SlavesofMistressDespoiler (10 page)

There was nothing he could do now. He was left floundering and immobile in the bath and feared what she might do with him in such a state. Had a precedent for acts of mock drowning been set? Was this her latest fad? After shoes and all things pink, after costumes and haughty elitism, was torture to be her next infatuation?

Reaching down, she used a scarf and tied it about his face to leave him with a restricted half view over the top. She tied it tight about his features, smothering his mouth and mashing his nose. She had folded it a number of times and it was a little difficult to conduct breath through the dense fabric. Already he was gaining terrified precognition into her scheme.

To his horror, she turned the shower on. A cascade of lukewarm water sprinkled from above and spattered across his body. He struggled against his imprisoning bonds, suddenly seeking flight, but he was totally without hope and could do nothing to defy her. She delighted in his squirming and he could not even deny her this, his panic and pains were too much to suppress.

Slender fingers closed about the shower and removed it from its fitting. The metal pipe lowered as she drew it down so that its rapid spray thundered beside his ear.

With a sadistic grin she perched herself on the edge of the bath and swung a leg in. The instep locked at his chin, the heel digging into one side of his jaw, the sole into the other. The sultry boot effectively pinned his head down, stopping him from trying to evade what he knew was coming.

“Please, don’t do this,” he implored. His words were true, but also the prospect of such intense domination tickled his libido. A brutal and merciless vinyl-clad dominatrix was tormenting him for her own joy, and this piqued his submissive delectation.

“What was that! Did I hear correctly?” she barked. Lynn shoved with her foot, the heel etching a short scratch into his skin.

“Mistress Lynn!” he shouted through the scarf, correcting his oversight. He yearned to feel the cold water attack him, for he could feel the initial stages of an erection.

“Please, spare me this, Mistress Lynn. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t torture me with this,” he asked with desperation, hoping to reach any part of her that might return the persona of their friendship. But he wanted to hear her deny him, to show that she would do anything she wanted and he could not hope to talk his way out.

Without care or compassion, she did not even detect his supplicating stare, nor the sobbing pleas spilling through the cloth. Entranced by her power, she placed the shower head over the material as he hid is quivering delight behind the mask.

“I can do anything I want, slave. And I want to do this. So shut up and do as you are told.”

He flew into panicked convulsions, the sense of drowning churning his lustful appetite. Throwing himself against his bonds, his muscles tensed. His veins and tendons were raised and pronounced. His fingers clawed to break free, but he could not even shuffle. The waters saturated the fabric in an instant, cutting off a path to air. His eyes rolled and flashed wildly to and fro, but she simply kept his head still with her boot into his jaw and watched him with a vicious glee. Luxuriating in the sight of his struggles and angst, she sighed softly, her eyes wide to capture every detail.

She continually kept the stream onto the scarf, stifling him, suffocating him with its flow as he sucked and strained at the material. He tried to find or craft the tiniest gap that he might exploit to discover air. Struggling wildly, he truly believed she was intent on pushing him into black out, until finally on the very verge of unconsciousness, a place where he teetered on the edge, she moved it aside.

Hauling at the cloth, he sucked and swallowed the moisture with all his ailing might. With his mind a twirling quagmire of maddened fervour, he finally dragged in a deep gasp. The breath was stained with residual moisture to have him sputtering uncontrollably, fighting his rope bonds, trying to get free.

“Please, no more, you’re going—” he began, and she applied the cluster of slender jets again.

Having lost valuable breath on his protests, he had a harder fight this time. Delivered closer to oblivion, he could only battle instinctively for what he knew he could not achieve.

She removed the showerhead and watched disdainfully as he sucked free the waters and accessed air once more, sating his need for it. His head was pounding with a volcanic ache from the ordeal, as was his lust. She was implacable and terrible, a gorgeous slender vixen that would not listen to even the most heartfelt pleas. He had a beautiful dominant woman to love him and control him and also a wild torturess to deliver him into the realms his partner would balk at as too dangerous or cruel. How had he come to such fortune?

Waiting until he had gathered a few good breaths, she slowly moved the jets over to let him draw a deep inhale in distraught preparation. It was no act of charity, but a concession to draw out his woe, to carry it further and let her trouble him for longer.

His face was flushed, his body burned from its rabid attempt to get free, and he was virtually senseless when she finally let the head move aside. It took all his flagging vitality to drag out the water and open access to precious air once more.

After long minutes of stricken wheezing he gathered enough life to speak.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he whimpered, her torture far more excessive than anything he would happily succumb to. But because it had taken him beyond his limits, subjected him to things he could not endure with a smile, he was all the more intensely pleased by it.

“Because I enjoy it,” she retorted lightly, and shifted the shower back over him.

He was again lost in icy folds, her boot still firmly lodged to his throat, denying him any opportunity to flick the scarf free or even find respite from her fixed flow of water. Once more he was delivered towards the dark recesses of a faint, his maw straining at the cloth, dragging out waters in the hope of finding access.

Guided further into the realms of torment, he rashly sucked at it, intent only on seeking air. His lungs reacted poorly to the influx and he hacked and retched, torn by derogation as she lifted the shower away. Spotting his genuine distress she removed the scarf. Hacking and ejecting the minute influx he had gained, he was numb in mind and body, rendered unable now to even speak.

Her heel and sole lifted from his jaw and she sat on the edge, studying his exhausted calamity for awhile and relishing every portion of it. The taste of power had awakened some twisted attitude of malice, and it was unbound and furious in its intensity.

There was no real passion for domination save as a tool to gain subjects to monstrously torment. Her mild mannered demeanour and quietness were flimsy veils that were shredded by opportunity to reveal a terrifying beast of self-gratification and vengeance.

Slim hands delved in and unfastened the ankle bonds, letting her unfurl his legs and tie the joints together.

“Out,” she commanded. Hauling at his collar she drew him to the edge.

He was only semi-aware of what was going on. His thoughts drifted through a stark mental fog, only vaguely attached by the most tenuous of threads to his awareness. With a push he landed harshly on the floor, ignorant of the pain because of his somnolent torpor. Flopping onto his side, his body was soaked. Trickles of water ran down his near naked frame and his hair was a sodden pile.

“Now crawl to the bedroom, slave,” she ordered, nudging him with a heel into his flank.

With arms still bound firmly behind his back and legs tied together, he could not escape or flee. The only path was to submit and pray for Mistress Despoiler to return and retake control of him, spare him the wild excesses of this fiend. Slithering with grim determination, the hope of his beloved owner returning to grant him a vision of her beauty was all he had to cling to and keep him going.

Nudging with jabs of her heel, she drove him like invertebrate cattle to the main room where a chair had been dragged out in readiness. He wept inwardly at the sight. The plain wooden furniture loomed over him as some deadly angel, ready to confine him and condemn him once more to her terrible abuses. He needed time to mull over her attack, to process the memory and turn it into a sweet and succulent engram. Another session of amercement was the last thing he needed, especially because his masochistic streak was thundering and wanted even more. In his current state he might end up damaging himself by goading her deliberately on into places his body was not able to follow.

“Please, Mistress Lynn, no more. I can’t take it,” he sobbed.

Stopping before the chair, he remained slack on the ground. He was unwilling even to meet the sight of this construct or the Mistress that had placed it here.

“Shut up, slave,” she snapped petulantly, and restored his energy with the brutal deliverance of the cane to his rear.

The connection was met with a yell and he struggled chaotically on the floor, unable to effectively nurse the weal she had granted him. The pain stoked the fires of his decadence, making them rise to new intensity.

Pausing, she stepped back, captivated by the unexpected spectacle she had crafted. The sight of his random dance within the cocoon brought a teasing grin to her lips. With an almost scientific sense of experimentation she checked the results again. A sobbing howl poured from his throat as he stiffened and broke into fits, each movement of his physique prematurely stopped by a winding rope. With enthralled frivolity she added another, striking with more potency to have him perform at her feet.

The rigors she applied drained his strength, plundering life and subduing his responses. The pain was in no way diminished, rather he simply lacked the energy to illustrate just how terrible it was. With her cultivated show brought to an early cancellation, she took a step back and bent the cane between fists.

“Get into that chair, slave,” she ordered, and then commenced a steady metronome beating of his legs and rear. The swipes were timed evenly every two seconds, leaving him to persevere to obey.

Dragging up his legs, he lifted his torso. Placing his chest to the front legs, another stroke caused him to momentarily delay when the stern effects of the cane crippled his attempts. With a fierce strain he kicked up and dropped himself to the seat with legs still bound and his arms trapped at his spine.

He flinched as she threw the cane up into the air, his form cowering before her. The sight made her smile stretch to broader degrees and reveal white lust-clenched teeth.

In his moments of quailing fright she stepped behind him, took his arms and lifted them over the back. A firm tug drew down and she used rope to affix them to the strut connecting the rear legs.

The same coil returned upwards, weaving around and through the spokes of the backrest. His arms were tied tightly to the structure to seal off every portion of movement.

When the laced bonds reached his shoulders they looped them and then ran a cross formation over his chest and around his waist. Putting her foot to the wooden back, the timbers creaked with complaint as she hauled with the rope, tightening her weave Squeezed to the furniture, each breath was made to strain against the firm bonds. The taut length reached under and with an impatient yank she pulled his shins between the front legs. Dragging them towards the back she flicked the rope through their rings. Snatching the slack, the limbs were craned up and held, his legs being imprisoned and elevated beneath him.

“Well. I trust my little lessons have taught you not to disobey me,” she stated. “
I
am the Mistress now.
I
am the one who owns you and controls you.”

Stepping out before him, she stood in a crooked posture. With one leg out she placed a hand on a hip and flaunted her freedom and vinyl skin. It was the lure that had trapped him so effectively and now attracted him like a flame to a cringing moth. No matter what she did, what wild acts of torment she unleashed, a mere tensed pose and view of her salacious vinyl-smothered curves was all he needed to reaffirm his desire to suffer for her amusement.

Brushing her hair back over her shoulders with a flick of her hand, she lowered her brow slightly. The furrows were an indication of import to her imminent demands.

“I want you to say something for me, slave. I want you to read aloud a brief text and I want it done believably,” she stated.

What could she be planning? His mind raced with a sudden catalogue of hastily projected possibilities. This had all begun so innocent of purpose before now. Whimsical brutality perpetrated on fleeting notions. Now he was in real danger. His fright was a gnawing aura about him chillier than the icy waters that had plagued his respiration. As always, the terror was devoured and used to fuel an illicit arousal. The fantasy of submission to a female tyrant cared not for danger or injury, in fact, the possibility only made it more real and thus forced him deeper into a pool of concupiscent masochism.

Lynn turned from the room and he stared at her departing form with consternation and desire. She swiftly retrieved a handheld tape recorder from her room, the pocket sized tape deck equipped with a microphone. She also bore a single sheet of paper.

“You will read your part into this,” she stated firmly, and then showed it to him.

Glancing across the text, his face went pale and his mind recoiled at the very notion.

“I’ll not read that, no fucking way, Lynn,” he spat, furious as to what she had revealed.