The Breaking of Tracy part 6

The Breaking of Tracy
part 6
Tracy’s Torture Begins

I am of the belief that women, secretly, long to be sexually controlled. The very act of parting their legs and taking their partner’s member into them is a submissive act, meaning sexual submission is ingrained into their very DNA. Slavery is just a women’s natural inclinations taken to extremes. Many of the women I have taken into slavery rebel against the very thought and need to, quite literally in fact, be beaten into submission. Trust when I say that making a slave resign themselves to slavery and enjoy slavery are two very different things. The Post, as an example, is one who enjoys the slavery and the pain. Time was spent conditioning her so as to react with arousal to thoughts and experiences of slavery. I had to break everything that once was the woman and rebuild a painslut in it’s place. Tracy needs to be different.

Fuckslit, the slave Tracy is being trained to replace, had been my personal slave. The one I used most regularly for sexual gratification and as a vent for frustrations. My personal slave needs to be special in a number of ways. They have to be broken, but not destroyed. Resigned to pain or death at a whim, but not emotionally dead as to not fear the whip. They need to be perfect. A delicate balance of humiliation and resignation. After all, it isn’t fun if she doesn’t hate herself. I have dozens of personal household slave staff who have gone, to an extent, emotionally numb. Tracy must not. My training with Tracy is only just beginning. We’ve only been circling the issue at hand. Tonight, I will break Tracy.

With renewed thanks to Mistress Bitchcraft and her brief respite, I am nearly skipping with anticipation down the hall to Tracy. Outside, a Whore stands by the door. I barely glance at her as I enter.

Inside is Tracy. Pale, skinny Tracy. Standing nude with her hands behind her back, eyes cast to the ground. This is good. The time she’s spent down here is starting to affect her. She’s starting to think she’ll never see sunlight again. The few times she’s been outside the novice room have shown her a maze of corridors, security cameras and heavily locked security doors. Like an incarcerated criminal, she’s becoming institutionalized. Much quicker than I would have once thought. Let’s call it a happy surprise then, shall we.

“Rapewhore.” I say. A moments hesitation brings her eyes to me. “I’m not sure what you’ve been expecting, based off of what you’ve experience thus far, but everything I’ve done to you until now has not been torture. It’s been corrective punishment. Do you understand.”

She takes a moment to answer. I don’t mind. I want my words to have a weight. By the very fact that she takes a moment to answer is a good sign.

“Yes daddy.” Tracy says. Even a day ago, there may have been a plea in her voice, or a grimace on her face. Not now.

“Today I will torture you. Not because you have done anything wrong, but because that is the reason for your life as a slave. Do you understand?”

Again she takes a moment to answer, though the moment passes more quickly then before.

“Yes daddy.”

“Then say it.” I am enjoying making Tracy acknowledge all these things. All the things a regular human being would never admit. Most slaves convince themselves that they are only saying it to humor me, and promise themselves that they will remain true to themselves. But the act of following such degrading commands, such as reaffirming your own degradation, is an intimate betrayal of self. It’s what I live for.

“My reason in life as a slave is to be tortured, daddy.” Tracy says. I notice that her voice doesn’t suddenly get quiet while she says this. This could mean either that she has truly accepted this fact (unlikely), or that she still has quite a bit of defiance. It matters not.

“Understand that there is nothing that you can do that can make the torture go by quickly or be lessened. You can only lengthen it into a punishment by not obeying or hesitating. Do you understand?” I stare into Tracy’s eyes as I speak.

“Yes daddy.” She answers.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Rapewhore, daddy.” She answers again.

“No. You never simply give the answer, you must make it a proper statement. Every time you speak you must reaffirm anything I’ve said with the statement of your answer. Do you understand?” Such a trivial thing, but one I insist on. Every time she answers, she will reaffirm to herself everything I say, instead of simply paying lip service.

“I…think I understand daddy.” She answers.

“Good. What is your name?” I ask again.

“My name is Rapewhore, daddy.” Tracy answers. Yes it is. Yes it most certainly is.

“Rapewhore, I want you to ask to be tortured. I want you to get on your hands and knees, crawl over to me and beg to be tortured.” I point to a spot just in front of me. “More than this, I want you to WANT me to torture you. When you say the words, make them a truth within you. If you do not honestly beg me, you will be punished.”

Without a moments hesitation, Tracy lowers herself to her hands and knees and crawls over to me across the cement floor. Reaching me, she asks in a monotone voice, “Please torture me, daddy.”

“I said beg!” I bark out to her. Her flesh jumps in fear, but she remains in place.

Tracy pauses a moment, swallowing hard. “Please torture me daddy. Please. I desperately need to be tortured. I’ll do anything.” Her voice has grown somewhat more timid.

“Get up. You disgust me.” I tell her. Tracy raises to her feet, keeping her eyes away from me. Despite resigning to obey, by telling her she disgusts me, she feels ashamed. Good.

I take hold of Tracy by the back of her neck and lead her over to the stockade. Most gallows hold the hands and head in place. My set holds the waist and wrists. This forces the slave’s arms into an uncomfortable angle behind her back, while giving me a more open access to the slave’s body.