The Breaking of Kitty Pt5

M woke in the large comfortable bed with the scent of Kitty still imprinted in the sheets. He glanced at the video-link screen set up on the bedside table. Kitty wasn’t moving but he could hear a snuffling noise; she was either snoring or crying—he didn’t know which and he didn’t care. He looked around the large bedroom with its wall of fitted wardrobes and the picture window with a fantastic view over the opposite hillside. Apart from the thin ribbon of tarmac road running along the valley below, there was no sign of human life. M was more interested in the floor space however and he made a quick mental calculation; yes—if half the wardrobes were ripped out the cage would fit nicely in the gap. Maisie could distribute most of the clothes to charity shops; the underwear would be burnt on the fire whilst Kitty watched.

He would keep a couple of the elegant cocktail dresses and the more expensive jewelry he’d found. It would be fun to bring in a ‘girlfriend’ and have Kitty serve them, naked apart from her collar and chains, with another woman wearing her treasured possessions. A good mind fuck, M mused.

He jumped out bed, had a quick hot shower, swept all the cosmetics and creams from the bathroom cabinet into the bin and replaced them with his razor, toothbrush and cologne. He would need to bring some more clothes from the city but for now he dressed in the jeans and jumper from the day before. He went downstairs after having a quick look around the guest bedroom and main bathroom. Both were nicely decorated and furnished—Kitty hadn’t scrimped on the fittings and he was sure Maisie would appreciate the comforts when she stayed over. The first floor galleried landing ran the depth of the cottage and look down into the main living room. With so many places to suspend Kitty from, he would be spoilt for choice. The large open inglenook fireplace was at least two metres wide and M had the mental image of Kitty attached to a spit, turning slowly in front of the flames while candle wax randomly dripped on her from the mantelpiece. A nice, slow, relaxing torture…for him at least.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, M thought about this project and how he had arrived at this point. His mother had gallivanted out of family life for the last time (she said she needed ‘fun’ and could not cope with the responsibility of three children) when he was six years old. His father, already a much decorated soldier even then, had packed him off to a boarding school whilst his two elder sisters were looked after at home by an aunt. M loved the discipline and camaraderie of school life, so it was natural to follow his father’s footsteps into the military at the age of sixteen. The one thing lacking in his life was female influence, but when he did unlock the mysteries of sex, he also unleashed his latent sadism.

Whether it was an unconscious desire to punish his mother for leaving, or his sisters for being allowed to stay at home he didn’t know. All he did know that it was tremendously exciting to see a girl cry from physical pain or mental anguish, or preferably both. He’d witnessed sadistic beatings both at school and in the lower ranks of the army, and whilst he’d been very interested in the methods employed and the resulting injuries, he’d not actively participated. His unusual good looks, boyish charm and excellent manners meant he soon had a string of girlfriends but none could, or wanted to, cope with his violent lovemaking. Luckily the nomadic army life allowed him to use prostitutes to satisfy his lust and practice his skills, but even the most hardened madams starting banning him when their best girls ended up covered in bruises and welts and were forced to take a week off to recover.

Then he had a lucky break. A street whore named Donna had not only allowed him to tie her up, whip her, choke and humiliate her but actively encouraged him to go further, to push her to the limits of her endurance. She also taught him exactly how to make a woman climax in ways M had never thought of previously. M had grown very fond of her in his own way, visiting her regularly for two years until he was posted abroad on a six-month tour of duty. On his return he went straight round to her house with gifts and a raging erection, only to be told by a neighbour that her pimp, in a jealous, drunken rage, had murdered Donna six weeks earlier.