Depraved by Trent Evans
Chapter 22
“Say the words.”
It was his favorite part of each day.
After watching her shower, especially loving the way she struggled to wash herself with her hands still bound (he made it one of her rules that she would never not be bound in some way—even in the shower), he made her kneel before him, the water drying upon her skin, the girl shivering, her coral-colored nipples hard enough to cut glass.
The words were simple enough, but they always made him painfully hard when he watched her say them.
The way she blushed crimson, her gaze dropping to the floor as she murmured the humiliating entreaty, only amplified his arousal.
“Please, sir. P-please harness my… my… whore tits.”
It was a leather body harness that he’d had modified with two broad horizontal straps across the chest, one crossed the upper slopes of the breasts, the other hugged against the lower curves. The effect was to squeeze the breasts of even the most modestly endowed female, forcing them to bulge forward, and immobilizing them in an uncomfortable embrace of stiff leather.
On females as generously endowed as Yulia though, the effect was positively mesmerizing, presenting the breasts, offering them up in an almost obscenely sexual, degrading way, the stricture making the nipples swell and throb.
It made it impossible for the female to not be aware of her breasts, and how shamefully they were on display, as if to advertise her feminine vulnerability.
So simple, and yet so effective.
She always trembled as he fitted it to her body, taking extra time with the strap that ran down between her legs, pulling it snug, deep into her cleft before fastening it at the small of her back.
He would draw that strap especially tight, ensuring the plump labia of her pussy swallowed it up, the leather cruelly galling the compressed clitoris.
At the end, the last strap taut and secure, she was a bound, panting, blushing, debased plaything, unable to meet his gaze, so degraded and objectified, imprisoned in the embrace of the harness.
Following her fitting in the harness, he would then apply her collar, a thick, stiff thing of black leather that forced her to raise her chin up slightly. He loved the way her cheeks pinked up as he beamed at her, telling her how pretty it was around her little throat.
The last was the gag, though sometimes he would go without it; he went with whatever his whims and mood dictated. There was something special about the look of abject humiliation in a pet’s eyes though as she tried to speak, as drool formed at the corners of her mouth, as he wiped it from the upper slopes of her breasts, softly chiding her for being so messy.
Each day was different, following her fitting. Some days, he would lead her to and fro on her hands and knees, using a long, leather paddle to correct her posture for failure to precisely and immediately follow the commands of the leash.
At first, she rebelled completely, and such lessons inevitably ended up with her strapped to the spanking bench. Only after a solid leathering across her round bottom, tears cascading down her cheeks and a gruff order given to her, demanding her apology—would she be back on hands and knees.
Only this time, she would obey.
At least for a little while.
Following the morning “lessons” as he’d taken to calling them, he would sit and watch her as she ate.
At the beginning, he’d fed her by hand, but after a few days of that, he’d come up with this solution, intended to both teach her a lesson, and afford him some simple pleasure in watching her eat.
“I want that plate clean, girl,” he said softly, setting it down on the concrete in front of her.
“Y-yes, sir.”
The way her lips twisted, her brow furrowing as she said the words delighted him in a quietly sadistic way, knowing as he did how much she hated being forced to say them.
But that force was entirely the point.
This was the incremental process of breaking her down. Of making her realize she had absolutely no control anymore.
Over time, as she was remolded into the creature he was making of her, she would increasingly look to him for everything.
Her lessons. Her discipline. His approval. His punishment.
And if she was lucky, eventually, her pleasure.
But she would have to earn one.
Oh, how she would have to work to earn it.
He loved the way she posed there, still, on her knees, her hands bound, connected to her collar in the front by a single metal link, making her hold them close, almost as if she were begging with them, but nowhere near close enough to her face to allow her to use them to help her eat.
It was an amplification—a cruel one—of her helplessness.
Which was precisely why he loved it so.
She waited on his permission. It was this way at every meal.
“You may begin,” he finally intoned.
As he watched her dive in, inevitably getting food on her face, in her hair even, he drew out his cock, stroking it slowly as he observed her debasement.
He dragged that out too, as long as he could endure, until the precum dripped from the slit at the head.
It eventually grew too much.
Grasping her by the hair, he hauled her up, staring into her eyes. Food was smeared across her chin, along her lower lip. Some of it even caught in the bangs over her left eyebrow.
“Shame on you,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly as he wiped her face and hair with a cloth.
When he stood to dispose of the cloth, she drew a sharp breath, at the sight of his cock wagging before him.
“You’ll get it soon enough. Greedy girl. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to be allowed to come. That’s a long way off for you, I think.”
He loved the way she watched him, trying not to let him see how often her gaze returned to his penis, hunger now warring with the defiance in her eyes, as he walked back to her.
It was time for the question. He asked it every day of her.
“Do you want my cock? Do you want me to fuck you, finally?”
She shook her head, but her gaze couldn’t stay on his, darting down to where his fist slowly pumped the length of his erection.
His balls were already gathering tight. He was so close already, and truth be told he wanted inside her with a power that surprised him.
Before, it had been a duty. An enjoyable one, yes, but it was nonetheless part of his mission. No more, no less. That he took enjoyment of emptying his balls inside his unwilling captive was just an ancillary benefit.
But not with Yulia—and he still could not understand why. No, with her, he needed her to ask for it, to give him that final surrender. To admit to what he could see in her eyes, could see in the hard prominence of her very erect nipples. The smell of her cunt, its wetness so bright and glistening, the leather of the crotch strap already stained dark from her juices.
“Don’t you want to finally come?” He paced before her kneeling form, stroking his cock the whole time. “Don’t you miss the release of your orgasm? Do you remember what it even feels like anymore?”
“I… I won’t do what you want.” She looked away, sighing. “I won’t.”
He stopped before her, and crouched down, a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“It’s not about what I want, it’s about what you want. It’s about what that poor cunt, bisected by that cruel strap marinating in your arousal right now wants. All you have to do is say the word.” He smiled, seeing her gaze flickering down to the jut of his cock, wagging between his thighs. “Say the word and you’ll finally end that need I can see, I know, is gnawing at you inside. Just give in.”
She looked up at him once more, jaw firm. “No.”
He stood, sighing, giving his cock a last squeeze. “When you’re pleading to come, that you can’t take it anymore, when you beg me, that you think you might just die of your need. Remember that this was your choice.”