SlavesofMistressDespoiler (3 page)

“I still haven’t given you permission, slave,” she threatened.

Her smile was broad from his constant failings and her merciless punishment of them.

That someone who loved him so much could still be so pitiless when in the realms of their role-play was a mark of just how skilled she was at this. He felt even more delighted and privileged to be hers when she showed that when they were in their roles, there was to be no backing out or slipping character. She really was the Mistress and he was a true slave to her dominion.

“Just a little longer,” she offered with a whisper. This made his struggle to obey all the more fervent because the end was now in sight.

“Look up,” she ordered.

He did not respond. The acknowledging of her gaze was more than he wanted.

“That was not a request, slave. Unless you want more weights applied, I advise you to comply,” she hissed.

Her words caused his grimacing features to rise and regard her from the dark wells of the hood. At least he still felt a shred of sanctuary within the mask. It helped remove him from the consequences of his embarrassing subservience. With the mask it was not he who was doing these shameful things, rather it was
Porcupine
. That was an entirely different creature to the one he was in reality.

“Now, slave. Let go,” she finally granted.

Staring into his eyes, she beamed with amusement as he dropped his barriers and let the torrent descend. For a long period, she watched him as he was riven with the effects of her chastisements and torn by derogation at performing before her. She flushed the system after every major geyser and spots of cold water crossed his rear.

When the internal reservoir was lost, she started to extract her punishments and untie the bonds. The loss of the clamps had him spasm with shock. The lightning strike of returning feeling rocked his chest, causing him to strain himself against his restraints. His neck was given a slight throttle by his own war against the noose. Then his raw genitals were set loose and he was freed of confinement to the toilet seat.

“Now clean yourself up and come back into the bedroom,” she stated.

Leaving him to finish, she moved out and shut the door, restoring captivity while no doubt preparing new items for implementation.

The chain at his hands chimed and dragged against the porcelain as he worked. The tether was still in place but had been left unanchored. His groin ached from the attack and tinted rosy lines were still painted around the base of the flesh.

Once cleaned, he lifted himself from the toilet and shuffled meekly back with the leash dragging and flapping to his ankles. With some difficulty, he pulled up his briefs as he went.

He stepped into the room and bowed down before her. Settling onto his knees, his shaft was quickly straining against the latex just from the sight of her.

She removed the chain and conveyed it to his collar before clipping the handle to the wall.

“First, we’ll put a plug back in,” she declared.

Taking a step to the wall, she lifted one of the butt plugs from the range that was on offer. She had taken a medium sized one, declining the smaller and thankfully larger varieties that rose as a brief encyclopaedia of anal stoppage.

“Bend over, slave,” she ordered, and enforced her will by placing a foot to his shoulder blade. The heel dug in, forced him to fold at his middle and drape himself forward onto the floor.

Changing position for stability, Mistress Despoiler once more placed a boot onto him. This time it was to the small of his back as her latex sheathed digits lowered the seat of his briefs and exposed the opening she sought to seal.

It was a customary addition, and he relaxed his muscles to ease the entry because he was well apprised of the effects of opposition. Already lubricated, the rounded tip of the device gave way to the flaring cone that opened him wider and wider as she forced it in.

Loosened by giving route to the enema, his sphincter cleared the widest part of the cone. He groaned with debauched passion as it rode in and his rear closed to grip the thin stalk. The oval base prevented it from vanishing further in because his rear was a hungry maw that would have eagerly gulped it down had it the opportunity.

The soft brush of her gloves and the twist of the heel into his flesh preceded the rising of the underwear. Another soft slap connected with his rump and she wandered away.

The enema always served to purge not only his insides, but his resistance as well. It somehow flushed out rebellion, just as the hood and eternal plug served as constant reminders of his meek station.

Catching his impaired breath through the gag, he straightened up. Rising onto his knees, he was disappointed that he had grown accustomed to the scent of the thong and could no longer detect its aroma.

Mistress Despoiler gathered another short rope and closed in on his back. The groan of stretching latex as she settled behind him made his eyes roll back in rapture. It was a delightful melody, a banquet for his gluttonous senses.

His biceps were treated roughly and drawn tighter together. This forced his chest out as she applied her bondage with her usual severity. The forcefulness dissuaded any hint of resistance and encouraged his submission.

The use of rope was nothing new to him. Mistress Despoiler was an innovative creature of power that preferred the imaginative creativity of rope work to the simplicity of mere cuffs and shackles. It further strengthened her credentials as a superior. Her willingness to expend time and effort was a trait that was lacking in so many others that purported the same doctrine of feminine rule.

The sound of the leash being unfastened from the wall was joined by the all too familiar noise of the cane as it took premature slices at the air. The Mistress carved several trilling lines of preparation and then flexed the strut.

The slender bamboo weapon had been a bane throughout his willing slavery. Its signal was distinct and dreadful to his ears and he instantly cowered.

“Now, stay still, slave. You have to take your daily punishment,” she reported.

After catching his wrists with the leash, she drew in the slack of the chain and his arms were lifted up. Held together at elbow and wrist, she kept them elevated by her powerful hold. The pose denied interference to shield his rear, or to touch her as she ground a boot into the middle of his back and forced him down beneath her weight. His legs were folded beneath him and were trapped. The heel kept him anchored under her, denying an escape should his resolve falter, for to fight might well have the dagger puncture him.

Lifting the mordant stalk of stern reparation, the Mistress paused to let his concerns swell. With a sudden hack, she applied a searing line to his rear.

The latex briefs were a pathetically weak defence from the savagery of the weapon. He gave a jolt of response and a gurgling croak rushed into the gag, he broke into quivers, and the storm of pain rolled through his rear. It dissipated very slowly, as the distress lingered and make him shudder under her control.

The Mistress paused to let the effects fade completely so he might fully explore the entire chapter of her first stroke. It struck, again and burned into him, marking him with weals that would last for days. However, this was not the worst she could inflict upon him. This was mere daily chastisement that was designed to keep him in his place, reminding him of her power every time he sat down or bent over and irked the bruises.

He fought to endure, to obey, and to keep still while tears of suffering welled in his eyes and he pulled weakly against the tether on his wrists.

The Mistress took the root of the chain and held it to her knee for new strength and extra weight to her coercing heel. His hands grazed warm latex as his arms were stretched, and coupled with the penetrating stiletto it fed the beast of his perversion.

The other ten strokes were imparted steadily and each one made him squeal and squawk like an animal under her threatening shadow and stabbing heel. Each stroke was a hell of infernal sorrow and each time she let his struggles fully subside before continuing. She never let the lessons of pain intermingle and this ensured that each one was taught separately to his rear.

“There, my Porcupine. That’s all for now,” she decreed.

Stepping free, she stood in a tight posture beside him. The cane jutted from a fist of blackness while she let the chain coils fall to give him a hint of cursory freedom.

As usual, he turned and huddled at her feet, his hidden cheek pressed to her toes as he sobbed with bliss and harrowing. The leash still held his arms up, stopping him from nursing the injuries while also steering him into this act of subservience. It felt good to sob and cower before her. The whipping had left his heart racing and his mind awash with a glorious haze of exorcism.

“Now, let’s take these off for the moment. I want you presentable,” she said, and slipped the underwear from his face. After placing it on a shelf, she removed the leash.

“Lay yourself on the floor, face down. Don’t you dare look up without permission, Porcupine. Or you’ll
really
suffer.”

He obediently shuffled into the demanded pose. It was a difficult feat because of his bound arms, but he managed it. Staring into the floorboards, he gently touched his buttocks. The flesh was radiant with the imparted damage of the cane and still full to bursting with the effects.

He heard the door open and a new set of footfalls entered. His heart froze. No other parties had ever been introduced into their sessions. Mistress Despoiler had been toying with the notion of adding more slaves, especially ones she still had a desire to see under her heels, but this was another dominant. The bold rhythm of stilettos certified it.

“I have an assistant today, slave. One who will be applying punishment to that worthless carcass of yours. Can you guess who it is? Don’t look though, you’ll just have to continue dwelling on it for now,” she crooned, and the sound of clicking spires wandered behind him.

The cane swished down and struck him in the back of a thigh with far more severity than normal. The hand responsible was either being vindictive or was unsure of how much brawn to apply. With a muted wail, he started to convulse. His body was rigid and tense as he weathered the storm of pain. The ropes pained his arms from the sudden endeavours to try to snap the coils and get free.

It struck again and his muscles flicked as he strove to keep still. He was unwilling to disobey with this enigmatic dominant in the room, especially when they were in the process of punishing him.

Another three sharp blows clipped his thighs. The flesh rippled and he clenched his hands into fists as the ball gag distorted his croaks of pain. Strings of saliva seeped onto the ground beneath him along with the occasional droplet of mingled sweat and tears.

His bound arms could provide no help. The attacking of his thighs kept the strokes beyond his influence but he still stretched them down, trying to cover the regions that were being so nightmarishly targeted.

The back of the collar was caught by fingers and used as a reign to help him up. He brought his knees back under him and restored an upright but still humble pose. His legs trembled like saplings in a gale, every use of the muscles was making the welts burn with new potency

“Keep those eyes shut slave, I will unveil my surprise shortly,” she said.

He heard footsteps before and behind him. This disguised who was who as fingers played upon his mask and began removing the heavy sheath.

The loss made him nervous, for he was now exposed to the scrutiny of this stranger. He no longer had the blank features to hide behind and help commit him to obedience. Clearly, Mistress Despoiler was intending for this abasement. It was another little slice of disgrace that she knew he would equally love and dread.

After their liaison had begun, they had fallen in love and she had begun to enquire about his passion for S&M. Over the months that followed, she wormed more and more out of him, and finally she suggested that they try it. Since that fateful day, things had been steadily speeding up, becoming more intense, and he could not have been more pleased.

The hood came free and the gag was unbuckled. It was drawn from his dry lips to leave his senses free and the spit-soaked underwear was still wrapped around it.

“You may now look, slave,” came the soft command.

Opening his eyelids with wariness, he was astounded at who stood before him. It was their flatmate, Lynn.

Chapter Two

Lynn was a friend to both of them, one who had often expressed her affiliation for such role-play, but never indulged.

They had been friends for a long time now. They had attended parties, functions, and events of all description and size with varying degrees of success. They had gone through crumbling relationships, good times and bad, and they had always been there for each other.

He had found her attractive when they first met, virtually everyone did, but they would always be friends and that suited him fine. She had her flaws, as they all no doubt did, but things were right this way and were not for altering.

Besides, she had changed a lot since then. She had fallen from pristine grace, and it was not just because they had got to know each other’s foibles and quirks. His regard for her had been high in times past. She had been a sort of admired idol—calm, collected, full of life and vigour, ready to act without reservation or regret, her charisma a source of envy. She had faced dire problems and rode over them with a smile. She had been untouched by the world, immune to its harshness, but this had been violated since and she had been irrevocably disfigured.