Author's Note: Meg surrenders, knowing she will be broken and rebuilt as He sees fit.
The moment of truth, the moment when she could no longer escape, when her body was tightly bound and at the mercy of another, was always the same for Meg. It always aroused her. It always made her short of breath. It scared her, too, because she knew what could happen. She was no novice, and had offered herself to many dominants.
Still, this time was different. Her hunger for more, for stricter bondage, for greater pain, for one who could truly and finally break her, had led her to this place, and this moment. She had never taken such a big risk, with such an unknown outcome. That combination had her more frightened and more aroused than she thought possible.
This time, when she locked herself in place, she was going much further than ever before. The signature on the paper at her feet said so. She would be his. Thirty days. No options. No escape.
The contract was air tight, and they both knew it. Hell, she'd written it, and she was a damn good lawyer. Meg also knew he would be challenged by one term: no limits. He'd insisted that she define them, to protect both of them. But she didn't have any, not this time, not with him. She'd written very specific language to that effect. No limits, except his desire and imagination.
They also both knew that contract didn't mean a thing once she took the final step. After that, she was helpless, and at his disposal. She wasn't getting away. And he wasn't letting her go.
She knew he would test her in every way possible. She'd asked him to break her, to take her deeper than she'd ever gone, and then to remake her, if he could.
Meg shuddered. Thirty days. Thirty days of trials she would have to endure, trials should only imagine. He might know what Meg's future held, but she didn't. She could guess, though. That's all she'd done for the past month, waiting for this day to arrive. Guess and wonder.
She'd searched long and hard for this man. His reputation in the dark world she was entering was well-known. He was known as The Mentor, because he was a teacher by training and in practice. He broke women, digging deep into their very souls to take every shred of their being from them. And then he transformed them into perfect slaves, motivated and aroused by both pleasure and pain, needing both to survive, and willing to serve the most perverse to receive both.
She knew this man knew would transform her in ways she couldn't even start to comprehend.
Of course, that's why she was here. Her instincts about him, the man she'd decided to trust with not just her body, but also her mind and her soul. She knew she would never be the same, and she knew if she backed out now she would hate herself for her weakness.
That's why she so aroused. That's why she was so afraid. She had to take this step, if only to know what she might become.
She felt the base of the last padlock in her left hand, and the cold steel of the hasp in her right. She pressed slowly down on the hasp, making sure it was aligned with the hole. Then she pushed the hasp, a quick, defined movement.
It was over in a second, a quiet click telling her she'd done it. She'd locked herself in place.
In seconds, she started to panic, pulling futilely against her bonds, trying desperately to re gain her freedom. Her chest heaved and her body shook, but she had made her last decision. She had bound herself securely, and now only one person could release her. The clock was ticking. Thirty days.
He watched her approach his house on his security camera. She was right on time. Noon, as they'd agreed. That was encouraging. Too many of them arrived late, if at all, when their courage failing them at the crucial moment.
She was even more pleasing than her photos. Her face was prettier, a smooth, dark complexion that hinted of mixed race. High cheekbones, full, moist lips. Her hair was light brown, and cut in an almost boyish style that highlighted every feature.
He smiled when he remembered asking her why she wore it so short.
"It's low maintenance, and it doesn't get in my way or yours during sessions," she said. "It's long enough to be pulled, and that's all that's really necessary, isn't it?" Her eyes twinkled when she spoke, and he had his first inkling of her unique potential.
Her body was also better than her pictures suggested. She was a little taller than he thought, perhaps 5-foot-6, or maybe 5-7, and slim without being skinny. Her legs displayed good muscle tone with every step. She claimed she exercised often and hard, and to have competed in triathlon competitions as a way to measure her strength, endurance, and mental toughness.
"Aren't those the very qualities a woman who can survive what you say you will dish out needs?" she'd asked during one of the interviews. "I always like to prepared, because you never know when a special opportunity will present itself."
He'd laughed out loud at that statement.
"Yes, you'll need that, and more," he had said. "Though that only means my methods will have to be more severe to break you."
The dreamy look in her eyes when he said that made him hard.
Yes, this one fascinated him. She was different, bolder, and surer of herself. Usually, he told them how to travel and arranged to meet them, to give them one last chance to back out before he asked them to bind themselves for his use.
Meg had surprised him at every turn. She'd insisted on bypassing his usual staging process, the slow, steady process that gave them time to adjust to the stages of their submission. Most women never reached the point where they considered more than a week at a time at his disposal. The four who had stayed more than a week never returned, so addicted to the pain and the endorphins that they went in search of more than even he was willing to give them.
Meg had insisted on 30 days. She wanted his best, his most extreme, so that she could test herself.
"I've tried everything, or at least everything I can think of, at least once," she said during one interview. "I've been used for a few days at a time, but never broken. I'm always left hungry, wanting more. I want to be broken, then rebuilt. I think you can do that."
She'd argued with him over three interviews, even challenging his ability to dominate her, until he relented, convinced she was for real. It took him awhile, but he also admitted to himself that he wanted to break her. Completely. Just to show her how it was done. Just to show himself how far he could go when challenged.
He wasn't surprised when she offered a different delivery approach. It was consistent with everything about her. Direct and bold, with no wiggle room.
He watched Meg walk confidently up his driveway, carrying a small bag he assumed held the equipment she'd need to complete her first task.
She was dressed in a wispy, transparent blouse. Her skirt came to mid-thigh and was loose enough that it swayed side-to-side as she walked. The spiked heels she wore - he guessed they were at least five inches high by the point of her toe - made her body bounce with each step, adding to the sway of her skirt. The bounce also made her full tits move slightly, giving her blouse a pleasant wave as well. Even through the camera he could see her nipples were erect.
He followed her as she moved from one camera field to the next. She reached the steps to his porch, walked around his house, through the gate, and into his backyard. She stopped when she saw the stand he'd built for her, just as she had asked. It was a simple design...a platform three feet off the ground, and two feet square, with a short ladder leaning against it for access.
Meg moved onto the grass, walking awkwardly as her spiked heels dipped into the soft turf, and finally reached the stand. Once there, she'd emptied her bag piece by piece onto the stand.
The final item she pulled from the bag was an envelope, which she placed on the ground under the bag. He assumed it was the letter committing her to his "care" for 30 days, and laying out her limits for him. He'd insisted on those.
He wondered what they were. He was a little worried that she'd defy him and not provide any. Part of him throbbed at that prospect, yet his mind was worried. He knew how far he could go, and asking for limits was his protection. His sense of honor wouldn't let him go beyond whatever borders the woman placed on herself.
He watched Meg take her blouse off and fold it neatly before bending over and placing it into the small bag. Then she unbuttoned her skirt, letting it slide over her hips as it fell to the ground. She used the display stand to balance herself as she stepped out of the skirt, then picked it up, folded it, and placed it in the bag.
No underwear. She stood naked in the mid-afternoon sunlight. He stared at her image on his screen. Her skin was unmarked -- flawless really -- and her body was everything the photos had hinted at. Sublime. Strong and fit. A work of nature's art.
Her hand went to the pile of devices and pulled something out. When she lifted it up he saw that it was an O-ring gag, covered in leather. It was hard to tell on his screen, but it looked quite large. It would be uncomfortable in minutes, and painful after that. The leather, while protecting her teeth, would also cause her to drool even more. He smiled, delighted by her thinking.
Meg opened her mouth and inserted the gag. She had to take both hands to press it behind her teeth, stretching her jaw. The ring measured two inches from outside to outside and she struggled to get it properly seated. Once she was happy with its placement, she took the straps, reached behind her head and closed the buckle. Almost instantly, she tried to slurp back a string of drool and failed.
He could see the trail of moisture on her chin. His cock seemed to harden more.
Next was the posture collar. He marveled at her perversion as he watched her prepare it. It was tall, probably a four-inch collar from what he could see through the camera lens. It had a cut-out to allow her distended jaw to fit properly, and the cut-out also ensured she could not move her head from side-to-side.
She lifted her chin to allow the collar to slip under it, and then spent a moment adjusting the device. It too was designed for long-term wear, with a wide base that extended down her chest and back and over her shoulders. He watched Meg reach behind her and fiddle with the buckles that secured the collar in place.
She reached onto the stand and lifted up a small key ring, displaying three keys. She clipped the key ring to the O-ring secured to the front of her posture collar. He assumed they were the keys to the locks she was using. He smiled when he thought about what he was going to do with those.
He watched intently as she attached the nipple clamps to her erect nipples. He could almost hear the intake of breath as each clamp settled around its assigned bud, and he watched her eyes close tightly and then open slowly as she absorbed the initial bolt of pain. That, he knew, hurt now, and would grow more painful with each passing moment.
Meg picked up solid steel wrist cuffs. She'd told him they were lined with leather for long-term wear. She placed a cuff on her right wrist, then picked up a padlock and locked the cuff in place. The second cuff dangled from a 3-inch chain, open and hungry for her other wrist.
Meg licked her lips, and awkwardly climbed up the ladder, placing her shoes precisely on each rung to avoid catching them and tumbling over. The posture collar did its work, too, forcing her to keep her back straight and to move her arms and torso as a unit. She stepped carefully onto the platform and stood, moving slowly to keep her balance. He smiled when she bent over and pushed the ladder to the ground.
She moved her feet into the middle of the display stand and bent over. She reached for the steel ankle cuffs. Maneuvering carefully, she placed first one ankle and then the other into the bracelets and locked them in place. They were lined with leather, like the wrist cuffs, so that could be worn indefinitely.
He found the ankle cuffs an especially pleasing device, because they were one unit, a two-inch long steel bar welded between them. Atop the stand, three feet in the air, she could not move her feet, and in the extreme heels, it would take great effort and focus to maintain her balance with her feet so close together. It wouldn't take long for her feet and thighs to start throbbing. The discomfort would make it even harder to avoid toppling off the stand.
Meg carefully bent over one last time and then stood slowly. He could see her tip to one side and he enjoyed the flex of her leg muscles as she intuitively tried to set her feet apart and regain her balance. She fought her restraints and used her strength until she stabilized. She remained still for a moment. He assumed she was gathering herself after her near fall.
She had bent over to retrieve a blindfold, which she quickly secured in place.
He found himself holding his breath as he watched her standing bound and naked, teetering three feet in the air, offering herself to him. He waited for the final step, the irrevocable moment when she could no longer back out.
Meg pulled the last padlock from the open wrist restraint and held it in her left hand. He watched as she used her right hand to put the wrist cuff on her left wrist and closed it, and then transferred the padlock to her right hand. It took a small twist, and he could see her relax when the lock slid into place.
He watched her pause, holding the lock in her hand, and he wondered what thoughts were passing through her mind. Was she re-thinking her choice, knowing she could still remove her bonds, pack up, and walk away? Or was she eagerly waiting for him, for the first touch that would tell her he was about to start the process?
Then it was over. In a split second she closed the lock, securing herself. On the screen, he'd seen a sudden movement, and wasn't sure. He watched her closely.
She dropped her hands fully behind her, resting them on the top curve of her ass. He saw her breathe quickly and shallowly, and then start to pull at her wrist restraints. She seemed desperate to break free, twisting her body, yet he could see focus on keeping her balance, aware that falling off the stand could have brutal consequences for her. Her bonds held.
He chuckled. They always tried to break free in the first minute, and for several hours after that. It was part of the process...accepting their choice, and their new reality. In Meg's case, he expected her fight it and embrace it for the first few hours, swinging from one emotion to the other without warning. After that, when he started breaking her down, he knew she'd be pulling much harder, desperate to escape and regretting her choice.
He watched her carefully. She'd designed her own first test, whether she understood that or not, because there was nothing he could do from his perch to prevent her from falling if she fought too hard and lost her balance.
She tested her restraints several more times, never too roughly, then seemed to settle down, dropping her shoulders and relaxing, apparently accepting her situation and waiting for whatever he would make happen next.
He knew time would move slowly for her in the darkness of her blindfold. First, the anxiety of her bondage would set it, then the pain in her jaw would start. The pain would increase, slowly at first, and then it would become more and more intense. Then her back would start to hurt, stretched by the posture collar. Finally, her thighs would start to throb and her knees and ankles would begin to weaken. She'd fear falling.
Eventually, she would panic, wanting light, comfort, and relief from the pain. That would be her first test, holding on. He'd see how long she hold out before she started to thrash at her bonds, maybe even falling. That's when he would speak with her for the first time, his voice soft and reassuring, announcing the start of her training.
She'd feel relief, even comfort. Until the touch of the cattle prod on her helpless pussy. Then she understand it had really started. And she'd do everything to get away, to break free of her bonds, jumping off the stand when he pushed her over the edge. She'd fall to the ground, and start her squirming, crawling, thrashing effort to get away by slithering across the grass.
He'd steer her with the prod, enjoying the long, slow journey toward the back gate, toward the cage that would her home as long as she remained in his presence.
He smiled, an evil, knowing smile. He'd let her stand there for a few hours. If she fell, he whip her first, then use the prod.
But, right now, he had business to attend to. Meg wasn't going anywhere, and he was rock hard. He had another woman tightly bound and waiting upstairs, and she needed a thorough cropping. He'd enjoy this session, and so would she. At least he hoped she would. She'd get a treat today anyway, a good hard fucking after he'd deeply bruised her ass, because watching Meg had aroused him to a fever pitch.
He pushed the record button on the camera trained on Meg. He'd enjoy watching her first hours at his leisure. As he turned and walked out the door, there was a broad smile on his face as he thought about his future.