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You weren’t certain exactly how long you’d been left to wait, bound wrist and ankle to a metal chair. Apart from a small table off to the side, there was just one other item that broke the room’s ceaseless monotony of off-white tiles and paneling: a single drain set dead center in the floor. No matter where you looked, your eyes kept coming back to it, the implication making your breath quicken before you could calm yourself.
You’d asked for this - even helped plan aspects of it - but now, alone and shivering in some forgotten room in the TARDIS, your fear was very real.
With a suddenness that made you startle, the door swung open and Missy strolled into the room, her ice pale eyes taking in your discomfort with obvious delight. She had a metal tray in one hand, its contents obscured by a white cloth, and her umbrella was hooked over her forearm.
“Poor thing, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.” In the light, her lipstick glistened like fresh blood. She set the tray down and rested both hands on her umbrella, leaning her weight on it as she gave you an appraising look. “How have you been enjoying my hospitality so far?”
“P-please -” You swallowed hard, wetting your dry throat, and tried again. “Please let me go. I don’t know anything, I swear!”
And that was the game. Interrogation training, Missy had called it, in case you were ever captured while out accompanying her on her adventures. You couldn’t go around spilling her secrets at the first hint of pressure, after all. As if the same couldn’t be accomplished more easily with hypnotism. As if the sadistic lilt in Missy’s tone and the low tightness in your belly hadn’t immediately betrayed why she’d suggested it and why you eagerly accepted.
Missy tsked. “Now it’s so very disappointing, poppet, that you would start our relationship off on a lie.”
“I’m not! Please, you have to believe me!” Your tone grew higher and more desperate with each step she took towards you, movements punctuated by the tap of her umbrella on the floor.
“Hush.”
She was close enough now to tower over you, the situation and your helplessness lending more to her stature than the thin heels on her boots. She grabbed your chin, the supple leather of her gloves blunting the threat of her nails, and firmly tilted your head up to meet her gaze.
“This is your last chance before I get cross with you. Tell me everything.” Her grip tightened and you let out an involuntary noise of pain. “Or you can stay a stubborn little creature and I’ll simply have to make my own fun. Your choice, dear.”
There were pieces of information you could tell her, some meaningless charts and plans she had given you to memorize before the game started. You were certain if you were ever foolish enough to let any of it slip, however, Missy would gleefully take the opportunity to punish you even more. Your suffering was rather the point.
“I’m not lying,” you said, not begging but not far off.
“Well, if you want to play, who am I to deny you anything your heart desires? Is that it? Are you acting out for attention?” Her grin widened and her fingers dug harder into your jaw, the throbbing ache promising bruises. She forced your head up and down in a parody of a nod. “Oh you poor dear, we’ll sort that right out.”
In an instant, her fingers left your chin and she slapped you across the face. The sudden violence of it took your breath away before you even felt the pain. Her leather gloves had sharpened the sting and you strained uselessly against the cuffs, instinctively struggling to get a hand free to soothe your burning cheek.
With a single fingertip, she gently turned your head back to face her, only to slap you in the exact same spot. Involuntary tears welled in your eyes. Again, she positioned you where she wanted and again she slapped you. You tasted copper where the inside of your cheek had been forced against your teeth.
She stroked the backs of her fingers down your burning skin and despite the soothing coolness of the leather, pressure where you were raw and hurting had you flinching away from her touch.
When she leaned in closer to inspect her work, you caught the delicate scent of her perfume, heard how her breathing had quickened ever so slightly, saw the eager twist to her red, red lips as they curled up in a predator’s grin. She was heartbreakingly lovely.
You tilted your face towards her, offering yourself to be kissed or struck as she pleased. She did neither, instead bopping your nose with a fingertip then trailing it down to trace the heart shape of your mouth.
“I adore how you look in pink,” she murmured half to herself. Pulling back, she replaced her finger with the tip of her umbrella, resting it on your lower lip. “Where are your manners, dearest? What do you say when someone gives you a compliment?”
There was no force behind the umbrella but you had no illusions about how quickly that could change.
“Thank you, Mistress,” you yelped, shying away as much as you dared, which wasn’t far at all.
“You’re most welcome.” With the tip of her umbrella, she lifted your chin until you were staring straight up at the ceiling, your throat left bare and vulnerable. “See what a polite thing you can be with just a little encouragement? A little discipline?”
The tip traced a long line down to just above your collarbone, pressing just hard enough that your breathing stuttered. Further down, trailing between your breasts, the thin shirt you had on feeling like no protection. Then lower still, over the softness of your stomach, you hardly daring to inhale, until finally, it came to a rest between your spread legs. You let out a fearful gasp.
“Think of how well-behaved you’ll be by the time we’re through,” she said, putting the tiniest bit of pressure behind the umbrella, forcing the seam of your leggings up against you, making you aware of just how wet and sticky your underwear was. Of how desperately you wished it were her fingers touching you instead.
You squirmed against the back of the chair, fighting to put scant centimeters of space between your body and the umbrella, but it followed until you had nowhere left to retreat, rubbing slow and insistent. A little more force now. Enough to edge into uncomfortable.
“Do you want to come like this?” Her grin showed far too many teeth for comfort. “It would hurt terribly, of course, but I think it could be great fun. What do you say?”
“No, no, please!” The words came out in a rush.
“No? Really?” She arched a brow. “And here I wanted to give you a bit of a warm-up before we escalated, but by all means, poppet.”
A last jab from the umbrella made you whimper, then she turned back to the table and its covered tray. With a flourish, she pulled off the white cloth, baring the contents to your anxious gaze. Your blood froze.
Eyes wide with growing horror, you took in sharp edges and shiny metal, some tools looking like they wouldn’t have been out of place in a medieval doctor’s office, while others you couldn’t even begin to guess their purpose. Missy sighed happily, as if she was savoring your fear like a glass of wine.
“These things tend to follow a certain format.” Missy shrugged off her jacket and neatly set it aside. “The interrogator starts off quite nice and the prisoner gets to make a speech about how they’d rather die than talk. Standard heroics. Very boring. Then, a touch of gentle persuasion is applied, but nothing too awful.”
Your cheek throbbed where she’d slapped you.
“And now we’ve reached the ‘showing the implements’ stage.” She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her shirtsleeves to just below the elbow. “It’s intended to be an opportunity for you to reflect on your situation and all the exciting toys I’ve prepared for us.”
With a saucy wink, she walked her fingers over the tools. “What they do. How they might feel. Which ones are supposed to go inside you and which ones I’ll shove in you anyway because you’re such a lovely girl when you cry.”
The tears that had welled up earlier threatened to break free from your lashes. You shivered uncontrollably, gaze locked on the tray as she settled on a scalpel, its razor edge gleaming liquid silver in the light.
“Here’s where I should pause and restate the questions. Maybe I’d tell you I wouldn’t hurt you too badly if you were a good, cooperative girl.” Her smile sharpened. “But as far as I’m concerned, dear, you had your chance, didn’t you?”
In two strides, she covered the distance between you, hooking a finger in the neck of your shirt and pulling it taut. The scalpel flashed, parting the material like water. Missy grabbed both sides of the cut fabric and ripped your shirt in two without any apparent effort. Gleeful, as if she were unwrapping a present Christmas morning, she spread the halves wide and settled herself on your lap, her warm weight a comfort in spite of it all.
“Oh, don’t be so frightened, love,” she cooed, tapping the flat of the scalpel against your burning cheek. She was careful - so careful - never to hurt you more than either of you wanted, but your skin still prickled with adrenaline. “Try to reframe. Instead of excruciating torture, why not think of this as elective surgery without anesthetic?”
“M-Missy…” Your voice trembled.
You didn’t want to stop, but it was an impossible relief to say her name with such fear, to know you were allowed to be scared or in pain and she’d enjoy that as much as she did your pleasure.
“Where should we start? Here?” She roughly squeezed your breasts and you gasped, arching into the touch, her gloves gone blood-warm with heat leached from your skin. She tutted, setting her gaze higher. “No, I know the perfect spot. Try not to bleed everywhere.”
Agonizingly slow, the scalpel drew a boiling line of pain along your collarbone. You gasped and whimpered and Missy shushed you, gently, continuing at her own pace. Your hands went white-knuckled where they gripped the seat of the chair, your breath whistling through your clenched teeth like you’d run a marathon, as she finished without any apparent hurry.
It couldn’t have been deeper than a scratch. You felt blood beading along the edges of the cut, but there wasn’t enough there for it to drip down. But even so your nerves were on fire and your eyes burned with salt.
“There, there. Not so bad, was it,” she said, stroking your cheek like she was calming a wounded animal. You leaned into the gentle touch, your eyes falling shut for a moment only to pop back open as she added, “This, on the other hand, will be dreadful.”
With that, she ground one leather-clad thumb into the cut and you bit your tongue to stop from screaming. It hurt. It hurt in a way that made you mindless, writhing as best you could under her weight, yanking on the cuffs as you struggled to get away.
When the tears that had been welling in your eyes finally overflowed, Missy stopped, though the cut still throbbed with molten pain. She grabbed your chin, turning your head this way and that to admire them, and sighed with clear appreciation.
She leaned in close enough for you to feel her breath on your skin when she spoke. “Such a pretty girl. Sometimes I want to carve my name in you just to hear what noises you’d make.”
Her tongue dragged up your cheek, hot and wet, as she tasted your tears.
“It would be a bit more of a permanent solution than a collar with ‘if found, please return to Missy’ on the name tag, wouldn’t it, pet?” She cupped your face between her palms, the scalpel tucked away somewhere when you weren’t looking, and you could smell the iron tang of your blood on one gloved thumb. “We can’t have you wandering off and getting lost.”
Then she was kissing you for the first time since the game had started. Her teeth dug into your lower lip and when you gasped in pain her tongue licked into your mouth like she was trying to devour all the screams you hadn’t given voice. You tipped your head back and gave, letting her take all she pleased, held securely in her hands. Her clothed chest pressed against your naked one, and you imagined you could feel the heavy beat of her two hearts.
When she broke the kiss, you tried to follow, but she stopped you with a finger on your lips. Eager to please and perhaps avoid any additional encouragement, you opened your mouth, looking up at her through your lashes, and she slipped inside. For a moment, she was content to trace the blunt ridges of your teeth, stroke over your tongue so all you could taste was leather and salt.
Then, without warning, she thrust deep, reaching for the back of your throat.
You gagged, coughing up saliva around her gloved hand, shaking your head in a useless attempt to dislodge her. But she wouldn’t be moved and her fingers stayed right where they were while you choked and swallowed, occasionally wiggling enough to set off another round whenever it seemed you would get the protesting muscles of your throat under control.
“Good girl,” she praised, sickly sweet, pulling free to smear the spit-slick mess on your skin. She chucked you under the chin. “I think you’ve earned a treat.”
Your knees ached as she shifted her weight further back and put some space between your bodies. Enough for her to force a hand into your leggings, beneath your pants, to find you desperately wet. Her fingers found your clit and started rubbing, hard and fast, without any warm-up. After being threatened and slapped around, the shock of pleasure was almost too much, each firm motion drawing a wounded noise from your throat.
“You’re dripping, dear. You know you’re not supposed to enjoy being tortured.” She kissed you below the sluggishly bleeding cut on your collarbone. “Have I made things too easy for you?”
A flash of white teeth, then she bit you, hard. You jerked, but there was nowhere to go, pinned down by her weight, wrists and ankles held firm in unforgiving metal cuffs. Squirming only made you more acutely aware of the fingers stroking your soaking folds, of the white-hot pleasure that built and built despite the throbbing ache of her bite.
You were so wet you could hear every motion of her fingers and your cheeks burned pink with embarrassment at your obvious desperation. She chuckled into your flesh, grinding the whole of her palm into your clit and smearing slick everywhere she touched.
The rhythm she set was relentless. Efficient. Like you were a machine she was determined to pull apart piece by piece and reassemble as she pleased. And you’d let her. You wanted her to. You were going to -
You came in her hand, soaking her glove with a fresh flood of wetness. She slowed the motion of her fingers to ease you down and let go of her mouthful of flesh, leaving behind a livid, bruise-purple indentation of her teeth.
Your forehead dropped to her shoulder and you breathed in the scent of her soap, the delicate notes of her perfume. Her free hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, her thumb moving slow, soothing circles. Missy was as adept at comfort as she was at terror, and you relaxed into her embrace.
Or you tried to.
Her other hand resumed its firm rhythm and it was quickly becoming too much. Your orgasm had left you raw and twitching and she just wasn’t stopping. You tried to lift your head but her grip firmed, holding you pinned in place and muffling your cry of alarm in her shirt.
“Once more for Mummy, darling,” Missy said, dripping with saccharine condescension. “Really, you should thank me. We’re far from finished and the endorphins might make things easier on you.”
You squirmed, fighting her in earnest now, as she forced pleasure on your tortured nerves, but she’d always been too strong for the body she wore and held you without effort. Despite the arousal that dripped from you to slick her glove, the leather was harsh on your oversensitive flesh, creeping closer to pain the longer she continued.
She kissed the top of your head, then snapped her teeth by your ear, loud enough to startle you. “I said that you should be thanking me, dear. Or are you ungrateful?”
“Thank you, thank you, Missy,” you gasped out, muffled and desperate. “Thank you - please, Missy, I can’t go again so soon- I can’t -”
“Didn’t quite catch that. You’ll have to speak up.”
A particularly vicious twist of her fingers made you flinch. “Please stop - thank you - stop, please, please -”
“Do try to enunciate, pet.”
You howled into her shoulder as she forced you over the edge a second time. The shirt under your face was damp with tears and drool. Where you’d struggled, the metal cuffs dug deep into your wrists and you didn’t have to look to know that tomorrow there would be bruises for Missy to coo over or jab her fingers into just to watch you squirm.
Mercifully, she pulled her hand out of your leggings, the sudden removal making you twitch, and roughly patted your cheek, leaving behind a sticky smear. Your head fell limply forward when she stood in a fluid motion.
After a moment of consideration, she pushed the torn halves of your shirt off your shoulders, the fabric bunching up around your arms, and tugged your leggings and pants down around your knees. You were left practically naked with the evidence of your two orgasms slick on your thighs and dripping down to the metal seat.
“Well, aren’t you a lovely thing like this,” she said, looking you up and down. Her gaze lingered between your legs and you burned with embarrassment. “Now that we’ve gotten to know each other, don’t you have some secrets you’d like to share just between us girls?”
Your tongue felt thick and clumsy in your mouth. “I don’t…”
“For your sake, you’d better have something. Make it interesting. Entertain me.” She sighed, theatrically. “Otherwise, we’ll just have to keep going, won’t we?”
Your heart hammered in anticipation of what else she might have planned. Torment was an art Missy perfected lifetimes ago and her fondness for you only meant that she’d put you back together once she was through.
“I’m not telling you anything.” You raised your chin, defiant.
Quick as a striking snake, Missy grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched your head back. “One more time, dear.” She gave you a little shake. “Or I’ll stop playing nicely.”
“You don’t scare me.”
You held yourself with as much dignity as you could wet, bleeding, and exposed in her grasp. It was only slightly less subtle a provocation than dumping a bucket of petrol on a bonfire.
She pouted. “What have I told you about lies?”
Reaching into one of the pockets on her long, woolen skirt, she fiddled with something and the bonds holding you separated from the chair, though the cuffs themselves stayed tight around your wrists and ankles. She yanked you to your feet by the hair, your legs barely holding your weight after having spent so long in one position.
“Right, on your knees, then.” She shoved you and you stumbled forward.
Instead of obeying, you tugged your leggings back up to cover yourself and ran for the exit. As you moved, you half expected to feel her presence in your mind, her umbrella at your ankle, something to make you trip and fall, but you made it to the door. Palms slick with nervous sweat, you scrabbled for the handle.
Locked.
Cold dread settled in your stomach. There was nowhere else to run, no place in the room for you to hide. Even if you were quick enough to grab one of the tools off the table, the thought of raising a weapon to her -
- no, not even in a game. The consequences would be severe.
Slowly, so slowly, you turned around, your back to the door. Missy hadn’t moved, observing your struggle with an arched brow.
“An escape attempt isn’t the worst plan, pet. At least it’s interesting. But a clumsy escape attempt,” she pursed her lips, “now, that was a very, very bad idea.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.” You pressed yourself harder against the unyielding metal.
“Not yet, you aren’t, but we’ll soon fix that. Come here and get on your knees.”
You wished she’d thrown you to the ground or overwhelmed your mind with her own and puppeted you into position. Nothing could be worse than her watching with cold amusement while you forced yourself to take one halting step after another until you were standing within arm’s reach.
“You might try making things the teensiest bit easier on yourself.” Fondly, she tucked your hair behind your ear. You braced for a slap, a shove, but all she did was lean in close and say, “Down.”
Your knees hit the ground before you’d even made the conscious decision. She patted your head like you might reward a dog.
“Good girl.”
Unhurried, she circled around, her skirts brushing against you as she moved. Terrified as you were, even that faint tease of cloth on skin made you shiver. Behind you, she knelt down, molding herself to your back and wrapping you up in a firm embrace. Her chin was on your shoulder, pressed cheek to cheek.
“I’ve been fairly sweet to you so far, haven’t I? Maybe a touch of slap and tickle, but we both know what kind of girl you are,” she said, nipping at your ear. “Still, no permanent damage. All fingers and toes present and accounted for.”
She held something up, and you might have bolted if not for her grip. The scalpel. Its edge was rust-red with your blood.
“That could change, dear.”
“I won’t run anymore.” You sniffled, trembling in her arms. “Missy, please, I’m sorry.”
She nuzzled you, affectionate, and murmured, “Hmm, I’m not quite convinced. You know what I want to hear.”
You thought back, desperately trying to remember what decoy pieces of information she’d given you to protect. “So, uh, there’s this one bit of tech-”
“Ugh, not that.” Delicately, she brought the scalpel to your lips and held it there until you, shaking, tears welling up in your eyes, gave it a kiss. “Say something nice.”
Your breath came faster as the scalpel trailed down, coming to rest just beneath the first cut on your collarbone. You grabbed handfuls of her skirt, willing yourself to stay still, stay a good girl for her.
“I love you, Mistress.”
The blade sliced a second line of agony into your skin and you swallowed down a shriek. Your fingernails ripped at the wool in your fists. Missy held you through it, comfort and restraint all twisted up together.
“Nicely done.” With a final squeeze, she let go and shoved you forward onto your hands and knees.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the scalpel catch the light, then it slid neatly between your sleeve and skin, cutting the cloth without so much as scratching you. Missy repeated the same process on the other sleeve and tugged the ruined remnants of your shirt off your back, tossing it aside.
“If I were you, I’d keep very still for this part,” she said, lightly, snapping the waistband of your leggings. The unexpected sting might have been enough to make you jump if not for her threat and the presence of the scalpel somewhere you couldn’t see.
Surgically precise, she skinned you out of your remaining clothing, the razor-edge tracing over muscle and curves, but never actually biting deep enough to draw blood. Once finished, she trailed reverent fingers down your spine, along your ribs, the pressure ticklish. So gentle, it made you feel loved. It made you feel owned.
“There’s my obedient little human. Squirm and cry all you like, but this is exactly where you belong.” She fisted a hand in your hair and pushed your face into the floor, grinding your cheek into the cold tile. “Don’t make a fuss now.”
Her free hand cupped you between the legs, reslicking the leather of her glove. You fought not to grind into the touch, not to hump her palm as if you were every bit the domesticated animal she’d made you. Despite your recent orgasms, your cunt ached with emptiness, but trying to rush her would only backfire. That you knew from painful experience.
“On the whole, you did well today. Kept the screaming to a minimum and didn’t get too much blood on me,” she said, fingertip toying with your entrance, teasing at penetration.
Finally, she slipped in and you groaned with a mixture of relief and discomfort. No matter how wet and desperate you were for it, the leather was rough on your tender insides and Missy didn’t make it easier on you, fucking you slow and deep from the start.
“You didn’t even spill any secrets, which was the point of this exercise, after all. Oh wait,” she continued, voice filling with dark glee, “but you did try to, didn’t you, dear?”
Your eyes went wide. You should have known better than to think that moment of weakness had gone unnoticed. She yanked her fingers out of you and you flinched at the sudden withdrawal, at the raw, empty ache.
“And you were so resolute, too, it’s a shame.” She tightened her grip on your hair, as if she was reminding you there was no use trying to escape, while she stroked from your cunt up between your cheeks to a tighter ring of muscle. “Let’s give you some motivation to do better next time, hmm?”
Her glove was still wet from being inside you, but you didn’t think it would be enough. No, this was a punishment, it wasn’t meant to be enough. You shuddered.
Distantly, you felt a pressure at your temples, the faint stirrings of a headache, and you recognized the presence of her mind brushing against your own. It was invasive, like being stripped naked all over again, but you welcomed her in. Better to do this with her in your head, able to tell when too far actually went too far.
You could tell she was drawing it out, pushing just hard enough to make you whimper and tense up in anticipation, but pulling back before she actually breached you.
Airily, Missy said, “I take no pleasure in correcting you, my girl. This will hurt me more than it hurts you. Unless if you don’t relax, then it will absolutely be worse for you.”
Recognizing the order for what it was, you took a deep breath, inhaling until your belly rounded, and let it out slow. Not that it made much of a difference as she entered you all the way to the knuckle in one merciless glide.
Your palm slapped against the floor, fingers curling and clawing at the tile. It burned. The leather had been rough in your cunt, but it was worse here, dragging and frictional, the discomfort making you tense up even as you fought to relax your muscles. Missy didn’t wait for you to overcome that internal struggle and immediately started on a steady rhythm.
Tears dripped down over the bridge of your nose to puddle under your cheek. Each firm thrust forced a sob from your throat. You had done this often enough with her to know that she was making it difficult for you, turning a familiar act into a strange and shocking violation.
It hurt because she wanted it to hurt. It felt degrading because she meant for it to. But running through it all was a harsh undercurrent of pleasure from being used like this, put on your knees and fucked in the ass for her enjoyment.
Shaking, you reached up to grab her wrist where she was pinning you down by the hair, not to fight, just to have some kind of anchor. Her grip on you softened, nails lightly scratching your scalp, and she folded over your back to press a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. A few curls of hair had escaped her pins and fell, ticklish, on your cheek and jaw.
Her other hand never faltered, driving into you with steady violence and forcing in a second finger as soon as you started to relax into the thrusts. There was nothing left in you to struggle. With a broken whimper, you arched your back, offering up more of yourself, and felt her hot satisfaction flood your mind.
You wouldn’t be able to come like this, but the relentless movement was making you ache for it. Desperately, you wanted to reach between your legs and help balance out the hurt with something sweeter. You’d give anything to be allowed to touch yourself.
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a few ideas even you’d find challenging.” Magnanimously, Missy added, “Go on, then. Before I change my mind.”
It wasn’t an idle threat and you quickly thrust a hand back, finding your clit with shaking fingertips. The change in position put more weight on your chest, the scalpel cuts stinging where they pressed into the floor.
You were still so raw and sensitive from everything she’d done, so slick that there was hardly any friction at all, but it was enough to put you on the right side of the line between pain and pleasure. Her thrusts formed a cruel counterpoint to your frantic motions as you drove yourself closer to release.
Missy was all around you, draped over your back and inside you and in your head, and she sighed with pleasure against your cheek when you came. Your muscles clenched tight, squeezing down on her fingers so that her last few thrusts hurt like the first as she worked you through it, only pulling free once you’d gone limp, sagging bonelessly to the ground.
With her gone, you could feel just how sore and open she’d left you. How exhausted you were. You let out a little noise of discomfort when she bundled you into her lap, but she shushed you gently and stripped off her gloves to stroke the hair back from your sweaty forehead.
“Not bad, darling. Let’s take a wee break and get you cleaned up,” she said, carefully brushing away a tear with her thumb. “Then, we can try all this again. I didn’t get to use half the toys I wanted to.”
You gave her a tired smile. “Sounds perfect, Mistress.”