When I awaken, the fuzzy lines that make up everything around me begin to clear.  The room is darkened, only a small lamp lighting the space.  My instincts kick in and I leap to my feet, skilled and fluid, all my senses coming online at once.  I search the space, and it's a small room, not quite as confined as a prison cell.  It takes only four long strides to cross it in either direction.  Shoved against the opposite wall is a small bed, barely big enough to fit one very large person. 

It's a good thing I'm not very large. 

Next to the bed is a small end table with a drawer.  Curious, I sneak a peek into the drawer.  A sleeping mask, some scented oil, matches, and a few other odds and ends.  Nothing of interest. 

I slide the drawer shut and hear a ricketing on top of the table.  Behind the lamp, there was a handle.  I grab it and pull. 

My heart stops.  At the end of the handle was a few strands of very well-maintained leather strap.  Next to it, a paddle.  Next to that, a wand of some kind. 

Suddenly alert, I stand on the balls of my feet and ready my hands.  I hold the flail like I know how to use it as the sounds of a jostling doorknob fill the room.  I turn towards the sound, jaw set, eyes focused, body coiled like a spring.

The door opens and in the doorway, light spills into the room, silhouetting the figure.  Cliche.  I drop my hands, stand up straight and sigh, rolling my eyes.  "Really, dude?"  I ask in a condescending tone.  

The figure snorts as I roll my eyes and takes that brief lapse in judgment of mine to stride one, two steps towards me and has his hand on my throat.  I gasp and go easily to the wall behind me.  He presses his hand to the column of my neck so his fingertips touch the wall, not closing his fingers and strangling me - simply reminding me of my situation.  Or informing me of it.  I'm not sure which.

His voice is a low, controlled growl, somehow abrasive and engaging at the same time.  I'm not sure how I feel when he speaks as he leans in and in a low, dangerous tone, says "Careful, pet."  He squeezes a little and my airway closes for only an instant.  My body begins to tingle with the familiar sensation of fight-or-flight.  I try to look at his face, but he is too close.  As I struggle, though half-heartedly against the hold, I hear the drawer slide open, a short rustle of items, and then hear it roll shut.  My vision goes dark, the sleeping mask settled over my eyes.  As it slides down, my glasses are pulled away and set aside, carefully from the sound of it.    My heart slams against my ribs, my throat tightening, even as his hand falls away and grasps instead my wrist, pulling me to, from what I remember of the room, the small bed.  "Sit."

My hackles raise a little from the command.  "Do I look like a dog to you?"

A derisive chuckle, then an impact to the middle of my chest that sends me into a controlled sprawl onto the mattress.  "No.  Dogs listen."  By the sound of his voice, he isn't even sneering with the remark.  He sounded almost bored.  "You've yet to be tamed and trained.  You're a whelp."  There's the sneer.  The condescending tone, as though he were speaking to a juvenile delinquent, brings a flush to my cheeks as my anger builds.  I reach up to rip the sleeping mask from my face, but he catches my arm and slaps a shackle over the wrist.  I cry out in protest, my face twisting into a snarl as I struggle with renewed vigor against the chain.  Before my other hand can come up to aid, though, my attacker catches it, too, and moves over me to sit on my knees, pushing the hand down and away, pressed to the mattress above my head.  His form is not bulky, but toned.  He is strong enough to hold me in place, even as I writhe to get away from him.  I shake my head back and forth, rubbing the head band of the sleeping mask against the mattress, trying to catch a glimpse of who had me captive.  I receive a sharp nip to the edge of my ear and another warning growl.  "Stop.  Moving."  His voice resonated in my chest, and for a second I obey.  The second was long enough for him to bind my other hand to the bed, and I growl aloud, arching my back, thrusting my chest up, trying to use what little power I have to gain advantage.

He simply sat up, and brushed his hands together, as if to say 'well, that's done!'  He was sitting on my knees, and so each time I tried to kick or writhe, I was kept helplessly in place.  He grasped my thighs, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to hold my legs while he climbed off of me, returning to standing next to the bed. 

"What do you want?"  My voice is strong, demanding, even though my body is screaming for me to do something, to run, to fight, to rip him in half and escape.  I keep myself dignified by refusing to struggle while he watches.  I clearly wasn't going anywhere.  I may as well size up the situation. 

"A challenge."  The voice had an edge in it.  "You seemed like the kind of primal beast that wouldn't be so quickly obedient."  I hear a snap in the air, and I can't help but flinch, though slightly.  He saw it, and laughs, a light sound given the situation.  "Compliant, maybe... but not obedient."

He grabs my ankle, and I realize I am barefoot.  There is a weight to my foot even before the clasp of another catch fastens me to the frame of the bed.  When my other ankle follows in short order, I recognize the extra bit of equipment attached to these shackles.

Spreader bar.

I am slightly confused.  I was still, for the most part, fully clothed.  Shirt, jeans, all the necessary undergarments.  Here I am, chained to a bed with a spreader bar. 

I hear the faintest of sighs, more of a breath out, and I feel fingertips, gliding up my body from my ankle, over my thigh and hip, my belly and breast, resting just over the collar bone.  The touch violates me, but the trail of prickling electricity it leaves gives me pause.  I freeze, until his hand rests, and I feel him looking down at me.  Then I thrash - or try to, for all the good it does me, my legs spread akimbo and arms chained down.  I twist and sink my teeth into his forearm, but he pulls away before I can draw blood, a grunt escaping him.  If I didn't know better I'd say that was a pleasurable grunt.  He thrusts the curve between his thumb and first finger up under my chin, forcing me to look up.  From behind the mattress, I hear some clanking and chains rattling.  Something cold wraps around my neck, and when I struggle again, I'm met with two fingers thrust into the space between the bones in my lower jaw.  I swallow, but can't breathe, so I freeze, my tongue forced to the roof of my mouth.  The clasp of the collar snaps shut, and he pulls away, more quickly this time, giving me time to assess the new device.  When I move my head, I can't go far.  The chain behind me pulls taut at even the slightest effort to sit up.

I hear a click that sounds suspiciously like a pocket knife.  I gasp inaudibly, clenching my teeth to cover it up.  With great care, the collar of my shirt is pulled up and split, slowly, but precisely.  There is no struggle from the fabric as it gives way to his knife. 

Oh.  That's how this is happening.

I listen for breathing differences, but the only thing I think I hear is another near-soundless exhale as my shirt, now torn to pieces, splays around me, still connected, but only by the arms.  My belly and bra are exposed to open air. 

He rests the flat of the blade against the sensitive skin on my belly, and my breath hitches.  I start to panic, my breath quickening with anxiety. 

Then the handle falls too, and fingertips ghost down my stomach and over my waist, down to my belt line.  My body reacts before I do, the muscles tightening, quivering when his fingers pass over that belt line.  "Beg me," he says in a calm tone.

"What?"  I'm confused.  What am I begging for?  Freedom?  My life?  Forgiveness?

He sighs, as though he expected this, but hoped for another outcome.  I hear a soft whistle in the air, and a little flapping, and then the leather straps to the flail bite into my belly.  I growl angrily in protest, trying in vain to recoil, but the flail keeps coming.  Again and again, like he is twirling a jump rope.  Snap, snap, snap, in an even, steady rhythm, until all of the skin on my belly burns and the nerves are awakened to every sensation.  This earns him a pained yelp, and I bite down on the inside of my lip, growling in my throat, fighting off the sting.  I feel a light breeze against my skin and realize he is blowing on the small, temporary welts.  I try to stifle a groan, but fail.  Then a burning sensation, pointed and direct rakes up my belly as he runs the tip of his tongue over what I imagine is the most pronounced area of redness, and I tense every muscle I can, forcing the outcry to stifle itself in my now paralyzed vocal cords.

"Beg me," he says now as a dangerous hiss of a whisper.  He bites, albeit gently at a spot on my waist that makes me whimper, every nerve jumping, and I writhe under the sensation.

"Please," I growl through bared teeth, more of a command than begging.

"Try again," he says in a condescending, sing-songy tone, dangling the flail so the straps brush against the welts.  The shackles start to bite into my wrists.  I don't want him to hit me with it again.  Not there.

"Please," I try again, gentling my voice.  "Don't hit my belly anymore.  Please."

"It can be taught."  He seems mildly impressed, but not surprised.  Out of the drawer, he grabs something else.  I hear shuffling, and then a cooling sensation on the welts.  I smell the oil, a sweet, minty scent with a welcoming, dulling burn as he rubs gently over the areas he lashed me.  "I'll have you trained in no time," he croons, sliding his hand up over the stinging skin and under my bra.  He twists and yanks, and my shoulders ache briefly as the fabric protests, then gives way under my weight and his strength.  My eyes widen as suddenly my breasts are exposed to open air.  With everything that's happened, I didn't think about it.  I was far too concentrated on what was happening to my belly.

A gentle caress, a hand cupping underneath one of my breasts, feeling its weight in his palm before he brushes his thumb over my nipple and then pulling the hand away.  

I feel my lips and fingertips pulse, and I realize something that disturbs my survival instinct.  I like what's happening here.  Were I to be a victim of murder, it would have happened by now.  Right?  Right.  I'll choose to look at it that way.

I squirm against my restraints again, but this time I make more of a show of it, like I'm reaching for his touch instead of away from it.  It earns me a pleasing chuckle, and he leans down to nip my breasts, not in a playful way, but in a claiming way.  The pinch of my skin between his teeth I'm sure are going to leave marks.  Instead of the angry growls I gave before, I gasp and moan, sometimes softly, sometimes with a little more urgency.

"Not yet, pet," he chuckles again, the sound reverberating all around me.  I feel a tug at the top of my jeans, and hear the familiar sound of tearing fabric.  A few skillful cuts, and they, too are useless hunks of fabric pooled around me.  He discards them, the jeans completely forgotten.  I can feel him staring, and hear his breath getting just a little less controlled, as he stares hard at the barrier between him and my crotch.  My panties which, now that I'm exposed sans jeans and wide-open thanks to the splitter bar, are wet.  A bit wetter than I expected.  I thought I had only just begun enjoying his touch.

His mouth collides with the bit of fabric, crushing it against my labia.  I yelp again, the force causing tears to tease the edges of my eyelids.  When the initial shock subsides, I realizing he is kissing my pussy, making out with it passionately, like one would to a lover's mouth.  His hands grasp my hips, arms propped under my thighs, and my jaw slackens, my lips parted.  He nibbles gently at my clit, and his fingers press against the fabric of my panties, pushing against my opening.  The teasing sensation rips a cry of frustration from my throat.  I want more.  I need, more!  By the time he pulls away, he is breathing more heavily, and I realize my entire body has lifted itself off the mattress, only my shoulders and the heels of my feet touching.  When he pulls away, I shout in frustration, my thighs flexing and releasing, trying to get some form of stimulation, but without results.  Another cold feeling on my hip, then other hip, and my panties are just as useless as my other clothes, torn to ribbons, covering nothing.

I'm released from my shackles, but not the spreader bar, and forced onto my belly, my face pushed into the mattress and my hair tangling everywhere.  I move to rip off the sleeping mask, but I can't see anyway.  It gets half way off my face when I'm pushed down again, held in place by the back of my neck as he positions behind me.  "This," he growls into my ear, "is domination, pet... not for your pleasure... for mine."  I can feel his open mouth against the skin of my neck and shoulder and I know he's thinking of sinking his teeth in.  He then pulls away and steadies his hands on my hips, positioning himself to my entrance.  I gasp from the pressure before penetration.  I ache for him to thrust  deep into me, to shove his cock into my depths and feel me tighten around him.  He waits, it seems for hours, before he slowly, very slowly, pushes the tip of his cock between my folds and into my entrance, prolonging that moment.  It's one of my favorite parts about fucking, the initial piercing of my sex.  Every single movement at this point seems to have been calculated to both frustrate me and make me insane with pleasure.  I clutch at the back of my head and moan heatedly into the mattress, trying to press back against him, but my invisible movements don't fool him.  He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls me up, standing me up on my knees as he plunges his cock into me.  I'm still screaming from the pulling of my hair when he groans roughly, my heat engulfing him. 

"Tight," is all he manages to say before he pushes my head away from him so he can bite my neck.  One hand is roaming over my tits, the other on my hip, keeping me in place when he grinds up into me.  I let the outcry tear from my throat willingly, every single touch, bite, thrust, curse, manufactured to catapult me into orgasm.

As if tired of looking at my face, he shoves me down again, both hands on my hips and mercilessly pounds my pussy, driving hard into me.  

The only sounds he makes when he reaches climax are short, ragged gasps, and he forces himself to pull away from me, holds my head down and, in several hot streams, his cum is shot onto my ass and up my back. 

Oh, what I wouldn't have given to feel his cock pulsing inside of me.  I collapse to the mattress, my breaths heavy and my vision blurred.  I can't make out details, but I swear I recognized my assailant.  Before I can reach for my glasses, he left the room.  I hear a click as the mechanism turns, and I know I'm locked in here, mostly naked, cum shot onto my back, a spreader bar with locked shackles and no key.

I get the feeling that this isn't over.