SlavesofMistressDespoiler (32 page)

His fingers pawed uselessly at the web of thin strings, unable to access the high knots, his arms already starting to resound with echoes of nuisance from their pose.

A jug of water was gained, and the slim plastic nozzle held by his rear. A tug hauled free the plug and set it aside, and in its place came the hardened tube of the enema.

Twitching with the entry, he relaxed a little and closed his eyes softly when her heel touched his shoulder and pushed. Bending at his middle, he put his forehead to the ground, his back arched, his rear hovering in the air, ready to guzzle the deluge she would deliver. Through his splayed legs he could see her boots, a glimpse of mesh and swung pipe afforded to him before his belly cut off the sight.

The flood began to steadily pour through his tracts, gathering the few particles he had eaten, the loss of this meagre intake flushing him out easily. During the process of slow injection, he stared intently into her boots, letting his eyes feed themselves on her heels and the patent leather. The twinges of discomfort as his gluttonous belly was fed to satiety only seemed to add to his prurient appetites.

With a measured gait she stepped before him, holding the bag in one hand. Pressing one heel into his back, she left the other before his face.

“Lick them, slave,” she stated.

Without further need for permission, he adored the footwear, towing his moist tongue across the resilient fields of black patent leather as waters poured into his rear.

A crop flashed down and drew anger on his buttocks, making him jolt, the stiffening of his rear causing a sudden glut of water to stretch his tracts. Relaxing quickly, he let it drift deeper into him, the waters spreading out, eating away all space.

“Please, Mistress, it hurts,” he whined, the stress on his intestines increasing beyond his capacity to take in silence.

“It isn’t supposed to be pleasurable slave,” she commented, and added a stroke of particular venom to berate his words.

“But, Mistress, I don’t have anymore room,” he pleaded.

“Nonsense, there’s plenty of space, so stop whining.”

Again the crop struck, his belly choked with waters that were flexing their strength, straining against their imprisoning walls of flesh. The stabs of discomfort were rising into pain, making him whimper, assured that the douche would erupt forth as a geyser or rupture him if he did not act soon.

“Pleeease, Mistress, I can’t hold anymore, its going to spill out,” he implored.

“Then you will be licking up every drop, slave, so keep it in until I am done.”

The crop descended again, and finally the bag ran dry, cursing him with a struggling presence loitering within him, irked and seeking escape.

With the douche sloshing within his canals, she removed the nozzle and hung up the apparatus, ready for the next time.

Leaving him in this ideal pose, she delivered six harsh strokes of the crop across his bare rear. It made him struggle and writhe, the exercise agitating the waters within him, making it extremely taxing to hold back a spurt.

Left with his face pressed to the floor and flushed from his endurance, he heard the crop slip back onto its hook and she straightened his attire, sealing him back in. Should he release now, the briefs, leggings and skirt would serve to keep his internal ocean pressed to him, his uniform becoming a rank wetsuit.

“Sit up, slave,” she stated brusquely.

With a wince he complied, the use of his stomach muscles making the tension against the walls of his insides increase radically.

“Now read,” she hissed, and placed the copy of the rules before him, onto his lap.

Wetting his lips with a trembling tongue, the swell within him drifted back to push to his desperately tensed sphincter. Sealing his defences as best he could, he started to announce each rule, the words becoming more uneven with each passing line.

Mistress Despoiler stood over him, monitoring his oratory, making sure he was pronouncing each correctly, for they were her doctrines and were not to be trifled with.

Three times she made him read the entire document, his words strained and corrupted to the point of incoherence towards the end as he fought with all his might to hold back the distending river.

“You may expel the douche,” she permitted, opening the cords, letting his hands fall by his sides, still snared by the locked manacles, but unconnected and free.

Rising quickly, he started to make for the door, his heeled boots corrupting his passage, almost causing him to fall the moment he arose.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, slave,” she added with a light air.

He froze and turned back, lowering before her as she regarded the ceiling with an emphasised noble gaze.

“I’m sorry, Mistress Despoiler. Thank you for cleaning your humble slave, and for punishing him,” he said with clear but trembling words.

“That’s better. But I will not tolerate such disobedience of the rules for much longer, so you had best apply yourself to them.”

“Yes, Mistress Despoiler, I will endeavour to do better.”

“See that you do, slave,” she stated with asperity, dropping her stare to regard him with a venomous glare.

After being momentarily petrified by her fierce glower, he scuttled away and to the safety of the toilet, there to expel the soiled waters.

Yanking down his uniform, he sat alone in his cell, thinking over the situation. It could not have been more perfect. She was going to train him completely, erase his misgivings and turn him into a devoted and obedient hound for her pleasure. Together they would live the full fantasy of domination. How fortunate he was to be here.

As the last of the waters were spat free of his insides, he reached around and took up his solid length. He knew he was in danger of being discovered, but he was desperate, and so started to work the obstinate shaft with enthusiasm. Closing his eyes, leaning back, he gradually shuffled his hand, feeling himself growing ever more rigid in his own grasp. He filled his mind with dissolute thoughts of Mistress Despoiler, pledging himself to her through such an iniquitous act, despite it being a felony to her mastery of him.

The door suddenly flew open, revealing her standing there, eyes sparkling with a mixture of fury and excitement at having caught him in such a compromising act.

“Have you forgotten rules ten and eleven, slave?” she stated with a vituperative growl.

“No, Mistress Despoiler,” he said meekly, his hand dropping away as he quaked under her intense stare, his shame burning him from within.

“Then state them, slave!” she snapped.

“I…I…am the property of Mistress Despoiler, and I…”

“Pathetic lies!” she interrupted, and grabbed his ponytail, dragging his head back as she stepped astride his seated lap. Her torso rose over his face as he was bent back, his scalp stabbing with prickly sensation, her latex smoothed torso tickling his arched chest.

“Rule ten. I will ask the permission of Mistress Despoiler to satisfy any need I may have,” she reminded, and turned her hold, making him yelp.

“Rule eleven. My body and mind are the property of Mistress Despoiler.”

Again she turned her hold, and grabbed his chin, holding his mouth tightly shut as she stared close into his eyes. Her breath wafted onto his eyes through the vents in the mask, his terror immense at her ferociousness now that she had fully embraced her role.

“Did you ask permission?”

“No, Mistress Despoiler.”

“No, Mistress Despoiler,” she repeated with anger.

“Did you forget who owns you?”

“No, Mistress Despoiler.”

“No, Mistress Despoiler.”

A brief pause followed, and she condemned him with harsh words.

“So you recalled it, and disobeyed anyway. Do you not care, or do you no longer fear me or feel the need to obey me?” she asked over tightly pursed lips, her knuckles rolling, punishing his scalp.

“I couldn’t resist, Mistress Despoiler. I’m sorry,” he burbled.

With a shove of infuriated response, she moved from him, her hands turned into balled fists of rage.

“So you like to masturbate do you? Well I’ll teach you!” she hissed, and grabbed his collar, dragging him out and across the hall, snatching a thin crop on her way.

Opening the door to Mistress Lynn’s room, he was shown to the cupboard, his leggings and briefs still lowered, his skirt around his waist.

It was a sunken chamber in the wall beside the water heater, the wooden box around the tank forming the left hand wall. At the door to the sunken airing cupboard, she removed a key from her pocket, popped open the weighty padlock, and opened the interior, revealing that the small, cramped interior had been changed drastically.

The inside was lit by a low wattage bulb, and all the papers and boxes of junk that had been stored within had been removed. A heavy ring hung in the centre of the ceiling, and two were set on either side by the door frame, each with a set of leather restraints affixed to them, the heavy shackles adorned with locks of their own. In addition, a ring on the opposite wall clearly awaited the introduction of his collar.

“Get in,” she growled, and dropped a strip of fire across his thigh, the leg leaping up and balancing him precariously on one foot before he could restore a normal stance.

Clambering in, he dropped down and turned to face her, his eyes filled with fear at what she was intending.

Reaching in, Mistress Despoiler pushed his back to the far wall and locked his collar tightly to the awaiting circle of steel. With roughness she dragged his rubber bound legs out and sealed them to the fetters, spreading the limbs and leaving his groin blatantly open.

With her face possessed of a wicked glower, she hauled his briefs and leggings further down and left his penis hanging loose before her. Without warning Mistress Despoiler left for a moment, entering the dungeon and returning with objects which she immediately presented.

The first was a small stereo that she placed well out of reach and then switched on, leaving it playing the indoctrinating tape of rules to him, the words echoing through the Lilliputian prison.

The butt plug was jammed back into its sheath, bringing a throe from his form as his sphincter despised the return.

Placing a small pot with a screw top lid upon the floor between his split thighs, she took hold of the door and hung the rules and picture of herself on the interior hook, the portrait instantly stoking his desire.

“You will stay in here until you have filled that pot! If I detect one trace that you have contaminated it with anything other than your foul issue, I will make you drink it all before starting again,” she promised, and closed the door, plunging him into the soft twilight of the tiny cell.

Reaching down, he took up his loosed member, feeling himself growing in expectation of his relief. At last he had privacy to perform, and with the picture of his enslaver hovering before him, he could not help himself. Immediately he was bulging in his own grasp and lethargically shuffling his grip, squirming in his bonds and sweat slickened uniform, gripping the plug with his rear.

Staring at her contours, he could not refrain from his masturbation she had latched onto some secret portion of his psyche and was exploiting it fully. In moments he was shivering and gasping, milking his penis and sending spattering milky globules into the pot. After extracting all the bliss he could take, he settled into a stolid pose, limp as he wiped his penis on the container and then closed the lid to deny evaporation the chance to undo his work.

The bondage suddenly became more annoying, the loss of his pressing lusts having shrivelled his desire to be treated thus, and only the vision of his owner kept him willing to continue.

After a few minutes of recovery, he began again, the task of bringing himself back to erection being one considerably more difficult this time. He played with the plug a little, helping fan the fires of his greed. Fighting the rawness of his length, all the while her rules flowed through his ears and eyes, the heat of his latex uniform keeping him dizzy while it pressed to his own slick skin.

Grabbing the pot, he unscrewed the lid and gasped and groaned, shuffling in his bonds as he released a smaller measure into the jar, shuddering.

After this, he tried again once he had taken a short break, his penis now feeling sore, each session of enforced self-abuse chafing the flesh, making it harder and harder to extract any quantity of semen for her purpose. He considered spitting into the pot to speed his release, but he had no wish to be made to gulp down the contents should she discover it.

Would she make him do it anyway as further punishment? It was a treat to discover that she was capable of such a threat, that she would make him obey by presenting a consequence he could not face, that exceeded his limits. It was an expert sentence, because he had to strive to comply rather than face it, whereas if it was a lesser punishment, he might well succumb to his dark perversity and deliberately fail to gain the consequences such a failure brought. She was truly adept in her workings, that much was for sure, and heedless of the consequences he was hers forever, and there was to be no going back. The bridges that permitted retreat were already in flames.