darthagonoth
Assistant executioner
Lia leans in, her fingers caressing the short bristles of my buzz-cut hair, then trailing down to my face, tracing the contours with a deliberate, almost reverent touch. Our eyes lock, hers as blue as ice and… desire. The bright light catches her gaze, making it gleam with an almost supernatural intensity. She sighs, her voice soft and melodic, like that of a fallen angel, imbued with an otherworldly resonance. "For long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light." Her voice drops to a cruelly intimate whisper, "And you, silly boy, have only just begun your descent to Hell."
Then she presses the button on the controller again. The chains pull me upward, the metallic clink echoing ominously in the dimly lit room. My toes scrabble for purchase but find only empty air. Desperation surges through me as I strain against the chains, muscles bulging and tendons straining like a steel cable twisted under the unrelenting pull. My body stretches taut, every sinew and fiber pulled tight, imbuing every inch of my body with a promise of something much worse to come.
It is only now I start to realize that the nightmare I mistook for a dream has given birth to a new, stark naked reality.
**Disclaimer**
The following story is a work of pure fiction and is intended for mature audiences only. All characters, places, and events depicted are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This content is intended for adult entertainment purposes only and should not be taken as an endorsement or encouragement of any real-life actions.
By continuing to read, you acknowledge that you are of legal age to view adult content and that you understand and accept the completely fictional nature of this story. You agree not to hold the author or publisher liable for any consequences that may arise from the interpretation or use of this content.
Please be aware that the scenarios described involve activities that could result in severe injury or death if attempted in real life. *Do not try this at home—or anywhere else for that matter.* Consider this a strict warning: *do not attempt to replicate any of these actions under any circumstances.* You have been warned. Twice.
***
For Kirsten, who has been living rent-free in my mind for 20 years.
Then she presses the button on the controller again. The chains pull me upward, the metallic clink echoing ominously in the dimly lit room. My toes scrabble for purchase but find only empty air. Desperation surges through me as I strain against the chains, muscles bulging and tendons straining like a steel cable twisted under the unrelenting pull. My body stretches taut, every sinew and fiber pulled tight, imbuing every inch of my body with a promise of something much worse to come.
It is only now I start to realize that the nightmare I mistook for a dream has given birth to a new, stark naked reality.
**Disclaimer**
The following story is a work of pure fiction and is intended for mature audiences only. All characters, places, and events depicted are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This content is intended for adult entertainment purposes only and should not be taken as an endorsement or encouragement of any real-life actions.
By continuing to read, you acknowledge that you are of legal age to view adult content and that you understand and accept the completely fictional nature of this story. You agree not to hold the author or publisher liable for any consequences that may arise from the interpretation or use of this content.
Please be aware that the scenarios described involve activities that could result in severe injury or death if attempted in real life. *Do not try this at home—or anywhere else for that matter.* Consider this a strict warning: *do not attempt to replicate any of these actions under any circumstances.* You have been warned. Twice.
***
For Kirsten, who has been living rent-free in my mind for 20 years.
The Price I Pay
Unus
The windshield wipers battle the relentless snowfall as Lia navigates the deserted country road. Though only 4 pm, darkness is already descending—December's early twilight. I glance at the car's thermometer: 5 Celsius. Unusually cold for early December.
"How far?" I ask, breaking the tense silence.
"Not too far now," Lia replies, her eyes fixed on the treacherous road ahead.
The blizzard outside rages with a ferocity that mirrors the turmoil within me. Snowflakes whip against the windows, creating a relentless, howling wind that seems to echo my inner chaos. As I sit, lost in thought, the memory of my journey—both literal and metaphorical—unfolds like a tempest, each moment a tumultuous wave crashing against my fragile sense of self.
In my teenage years, I was constantly told I had potential, yet I couldn't seem to find the motivation to reach it. My high school years passed in a hazy blur of underachievement and gnawing self-doubt. I drifted aimlessly through classes, excelling only in subjects that held little promise for financial success. Each day felt like a monotonous cycle, my potential buried under layers of insecurity and a lack of motivation, leaving me feeling like a ghost haunting the hallways of my own life.
Physically as well as mentally, I was a mess. At 6 feet tall and less than 60 kilos, I felt like a walking skeleton. My acne-riddled skin and slouching posture only added to my insecurity. I blamed it all on genetics, using it as an excuse for my lack of drive.
But deep down, I knew there was more to it. Jealousy and envy ate away at what little ambition I had left, comparing myself to those who were better-looking, smarter, and more successful. And then there was the realization that I was deeply masochistic, finding pleasure in scenes of brutal torture while others recoiled in horror. It was a twisted desire that only added to my inner conflict and feelings of abnormality. For years, I grappled with my identity and desires. I envied the chiseled bodies of my classmates, desperately trying to carve those fleeting moments of shirtlessness in changing rooms into my memory. My attempts at self-improvement were half-hearted. I joined a gym, but when results didn't appear instantly, I quit. This fueled my self-loathing and intensified my envy towards those I saw as genetically blessed.
At 23, my life was a monotonous cycle of gaming and masturbation in my parents' granny flat. Days blurred into nights as I lost myself in virtual worlds, escaping the crushing reality of my existence. My parents, though well-meaning, had long given up on trying to motivate me, their disappointment palpable in every strained conversation. My sole passion was writing long, minutely detailed interrogation and torture fantasies, and publishing them online. These stories were far too brutal for the average BDSM kink-seeker, often eliciting more concern, disgust, or just plain ridicule than the occasional praise. I remember one particularly harsh comment: 'You are clearly mentally ill. This is sick. You should kill yourself.' Though it hurt, I couldn't stop.
Then Bernard entered my life. He made insightful comments on a medieval-themed story I was working on, displaying a genuine understanding of torture methods. We began chatting, and I was amazed to find someone who seemed to understand me. He wasn't pushy, respected my need for anonymity, and proved to be an excellent listener—a friend I'd never had before. Our chatting sessions became the highlight of my days, a lifeline in my otherwise bleak existence.
Then one night, after listening to my endless complaints about life, he asked,
"Don't you think you've had enough now?”
I was startled. I wasn't sure what to answer. “Enough of what?”
“Enough of this. Of failing."
His words hung in the digital space between us. After a pause, he added,
"Would you like me to help you?"
Sceptical but intrigued, I replied, "No one can."
"No. You can't. But I can," he countered. "You just have to give up."
"Give up what? Hope?" I asked.
"No. Control," he explained. "And then I give you everything you have been craving for. I only ask for 3 months."
A yawn escapes me as I return to the present. Darkness has fully enveloped us now, the temperature dropping further as the snowfall begins to ease. We pass through a small village before Lia suddenly pulls over.
"Stay in the car," she instructs, shutting the door behind her before I can respond.
I hear the trunk open and watch as she retrieves a large red bag. The sound of metal on metal tells me she is applying snow chains to the tyres. Working swiftly, she finishes in just over five minutes. After stowing the bag and her winter coat back in the trunk, she returns to the driver's seat and steers us off the main road, plunging into the darkness ahead.
As Lia settles into the driver's seat, I try to maintain an air of nonchalance, feigning disinterest. But it's an uphill battle against my own curiosity. Her cheeks are flushed a delicate rose from her exertions in the biting cold, adding a vibrant contrast to her fair complexion.
My gaze is drawn to Lia's naturally blonde hair, cropped close at the nape of her neck. The short strands catch the soft overhead light, creating a halo effect that accentuates her striking features. As she adjusts her position, I notice her exquisitely crafted, cream-colored cashmere turtleneck. The luxurious fabric clings to her lithe frame, hinting at the toned silhouette beneath.
The interplay of light and shadow on the turtleneck's gentle folds is mesmerizing. My eyes trail along the elegant line of her neck as it disappears into the high collar. The sweater's pale hue contrasts beautifully with her lightly tanned skin, flushed cheeks, and golden hair, creating an image both striking and alluring.
Struggling to maintain composure, I force my gaze back to the road. Yet the vision of Lia in that impeccably fitted turtleneck, cheeks aglow and shortly shorn hair framing her face, lingers like a bewitching mirage.
I force myself to stare into the starless night, and my thoughts find their ways back soon enough to the night when everything changed.
Bernard, the self-proclaimed "Sculptor of People," had always been an enigma, his personal life a mystery.
"It's simple, really," Bernard said. "For 90 days, you follow my instructions to the letter."
"Like what?" I asked, intrigued.
"No teasers here, my young friend. I need your word first. Not that you have much else going for you."
Bernard knew I often lamented how a man's word had become almost meaningless in modern times. I bit my lip. "And if I fail?"
"Then you face the consequences as a man, and for a change, you'll regret something you have done, not what you haven't. Well?"
Nervous sweat covered me as I typed: "Alright. I hereby give you my word that I will obey you for 90 days."
"Good choice. Now go to bed. It's late. You'll receive my instructions by email in the morning."
I barely slept that night. When my alarm went off, Bernard's email arrived promptly. As I scrolled through, my eyes widened at the rigorous regimen. Six days a week, long-distance jogging with HIIT shuttle runs at dawn, to be done shirtless regardless of weather. 'Give up control and thoughts about what others might think about how you look,' he explained. 'Give. Up. Control.' Weight training six days a week, in the afternoon.
Bernard had arranged a comprehensive fitness regimen: a personal trainer at a local gym, with four weeks of prepaid sessions to learn proper form and techniques. The diet was non-negotiable, with a food pickup service providing carefully calculated meals. Daily measurements and monthly DEXA scans were mandated, all prepaid and scheduled. Notably, Bernard explicitly prohibited any sexual activities.
Beyond the DEXA scans, Bernard sent a digital scale and a wearable fitness tracker to monitor my progress. These sleek devices arrived with a note: "No excuses. Every step, every ounce - I'll be watching. GUC." The thought of Bernard having constant access to my physical data was both unnerving and oddly motivating.
As dawn broke, I began the daily ritual of measurements, facing a familiar, gaunt reflection. Acne-scarred and slouching, I recorded each number with a mix of disgust and determination. Bernard's words echoed: "Give. Up. Control."
I jogged to the park in the cold spring drizzle, shirtless and vulnerable. The wet track challenged every step as I pushed through HIIT sprints, stumbling but persevering. "Give. Up. Control," I muttered, defying my weakness.
Collapsing onto the grass, exhausted yet accomplished, I felt a surprising pleasure in pushing my limits. Bernard's message awaited: "Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor."
The first week was hell, my body rebelling against the rigorous regimen. But small victories emerged: completing a full HIIT session, lifting heavier weights, glimpsing muscle definition. Bernard's concise praise became my lifeline, our relationship deepening beyond mentor and student.
In 90 days, I transformed. Acne cleared, muscles toned, confidence rose. I adhered to the routine with determination, if not perfection. Bernard and I exchanged daily progress reports, noting slip-ups honestly. My body adapted, waking at 5 AM naturally. Each morning, I proudly inspected my emerging abs and defined veins, ready for another day of transformation.
On the final day of my three-month journey, I received a message from Bernard: "I am going to call you." My heart raced; we had never spoken before.
His voice, confident and smooth with a slight accent, came through. "Are you satisfied?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," I replied gratefully.
"Would you like to have it back?" he continued.
"Back what?" I asked nervously.
"Control," he answered simply.
Panic swept over me, but I found myself saying, "No. I need this. I want more. I can do more...right?"
"Mark, you have the potential to become even more. But if you want more, you must pay the price first."
"Price? You mean money? I-I don't have any," I stammered.
"Not money, my young friend. You must pay with your pain."
The word echoed in my mind, sending shivers down my spine. Despite my fears, a primal excitement stirred within me at the thought of punishment for my slip-ups.
"Yes" was all I could manage to say.
"Let me be clear here, Mark," Bernard's voice remained neutral as he spoke. "This is not that ridiculous BDSM with padded leather and soft pink handcuffs. This is real punishment.”
And so it began. The initial beatings were mainly with whips and canes, the sting of each strike leaving a searing pain that I never could have imagined. But I took them better than expected, pushing through the agony as Bernard matched the severity of each "sin" he deemed me guilty of. Every time, I had to strip down completely, no exceptions.
Restraints were often necessary, as I couldn't help but squirm and writhe under the painful lashings. Try standing still when a snakewhip slices across your asscheeks with the speed of sound. He was right: this was no mere BDSM play. There was no sexual element or deliberate humiliation involved. Only pain, sweat, and tears.
I could have quit at any time, walked away and never looked back. But something kept me going, something deep inside me craved the pain and wanted to prove that I could endure even more. With each step I took, each lash I endured, was a silent rebellion against the cycle of failure that had defined my life. Sometimes the pain was almost unbearable, yet in it, I found a twisted sense of purpose… and sexual pleasure I never thought existed.
Months flew by, transforming my life beyond recognition. I excelled in online university, achieving top grades. My body became a testament to unwavering discipline.
One particularly bright morning, as I jogged shirtless along the beach, I couldn't help but notice that heads were turning after me. Not only women, men paused to look. It was then I finally realized how much my body had changed.
On the one-year anniversary of my first run, Bernard's knowing smile said it all: "Congratulations are in order."
I blushed, feeling undeserving of any praise.
"I didn't do anything exceptional," I replied humbly. “Just gave up control.”
Bernard's smile widened. "You did more than you know. But there is still an unsettled debt that needs to be settled. The years of sloth and wasted potential must be repent for."
"I'm ready," I said confidently, eager to continue my journey.
But Bernard's next words gave me pause. "I need you to understand: from now on, the methods of penance will be different. Do you still wish to proceed?" I met his gaze with determination in my eyes.
"Yes."
“Do you know what I am talking about here?”
"Torture," I whispered, but my voice was tinged with a hint of excitement.
I felt a thrill of fear and anticipation run through me.
Bernard's eyes flickered with a dark, unsettling satisfaction, and he remained silent, the air around us thickening with an eerie stillness.
The car jerks and snaps me out of my reverie. It has been nearly an hour since she said we weren't too far away, and I can't help but wonder what she meant. Trying to maintain a facade of manly strength and stoicism, I stay quiet and keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The instructions from Bernard for the impending punishment torture were detailed and strict. For the upcoming weeks and days, I was to ramp up my cardio even more, eat an extremely lean diet, and undergo a bowel cleanse. On the night before the punishment, I meticulously shaved all the hair from my neck down, and got a buzz cut, preparing myself for what was to come.
A text arrived on Thursday evening, containing a train ticket. "Take the train to the countryside. At the station, my apprentice will pick you up." The trip would take nearly 5 hours, leaving me feeling increasingly anxious and excited as the train took me across the snow covered plains of the countryside.
Stepping off at the small town train station, I spotted a large SUV waiting outside. In the light snowfall, a stunning young woman stood next to it. She stood at around 5 feet 8 inches tall with a slender figure, bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in the dim light, and dark blonde hair styled in an edgy pixie cut with asymmetrical layers. Her tousled locks gave her an effortlessly carefree look that perfectly complemented her striking features. As she flashed me a radiant smile, her perfect teeth gleaming in the dim light, I felt an inexplicable pull towards her. 'I'm Athalia. Athalia Zydraitis. Call me Lia,' she said, her voice deeper than I expected, smooth like silk sliding. She gestured towards a sleek, black high-end SUV parked nearby. 'Get in, it's a bit of a drive to the farm.'
The car was a high-end, luxurious SUV, its sleek lines and polished exterior exuding an air of sophistication and power. I couldn't help but notice the emblem of a prestigious brand gleaming on the front grille. As I approached, I marveled at the vehicle's opulence, a stark contrast to the desolate surroundings.
My heart pounded in my chest as I approached the car, a mix of fear and anticipation swirling within me. Lia's presence was magnetic, her confidence and beauty almost overwhelming. As I settled into the passenger seat, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a world far beyond my control. The interior of the car was just as impressive, with leather seats and a state-of-the-art dashboard. To my surprise, Lia didn't use a key to start the ignition. Instead, she murmured what sounded like an incantation in a language I couldn't quite place. The syllables danced on the edge of familiarity – was it Russian? No, something else. As the smooth purr of the engine filled the air, I recalled her full name: Athalia Zydraitis. The cadence of those words echoed in my mind, and I found myself wondering if her whispered command shared the same origins as her surname. Lithuanian, perhaps? The thought lingered as we pulled away, leaving me with more questions about Lia than answers.
The drive was silent at first, the only sound was the soft hum of the hybrid engine and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. The car's advanced navigation system displayed our route on a large touchscreen, and the heated seats provided a comforting warmth against the cold outside.
'So, Bernard speaks highly of you,' Lia said, breaking the silence. Her voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. I glanced at her, trying to gauge her intentions, but her expression was unreadable. 'He says you have potential.'
I nodded, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the car was palpable, a mix of excitement and dread. As we drove deeper into the countryside, the landscape around us became more desolate, the snow-covered fields stretching out like a blank canvas. My mind raced with questions and doubts. Who was Lia, really? What did Bernard see in her? And what did she see in me?
'You know,' Lia continued, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, 'this isn't just about physical transformation. It's about breaking down barriers, pushing limits, and discovering who you really are.' Her words sent a shiver down my spine, a promise of both pain and revelation. As we approached our destination, a sense of inevitability settled over me.
"How far?" I ask, breaking the tense silence.
"Not too far now," Lia replies, her eyes fixed on the treacherous road ahead.
The blizzard outside rages with a ferocity that mirrors the turmoil within me. Snowflakes whip against the windows, creating a relentless, howling wind that seems to echo my inner chaos. As I sit, lost in thought, the memory of my journey—both literal and metaphorical—unfolds like a tempest, each moment a tumultuous wave crashing against my fragile sense of self.
In my teenage years, I was constantly told I had potential, yet I couldn't seem to find the motivation to reach it. My high school years passed in a hazy blur of underachievement and gnawing self-doubt. I drifted aimlessly through classes, excelling only in subjects that held little promise for financial success. Each day felt like a monotonous cycle, my potential buried under layers of insecurity and a lack of motivation, leaving me feeling like a ghost haunting the hallways of my own life.
Physically as well as mentally, I was a mess. At 6 feet tall and less than 60 kilos, I felt like a walking skeleton. My acne-riddled skin and slouching posture only added to my insecurity. I blamed it all on genetics, using it as an excuse for my lack of drive.
But deep down, I knew there was more to it. Jealousy and envy ate away at what little ambition I had left, comparing myself to those who were better-looking, smarter, and more successful. And then there was the realization that I was deeply masochistic, finding pleasure in scenes of brutal torture while others recoiled in horror. It was a twisted desire that only added to my inner conflict and feelings of abnormality. For years, I grappled with my identity and desires. I envied the chiseled bodies of my classmates, desperately trying to carve those fleeting moments of shirtlessness in changing rooms into my memory. My attempts at self-improvement were half-hearted. I joined a gym, but when results didn't appear instantly, I quit. This fueled my self-loathing and intensified my envy towards those I saw as genetically blessed.
At 23, my life was a monotonous cycle of gaming and masturbation in my parents' granny flat. Days blurred into nights as I lost myself in virtual worlds, escaping the crushing reality of my existence. My parents, though well-meaning, had long given up on trying to motivate me, their disappointment palpable in every strained conversation. My sole passion was writing long, minutely detailed interrogation and torture fantasies, and publishing them online. These stories were far too brutal for the average BDSM kink-seeker, often eliciting more concern, disgust, or just plain ridicule than the occasional praise. I remember one particularly harsh comment: 'You are clearly mentally ill. This is sick. You should kill yourself.' Though it hurt, I couldn't stop.
Then Bernard entered my life. He made insightful comments on a medieval-themed story I was working on, displaying a genuine understanding of torture methods. We began chatting, and I was amazed to find someone who seemed to understand me. He wasn't pushy, respected my need for anonymity, and proved to be an excellent listener—a friend I'd never had before. Our chatting sessions became the highlight of my days, a lifeline in my otherwise bleak existence.
Then one night, after listening to my endless complaints about life, he asked,
"Don't you think you've had enough now?”
I was startled. I wasn't sure what to answer. “Enough of what?”
“Enough of this. Of failing."
His words hung in the digital space between us. After a pause, he added,
"Would you like me to help you?"
Sceptical but intrigued, I replied, "No one can."
"No. You can't. But I can," he countered. "You just have to give up."
"Give up what? Hope?" I asked.
"No. Control," he explained. "And then I give you everything you have been craving for. I only ask for 3 months."
A yawn escapes me as I return to the present. Darkness has fully enveloped us now, the temperature dropping further as the snowfall begins to ease. We pass through a small village before Lia suddenly pulls over.
"Stay in the car," she instructs, shutting the door behind her before I can respond.
I hear the trunk open and watch as she retrieves a large red bag. The sound of metal on metal tells me she is applying snow chains to the tyres. Working swiftly, she finishes in just over five minutes. After stowing the bag and her winter coat back in the trunk, she returns to the driver's seat and steers us off the main road, plunging into the darkness ahead.
As Lia settles into the driver's seat, I try to maintain an air of nonchalance, feigning disinterest. But it's an uphill battle against my own curiosity. Her cheeks are flushed a delicate rose from her exertions in the biting cold, adding a vibrant contrast to her fair complexion.
My gaze is drawn to Lia's naturally blonde hair, cropped close at the nape of her neck. The short strands catch the soft overhead light, creating a halo effect that accentuates her striking features. As she adjusts her position, I notice her exquisitely crafted, cream-colored cashmere turtleneck. The luxurious fabric clings to her lithe frame, hinting at the toned silhouette beneath.
The interplay of light and shadow on the turtleneck's gentle folds is mesmerizing. My eyes trail along the elegant line of her neck as it disappears into the high collar. The sweater's pale hue contrasts beautifully with her lightly tanned skin, flushed cheeks, and golden hair, creating an image both striking and alluring.
Struggling to maintain composure, I force my gaze back to the road. Yet the vision of Lia in that impeccably fitted turtleneck, cheeks aglow and shortly shorn hair framing her face, lingers like a bewitching mirage.
I force myself to stare into the starless night, and my thoughts find their ways back soon enough to the night when everything changed.
Bernard, the self-proclaimed "Sculptor of People," had always been an enigma, his personal life a mystery.
"It's simple, really," Bernard said. "For 90 days, you follow my instructions to the letter."
"Like what?" I asked, intrigued.
"No teasers here, my young friend. I need your word first. Not that you have much else going for you."
Bernard knew I often lamented how a man's word had become almost meaningless in modern times. I bit my lip. "And if I fail?"
"Then you face the consequences as a man, and for a change, you'll regret something you have done, not what you haven't. Well?"
Nervous sweat covered me as I typed: "Alright. I hereby give you my word that I will obey you for 90 days."
"Good choice. Now go to bed. It's late. You'll receive my instructions by email in the morning."
I barely slept that night. When my alarm went off, Bernard's email arrived promptly. As I scrolled through, my eyes widened at the rigorous regimen. Six days a week, long-distance jogging with HIIT shuttle runs at dawn, to be done shirtless regardless of weather. 'Give up control and thoughts about what others might think about how you look,' he explained. 'Give. Up. Control.' Weight training six days a week, in the afternoon.
Bernard had arranged a comprehensive fitness regimen: a personal trainer at a local gym, with four weeks of prepaid sessions to learn proper form and techniques. The diet was non-negotiable, with a food pickup service providing carefully calculated meals. Daily measurements and monthly DEXA scans were mandated, all prepaid and scheduled. Notably, Bernard explicitly prohibited any sexual activities.
Beyond the DEXA scans, Bernard sent a digital scale and a wearable fitness tracker to monitor my progress. These sleek devices arrived with a note: "No excuses. Every step, every ounce - I'll be watching. GUC." The thought of Bernard having constant access to my physical data was both unnerving and oddly motivating.
As dawn broke, I began the daily ritual of measurements, facing a familiar, gaunt reflection. Acne-scarred and slouching, I recorded each number with a mix of disgust and determination. Bernard's words echoed: "Give. Up. Control."
I jogged to the park in the cold spring drizzle, shirtless and vulnerable. The wet track challenged every step as I pushed through HIIT sprints, stumbling but persevering. "Give. Up. Control," I muttered, defying my weakness.
Collapsing onto the grass, exhausted yet accomplished, I felt a surprising pleasure in pushing my limits. Bernard's message awaited: "Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor."
The first week was hell, my body rebelling against the rigorous regimen. But small victories emerged: completing a full HIIT session, lifting heavier weights, glimpsing muscle definition. Bernard's concise praise became my lifeline, our relationship deepening beyond mentor and student.
In 90 days, I transformed. Acne cleared, muscles toned, confidence rose. I adhered to the routine with determination, if not perfection. Bernard and I exchanged daily progress reports, noting slip-ups honestly. My body adapted, waking at 5 AM naturally. Each morning, I proudly inspected my emerging abs and defined veins, ready for another day of transformation.
On the final day of my three-month journey, I received a message from Bernard: "I am going to call you." My heart raced; we had never spoken before.
His voice, confident and smooth with a slight accent, came through. "Are you satisfied?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," I replied gratefully.
"Would you like to have it back?" he continued.
"Back what?" I asked nervously.
"Control," he answered simply.
Panic swept over me, but I found myself saying, "No. I need this. I want more. I can do more...right?"
"Mark, you have the potential to become even more. But if you want more, you must pay the price first."
"Price? You mean money? I-I don't have any," I stammered.
"Not money, my young friend. You must pay with your pain."
The word echoed in my mind, sending shivers down my spine. Despite my fears, a primal excitement stirred within me at the thought of punishment for my slip-ups.
"Yes" was all I could manage to say.
"Let me be clear here, Mark," Bernard's voice remained neutral as he spoke. "This is not that ridiculous BDSM with padded leather and soft pink handcuffs. This is real punishment.”
And so it began. The initial beatings were mainly with whips and canes, the sting of each strike leaving a searing pain that I never could have imagined. But I took them better than expected, pushing through the agony as Bernard matched the severity of each "sin" he deemed me guilty of. Every time, I had to strip down completely, no exceptions.
Restraints were often necessary, as I couldn't help but squirm and writhe under the painful lashings. Try standing still when a snakewhip slices across your asscheeks with the speed of sound. He was right: this was no mere BDSM play. There was no sexual element or deliberate humiliation involved. Only pain, sweat, and tears.
I could have quit at any time, walked away and never looked back. But something kept me going, something deep inside me craved the pain and wanted to prove that I could endure even more. With each step I took, each lash I endured, was a silent rebellion against the cycle of failure that had defined my life. Sometimes the pain was almost unbearable, yet in it, I found a twisted sense of purpose… and sexual pleasure I never thought existed.
Months flew by, transforming my life beyond recognition. I excelled in online university, achieving top grades. My body became a testament to unwavering discipline.
One particularly bright morning, as I jogged shirtless along the beach, I couldn't help but notice that heads were turning after me. Not only women, men paused to look. It was then I finally realized how much my body had changed.
On the one-year anniversary of my first run, Bernard's knowing smile said it all: "Congratulations are in order."
I blushed, feeling undeserving of any praise.
"I didn't do anything exceptional," I replied humbly. “Just gave up control.”
Bernard's smile widened. "You did more than you know. But there is still an unsettled debt that needs to be settled. The years of sloth and wasted potential must be repent for."
"I'm ready," I said confidently, eager to continue my journey.
But Bernard's next words gave me pause. "I need you to understand: from now on, the methods of penance will be different. Do you still wish to proceed?" I met his gaze with determination in my eyes.
"Yes."
“Do you know what I am talking about here?”
"Torture," I whispered, but my voice was tinged with a hint of excitement.
I felt a thrill of fear and anticipation run through me.
Bernard's eyes flickered with a dark, unsettling satisfaction, and he remained silent, the air around us thickening with an eerie stillness.
The car jerks and snaps me out of my reverie. It has been nearly an hour since she said we weren't too far away, and I can't help but wonder what she meant. Trying to maintain a facade of manly strength and stoicism, I stay quiet and keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The instructions from Bernard for the impending punishment torture were detailed and strict. For the upcoming weeks and days, I was to ramp up my cardio even more, eat an extremely lean diet, and undergo a bowel cleanse. On the night before the punishment, I meticulously shaved all the hair from my neck down, and got a buzz cut, preparing myself for what was to come.
A text arrived on Thursday evening, containing a train ticket. "Take the train to the countryside. At the station, my apprentice will pick you up." The trip would take nearly 5 hours, leaving me feeling increasingly anxious and excited as the train took me across the snow covered plains of the countryside.
Stepping off at the small town train station, I spotted a large SUV waiting outside. In the light snowfall, a stunning young woman stood next to it. She stood at around 5 feet 8 inches tall with a slender figure, bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in the dim light, and dark blonde hair styled in an edgy pixie cut with asymmetrical layers. Her tousled locks gave her an effortlessly carefree look that perfectly complemented her striking features. As she flashed me a radiant smile, her perfect teeth gleaming in the dim light, I felt an inexplicable pull towards her. 'I'm Athalia. Athalia Zydraitis. Call me Lia,' she said, her voice deeper than I expected, smooth like silk sliding. She gestured towards a sleek, black high-end SUV parked nearby. 'Get in, it's a bit of a drive to the farm.'
The car was a high-end, luxurious SUV, its sleek lines and polished exterior exuding an air of sophistication and power. I couldn't help but notice the emblem of a prestigious brand gleaming on the front grille. As I approached, I marveled at the vehicle's opulence, a stark contrast to the desolate surroundings.
My heart pounded in my chest as I approached the car, a mix of fear and anticipation swirling within me. Lia's presence was magnetic, her confidence and beauty almost overwhelming. As I settled into the passenger seat, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a world far beyond my control. The interior of the car was just as impressive, with leather seats and a state-of-the-art dashboard. To my surprise, Lia didn't use a key to start the ignition. Instead, she murmured what sounded like an incantation in a language I couldn't quite place. The syllables danced on the edge of familiarity – was it Russian? No, something else. As the smooth purr of the engine filled the air, I recalled her full name: Athalia Zydraitis. The cadence of those words echoed in my mind, and I found myself wondering if her whispered command shared the same origins as her surname. Lithuanian, perhaps? The thought lingered as we pulled away, leaving me with more questions about Lia than answers.
The drive was silent at first, the only sound was the soft hum of the hybrid engine and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. The car's advanced navigation system displayed our route on a large touchscreen, and the heated seats provided a comforting warmth against the cold outside.
'So, Bernard speaks highly of you,' Lia said, breaking the silence. Her voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. I glanced at her, trying to gauge her intentions, but her expression was unreadable. 'He says you have potential.'
I nodded, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the car was palpable, a mix of excitement and dread. As we drove deeper into the countryside, the landscape around us became more desolate, the snow-covered fields stretching out like a blank canvas. My mind raced with questions and doubts. Who was Lia, really? What did Bernard see in her? And what did she see in me?
'You know,' Lia continued, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, 'this isn't just about physical transformation. It's about breaking down barriers, pushing limits, and discovering who you really are.' Her words sent a shiver down my spine, a promise of both pain and revelation. As we approached our destination, a sense of inevitability settled over me.
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