SlavesofMistressDespoiler (31 page)

“Thank you, Mistress Despoiler, thank you,” he mumbled, his obsessive gratitude continuing to coat her rear with kisses and long sweeps as he brushed his lips across the net. The smell of her body in the woven tights, it had a distinct and potent aroma, one that lodged hooks into his mind and reeled him in, drowning him in hedonistic fulfilment.

“Good Porcupine,” she whispered, reaching back and letting her smoothed fingers glide across his polished hood. Meandering through the forest of stubby spines, she stroked his wild mane and with slight pressure guided his face back into the cleft. Drinking in the aromas and the feeling of such complete defeat, he was held there for a long period, his eyes closed, his lips to the latex.

“Now bend over.”

Moving from the source of his adoration, he folded over, his rump hanging in the air, ready for her attention. He was expecting a flogging, but instead the bright snap of latex gloves falling into place rang out through the undecided silence.

The soft murmur of her outfit stretching upon her reached his ears, and fingertips drew down the back of his leggings, brushing his sore rear.

The rounded tips pushed to the exposed fleshy aperture and entered, opening the orifice and sliding in. The fingers retreated and gathered the others, Mistress Despoiler bunching her digits and demanding entry.

Her knuckles were almost cleared as he groaned aloud, the sound of his pain making her retreat a little, to grant a reprieve as she massaged her hand into the hole, making him more accommodating to her wishes.

The next dive almost succeeded, reaching the four mounts of her knuckles before his whinnying sob prompted a retreat. Another few minutes of relentless massage followed, the hand reaching in to the same point and retreating early, making him more amiable to her work, his hands pressed to the floor as he bucked and strained under her probing extremity. The feel of the acute penetration, of being opened so massively, the pain of it, the pleasure. Contradictory sensations and cries from his mind, body and libido left him in baffled turmoil, and all he could do was shake and lose himself to the deflowering fist.

With a slow, relentless plunge, she succeeded, her hand gliding in, clearing the widest point. With his drawn moan he felt his rear shrivel and grip to her wrist, the feeling of completion putting a shaking smile to his masked lips.

He almost felt proud at having triumphed in housing her hand, of having accepted her in full, proved himself a capable slave to her desires. Such a feat had been tried before, but had never succeeded. His trainee anus was still virginal to the much sought after full entrance of his Mistress’ hand. He had craved it like a badge, a mark of honour for himself, so he might know that he had succeeded after their long attempts to try and overcome this barrier.

The acts they perpetrated together were a resume of perversion. Previous experience was a much-desired commodity in the market of sexual deviance that was sadomasochism. It made them both feel more expert and distant from the amateur dabblers, to know they had a full and impressive list of deeds performed, of chapters in the encyclopaedia of depravity covered and enacted. To know that they had done these deeds, it assured them that they were not mere deluded fools tinkering with things they could not understand and had no business toying with, it affirmed them as true believers, their credentials undeniable.

“What’s this?” she quizzed with surprise.

Flexing his body, his head swayed from side to side. He could feel her rummaging within him, using him as though he were a storage compartment and she was in a hurry to find a lost article in his depths.

The inserted hand wriggled within him, and she drew back, opening his sphincter once more, the passage easier this time, but still painful to weather.

The tights had stretched into him like a tentacle, having been drawn out by the play of his confused innards. They dragged at him and he cried out, his hands clenching into fists, his head craning back as he growled over rigid teeth. Her hand stretched him open again, and the hose began to emerge.

“My tights?” she wondered, and with a chuckle of amusement set them aside, the nylons soaked with gelatinous globules from his purged tracts.

“What other buried treasures are there in here I wonder?” she asked of herself, and her hand snaked back into him, hunting and probing as he shook and groaned with distress.

The mission of exploration brought him to grizzling fits, the thrust of her arm into his abdomen, impaling him, the burn to his tracts and orifice, it was all too much to bear. The sheer level of pleasure and pain were tearing through his mind, the notion that he was being internally pillaged for his secrets one that saturated his mind with a wicked appreciation.

“Aha, something else? I wonder what it could be? Oh, I do like surprises!” she said with mirth.

The thong was finally removed from him, his hand pummelling the ground in endurance of the withdrawal of a forearm and fist.

She was touching a virgin region, a place no one had ever been before, it was a marvellous concept that she was the pioneer of his most private domain.

“These are not mine. Has my lucky dip being stashing things away where he hoped I would not find them?”

“No Mistress Despoiler. Mistress Lynn inserted them,” he protested, hoping to convince her that it was no obsessive stealing of her assistant’s intimate garments, but a punishment she had visited upon him.

“You did not steal them?” she said with stern tones, and hooked a finger into his rear, lifting up and hauling at the tender opening.

“No, Mistress Despoiler, I swear it!”

The finger let go and he sagged slightly, his energy dwindling from this invasion of his insides.

He let out a croak of pain as the plug was slammed back into place, slapping a fist to the floor thrice, the shock ripping at him, riding up his spine in galloping packs.

“Now get back to work,” she demanded, dropping the garments in the sink for him to clean, prior to their entry into the laundry.

Rising up, her heels clicked upon the tiles with metronome precision and were then muted by the rugs when she entered the living room.

A moment of quiet held rule, and he knew for certain she had left him to continue from where he was before the ambush and slam of her dildo into his rear.

It had been a astonishing encounter, and with a sore body and burning rear he restored his uniform and set back to work with a grin, rolling the treasured memory through his mind like a diamond being examined in the sunlight.

Once the last of the cutlery had been washed and set aside to drain dry, he shuffled back into the living room and knelt beside her. The leash was once more clipped to his collar and he sat in silence, a piece of her property waiting to be called upon.

“I have some reading to do, slave, and you will be my seat,” she declared, and lifted from the soft folds of the chair, moving to the floor where she stood and awaited his arrival.

Already familiar with this caste, he laid down, facing away from the dark leather couch. Folding his legs up, his thighs proved to be the backrest, his shins propping them up, the heels digging into the rug. Mistress Despoiler set her legs astride his torso and lowered. The image of her from below, the worm’s eye view presenting the latex crotch of her garments, descending to pin him down, it was a sight that lodged in his mind and remained imprinted across his eyelids whenever he closed them.

With graceful movements, she settled into position, squashing him beneath her as she leaned back and stretched, the latex murmuring with teasing glee.

With her legs folded at her sides, his arms were also trapped to his ribs, immobilising him within a press of fishnet-painted flesh.

Lifting a book, she diverted her attention from her subject and started to read, her slave breathing heavily as he sought to accustom to his lot.

After only a few minutes she decided to straighten her legs, and her mesh patterned limbs settled across his face, making him swell within his briefs at the mere sight of such magnificent splendour.

When they settled across his face, he drank of their splendid scent, fighting the urge to lick at them. In such captivity he had to draw his breath through the canyons of folded, exquisite legs and his own helmet and underwear hampered nostrils.

A gloved hand reached around behind her, weaving in and closing about his groin where it chose to squeeze on some random impulse. He whimpered slightly, the pressure increasing as she rolled her knuckles to send flutters of nausea through his stomach, the effects brought about by the brutality being visited upon his groin. Caressing them with a heavy hand, she listened to his groans as she read from the novel, stopping only to turn the pages. With her grip she was playing him like an instrument, the compression forcing out his notes of woe.

The pressure upon his genitalia eased slightly, but he knew that it was only fuelling a more potent suffering prior to her departure from him. The sudden flight of the burden of her glorious form would be a painful jolt that he dreaded.

Without his knowledge a set of clover clamps were taken and snaked towards his nipples, circling the flesh like sharks, readying to bite. When they touched him with their padded and tightly sprung maws, it took a few moments to discern what they were, especially through the latex of his dress. Then he winced and trembled, fighting to accustom to the effects they were creating from the instant nipped into the soft buds that were their sole prey.

The dress was no shield from the effects, and the pain seeped through as though the black sweltering shell were the most flimsy of silks. Breathing with severity against her legs, the pain ebbed to a more tolerable beat, and with eyes gazing into the sea of fishnet and flesh above him he remained still and quiet for her.

For ages the silvery clamps were his sole source of attention, their affliction keeping his awareness as he prayed for her to remove them. Scowling within the secret confines of his hood, he endured them with only minor grumbles, his erection still rigid against the leggings. To be aroused by something that tormented him so, it was a strange discrepancy in his psyche. It made little sense, but then again, he did not need it to, all he had to do was surrender himself to that which he enjoyed.

The slim fingers of his oppressor closed to the clamps and turned and pulled at them a few times, banishing any levity to the pain in the flesh. The links that connected them were used as a reign for long minutes, Mistress Despoiler tugging and pulling at them, steering her steed through a forest of suffering, the drag making the infernal teeth of the implements bite all the more rigidly.

Removing them simultaneously, a harrowing blast of pain poured through the soft tissues, making him cry through clenched teeth, his eyes screwed shut as he sought to ride out the brief spike of mayhem.

The Mistress sighed contentedly at the fruits of her pastime, and reached back to knead his groin, the gauge of his libido testifying that despite his groans, he was finding this as pleasurable as she.

The fishnet view shifted aside, opening his gloom-accustomed eyes to the light of the afternoon, and squinting, he felt his stress increase as she readied to get off her living chair. The weight of his hallowed tyrant arose, and he groaned afresh, the pounding ache that sifted through his chest making him fight for breath. It felt as though he were undergoing some sort of depressurization, his innards ready to erupt through his bruised ribs.

“Did Mistress Lynn clean you out, slave?” she asked, towering over him, her shadow across his face as he blinked and regarded her silhouette.

“No, Mistress Despoiler.”

“I thought not. Well, we had best attend this hadn’t we? I have to keep my Porcupine spotlessly clean both inside and out.”

“Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he mumbled.

Rolling onto his front, he lifted himself with effort onto hands and knees to accept his leash.

“What was that, slave?”

He repeated his words with more distinction, making his acknowledgement of her power over him clear as the rules required of him.

Taking him by this chain, he was restored to a wavering stance on his heels and she took him back to the dungeon room, where all was still arrayed and would be ever more. No more hiding their actions. The only other person who could feasibly discover such arsenals of illicit vice was now a part their use, and the situation was deemed never to end.

It was now a permanent state of affairs between them. Would Mistress Lynn have the stamina to stay in her part? Would she tire of it? She was a frivolous creature at best, would her infatuation with deeds of sadomasochism fade now that they had been acted upon, the fantasy nowhere near as sweet once removed from fantasy. For that matter, would the same apply to him? He had dreamed of permanent enslavement, eager to give up all to complete his existence as her slave, but now that it was real, could he handle it? Had it lost its appeal now that it had entered the harsh and uncaring glare of reality as opposed to the warm fuzzy glow of fantasy?

“On your knees, slave,” she demanded, having him fold before her so she might padlock leather shackles to his wrists.

With the bonds set steadfast, she folded them up his spine, utilising cord to catch the rear D ring of his collar, trapping his limbs and denying interference with the enema.