Thread: His perfect art specimen

Ode to Joy Lawrence Brightman was a man of squares 3 square meals a day, two walks around the block and his favorite shape was four-sided with even 90 degree angles all around. A man of habit, Lawrence took pride in his routine. However, as of late, he had to change all that, with the inclusion of a beautiful young lady, an art student who caught his attention. Often she would ask him to stay at the end of the school day to perhaps look or critique on her artistry. You had to be blind to notice some kind of chemistry working between the two, often she would enjoy his compliments to her. Often he would even give her a ride back home or even take her to look at artwork in a nearby gallery. But all that changed when he brought a tazer with her, expressing his desire to paint a new 'master piece' with her as the subject. She did, however, look with confusion when he said that she would also be the 'materials' he would use to create such a piece of art. Just how many, how many pieces had he painted, from surrealist to cubism, with her body the subject? The contours of her abused body, her discolored breasts bound so tightly into softballs? Her arms contorted into many positions? Days had gone by, spending most of them either with his member inside of her or in harsh bondage. He had instilled the proper behavior in her mind, the right mindset of a slave who would do anything for her master. At this point he judged that she wouldn't try to flee, only begging for relief and release at this day and time. After all, you're bound to act subservient when you have endured almost sixty days as someone's sex slave, fed a steady diet of semen and birth control pills with some meals thrown in the mix. Ah yes, Ode to Joy. If the ropes or his hardened cock was ever present, so was the tormenting music. It had grown on her so much that he would often notice that she would toss and turn in her sleep just hearing it in the background. Did it provoke nightmares in her sleep as well? Never the less, he walked to turn off the music player, watching her dangle and slowly revolve. Begging did her very little good. No. Hold it in or piss on the ground. he commanded, simply walking upstairs as he marked another line on 'times fucked'. Honestly, he gave up after seventy, though he did make sure he was stocked up on birth control pills. Don't want his beloved going pregnant throughout her torture! Walking back downstairs, he was surprised that the entire place didn't smell like urine. Good. he said, untying her body, letting her lie on the ground. Lick the floor clean of my cum. Then you can go. her right breast jingled, her pierced nipples sporting a pair of bells that jingled as she walked. Masked and unable to speak, he had her pussy pierced, two on each labia. This was always their routine humiliation, bondage and slave training soon after. Repeat. Afterwards, he led her towards the washroom, covering up the door and waiting for the flush. Once heard, he then grasped her by her hair, throwing her to the ground rather roughly. Almost always was she bound by ropes, the marks and rope burns almost growing on her. This time, she was fitted to a corset that did not cover her nipples or her pierced and throbbing pussy, arms bound to an arm binder and her neck collared. What is your name? he asked. He wanted to hear a declaration that she was his slut by the name of Cunt rather than a girl named Violet. He would even force her to sleep bound and utterly helpless, forced to listen to a headset that prepetually said 'My name is cunt and I seek to serve my master with my dirty hole'. Psychological and physical torture did her in rather quickly the rest of the days was just to cement her submissive state.