Descent into Freedom
By Brander



Chapter 1

The Trap

I was as turned on as I was comfortable. And I was very comfortable. Not far
from orgasmic. I was that more and more of late.

And, it was getting very late. No matter, I had my little richie almost where
I wanted him. I could tell by the watery look in his eyes and the crumbling
rebellion on his face that he was almost there. The outcome was as certain as
it had been every time I had layered him these past months. Only a matter of
time, and I would win. I always win. I knew it, and this new slave of my
recent choosing knew it too. The end was inevitable, and he was powerless to
do anything but kneel there and wait for it to sweep over him.

I knew I shouldn't be watching him -- it made him more determined to resist me
-- but overcoming his stubbornness slowly, inexorably is what turned me on.
So, I paused there on the sofa, phone in hand, to watch him on his knees, to
savor stripping him of the next layer. And, I thought back to The Process,
begun earlier that night, which had left him here before me. My right leg (I
don't have a wrong leg ... ) coiled around his torso, forcing his right arm
and side snugly into my crotch as that same leg traps his left arm against his
other side. My left leg easily folds over the right ankle, closing my infamous
figure-4 scissors. It's so easy for me. At five foot ten, my dancer's legs
easily encompass the body of this little man. Truly coil about him. And, it is
effortless play to tighten them enough to make him gasp while I watch my quads
and hamstrings ripple across his chest and back.

But, it's not what's trapped that truly scares him. It's what's free. His
head. Ohh, he'd rather be in any hold but this so long as his head is
immobile. That way, he has no choice about what he does with it. He can only
close his eyes and drift off to that Nirvana that submissives call "sub
space." Hide there. Lose himself. Free in his captivity. But in this hold,
there's no hiding. His head is free to move where it will. And, I will it to
look at ME without so much as touching it. He knows what is coming. Fears it
as much as he lusts for it. And so, the contradictory, crazy feelings engulf
his mind as surely as my pythons engulf his body.

So, I think back to where we started tonight.

"Richie," I had ordered, "assume the position!"

"Which one?" he evades. And before he knows it, I have taken him down to the
floor, and he finds himself perpendicular to me on his back, his neck
scissored in the crotch of the calf and hamstring of both legs.

"Richie," I ask, "can you hear me?"

"No," and he gives me the excuse I need to punish his vulnerable neck a bit.
After I allow him to breathe again, I suggest he try to free himself. He knows
I am toying with him, and doesn't want to play.

"Why bother? You know I can't!"

"Try."

"But, what fo ... ... " I have bent my legs a bit more and leveraged them
against my crossed ankles, once again cutting off his air nicely.

Immediately his left hand reaches for those ankles and the trap I have set for
it. As he works furiously to wedge his hand between them, I loosen them just
enough for him to enter, and when the wrist has satisfactorily bent itself in
the wrong direction over the bottom ankle, I clamp the top one over the heel
of his hand trapping it there with all the possibilities of exquisite torture.
I try a few. Just little bits of pressure here ... .. and yes, there ... of
course, turning my ankles slightly to discover how many ways I can hurt him.
He was right, of course. I am playing with this man reduced to toy.

"Richie," I ask as I ease up a bit, "can you hear me now?"

"Yef," he barely gets past knee locking his mouth shut as it caresses his
trachea rather harder than he would like.

"Do you know what I'd like you to do now?" I gloat.

"Die?" He's such a lovable wise ass, and it gets him another crank on his
wrist. It also gives me ideas.

"Later, if I let you. But for now ... " I flex the hamstring of my upper leg
comfortably. "Put your right hand on my right hamstring." He reaches between
my legs and places his hand on the back of the upper one. Without looking, I
know what his hand is experiencing. My hams are among the biggest muscles in
my body, and they are lusciously hard. He is instantly treated to a handful of
warm marble.

While he is struck dumb, I immediately bring my upper legs together, trapping
that arm between them as well. Now I've got him crucified, arms stretched
useless, neck buried behind my knees. I am tempted to shoot little random
flexes at him, keeping him on his toes, as it were, but since he's on his
back, I decide to just hold him like that and allow him to concentrate on my
hamstring, on the awkward pain in his left wrist, and on his breathing. What
can I say? It's the Yoga instructor in Me.

I lie back and relax, listening to his labored breathing. I keep him there
trapped and helpless doing nothing more to him for at least a quarter of an
hour. Just breathing. And feeling my hamstring. Nothing more. It is maddening
to him, and he gets to practice what I've taught him about letting go and
giving in to his Goddess. To accepting my superior power and learning to live
with it. Slowly he has come to accept it as his life. It is upon him always
whether I touch him or not. It is inescapable.

I decide to see if he's adequately prepared.

"Richie? You like being crucified?"

"No." He is sounds docile, compliant. Just what I want.

"Do you really want to die now?"

"No."

"What DO you want to do, then?"

"Live. Serve You." Such a good boy!

"Truly?"

"Yes."

"What are you now?"

"Your slave."

"What else?"

"Whipped." Ah, he has learned well. Even these few months of training have
altered his spirit. I love it!

"You ready to proceed?"

There is a pause. He knows he loses either way he answers. His way, or mine.
He chooses mine.

"Yes."

"Very well. Stand." And, I release him. He is sweating and disheveled, his
face red, his clothes askew. "Give me your hand." He reaches his right hand
toward me limply, exhausted.

"No, the other hand. You know, the one I ... " I pause to let the word sink
in. "Tortured."

He is holding it behind him, loathe to let me touch it. "Please," he stammers,
"it's really tender."

"Tender? You mean it hurts like hell? It's useless to you now?"

He looks down, defeated. Again. It's his new reality.

"Give it to me," I say in a voice that implies there are worse things. He
complies. I take it and immediately twist the hand back on itself into a wrist
lock, holding his compliance in my one hand. I can't help but notice the
definition in my forearm, and with my glance, I invite him to as well. "Nice,
huh?"

"Yesss," he gets out between grit teeth. I notice he is in some considerable
pain. I, on the other hand, am feeling exceptionally fine, and look it.

"Guess where we're going."

He watches me admiring my muscles, turning myself on. I'm in no hurry. "The
mirror," he grudges.

"The mirror it is," and I twist the wrist to a new angle forcing him to bend
over at the waist to ease the pain as I march him the longest way 'round to
the site of his next humiliation.

Chapter 2

The Mirror

The mirror. Yes, the mirror. What a glorious piece of fetish gear that is.
Elegantly full length, beautifully crafted, totally commanding the space
around it. It is truly a reflection of Me.

I have it hung in my workout room. Helps to add a certain class of glass, and
richie likes to say it's not the only thing about me that's well hung. But
then, he has suffered before it many times before, and he'll say anything to
gain my approval, even if it makes as little sense as that. I often slap him
into cuffs and one of my chastity devices -- nothing approaching long term --
but just long enough for him to suffer watching me through a workout. It's not
that I hurt him. I wouldn't dream of that ... . But, I do insist that he stand
in front of me before the mirror and watch my reflection doing bicep curls
from behind him. Once I'm pumped, I love to drape my arms about his shoulders
and neck, leaving him wondering if I'll flex before his face and invite him to
lick those bi's this time. He's such a biceps slut, I swear I could keep him
enslaved with the promise of his lips on those alone. And the sight of his
would-be hard on straining to escape its metal prison gives new meaning to the
term "pumping iron."

But today, I have more serious play in mind as I guide him with delicate,
subtle manipulations of his poor wrist and hand. I find it practical as well
as amusing to march him around bent over thus during his periods of training.
The grip allows for no argument or negotiation, but ensures instant compliance
to my every direction, the rest of his body following wherever I lead his
nerve wracked wrist.

And so, there we were earlier this evening after I had made a stop to freshen
up and ignore his request to be allowed to wash the sweat out of his eyes, and
yet another in the kitchen where I poured myself a refreshing Italian Lemon
Fizz while offering him none, of course, and yet another in my office to check
and enjoy several long emails from my fans, all the while holding him by his
screaming wrist, bent over, his arm twisted straight out behind him now,
making our way unhurriedly to the accompaniment of my continued protestations
of how pleased I was with how this grip showed off my forearm musculature, and
didn't he think so too even though he couldn't possibly see it from his
present position ... 'Til finally I had him where I wanted him for the moment.
At the MIRROR!

I finally released his wrist, and the sensation of blood rushing back into the
hand almost knocked him off his feet.

"Stand straight!" I ordered. "Assume the position." This time, in this place,
he knew exactly what that meant. Obediently, he moved to My right side, hung
his head to just below the level of my armpit and waited patiently for me to
slide my arm sinuously around his neck.

I felt him tremble slightly as the hard muscularity brushed his face. Then it
tightened into one of my most controlling holds. A simple side headlock,
nothing fancy. But, when I dial it in, and my victim finds his neck surrounded
tight on all sides by long, lean, unrelenting muscle, it is absolutely
paralyzing both physically and mentally. Thinking becomes as hard as movement.
And one doesn't dare contemplate movement ... I achieve all this with one arm
only. He couldn't escape if he wanted to, and he doesn't want to. As he
admitted to me "under pressure," this is where he belongs. This is Home. There
is no place he'd rather be.

So, there we were earlier, as I said, side by side before the mirror, so
little richie could take in the true difference between us. He could hardly
avoid it, and it confirmed again, if confirmation were needed, why I am the
Goddess and he is the slave. Why the highest position he could possibly aspire
to is serving Me. That all his life, all his experience, all his travail have
had no other purpose but to lead him to this place of worship that is Me. And
that he should feel nothing but joy and gratitude that I allow him this
privilege.

And, what does he see in the brutal clarity of My mirror? He sees a thoroughly
defeated, overweight, balding, middle aged man whose head and mind are held
captive in one arm while both his arms hang limply, impotently below his bent
over body. He knows he may never touch Me without permission, and since there
is nothing else for them to hold on to, there is nothing for them to do but
hang there. He sweats with exhaustion and humiliation. He is now unkempt and
pathetic looking in the easy grip of the woman who now owns his life and who,
for her pleasure, as reduced him to this.

And, what does he see when he looks at his conqueress? In contrast to his pale
weakness, he sees a woman who proclaims her ownership of him in the cockiness
of her stance, one arm on her hip, the other seductively swelling its biceps
around his soft neck, whimsically allowing him breath or not as it suits her
minute by minute, standing proud and very tall, absolutely glowing with robust
health, confidence, and strength, a half smile of satisfaction on her
beautiful face, and unmistakable power flowing through her muscular body. From
the sexy caps of her shoulders and long beautiful neck, over her powerful
chest and the hint of abdominal definition implying iron within, and down
through her voluptuously muscled legs and glutes, those gorgeous instruments
of seduction and lethality all of which own him now completely. He sees owner
and owned. Pride and humiliation. Triumph and resignation. He sees his fate.
And adores it.

"What are you?" the familiar interrogation begins. "Your slave," he says from
the depths of his soul.

"What else?"

"Your toy, your property."

"What may I do with you?"

"Anything you please."

"Your sole purpose in life is to ... "

"Obey and please you."

"Good. What else are you?"

He hesitates. I am taking him further before the mirror this time. He's not
sure what I require, and that worries him. Good.

"What else am I?"

"Yes, what else are you? Surely you must be something more."

"Whipped?"

"You're asking. Don't you know?"

"Okay, I'm whipped."

"Not good enough. You used that earlier. What else?" He's confused, finding it
hard to think with my biceps at the side of his neck cutting off his blood
supply. So, I decide to make it worse, of course. I slip my arm higher and
wrap it around his head. Now, he has a better view of that muscle flexing just
to the right of his eyes, his nose and upper lip in the bend of My arm, My
fist curled past his left temple. I squeeze. A whimper escapes from the mouth
below my elbow. "What else are you?"

He tries hard to think. "Beaten."

"Beaten. That's good. What else?" I watch him watching Me in the mirror, his
face half buried in the muscles which own his soul. It turns me on. I squeeze
a little harder and hold it. Another whimper, almost a cry. I'm watching my
biceps define its contours across his frightened face and I'm getting wet.

"Overmatched."

"Better, but a little cerebral. You can do better."

"Outclassed."

"Ooo, I like that. That's a good one. You know you are, don't you? Outclassed?
I outclass you in so many ways." I squeeze a little harder. Just a bit.

"Yes."

"I outdo you in most everything, right?"

"Right."

"Is there anything you can do better than me? Come on, think, richie!" He
can't think by now, of course, and it's delicious taking advantage of that.

"I don't know, I don't ... "

I give him another squeeze, about all his head can take.

"No nothing ... there's nothing ... please it hurts ... "

"Say it richie. Come on, it's a hard thing for you to admit. Say it!"

"There's nothing I can do better than you. I'm totally outclassed. By you. I
deserve to be your slave ... "

"Good, richie, very good." I loosen up now, let his brain feed again. Just a
bit so he understands, and I move him right up to the mirror so he can't avoid
seeing.

"You love it, don't you? This beautiful muscle on this athletic body that has
become the shrine at which you worship Me. Say it!"

"I love your muscles, your biceps. I am jealous and envious of them ... and
you. I love you and hate you all at once. I can never be you. I can only adore
you."

"Good, richie, good. You're doing fine. Almost done. Except ... Except I want
to know what you feel right now this minute. You are what you feel, richie.
What are you right now?"

Silence. I know what he needs to say, is dieing to admit to me. I help him. I
grab his tender wrist and shock him by putting him back in the wrist lock and
lowering my arm so it is around his neck again. Tight, so he must worry about
breathing rather than lieing. I watch us in the mirror. I am so much taller
than he, so much broader, and more muscular. I have him so completely tied up,
so terribly helpless. He is so nearly mine now, so very close. Perhaps by
night's end, perhaps. But for now, I keep to The Process. Step by step to
making him totally mine. I bend his wrist a little more 'til he cries out,
then I tighten the arm he loves around his neck so he can't get it out, and I
tell him how totally I control him now, and how I love it, and how beautiful I
look doing it, how powerful. And, then I demand once more of him, "What ARE
you, richie?" And when he is ready to let it out, I loosen my arm to let him.

"I am humiliated. No, I am humiliation itself. It is what I want to be, need
to be! And you have brought me to this. Thank you!"

"You are humiliated because it's what YOU want to be? Or because it's what ...
.? What, richie?"

He is silent. He is getting it. Almost. Not quite, but almost. And, I am
wetting my pants.

I smile now as I recline here remembering, comfortable on my sofa, my good,
dear, sweet little slave pet kneeling obediently between my legs. Wishing he
couldn't look at me in the face, but knowing I require it of him. And, I press
the automatic dialer on my phone to call my date for tomorrow night's dance so
I can put my attention somewhere else and make it easier for my slave to do
what he must do, to allow the rebellion that is still a part of him to
collapse around him.

So I talk with my date about the dance that I am invited to and my richie
isn't, about the places where I go at will that he can never go. And, as I
exert my control on my two men, I slip a finger past richie's arm and into the
place where I am indeed well hung for a woman and allow him to contemplate the
humiliation which has become him and which he doesn't understand completely
yet. Until I allow him the freedom to know what I have made him into ... Until
then ... ..