SlavesofMistressDespoiler (19 page)

There was the angry flare of a match and she felt warmth touching her belly as another candle was ignited. The murky shadows about them retreated further with the close proximity of a new light.

The hand of the Mistress returned to caress her, soothing her anxiety as the candle started to gather a well of molten fluid to afflict her. Soft spatters suddenly landed on her thighs, each droplet giving up its benign moment of arrival to impart a hot burst into the skin. Lynn threw herself against her bonds, wringing her hands in distress as she battled to get free and away from the scorching rain being deposited on her. The pegs rattled like bones as they struck one another, her fight making them gnaw more effectively against the small meals they had each fixated to.

Trickles were dropped closer into her intimate regions and then onto her stomach. They filled her belly button and she thrust herself against her ropes, wheezing through her nose, the demands of the ordeal exceeding the air she could gain through the vents. Crying into her smothering gag, she screwed her eyes shut and placated her woe with the knowledge that she was suffering for the Mistress.

Her owner continued to plague her with the molten splatters, creating a hot crust that solidified and cracked with her flexing and thrashing skin.

After an eternity of this treatment it abruptly stopped. In its wake came a new terror. A pointed implement, a pin or something akin to a needle was used to remorselessly pick the wax from her. It scratched at her but never pierced the skin, just caused enough threatening havoc to make her whimper. Straining to keep absolutely still, the frightening and intimidating process of removal continued. The clearing of her inner thighs was by far the worst, the already sensitive skin made tenderer by the application of the wax.

The fingers of the Mistress brushed the last particles away and then she started to remove the pegs. Starting with Lynn’s arms each loss made her shudder. Each removal added to a swelling pain within her, increasing it steadily, carrying her towards her limits.

Her arms were cleared and then her thighs were attended. The mayhem in her freed flesh got stronger, causing her to dread the freedom of her breasts. While the pegs remained they were a baleful companion that made her assets resonate with suffering, but when they were freed the duress would be unbearable.

The last of the pegs coming away from her thighs had her squirming with new effort and desperate to get free. But even if she could, what would she do? The only way to be free of the pegs was to suffer their flight and it was either up to her or the Mistress to perform it. In comparison, she wanted it done by her owner.

The first loses to her breasts made her throw her jaw against the confining tape. The sticky strip kept her lips locked tight, the hose beyond now sodden with saliva.

More came away and she sought to throw her head from side to side, punishing her scalp with such a choice of response.

The process had her delirious on the chair. Squeaking, moaning and wishing to implore for mercy, she endured the rite until finally only those on her nipples remained.

“The last ones, slave. Are you ready?” she asked, turning the implements, rotating their prisoners to make them sing anew.

Lynn nodded and then flew to a rigid stance of attention. Her fingers splayed out as she screamed into her gag with her pain, the length of it riding onwards until she was almost out of breath.

Sagging with relief, the distress started to ebb and she gasped for breath. Sucking in a swift pant through her nose she spat it out just as quickly so she might snatch another. Hyperventilating, she slowly managed to place reigns on her breathing. Steadying it, she then moaned as the cords were taken from her and permitted a dull ragged ache to trickle in and revive a shadow of what the pegs had created.

The hands of the Mistress returned to comfort her anatomy, rubbing her breasts, massaging them and then her thighs. Trickling down they traced her skin and then pawed at the front of her underwear. Lynn sagged in her restraints, the delightful tickle sending flickers of bliss through her loins. It was more than ample compensation for the punishment her frame had sustained.

Feeling purged once more, the tape was drawn carefully back and the wet tights removed. Lynn’s eyes were still shut. Her awareness of her surroundings was negligible until she felt the tender lips of the Mistress brush hers and begin a deep kiss. With sloth she responded, savouring the feeling, her head held back and presented as an easy plate for the Mistress to accept. Their tongues flitted onto each other and Lynn sighed as her nipples were delicately tickled. The bruised points began to stiffen. Their capacity for pleasure had been increased by the sensitivity imposed by their abuse.

The Mistress removed herself from the coupling and began to set free her captive. The stretched limbs of Lynn were weak, her slender body unable to fully meet the demands her fight to get free had sought from her.

“You did very well, slave. Your Mistress is proud of you. Now, we shall get changed and then when our mutual slave comes down, we shall continue his education as though nothing has happened,” she purred. Kissing her servant on the cheek, she made Lynn smile with gladness and anticipation.

Chapter Eight

Clad in the hot folds of his rubber maid’s outfit and with his head sealed in the thick spine-flecked hood, he tottered into the room on his stiletto heels, ready to attend the wishes of those who were his rulers.

Mistress Despoiler was reclining in the armchair. Her legs were folded like a captious judge that was impatient to deliver sentence.

Moulded latex hot pants clung across her sultry abdomen and a matching strapless bra grabbed her chest within its sculpted latex hands. The slightest bulge of her nipple rings against the oval cups added vastly to the raised hint of their location. Her glorious breasts teased his eyes with their rounded perfection within the latex cradles.

Satin opera gloves spiralled up her arms, the fabric shimmering slightly in the soft light of the living room. A fishnet cat suit ran beneath all, flowing across her arms and torso, down her alluring legs into knee high boots. A single savage heel bobbed slightly in the air, like some lethal weapon that enticed while waiting to be deployed.

The brutally spiked wristbands and choker were again upon her. The black leather threw out cruel silver spikes and made her seem even more dangerous and fierce a creature.

She looked at him with a severe grin, her eyes bathed in caliginous folds from her militaristic cap, its black surfaces without decoration. The anonymous insignia rendered her a cruel general of her own regime and next to her lay her sadistic lieutenant.

Mistress Lynn was slouched along the couch. Her hair had been braided at the sides and captured with ribbons. A long-line gloss bra dropped under a red corset. The hourglass form hauled her in to meet its demands before exploding out at her hips as a PVC poppy dress. Suspenders reached down from under the vinyl curtain to snag fishnet stockings and then enter her knee high boots. The flat boots were akin to gloss DM’s, but they had a buckled strap across the very tops that hid the bow atop the ascending ladder of shin long lacing.

A pair of opera gloves the same style as those of his owner adorned her arms. The cane lay next to her, the regal bamboo sceptre waiting to strike.

Their attire seemed all the more meaningful because of the history that surrounded the various garments. They were no mere garments thrown on to serve to cover, each had its own little source or tale and he knew them all.

It somehow added a new depth to the exchange of power between them. A corset may just be that to others and nothing else, but to him, the one adorning Mistress Despoiler was a trophy acquired on a foray into the capital, on a shopping trip together. It was in a time when they had still been friends, still scared to tell each other about how they felt and not daring to hope that the other felt the same way. They had exploited the existence of a friend working in a fetish store and gained the attire for a substantial and illicit discount. When they examined their purchase on the way home, they had been surprised to find the gloves in the bag also. Their associate had secretly thrown them in as a freebie.. Her boots were a treasure gathered abroad. Purchased from the native lands of his owner, ordered and tried on. It had been the first time he had seen her prancing in stilettos. The sight had made his heart melt.

Mistress Lynn could similarly be a source of memorabilia. Her corset had been made by hand, worn on a dressed up shopping spree for the birthday of a close friend. The boots were a controversial present from the boyfriend she was still not fully over, and probably never would be. The poppy skirt was a leftover from his own first relationship. Bought by him for the half-hearted dominatrix personality of his partner, and then handed to Lynn when more banal carnal matters proved a greater diversion than algolagnic vice. Lynn had known of the deviance in this initial relationship. His partner had bragged of it to impress but had allocated her experiences to former partners and thereby hiding his submission. He himself had informed Lynn differently years later when she moved into this abode and together with Mistress Despoiler they had chatted about such pursuits during pleasant evenings of music and wine.

His long time friend had changed much of the years. But that was as nothing compared to this latest metamorphosis. In the last few days since Mistress Despoiler had invited her to enter their partnership of S&M, she had become a vicious harridan, zealously inflicting the most lethal havoc on him for her own capricious amusement.

“Ah, there you are,” said Mistress Despoiler. Her tone was like that of a cat with a new toy to maliciously torment for her amusement.

“Yeah, slave, what have you been doing up there?” implied Mistress Lynn with a wide smile.

“Getting ready, Mistress,” he uttered softly under his breath, feeling ashamed and thrilled at being examined.

“Well, don’t just stand there, get me a vodka and coke,” succinctly ordered Mistress Lynn.

“Make that two, slave,” added his owner, smiling at him at his response to her blatant commanding of him. She could see his resentment and loved it, and that alone made it endurable. But she seemed to be pushing him, gradually increasing his ordeals all the time, letting Mistress Lynn be as harsh as she wished. Was she preparing him for something? And if so, what could it be? What could warrant the complete eradication of their ordinary relationship and the devoting of him in full and fanatic verve to his lot as her fawning, adoring slave?

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied. With humble step he marched towards the kitchen, only to be halted by the voice of his owner.

“Come here first though, slave.”

Turning on his heels he strode back before her, his breath hissing in the mask as he looked upon her, curled beneath his gaze. She was as seductive and gorgeous as ever and he was utterly obsessed with her. She was all he had ever needed and all he had ever wanted. It was no hollow submissive declaration that he would do anything for her. She was the first person in his life he had ever loved, and the only person he would ever give that life for, without compunction or pause.

“Lift the back of your skirt,” she stated with mirth. As he obeyed, his eyes locked to hers and the two of them communicated their allegiance to one another through this unspoken pledge.

There was soft whistle of air under speeding passage and a line of fierce heat was torn into his rear. Mistress Lynn had used the cane to thrash into him and the latex leggings and briefs beneath did nothing to absorb the impetus. The material let the full effects pour through seemingly unchecked. Jolting upright, he let out a stifled cry and dropped to the floor, cradling his throbbing rear, water welling in his eyes from the rigor of the stroke.

“Do you know what that was for?” she asked.

“No, Mistress Despoiler,” he snivelled.

The cane struck again, sweeping round and eating a trench into his flank. Like some severed tree he collapsed onto his side, convulsing on the ground and beset by havoc.

“Guess,” his owner offered.

“I…I…I took too long, Mistress Despoiler?” he stammered.

With a hearty thwack the cane tore at him, signalling his error. He heard a small giggle curl in Mistress Lynn’s throat.

“Try again.”

Pondering with speed, he tried to figure out what he had done wrong. Had they detected his sly masturbation in the shower, maybe the removal of the butt plug? No, he would be undergoing far worse should such a felony have been discovered. It had to be an oversight. With speed he thought on his appearance. The thick leather collar still encircled his throat, his identification tag dangling from its padlocked front. The latex dress, opera gloves, leggings and briefs cocooned him within their friendly and sweltering folds. Ankle boots were laced in place and the butt plug was still stopping up his anus. Suddenly he realised his oversight. It was a moment too late as the cane again greeted him to hurry his deliberations or jog his memory. Once he had recovered from the rigid, shuddering ball it turned him into he managed to speak.

“I forgot the apron, Mistress.”

“You forgot the apron,” she certified. “Now you’ll have to be punished. Shall we say three strokes, Mistress Lynn?”

“I think that such deliberate sloth needs a dozen, at least, Mistress Despoiler,” she offered, eager to vent her sadistic streak. Such a sentence made his eyes widen and his skin grow cold as he pictured having to keep himself still to accept so many of Mistress Lynn’s callous swipes.