes on. "You will also have to be leashed, Lady, and I have devised a method that should amuse you and her guests no end."
I cringe to see a guard bring the breast-rings. But there is no escaping them, and soon one of the horrid silver devices has been inserted into each of my breasts and closed so that its arc hangs down below my nipples. I moan at the pain, even though, perversely, I can also feel the heat of erotic arousal pulsing through my bosoms.
Long leather cords are then knotted to the rings, and both are drawn forward to pass through a ring at the front end of the straddle-jack. Izaak takes the ends of the cords -- reins really -- and looks me in the eye. I cannot stop staring at the cords in his hands.
"Observe, Lady. When I pull on the cords, this end of the jack is pulled upward. But you will have to resist it." He demonstrates this with a sudden jerk, forcing the front end of the jack up. Simultaneously, I feel the dildo urging me to lean backwards while my breasts are pulled forward. Cruel dilemma! My gargled cry of agony brings a broad grin to his face.
The upshot of this lesson is that I must be acutely sensitive to Madam Tortoor’s orders so long as she holds my leash this evening -- and to the orders of anyone else who may hold it as well.
Satisfied that the new arrangement will work as planned, Izaak then tells the guards to remove the straddle-jack and also the shoulder-rod. I sigh with disappointment as the dildo is taken from me.
"Leave the shortgloves on her," he directs, "and leave her crotch open. I believe that the Madam will need it that way. Oh, and secure her elbows together behind her."
Soon my shoulders are wrenched back harshly and my bare breasts thrust forward, their rings making me vulnerable to all sorts of torment, while the rings at my elbows are drawn together. A longer chain replaces the original hobble that linked my toe-cuffs, allowing me a 15-inch pace so that I will not delay my Mistress as we move through the market.
After a long forked leash has been fastened to my breast-rings, I am ready to be taken to Madam Tortoor’s apartment. Chan has been assigned to accompany her to the market, so he takes my leash. Two teasing yanks at it have me twisting in agony, even though, to my dismay, the pain also awakens my body’s erotic needs again.
Outside the door of Madam’s apartment, I must stand a rigid attention until she appears. We wait for quite a while before she is ready to set forth. Chan takes advantage of the wait to run his slender fingers over my breasts and then over my asscheeks, making me quiver with unavoidable arousal. Finally, the door opens and Madam Tortoor emerges, garbed in a snug leather suit that accentuates her muscular but very feminine figure. Beside her in light chains is her handmaiden Soonah.
She nods to Chan. "The slave looks well. She has had her first climax, I assume?" He tells her that I reached it while riding the wooden horse, and also that Izaak has designed an attractive new outfit for me to be put into for this evening. "I believe you will be pleased, Mistress," he adds.
She nods again. "I’m usually satisfied with what Izaak comes up with. And if we find something new and exotic for her this morning, I’m sure he can work it into her bondage somehow." She gestures impatiently to Soonah. "Come on, girl, get a move on!"
Soonah is Nubian, dark and voluptuous, and clad in only a few diaphanous silken veils. Despite Madam’s cruelty to her, she is always happy to assist in my torments. This morning her wrists are linked by long chains to her iron belt and there is a 24-inch hobble between her ankles. I see that the rings fixed deep in her breasts are unused as yet, but suspect that they will anchor a leash before long. She moves through the door and comes face to face with me.
Smirking, she asks slyly, "Poor ugly slut -- nothing between your legs this morning? Will you cry? Perhaps we can find a dog for you in the marketplace."
I bow my head, acknowledging her superiority, and bite down on my gag. It is bad enough to be tormented by Madam Tortoor, but to be taunted by another slave is bitter indeed. She strokes my gag-stretched cheeks with her hands. "Can’t talk, eh? But we know what you want -- something in your greasy cunt!"
"That may be what the slut wants," Madam Tortoor tells her sternly, "but she will have to do without for now." She pauses and then says, "Would you like to take her leash? I’m sure Chan must be bored with her by now."
"Thank you, Mistress," Soonah replies happily. She takes the end of my breast-leash from Chan and suddenly jerks it hard. I grunt in pain and stumble forward, bringing a tinkle of laughter from the black slavegirl. "That’s to help you remember who is in charge now," she tells me. I bow my head again.
Then we set off for the marketplace, an area several blocks from Madam Tortoor’s mansion. With my Mistress and Chan ahead of us, Soonah maintains steady tension on my leash to keep me moving as rapidly as I can. The pain my toe-hobble inflicts whenever I try to overstep its limit is a constant reminder of my subjugation. By the time we reach the market, I am in a delirium of misery.
A number of other Masters and Mistresses are there with their attendant slaves, each of the latter in his or her own special restraint. My status as a slave of the state simply means that my bondage is more punitive than that of most slaves, but the others are also confined with calculated cruelty and no one pays extra attention to me. All slaves, after all, are the targets of carefully designed torments every day. It is the essence of slavery.
I notice one girl, nude but for a heavy leather discipline helmet and her chains, who is being led on a leash attached to a ring that pierces her tongue. The helmet blinds her, of course, and so she cannot tell where she is being led. With her tongue thrust out through the helmet’s mouth-hole, she winces and moans whenever she receives new guidance via her leash.
Behind this pitiful victim are two buxom blondes, probably Celts captured in the British Isles, who are twinned in harness to a two-wheeled cart in which their Master is riding. Both are bridled with bits between their teeth and reins drawn back to their Master. The drawbar, like a doubled shepherd’s crook, is secured between their waists, its curved ends snug across their bellies. The ponygirls’ inner legs are lashed together and their outer legs are connected to them by fairly short hobbles. Their inner arms are lashed together, too, from shoulder to elbow, and each is folded back behind her and bound wrist-to-elbow to her outer arm. A closer look reveals that their generous breasts are tipped with breast-rings and that they are fastened to a single wooden rod, making sure that they cannot turn their torsos at all, and that they will move in synchrony at all times. Once in a while, their Master’s whip flicks at their buns to encourage speed.
Then there is a girl who, without any hobble at all, takes only eight-inch steps. Her mistress keeps a steady tension on her collar-leash, but she is unable to move any more rapidly. This invisible restraint, I can tell, is the result of her having worn a hobble-hoop daily for several months. The cruel device hangs at ankle-level on three chains fastened to her cinch-belt, meaning that any attempt to take a longer stride will punish both the front of one shin and the back of the other. At last, the wearer learns never to step beyond the hoop’s strict limits.
And a massive black Nubian lad, his arms strapped up in a forearm-X behind him, is particularly tormented by his hobble. A slender strap from one of his ankle cuffs runs up through a ring fixed to his cock-clamp and down to the other ankle, but it is too short to allow him to stand erect. As a result, he must keep his knees bent while he moves after his Mistress in a clumsy sort of waddle. He is leashed by a nose-ring and is the constant target of a servant’s stinging lash.
Madam Tortoor turns to me and says with sarcastic enthusiasm, "We’re going to visit the dildo-maker first, dear. I’m been told that he has something new for greedy whores like you. Let’s go see what it is!" I am powerless to resist Soonah’s spiteful use of my leash, and so follow her awkwardly.
The new dildo turns out to be a hideous device. A wizened old man greets Madam Tortoor and holds it up for her inspection. It is comparable to a dildo-gag, meaning that while part of it goes into its target, the rest of it will extend outside. This one, he explains, has an adjustable flange that determines how deeply it will penetrate, and the flange has straps to be fixed at the front and rear of the wearer’s corselet.
What bothers me is the other end, for it will extend down between my knees. Sure enough, the artisan suggests that this end can be strapped to one of the wearer’s knees so that her movements will keep it moving back and forth, thus changing its position in her puss with every step. I dread the thought of wearing it, but there is no escape.
Sure enough, a few moments later I am forced to bend forward from my hips so that the awful thing can be forced up into my cunt. Without any warmup, I am not ready for it. As Soonah happily takes charge of the insertion, I groan loudly at the pain of its entry. But in it must go, and soon I am thoroughly impaled on the outsized pole. The flange is fixed to prevent any deeper penetration and then secured to my corselet so it cannot slip out.
As I straighten up, urged by Soonah’s tugging at my leash, I find the lower end of the dildo is right between my knees. Chan fixes a strap from my right knee to the protruding part, and then removes my toe-hobble so that a two-foot hamperbar can be fixed on swivel clamps between my ankle cuffs. Finally, I am told to move ahead. My God!
Now I must swing each leg forward in a semicircle in order to walk. As my right foot goes ahead of my left foot, nearly two feet, the lower end of the dildo is pulled forward too, making its upper end tilt backward. Naturally, I must obey its intimate command and lean my torso backward as well. When my feet are even with each other, I must stand erect, and then lean forward when my right foot is behind the left one.
By the time I get used to this fiendish accoutrement, I find that I am moving with a ludicrous bobbing motion that brings sneering smiles to my tormentors’ faces. At the same time, my body is automatically responding to the dildo’s insistent stimulus, lubricating the upper end and making my hips quiver with excitement.
Under Soonah’s impatient urging, I must continue to walk with this peculiar gait until my womanly lusts are fully aroused. No matter that I am simply obeying the dildo’s requirements; I am effectively masturbating myself almost to the point of climax. My nasal sighs become grunts and my nipples grow stiffer and thicker under the irresistible stimulus.
Pleased with the new apparatus’s effect, Madam Tortoor tells the man that she will buy it. Am I to wear the awful thing for the rest of our time in the marketplace? No, Chan unbuckles the strap at my knee and the straps to my corselet, and then pulls the dildo down to remove it from my pulsing loins. I sigh with frustration as it leaves me.
Soonah notices my condition and uses my breast-leash to pull me to her. "All you think of is your cunt, isn’t it? Well, Miss Slut, you’ll have to get used to its being empty now." She seizes one of my nipples in each hand and twists them harshly, making me yowl through my gag.
"You’ll need your hobble," she tells me. "Stay still."
I obey, and find that after removing the hamperbar she has fastened a 10-inch chain between my toe-cuffs instead of the longer one I wore earlier. Now it will be even more difficult to follow her. She pinches my cheeks to make sure my gag is still properly in place and I moan at the pain.
But then Madam Tortoor calls her and she must halt her casual torments. "Soonah, we will go next to the helmet shop. Will you and Lady Gwynda lead the way?" The Nubian slavegirl nods her head happily, and I get another agonizing yank at my breast-leash. Helpless to resist, I stumble forward and find immediately that my new hobble will trip me if I don’t adjust to its shorter length. Both of my great toes are cruelly pained before I learn to take the shorter, quicker steps that it demands.
Somehow, I manage not to fall, even though the steady pull at my breasts keeps me mincing along as fast as I can move my feet. After ten minutes of this exhausting misery, we reach the small building in which the helmet-maker does his work. Once inside, Soonah runs my leash back between my legs and ties it to the top of a hitching post that stands by the entrance. She makes sure it is taut so that I must stand continually on tiptoe to minimize the pressure in my crotch.
Chan and Madam Tortoor have a long discussion with the shopkeeper and then he nods his understanding of what they want. He goes into the back of the shop for a moment and returns with a truly ghastly helmet made of iron and leather. The three of them inspect it carefully. From what I can see of it, the thing has two halves that open on a hinge at the back so the wearer’s head can be fitted into it. Madam Tortoor beckons Soonah to her side.
"We’re going to try this on you, girl," she announces. "Chan will have to make sure you don’t do anything foolish." The girl gasps but cannot evade Chan’s grip. He quickly binds her wrists behind her with a strap. Her eyes widen in dismay.
"Please, Mistress," she begs, "This should be for Lady Gwynda, not for me!" But her owner frowns and shakes her head.
"You are a slave too, you know," Madam Tortoor reminds her. "When your mistress gives you an order, you will obey it!" Soonah bows her head in submission.
Chan takes the helmet and opens it at the hinge. Bringing one side of it to the right side of Soonah’s head, he forces her to nestle that side of her head in the helmet and then swings the other side in to cover the left side. It fits her very snugly. He must use both hands to force the two sides together so that he can close it. I can hear her muffled groan.
Now Chan secures the three locks at her forehead, nose, and chin to hold the terrible thing closed about her head and then snaps the covers down over its eyeholes. Despite my own discomfort, I smile to see Soonah’s obvious suffering. Blinded, she will have to rely on a leash for guidance, and -- sure enough -- Chan fixes a pair of breast-rings in place and fastens a forked leash to them.