SlavesofMistressDespoiler (36 page)

His mind burned as she exacted her fury, whipping him with terrible power, her lithe form riding atop him like some mode of rubber bound surf board, one controlled and steered by the deluge of harsh crop strokes.

Tears flowed freely as he screamed, seeking only to evade this horror, and when she finally stopped and stepped from him, it was as though she had stolen his life. Her crop was a vampire, pillaging his vitality, leaving him a whimpering wreck, barely able to move.

The buckles of the gag were played, and she deflated the balloon before pulling the spit-saturated orb from his lips.

“Thank you, Mistress Lynn,” he muttered, the words burning his throat from having to show appreciation for her wanton havoc.

“Do you want more, slave?” she panted, her breath racing from the work out.

“No, Mistress Lynn,” he sputtered.

“You dislike my attention, you think it inadequate?”

“No, Mistress Lynn, I just don’t want you to over exert yourself.”

“You slimy little toad, you dare lie to me?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress Lynn.”

“Well sorry is not good enough. You insult me, after I dress up especially for you in my new attire?” she growled, placing a heel into his back and turning the dagger to make him shake.

“I didn’t mean to, Mistress Lynn, please forgive me.”

“Do you lust after me slave?” she asked.

He froze, unsure of what to say. If he agreed, she might punish him for such desire of her, deeming it a gross affront. But if he denied it, would she not deem this a similar slur, an insult to her beauty? Rather than offend his owner by acknowledging the beauty of another, he went with what was closest to the truth, for while she was a delightful sight, her malevolence countered it.

“No, Mistress Lynn, I would not wish to offend you with my base desires,” he offered, hoping his explanation make her rethink the obvious trap for him.

Using her heel as a guide, she turned him over, leaving him floundering on his back.

“So you think me ugly, repulsive?” she hissed, a flickering sneer rippling her lips.

“No, Mistress Lynn.”

“Well you can’t think me attractive, and yet repugnant, one of those is a lie, which is it?”

“I…I..please, Mistress Lynn, I find you attractive, but I don’t lust after you,” he blurted.

“Well I can see that I will have to teach you otherwise. I want you to desire me, I want you to hunger for me, because I want to starve you. I’ll make you lust for my body with all your heart, and you’ll never have it. Won’t that be amusing slave?”

He kept still beneath her as a heel settled back into his belly, her form towering over him. She could not successfully perform this, he was too in love with his owner.

“Now I know you think I can’t do this, but you forget…” she said, and removed a tape from behind her books.

“I have my own little indoctrination programmes. I’ll sneak in and surreptitiously replace this tape for the rules of your owner. This education will have you seething with desire for me, and I’ll parade this alluring form before your eyes, and never ever let you gain it. You’ll be gibbering at my heels just to kiss my behind,” she laughed with derision, replacing the tape until such time as it would send its words deep into his subconscious.

“So as a special treat, I’ll give you a quick precursor to such a prize.”

Settling down, she set her legs on either side of his body, and lowered her rear over his face. The naked behind, divided by a valley of deep set vinyl hovered over his features, promising to smother him.

“Ask to kiss me, slave,” she crooned, knowing he would have difficulty with the words, in the acknowledging of another. The only arousal here was the concept of being so effectively broken to another’s will.

The crop descended like lightning, sinking into his thigh, making him jolt his legs and strain his arms beneath his chest. She was going to beat him until he relented.

“Please, Mistress Lynn, may I kiss your rear,” he burbled.

“Say it again, slave.”

“Please, Mistress Lynn, please let me kiss your rear.”

“Tell me why?”

“Because you are so gorgeous, I just want to worship you, to kiss your rear.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“Your buttocks, your leotard, the—” he ended with a croak of suffering, her crop having cut off his words with its mordant gift.

“Tell me properly, let me know that you worship it.”

Swallowing for strength, he eroticised his words, developing them into a humble chant of adoration.

“I see the creamy cheeks of your rear, smooth and firm, hanging over me, the band of your leotard stretched tight between them, dividing the flesh, impermeable and divine, denying you to me.”

“Tell me what you want to do.”

“I want to kiss them, to adore them with my tongue, to have them smother me. I want them more than anything, but I know I can never have them because you rule me, Mistress. I can only worship you from afar.”

“Go on then, slave,” she beamed, her feet and shins clutching to his sides as he stretched his neck forward.

Watching from beneath, she lifted his goal, keeping it just out of reach as he strained to kiss the loitering flesh and end this misuse.

“Come on then, you can do better than that. If it means that much to you, you will succeed,” she purred, toying with him.

“Almost, slave, just a little closer,” she chuckled, the tendons of his neck pronounced, his muscles burning from the quest.

Lowering a little, she grazed the skin to his puckered lips and after this brief touch pulled away.

“Come on, slave, you can do it.”

The sight descended, and he was able to obey, kissing the rounded mounds, and lapping along the tight ribbon of gloss.

“There, good slave. Now lie back, Mistress Lynn has a special treat for you,” she uttered gravely, her words bloated with menace.

No sooner had his skull touched the carpet than her hindquarters dropped with meteoric force, settling onto his features. His nose was pressed into the cleft, his mouth smothered, leaving him looking up her arched back. His legs kicked and he struggled against her, suffocated by her rear, unable to squeeze even the minutest breath through the chinks.

His face burned with internal fires, his hands battling to get free from beneath him, his torso arched over the folded limbs. His legs kicked wildly, the heels scraping at the carpet.

The crop was lifted high over her head, behind her back, the overhead hack terrifying him, his eyes widening in horror. With a whistling purr it streaked down, the fulgent line filling his thigh, a rasp of air escaping her rear as his scream slipped the bonds of flesh, the vent closing before he could recapture any.

Again she coiled her limb back, letting him see the vicious weapon before it launched back down, installing terrible welts to his spasming legs.

The lack of oxygen made the world swim, his giddiness growing, his mind fogging with denial. When she lifted up, he wheezed his breaths in, recovering from the trial as she rose up and watched his travail with no small delight.

A yank to his collar drew him up onto weak heels, where he swayed as though he were a sheaf of wheat. Only her hand squeezing the inferno of a buttock brought him to more animation, gaining his attention in full with an explosion of bruised harrowing.

“Restore your uniform, slave,” she stated, wiping sweat from her brow, a satisfied glow tainting her features, her eyes sparkling, the trials of the working day banished by this act of intense affliction.

Gingerly lifting up his attire, he sobbed with dismay as the latex cradled the weals, the contusions responding to any touch with a vast increase in their pounding beat.

Ignoring this suffering, she pushed him to the wall, making him face it on his knees.

“You don’t deserve my new outfit, so I’ll get changed. Then later, I’ll make you worship it properly. Now don’t turn around slave, or I’ll really make you suffer,” she ordered, and the sounds of rustling gloss sheets sounded as she started to dress herself differently. Perhaps she was simply not accustomed to her heels and brazen exposure of the leotard, and was donning more comfortable and familiar garments for the rest of the evening.

He faced the wall, listening as she changed back into the corset and poppy skirt, her flat boots and gloves, a considerably less demanding set of vestments.

Taking up the leather hoop of the lead, she escorted him from her room and back to the hall. Showing him downstairs, her crop in one hand, the leash in the other, his rear continued to pulsate, the welts afflicting him most grievously.

Upon entering the living room, they found Mistress Despoiler already waiting.

A sealed carrier bag lay by her feet, filled with anonymous devices for his torment. She was in her latex dress, the corset bodice hauling at her divine curves, with opera gloves of satin, fishnet tights and her knee high boots. Her peaked cap was in place as always, and the cane sprouted fiercely from her tensed fist. On the couch beside her was the pot, and a small funnel, this sight making him despair above all others.

“Lay down here,” she demanded, jabbing a finger at her feet.

Led by his leash, he settled onto his back, gloved arms trapped beneath his body, the limbs still locked in their shackles. He shivered with fright at what was to come.

Mistress Despoiler stepped astride him, like a monolithic statue, imposing and magnificent. Lowering down, her folded legs trapped his bound biceps and squashed his ribs with her latex sheathed rear, her body rising over him, her eyes like wells of jet. His arms began to churn with their own discomfort from having to support his own torso and the form of his goddess, but there was nothing he could do.

“Trap the slave’s legs, will you Mistress Lynn?” she said without inflection, and he felt the villainess sit upon his rubber encased thighs, locking her own boots over his shins, fully immobilising him as he was crushed beneath the two dominatrixes.

“Mistress Su—” he began, seeking to petition clemency seeing as a reprieve was out of the question.

“Silence!” she barked, ending his words and leaving him mute as she pronounced her sentence.

“You disobeyed again, slave. After this, I will give you a more lingering punishment, but for now, you have a penalty to face.”

“Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he said gravely, resigned to the foul judgement he was to experience beneath them.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered, and as he obeyed, she slotted the funnel in. Removing the underwear, a peg to his nostrils held them shut, and her hand pushed to his chin, forcing his head back, keeping his teeth pressed to the intruding plastic nozzle.

When she lifted up the pot, his compliance wilted and he began to squirm, but it was already too late to retreat. Watching as though mesmerised, he saw her dark limb rise over the yawning funnel and hover, teasing him before she began to pour. The lumpy sludge cleared the lip and stretched down, dropping and sliding into his mouth. The salty tang made him instantly recoil and he fought to spit it out.

“Swallow it, slave!” she growled, and he let out a seething whimper as Mistress Lynn sunk her fist to his briefs, crushing his genitals in a potent hold, making him comply or suffer for his disobedience. With a revolted grimace he swallowed, and Mistress Despoiler continued to force feed him his own issue, dribbling the sludge slowly in, drawing out the ordeal as he spasmed wildly beneath the imprisoning females.

“I warned you about the consequences, slave. Yet you perpetrated the crime anyway. I thought this threat would be enough to make you comply, it seems I was wrong. Do you want this then? Do you actually ache to fill your little belly with a man’s seed? Perhaps my little session earlier today arose some latent homosexual craving? Have I a little cock sucking pantywaist as my slave?” she smiled, causing concern that she was speaking truthfully and not merely to intimidate.

“Well maybe I shall be generous, and get some more male slaves, let them sink themselves deep into you, sheath themselves into that complaining little maw. Would you like to milk my slaves, Porcupine?”

He closed his eyes in horror, the thought repelling him, especially with the taste of semen already creeping across his palate. He could not face this, it would be too demeaning, yet to be made to suffer it for his owner was tantalising.

The deed repelled him, but because it was so abhorrent, perhaps it would help dedicate him to her rule. Contradictory and extreme thoughts rolled around in his skull, but he wanted only to deny this, to dispute any homosexual leanings. As a child reviling such an accusation from teasing schoolmates he fervently refuted the accusation on instinct and knee jerk reaction.

She smiled and patted his cheek.

“Don’t worry, I’ll not make you confess it just yet, I know it must be embarrassing to admit your leanings in front of Mistress Lynn,” she stated, scorching his thoughts with the allegation.

The last fell in and she set aside the emptied vessel before drawing out the funnel and then folding her arms moodily across her chest. Mistress Lynn was keeping her hold firm and he continued to whimper softly in calamity.