Chains of Passion, Prologue

To the Reader

The story is based on real events that I know about, and I even spoke with one of the participants, but not everything here is true... she made up some of it, and I made up some.

I stood on the threshold of a two-story mansion and hesitated to ring the doorbell. I understood that beyond it, a new world would begin for me—a world of prohibitions, discoveries, passion, and pain. I was very scared, and at the same time, deep in my lower belly, I felt a warm, even hot ember of arousal. I reached out my hand and, with a confident motion, pressed the doorbell button. That's it, there's no turning back now...

Where did it all begin? I don't know, probably from the time I watched a movie where

a girl was taken captive, tied up, slapped in the face, treated like trash—it wasn't an erotic film, just an action movie, but back then, at 18, I got aroused, unconsciously. I wanted to pleasure myself. During the movie, I kept running to the bathroom but didn't understand what was happening to me, and I'd come back again. That same evening, I took a rope, and after a failed attempt to tie my own hands, I went to my neighbor, a boy my age, and we started playing tying-up games. When I came home with my hands tied behind my back and cheeks red from slaps, my parents were shocked. They didn't touch me or scold me; that evening, they went to the neighbors with the rope. They were gone for about an hour, after which piercing screams and then long crying could be heard through the wall. Back in childhood, Leshka was blamed for the sadism, and no one even thought about me.

Anyway, time passed, I grew up. At 18, having learned about sex, masturbation, and other things, I started masturbating, often playing by myself—either as a slave at a slave market or as a captive of wild Indians. At 18, besides simple dialogues with myself about my price or how the tribe's shaman would rape me for a misdeed, I tried introducing pain sensations for the first time. First, I made an improvised whip; the strikes were weak, and I felt minimal pain. But the arousal was intense... Around that time, I got a computer, and I made it a rule to write down what would happen to me that day; after performing, I usually deleted the notes. During this time, I started actively experimenting: I tied thin headphone wires to a fan and lay under the lashing blows, though they were still quite weak. I also tried water torture, turning on cold or very hot streams under high pressure and directing them at my body. We got internet. After browsing hundreds of photos on the topic of such sex, I realized I wasn't alone in this world. From the internet, I also learned about clothespins, clamps—tried them, liked them. On one such day, highly aroused, I wanted to try it like they did in the photos; I wanted to have a master or mistress. That same evening, I inserted (for the first time) a pencil into my anus.

By age 14, I had grown up. I had a slim, athletic figure, small but beautifully shaped breasts, a flat stomach, a very pretty, slightly upturned face, and two light-colored ponytails constantly swinging behind my back. At 14, boys started pursuing me; I even dated one for 4 months, though kissing was the maximum. Once, we argued, and in the heat of the moment, I slapped him. He fell silent, stared at me, and was about to turn away when I hit him again. He got heated and gave me a light slap back. I stepped back a couple of steps and sat on the ground. At that moment, I felt intense arousal. I shouted after him that I wanted him. He didn't respond; he didn't understand that he could have had me, not even as a woman, but as a slave.

After that, I got bored. For about six months, all my games stopped; the internet was lost due to moving. Six months later, while at an internet cafe, I stumbled upon a porn site with BDSM videos, downloaded everything onto a flash drive, and returned home. The evening was scorching. I remembered the nipples, the fan with the cord, the pencil in my butt.

The next evening, in the folder with the videos, I found only a text document with the inscription: "So this doesn't happen again." I blushed and got scared. My parents behaved as usual, but now I knew that someone was aware of my inclinations.

But over time, everything is forgotten. They got me internet again. The speed was high, and there I watched plenty of videos, read many stories. Then came a series of communications with people under the pseudonym "Sweet Kitty," like a boy who wanted to become a master and have slaves.

I was 18, sitting on a dating site in the BDSM section, when I received a message from a registered mistress named Elvira.

— What's wrong, little girl? Do you really want to become a slave?" I was stunned and sent back:

— How do you know, Mistress?

— I can sense ones like you.

Then we corresponded for a long time. She told me about psychology, then about the philosophy of BDSM, and then we agreed that I would be her virtual slave. Of course, I didn't do even a quarter of what she ordered; I even used clothespins only once every two months, and only when highly aroused. But I kept up the communication.

And then, the summer before 9th grade, I went out a lot, spent little time online, practically stopped masturbating, though instead, I started actively staying out with girlfriends and friends, where evenings turned into two bottles of cheap beer and cigarettes. That's where I started smoking.

Once, coming home drunk, I was punished and grounded for a month—a month of summer. After a few days of house arrest, I started browsing sites and forums again, wrote to Elvira. And then I got a reply that I was a bad slave and not even worthy of obeying her slaves. I apologized for a long time, and then received a message: I had to send nude photos of myself, with my face, and only then would our relationship be restored. I hesitated, but then foolishly decided to do it, took naked photos in the bathroom. In response to the photo, I got a letter saying I would no longer be a virtual slave, that this fate would be better for me than smoking and drinking, that she wasn't sending me to a brothel but to her friend, a mistress. The alternative was all my photos ending up on the covers of porn magazines. For some reason, I believed her, and then they sent me the address and time to appear...

I didn't expect it to be so simple and sudden. It wasn't easy to persuade my parents to let me go out for a day; I swore a solemn oath that I wouldn't touch a drop of alcohol.

And here I am, standing before a wood-paneled door, waiting for it to open and for me to enter another world...

Continuation very soon, don't take this as a full story, just a pre-history