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Katherine Blackman is bored. She stumbles across the world of online BDSM and dives in enthusiastically without thinking of the consequences. In the same cyber world slave trainer Master M needs a new challenge. He decides to see if he can take a mature, worldly, intelligent woman with no BDSM experience and transform her into the perfect sex slave. He spots his ideal victim and begins his preparation.
Katherine spent that evening, as well as Saturday and Sunday in a state of heady agitation. She was nervous. She was excited. She was horribly restless. Overall, she was desperately horny and already missing the pictures and stories of pain and torture that had turned her on so much. She resorted to some ancient Playgirl magazines she had bought some 20 years ago on holiday. They failed to hold her attention for long.

She shopped in the local town on Saturday morning and bought razors, the shaving foam and moisturisers that Master M had recommended. She remembered his words and blushed furiously in the chemist’s, sure that the checkout girl knew that she intended to shave her pussy. Katherine could feel the wetness in her panties and smelt the aroma of her desire through her jeans; she had to stop herself looking down at her crotch to see if it was stained. In the supermarket, she stocked up on food for the week, and on impulse, she added a packet of spring-loaded wooden clothes pegs and a thin rope washing line to her basket even though she had an expensive tumble dryer at the cottage. During her trip to town, Katherine had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched, but dismissed it as ridiculous and a result of her current overactive imagination. She knew no one here and no one knew her.

She found Spencer Street on her way home; it wasn’t quite what she expected. It was a quiet street with the large council-owned cemetery as the main feature and a few run down offices and warehouses on either side. There were no fancy restaurants or hotels in sight. Katherine had been hoping for a late, lazy, expensive lunch followed by some amazing afternoon sex, but

Spencer Street offered no such facilities. Never mind, perhaps he worked nearby and would whisk her off somewhere nice, she mused. The rest of the weekend passed slowly. Katherine cleaned the cottage from top to bottom, not really knowing why, as she had no intention of bringing a strange man home on a first date. She may be have been forward, but there were certain boundaries that she would not overstep. She tried to concentrate on a book, and later the television, but neither could hold her attention. The computer in the corner seemed to be taunting her to power it up and satisfy herself with the images of perversion and punishment she had so recently discovered. But, and this felt crazy even to herself, Katherine resisted and used her willpower as a sort of test of her obedience to her new ‘Master’. She told herself that she could surf as much as she liked after she had met Master M and explained to him that the internet was far too important to her to be off-limits. She did check for messages every 10 minutes or so but was disappointed each time until, just before she went to bed on Sunday night, the 'new mail’ icon flashed at her.

Her heart rate jumped as she opened it. ‘Good evening, katherine. I trust you have had a productive weekend. Don’t worry about recognising me tomorrow, I have (as you probably guessed by now) looked you up on the internet and I will recognise that pretty face immediately. I have been thinking more about our meeting; there are a couple of additional rules for you to follow. Firstly you are not permitted to masturbate or even touch yourself tonight or tomorrow morning. Not too difficult, I hope. Secondly, katherine is far too long and sophisticated a name for a potential slave. From now on your name is kitty—soft, defenceless, playful and eager to be tied up in a ball of wool. Don’t be late tomorrow. Good night, kitty.’ Katherine/Kitty reread the mail several times and grinned to herself—this game was great fun!

Although she was glad the masturbation ban hadn’t been issued earlier; she was already wet and desperate to come but could hang on for the next few hours. Monday morning, Kitty woke early and stretched languorously, ‘catlike’ she thought and shivered in anticipation. She walked to the toilet in the open-plan bedroom and bathroom and emptied her bladder. Looking down at her hairless groin, she opened her legs and watched the stream of urine hitting the water. Kitty had heard of ‘water sports’ and tried to recall if it had been on the profile checklist. It was certainly something she found very intriguing—dirty, naughty, kinky and therefore completely acceptable in her new world. She made a mental note to quiz Master M about it. Flushing the loo, she turned on the shower and stepped in; it was large enough not to need a door or curtain, not quite a wet room but close enough. Kitty washed her hair and body, shaved her armpits, legs and crotch, taking extra care to remove every hair

from her plump labia and around her anus , then stepped out and dried her body before she applied lashings of her favourite body lotion. Her bare pussy felt lovely; soft, smooth, very sensitive and already wet from anticipation. Resisting the urge to touch herself, Kitty slipped on her old black silk dressing gown (and, as ever, wondered what had happened to the belt-tie), ran a comb through her wet hair and went downstairs. Before she could switch on the computer or the kettle, there was a soft knocking at the door that made Kitty start. Apart from various furniture deliveries, no one had

been to the cottage since she moved in. She moved towards the door and then realised her gown was open and the front of her naked body was on display. With no time to go and dress, as the knocking had restarted, Kitty grasped the gown and closed it as best she could.

Opening the door a crack Kitty saw a man dressed in the familiar uniform of a motorcycle courier: faded blue jeans, scuffed boots, a battered black leather jacket and a full face black helmet. Subconsciously at ease she opened the door a little wider and smiled.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘Sorry to bother you lady, but I have an urgent contract for S.S.C. Ltd.’

The man replied, his voice muffled by the helmet.

‘Who?’ She asked. A small bell rang somewhere in the back of Kitty’s

mind but didn’t connect to anything tangible so she dismissed it.

The man lifted his visor and she got a glimpse of his dark blue eyes.

‘S.S.C.’ He repeated, ‘Have you heard of it?’

‘No, sorry.’ She said, ‘I think you’ve got the wrong address. This is a private house.’

‘I thought so,’ he replied, ‘But with so many people working from home these days, I had to check.’

He peered past her into the double height living room with its exposed wooden beams and thick supports.

‘Lovely cottage, if you don’t mind me saying so—nearly as cute as it’s owner.’

Kitty’s face and neck flushed red and she looked down, suddenly aware of being nearly naked in the presence of a very macho stereotype. Looking up again she said, briskly,

‘Thanks, but as I said there’s no S.S.C. here and I need to get on.’

‘I see that, lady. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He said with a smile in his voice, fully aware of her dismissive tone.

He turned and left, stopping at the gate to look back at her for a long moment, gave a half wave, got on his motorbike and drove slowly back down the dirt track. Kitty thought it was little strange that she hadn’t heard the throb of the engine approaching the house but then, she hadn’t been expecting a visitor.

Kitty was dressed and ready by midday, even though the drive to town took no more than fifteen minutes at most. The heels, stockings and tight leather skirt reminded her of her work clothes, although with a sexy skirt like this on, she would normally worn a high neck blouse or smart fitted jacket. Her mother had advised her that it was acceptable for a woman to show off either her ‘bosom’ or her legs in an outfit, but never both at the same time; as it was a look only favoured by a ‘certain type’ of woman in Kitty’s mother’s narrow view. Kitty glanced down at her breasts, pushed up and out by her sexiest low cut bra, and appearing to be ready to make a break for freedom at the slightest opportunity. Kitty glanced at the clock; it was still only 12.15pm. She lay back on her soft, oversized bed and pull her skirt up around her hips; she was so very excited and she had to touch her aching clitoris, just for a moment. Kitty’s wetness was soon spread around the top of her thighs as she used both hands to stroke and rub her engorged lips and throbbing, swollen bud. Dipping three fingers inside her, she then licked them clean, loving the taste and scent of her own arousal. Kitty’s body finally gave in to her teasing and exploded into a huge climax, which seemed to go for hours. She lay quietly, feeling the aftershocks flowing out from her centre down to her toes and out to her fingertips and looked again at the clock. 1.25pm.


Kitty jumped off the bed, tugged down her skirt, straight her blouse as best she could and ran, or rather tottered, to the front door. Jumping in her 4x4, she drove as quickly as the terrain would allow. As soon as she got onto tarmac, she felt around in her handbag for a hairbrush and a lipstick, any lipstick. She was in luck with the former and pulled her hair into some sort of normality using the rear-view mirror and chancing to fate with the road ahead. No luck on the lipstick front though, not even an old lip-gloss could be found in the depths of her bag, and Kitty had no time to stop and buy one. Her mind was working overtime, but only came up with one excuse and that sounded pathetic even to Kitty. Master M had said she wasn’t to masturbate this morning. Well, she hadn’t. It was after midday when she started touching herself.

‘No, no, no,’ she thought. ‘Just go with the usual bad traffic excuse.’

She got to Spencer Street at 1.35pm, parked in front of one of the disused offices and jumped out of the jeep. She made sure she locked it; this looked like a dodgy area to her. She looked up and down the street in nervous anticipation. There was no one in sight apart from one person ambling idly towards her. Kitty stared at them but couldn’t work out if it was a man or woman; he or she was about Kitty’s height, slim and scruffy looking with combat trousers, a navy hoodie covering the downturned face and the tell tale wires of an iPod snaking down to one pocket. Either way it certainly wasn’t a six-foot tall Master. Kitty breathed a huge sigh of relief, she was late but then so was he.

As the solitary pedestrian drew closer, Kitty was vaguely aware of a large grey van pulling out from one of the warehouses further down the road. She turned to look but turned back again as a soft voice said, ‘Excuse me’ beside her. It was the hooded person. Up close, Kitty could see it was a woman, probably in her late forties, with very short grey hair and a weathered but

attractive face.

Her piercing green eyes met Kitty’s and she said, ‘Sorry to bother you, but is this Spencer Street?’

Kitty was about to reply when the woman shouted, ‘Look out!’

Kitty spun round to see that the van had sped to a halt alongside her with the side door open. Before she could react, Kitty received a hard shove to her back and she pitched forward into the van. The woman grabbed her legs, which protruded over the doorsill, pushed them in and jumped on top of her, closing the van door at the same time in one swift movement. 'Go, go,’ said the woman. As Kitty tried to get up, a fist slammed into her solar plexus and she fell back onto a foul smelling rough blanket, gasping for air. She hear a voice, strangely familiar, say,

‘Don’t overdo it,’ and then a pad of cotton wool was placed over her nose and mouth and she lost consciousness.
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