SlavesofMistressDespoiler (17 page)

It could have passed for a week before he was finally set loose. Lowered to the floor, the pole was cut free and the layers of cling film were gradually slashed away. His arms were exposed, letting him unfurl them from his back. The joints ached and were stiff from their long imprisonment. The listless extremities collapsed as though stripped of bones, dropping to the ground and slithering weakly on floor.

Still blind from his hood and silenced by the gag, he could not see who had liberated him and thus what he might expect next. But there was a hint of soap, shampoo and warm moisture in the air, so whoever it was had just showered.

The soft tones of Mistress Despoiler revealed the truth as she addressed him.

“Get yourself free, washed and into your uniform. You will wait on us downstairs, slave. Is that understood?”

He nodded sedately, his neck muscles as stubborn to move as the rest of his form. The bright clack of departing stilettos faded into the background, abandoning him to his task.

To wait on her would be a pleasure. To be free of all constraint and serving her whims with capricious flicks of a weapon to signal command and completion was a duty he particularly liked.

If only he could have seen her. To set eyes to Mistress Despoiler after such a period of denial would be a seraphic sight, just as the attention of her after a long era of chastity was exceptional heaven. But she was out of the room before he could open the tight confines of the gag and haul off the sweat-soaked hood.

She had left the scalpel beside him. Having troubled herself only with the opening of his arms she had left the rest of the precarious chore for him.

With care, he began to cut himself out. Sloughing free the shell he slowly emerged from its wet confines. His own pruned skin was sodden with perspiration and urine.

Ensuring he did not spill the reservoir that had accumulated within the cocoon, he shuffled to the bathroom. His legs felt akin to jelly beneath him. The shaking limbs slowly reacquired some sense of sturdiness as the feeling filtered back in with each passing moment.

Reaching into the bath, he became aware of the plug still inserted in him. His long time companionship with it had left it almost unfelt as it held him open and stopped him up. Daring to disobey, he slipped free of his briefs and took hold of the base. Closing the bathroom door, he quietly locked it and drew at the implement with a slow pull. Clutching to the bath, he groaned as it stretched him open again. The discomfort swelled so quickly that before he cleared the widest point of its diameter, his resolve snapped. Letting go of it, his sphincter tightened and gulped it back in. A quick galloping throb travelled through the tissues with impunity.

Having bestowed a brief education into what was wished of his rear, he tried again. The flesh was now a little more amicable to the task. With a steady ascending groan turning in his throat like a serpent of sound, the cone started to emerge. Stretching himself wider and wider, finally the plug slithered free, carrying his moan into higher pitches before letting his sore rear finally close.

Holding to the bath for a moment of recovery, he listened to the internal beat of his anus. The flesh still reviled the trespass that it hated but which he loved so much. Mind and body were at obvious odds concerning the item.

He took a set of surgical gloves from the medicine cupboard. The latex sheaths were stained with hair dye, but he snapped them on and reached up into his own tracts. Gritting his teeth as his own intruding digits stretched his raw orifice, he tried to find the thong.

It was nowhere to be found. The garment had ridden up beyond his ability to capture. Letting his hand fall free, he had no choice but to wait for it to re-emerge, possibly even dislodged and set free on the flood of his next douche. A pang of fear crept in as he wondered if perhaps it might lodge somewhere and cause damage, resulting in hospital treatment. How would he explain how a lady’s thong had became stuck in his rectum? Any plausible rationale was impossible to compile and would also be offset by the vivid contusions criss-crossing his physique. The hideously embarrassing thought made him shiver with dread.

After giving them a quick rinse he snapped off the gloves. Setting them back as he had found them he hoped that there were no subtle changes that might alert to his disobedience.

Grabbing the plug, he looked over its innocent plastic surfaces. The moulded smooth device was still warm from its long holiday in his tracts.

Splaying his legs he leaned over and held to the edge of the tub for support. He reached around himself and with a firm grip to the base put the tip to his puckered opening, keeping his aim true. With a resigned and systematic shove he started to insert the implement once more. Clutching to the bath, a scowl played across his lips as he opened himself and then released a sated groan when the full width plunged in. The blunt gums of his hungry orifice closed to the smaller base and held it in place.

Catching his breath, he started to get on with his duties before his tardiness caused offence.

Dropping the silvery heap of twisted and contorted bonds into the bath, he turned on the shower and washed it out with a token flush before stuffing the refuse into a black plastic bag. With the leftovers of his bondage handled, he slipped himself under the hot flow. A gasp of sensual pleasure rode upon his sigh as the warm flood pounded his skin and drooled down his flesh, washing away the heat and the stickiness of his imprisonment.

It was a wonderful sensation, almost like rising from his own body. The weight of his bondage had come free and now he was also being loosed from his own clinging excretions. The feeling of purging was powerful once more, of slipping bonds and grime, emerging fresh and clean, pliant to the will of the females who ruled him. With such dissolute notions hovering through his mind he took hold of his stiffening member. His penis was already rising to the call of lustful thoughts, answering the debauched bray of his libido.

Relaxing his body, he let his fist drift, spurned on by the tickling spatter of water across his skin he permitted himself this token delight.

The image of the domineering succubus that haunted him occupied the full canvas of his mind’s eye. The image of her taunting him, controlling him, the reigns of her power locked to every aspect of his being was one he could not shake.

With new and potent levels of algolagnic fervour, he dedicated his will and managed to deny himself orgasm. Washing his briefs he walked back to the bedroom, ready to fanatically serve Mistress Despoiler and her miscreant assistant.

Already he had been breaking her laws, simply to know that he could. But how many more times would he have such felonious strength before the level of ingraining vanquished it?

However, for now he had a role to fulfil. It was one of his more favoured, along with that of a pet. He particularly enjoyed serving as a maid. Freed of most encumbrances, it was satisfying to be reduced to pandering to the needs of his owner, receiving capricious strokes of a weapon upon command and completion.

The briefs were placed back onto him, controlling his genitals under stringent black folds and stopping up any hope of forcing out the plug. Sliding himself into latex leggings rather than fishnet hose, he hauled them tight against himself and straightened them. Trapping his body within the moulded sheath of the latex dress, he lifted the thick arms over his shoulders and dragged the skirt down onto his thighs.

With his collar arranged in proper place he tied his hair up into a high ponytail and grabbed his mask. Opening the lacing on the back of his
Porcupine
hood, he slid his face in. Dragging his hair through the highest point of the lacing he then tightened it closed. The fragrance of the material washed through his nose, intense and wonderful, tempting him into placing his clothes to his face so as to drink in a collective concentrated aroma before continuing.

With a plume of ragged hair exploding from the back of the hood, he ensured the eye sockets were aligned. He had to ensure that the entire hood was comfortable because he was sure to be wearing it for some time without any respite.

The lace-up ankle boots were slotted onto his feet. The patent stilettos he had long since become accustomed to by his many sessions of service as Mistress Despoiler’s maid.

The last act before heading down was to add latex opera gloves, leaving only a portion of his chest and upper arms free from the smothering embrace of rubber. It was a necessary ordeal. The fabric was uncomfortable and sweltering hot, a constant punishment visited upon him, one that he endured to better serve Mistress Despoiler.

With a few faltering steps he balanced himself. Focusing on walking in the heels prior to slinking downstairs, he wondered what was awaiting him there. Normally he could gain some insight or prediction into what might transpire. Service, with arbitrary punishment, maybe leading to bondage and more severe treatment, or masturbation, cunnilingus, perhaps even intercourse. What could he expect with the introduction of another Mistress to the scene?

Taking hold of the door handle, he sucked in a deep breath of courage. He held to it as he entered to acquire fortitude against the unknown events waiting for him on the other side.

Chapter Seven

After setting lose her partner, Mistress Despoiler straightened her cap and sidled downstairs. She was clad only in a gloss thong with matching bra and patent court shoes. A savagely spiked leather band enclosed each wrist and formed a wicked choker about her throat. She felt warm and refreshed after her bath. With the sweat of the session stripped from her, she felt revived. The eternal desire to subjugate her slaves and play them against each other as part of her greater scheme was rekindled.

In her hands she clasped her candy stripped crop. Upon entering the living room, she found Lynn ready for more education as to what it meant to be her slave.

The woman was stood before the mirror, clad only in ivory lingerie. White stockings were snagged by the slender arms of a suspender belt, a G string provided her with token modesty and a strapless bra pressed her breasts together to form a subtle cleavage. Fetters and shackles of black leather were padlocked to her, the riveted D rings between the paired buckled straps denying her any chance of getting free of the restraints. Her matching collar was in place and an identity disc proclaimed her as the property of Mistress Despoiler. The other side was marked with her name in deliberate lower case
slave lynn
.

Her long hair had been plaited and fixed with a white ribbon to leave it as a single stem down her back. Lynn was studying her rear in the mirror, examining the ten stern welts that ran in vertical streaks down the supple flesh. The pink hue of the spanking was still evident as the illustrations the cane had wrought darkened through shades towards their eventual purple.

“What are you doing, slave?” she asked, patting the lips of the crop into her bare palm.

Lynn turned around suddenly, her eyes rimmed with smudged dark shades from the tears that had spread her makeup. Caught by surprise, she dropped down and retrieved her bag of cosmetics. Quickly grabbing a sponge she began to tidy the corrupted and smudged lines.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” she stated with worry.

“That isn’t what I asked, slave. Now answer me,” she purred and stepped forward.

“You told me to redo my makeup, Mistress.”

Lynn let out a yelp and clapped a hand to her flank when the crop jumped in to smack her in reprisal.

“Don’t speak to be with the back of your head, slave!” she growled.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” she whimpered through clenched teeth, nursing the pulsating spot at her side. Pivoting on her knees, she shuffled around to face the Mistress before repeating herself.

“You told me to redo my makeup, Mistress.”

“You intend to put cosmetics on your rear?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Then you chose to ignore me, slave?”

“No, Mistress, I—”

“This is not a debate, slave. Either you did or you did not. What is your answer? Yes, or no?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good. Now bend over and take your correction, slave,” she stated firmly.

Clearly resigned to more discipline, Lynn arose and leant over. Taking hold of her stocking-sheathed and bound ankles, her fingers clenched tightly in readiness of the first stroke. Her identity tag dangled before her eyes, turning slowly upon its chain and winking in the candlelight.

The leather tongues of the crop touched her thighs and gently swept gently across to brush the insides.

“Legs apart, slave,” she commanded, nudging the flesh with her weapon.

With a shuffle, Lynn opened them and exposed the inner regions in full. She was worried about gaining new strokes to her already well-punished rear, but now was even more concerned that this most tender area was being opened to attack.

The crop swished in and clapped to her inner thigh, rocking the flesh with a fresh riot of heat. Lynn gasped and set free a long mewl of dismay at how stern the effects had proven. Panting swiftly, she strained to ride through the pain.

The crop attacked the other side, slapping to the skin and making her rise onto tiptoes while crushing her own ankles with a fierce fist. Gasping for breath, she let the stabbing effects dwindle back down to a residual pound.