The single glaring light bulb suspended above her was the only warning she got in the mornings. It would be mere minutes until he walked into her small cell.

She didn't know what she was doing there. She didn't know much at all. She only knew her why.

It was him.

It was he who revelled in her confinement; he who loved to see her distress. He got off on her tears. Got hard at her whimpers. Despite knowing what caused his arousal, she wasn't in a position to deny him. She couldn't deny him anything.

The strange thing was, she couldn't tell if she was here voluntarily or not anymore. Did she want to be here? She was frightened to question herself, or look too deep. She was scared at what she'd find.

The rusted metal door screeched open. It was thick and heavy. As he stepped into her view, she saw his biceps bulge a little as he pulled open the door a little more from her side of the room, creating enough room - just enough - for her to naked body to crawl through it.

His oversized white t-shirt hung just loosely enough over his powerful frame to outline his pectorals. He knew his body was attractive. He often used it against her.

He crouched low to the ground to look in her eyes. She wished she knew what he saw when he looked at her. Did she look as pathetic as he made her feel?

He yanked her head back by her long brown hair, his eyes staring at the ball gag bulging from her lips. His eyes slowly trailed from the thick ring in her nose, dangling heavily on her upper lip, until they explored the depths of her brilliant blue gaze.

He had told her once that a man could lose himself in those glacial sapphire depths.

All the more reason to lock her up, he'd smirked. For protection. But whose? She'd thought he was joking at the time. She'd been flattered.

This was the only place she was permitted to look at him. Her home. Her prison. Her cage. But she was rarely in here, so she found herself quickly looking away. It felt wrong.

The heavy chain around her neck sounded as she angled her head down, as much as his grip on her hair would allow.

He smirked. A single finger traced her full lips around the gag. She gasped at the almost loving gesture, and a single strand of saliva pooled to the floor. She moaned, her eyelids quickly shuttering. She felt her cheeks heating. She hated drooling; hated that she couldn't control even this.

He loved it.

He let go of her hair, and she lowered her face even more, her hair falling around her like a curtain.

"Don't think you can shield yourself from me," his gravelly voice sounded. But he didn't command her to lift her hair away from her face, so she didn't.

Instead, he stood up and moved around her body. Though he had left her alone all night, her body still ached. Her neck, chained loosely to the floor - though not so loosely that she could move all that freely - was the only part of her body that didn't ache. She supposed she should be at least grateful for that.

His fingers traced the line of her body, starting with her wrists.

"Do you like your hands taped up like this? Like little paws? Helpless little paws, totally useless. Do you like that?"

In fact, it was one of the worst things he could do to her, and they both knew it. Even if she was free of all other bondage - a rare occasion - it was the most restrictive of all. Without her hands, she was completely dependent upon him, and that's the way he liked it. Her hands were almost always bound in some way: thick, heavy leather mittens, or simple black tape were his favourite methods.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, more drool escaping her lips.

"Oh dear, I can't see your pretty pink blush like this," he said as he lifted her hair from her face. In silence, he tied her hair into a big loop, wrapping it in thin cord. Another anchor point, she thought to herself.

With her protective curtain gone, she felt more exposed. At least, if he couldn't see her face, she felt somewhat anonymous. He couldn't see how he affected her; though she knew her body would give her away anyway.

She moaned, a sad, defeated sound. He'd like that.

His fingers continued their journey down the sensitive side of her body, arriving at her breasts. Her cell was cold; her nipples were hard. His exploratory, curious fingers brushed her nipples, slowly tweaking and pinching them. She tried to think of other things: her cleaning duties. What could be less sexy than a broom? But it was obviously by design that everything she did in that house was tied to sexual servitude. It didn't help her forget anything.

As his fingers continued, now onto the other nipple, she tried to fight her reaction to what he was doing. She told herself, rationally, that it was simple biology. Physics, even. Action X caused reaction Y. She hated the things he did to her. So why was her pussy getting wet?

He knew exactly what her body wanted; knew exactly what she needed. It was unbelievable to her that her body would betray her as it did every time. She didn't want this. She wasn't a slave. The evil things he did to her didn't turn her on.

"Then why does your body tell me otherwise?" he'd asked her once.

He was playing mind games with her and she knew it. And he knew that she knew it. But that was part of the fun for him. She knew what he was doing. And he was going to do it anyway, with great success.

So when a moan escaped her, drawn out of her by the way he tweaked her nipples, she reluctantly gave in. After all, her life here was experienced in two ways: pleasure or pain.

"If I'm not hurting you, I'm loving you," he said. His fingers moved further down her body, and she tried to ignore the disappointment that coursed through her when his touch left her tits. A little sound of disappointment left her, and he chuckled.

"So sensitive, aren't you?" She could hear the smile in his voice. Was it a cruel smile? Or was it one filled with affection?

His fingers reached the leather belt he'd tightened around her middle the night before. It emphasised her tiny waist, but it also stopped her from filling her lungs too much. He said it made her look more feminine. He liked his women pretty and very female. Shallow, panting breaths turned him on.

She'd asked him once why he always did this to her. It was always either a thick leather belt, pulled so tight that she always had to be lying down when he pulled tightened it around her, or painful leather corsets. But she was rarely without one or the other.

It was simple science, he'd said. Physical arousal is the same regardless of the cause: anger, danger, or passion, and it doesn't take much to arouse a body. Forced shallow breaths leads to an adrenalin rush from the fear of not being able to breathe as needed. That leads to a physical state of arousal. He'd been so clinical in his explanation; she'd thought perhaps he'd once been a doctor.

But then he'd touched the sensitive skin of her naked inner thigh, and she'd discovered he was right. Her body had tried to gasp from surprise, but when she couldn't take a full breath in, adrenalin coursed through her. All he'd had to do was direct her reaction how he'd wanted. Half the job was done for him.

"Do you like how I control even the air you breathe?" he ground out. She could hear his erection now.

"Yes, sir," she whispered again.

Did she like this? Once, it frightened her. But she'd been living this life for so long now, her reactions were starting to warp. Now, her fear was beginning to turn her on. Her pain was starting to make her pussy wet. She could feel her pussy lips tingle as his fingers traced the painful line of the indentation of the belt on her waist.

"I love the control I have over your body," he groaned. "I love how well you're progressing in your training."

"Thank you, sir," she moaned. The sceptical voice in her brain started to quieten as her focus zoned in on his touch. It started moving down her body once again.

His fingers traced her belted legs, wrapped twice with matching leather. She spread her legs a little further apart. He didn't think she realised. He was proud of her; she was slowly morphing into the perfect little sex slave for him.

His gaze touched the severe black ballet boots he'd locked her into, and he didn't think he could be any more turned on.

But she'd been a naughty little girl the night before. It was why she was all in restrictive, severe black. Shiny black tape around her balled fists, black leather belts, around her thighs, all topped off with black ballet boots. The only colour she wore was the bright cherry red of her ball gag. It suited her.

She was openly moaning now, and he moved between her legs. He smacked her thighs, indicating she should spread herself wider. He smoothed his hands up her inner thighs, and she arched her back, presenting herself as she had been trained.

Was she doing it deliberately, or was instinct taking over? he wondered.

His fingers traced her pussy lips. They were wet. He moaned himself, wondering not for the first time if she would be so responsive without the bondage.

"What do you want?" he asked her, his voice turning cold and clinical once again.

"I want you to touch me," she moaned.

He smacked her round ass twice, hard. She wasn't allowed to refer to herself as I anymore.

"Your slut slave wants you to touch her," she cried out.

His hands smoothed over the red handprints he'd left on her body. Pleasure and pain.

"Beg for it, whore."

And so began the next step of her training. He'd make her beg for every orgasm, and he'd give her so many each day that she would forget this life wasn't normal, until her brain forgot she had no choice but to beg, until she actually wanted and craved his particular brand of torture. There wouldn't be any thought of freedom, or of sex without pain and severe bondage. There would only be this: leather belts, heavy chains, restrictive, humiliating gags, and her pleasure.

Her torture would turn her on. She would beg for it. She'd beg for release, until it was her mind that kept her in his cage, not the locks.

In the end, her sweet begging didn't last long. It took all the control he had to wait the few minutes he did, alternately tracing her puffy red pussy lips and brushing lightly, oh so lightly, her little clit.

But before he gave her release, he added an extra challenge. She'd take, for the first time in her life, an anal hook. She'd come like the slut she already was: with her back arched up as if it couldn't get enough of her ass being filled.

She had cried when he'd popped that particular cherry, but when he'd tied it to the loop he'd tied into her hair, she'd cried even more. They'd stopped being sexy, so he'd made it worse. That was the next lesson he'd teach her: that he could always make things worse.

Her hands, so far only taped into useless balls, had been otherwise free to roam. She had been using them to hold herself as far up as she could to keep the rope connecting her hair to her ass as slack as possible. But with the chain around her neck locked to the floor, there was only so much slack she could provide. Now, they were tied elbow to elbow, wrist to wrist. He'd tightened the rope connecting her ass hook to her hair.

But to humiliate her even more, he'd told her the only sound he wanted to hear was begging, or sexy little moans. She was here for his pleasure, after all, not hers.

And so, with her head alternately pulled back to her ass, her neck chained to the floor; her breath controlled through the tight belt around her already tiny waist; her legs bent and strapped; and her elbows and wrists bound tightly together, he played with her clit until she begged through her big red ball gag to be allowed to come. And when he finally stopped touching her, leaving her unfulfilled, unsatisfied and truly begging for his mercy, he made her thank him for his tutelage. He'd be back a little later, he told her, and maybe, if she impressed him enough, if she could turn him on enough, he'd fuck her and only then, if she was a good enough fuck, would he make her come.