The leash was set free and she drew him to the toilet. It was a brief passage across the landing, where four adjoining doors accessed the smaller rooms of their friend, the spare room, the bathroom, and his badly required destination. The banister protected from accidental passage onto the descending stairs that reached the kitchen, the front door, and the spacious living room.
The tiny box room served the facility with singular devotion. The inside was painted jet black so that it seemed to absorb the sparse light of the overhead bulb. In a sinister fashion, candles arose from malformed hillocks of wax across the back of the system and on the shelf that lay before the minute, frosted window.
He was dropped onto the seat after his owner had pulled the underwear down onto his thighs.
“Not yet, slave. Hold onto it,” she ordered.
The position he was in made it terribly difficult to deny the flow. She cupped his chin by grabbing the point with her jet fingers. Hoisting his gaze to meet hers, she loomed over him as a spectral angel of latex and erotic torment.
“Now slave, I will leave you to this and prepare the rest of my entertainment. I want it all ejected, and for you to clean yourself afterwards, understood?”
He nodded and she drew the back of her hand down his concealed cheek. The stroke elicited some squeaks of latex language and then she straightened the thong and fled.
The door closed and with a satisfied sigh, he let a forced jet of soiled waters thunder forth into the bowl. For long minutes he continued to expel the intestinal pool and when he was finally satisfied that all was gone, he started to clean his rear with awkwardness and flush away the douche.
With nothing else left to occupy his time, he sat upon the toilet. He was unable to easily access his groin and grant himself pleasure as he waited, but even if he could, to do so in his slightly deafened condition would prevent him hearing her approach. To be caught masturbating was a crime she was sure to punish most grievously.
The door opened without warning and he was thankful for having had willpower enough to deny the starved voice of his libido. The leash was caught upon his wrists and he was drawn out and back into the room where the steaming enema was already waiting.
Bent over again, the nozzle was threaded into him and the leash drew his arms up and out of reach of the intruding shaft. Her foot once more settled on his smothered head to subjugate him with her power as the flood poured into him. The water was extremely hot and caused added discomfort. With all major obstruction removed, it could flow further into him and reach new areas that it blighted with an uncomfortably warmth.
Croaking in his ordeal, he felt her apply more pressure to his head and the dense latex proved a feeble shelter.
“Keep quiet, slave,” she snapped, and the whip slammed to his wiggling rear to bring a throe of distress and shock.
Again it struck. Mistress Despoiler applied her punishment at random intervals, leaving longer gaps than usual as he fought to take the enema without complaint. The struggles and physical replies to the scourge caused the heel in his head to be an all the more painful companion, but one that he enjoyed too deeply to see depart.
The trial of the swelling pressure mounted. This time it was accentuated by her whip until, for a second time, the bag was fully drained.
Left with the hot reservoir burbling within him, he found it an uneasy presence that was far harder to abide than the first. This time however, when he was released, he was taken to the toilet and fastened to the porcelain.
His legs were parted and drawn back before being tied about the ‘U’ bend. Once he was splayed on the bowl, his briefs were drawn onto his thighs and the leash at his wrists was locked about the pipe to pull his arms down.
“Keep it in, slave,” she ordered firmly.
Forming a noose of rope, she fixed it about his throat and ensured that it was placed beneath the collar of his hood. She drew him down with the tether and tied it in place by his feet. This left him bent back and unable to straighten or move without squeezing his own throat.
Mistress Despoiler drew on a scented filter mask and stood before him. She was now protected from any noisome vapours by the perfumed cup across her nose and over her mouth and that meant she wanted to observe him.
“You will not allow any of it out until I say, or I will punish you most rigorously, slave,” she warned.
To be studied as he expelled the douche was more degrading than he would have assumed. It was harder to face the humiliating act than the holding back of the waters.
He should not have been so acutely embarrassed, after all, what shame was there in his slavery? Nevertheless, he was ashamed. His face burned under the hood, his eyes tried to avoid looking into hers, and instead they regarded her luscious body. The fight to hold the enema in was further increased by the wish not to perform so demeaning an act before her.
However, she was masked and intent on slashing his dignity with this deed, because it was what both of them wanted. She would revel in her personal destruction of his pride, and he in turn, despite his misgivings would come to relish this experience, putting the memory in a trophy case of debased acts.
Fighting to obey and to spare himself, the task grew ever more arduous. Small drips started to worm their way through his frantically clenched sphincter. The fall of every droplet echoed in the bowl and exposed his perfidy.
“I gave you an order, slave,” she growled with a subdued smirk.
She knew that he would fail. She was not going to grant him permission until he had.
Reaching to the shelf and its forest of gnarled waxen spires, she took up a set of pre-hidden clamps. A thin chain linked the pincers and their tips were sealed in small plastic hoods. The toys of suffering swiftly reached out and snagged his nipples.
He unleashed a deep croak as she tightened them by forcing up the small hoop that encircled their two arms. The Mistress then let them hang loose. The small metal chain was chill against his bare chest and gave delicate chimes with his shuddering answer to their companionship.
Again, she settled back and waited for him to fail her. He strained to hold on and wriggled on the bowl while his nipples throbbed. He found that any shuffle of his chest made the links sway and afflict the buds of trapped flesh with a little more havoc.
“I’ve warned you slave,” she reminded.
His chest rose and fell with his deep breaths while the clamps continued to extract new levels of discomfort. The pinch settled into more powerful tones and devolved an icy cramp to afflict the soft nuggets.
Another brief dribble defeated his barriers. As a penalty, an oval lead fishing weight was clipped to the connecting chain. Dragging down on the clamps, the burden accentuated their effects.
The added surge of pain caused another relapse. A squirt shot into the bowl and ripped at him with shame as he quivered under the strengthened bite of the clamps.
Retribution came in the form of gentle caresses. Her gloved hand stroked his shaft and encouraged it to leap up and stand proud. In the passing of pleasure came the application of a thin cord. The centre was fastened around the root of his genitals and after looping it around once, she then began to ferociously tighten it. The intimate cocoon made him squeak as the bonds were rolled around his scrotum, squeezing his balls, making the skin grow tight and erase every wrinkle with the collar she established at their base. A knot secured the web and the excess was flung over the lip of the toilet.
Another weight was added to drag over the edge and haul at the weave of cord. The strain on his loins made him shiver. The weighted clamps, the frustration of her touch, his bondage, and the fight to hold in the douche were too much. The chain bobbed and swung, and the genital weight clattered against the porcelain with a chaotic beat.
“I still haven’t given you permission, slave,” she threatened.
Her smile was broad from his constant failings and her merciless punishment of them.
That someone who loved him so much could still be so pitiless wh
en in the realms of their role-play was a mark of just how skilled she was at this. He felt even more delighted and privileged to be hers when she showed that when they were in their roles, there was to be no backing out or slipping character. She really was the Mistress and he was a true slave to her dominion.
“Just a little longer,” she offered with a whisper. This made his struggle to obey all the more fervent because the end was now in sight.
“Look up,” she ordered.
He did not respond. The acknowledging of her gaze was more than he wanted.
“That was not a request, slave. Unless you want more weights applied, I advise you to comply,” she hissed.
Her words caused his grimacing features to rise and regard her from the dark wells of the hood. At least he still felt a shred of sanctuary within the mask. It helped remove him from the consequences of his embarrassing subservience. With the mask it was not he who was doing these shameful things, rather it was Porcupine. That was an entirely different creature to the one he was in reality.
“Now, slave. Let go,” she finally granted.
Staring into his eyes, she beamed with amusement as he dropped his barriers and let the torrent descend. For a long period, she watched him as he was riven with the effects of her chastisements and torn by derogation at performing before her. She flushed the system after every major geyser and spots of cold water crossed his rear.
When the internal reservoir was lost, she started to extract her punishments and untie the bonds. The loss of the clamps had him spasm with shock. The lightning strike of returning feeling rocked his chest, causing him to strain himself against his restraints. His neck was given a slight throttle by his own war against the noose. Then his raw genitals were set loose and he was freed of confinement to the toilet seat.
“Now clean yourself up and come back into the bedroom,” she stated.
Leaving him to finish, she moved out and shut the door, restoring captivity while no doubt preparing new items for implementation.
The chain at his hands chimed and dragged against the porcelain as he worked. The tether was still in place but had been left unanchored. His groin ached from the attack and tinted rosy lines were still painted around the base of the flesh.
Once cleaned, he lifted himself from the toilet and shuffled meekly back with the leash dragging and flapping to his ankles. With some difficulty, he pulled up his briefs as he went.
He stepped into the room and bowed down before her. Settling onto his knees, his shaft was quickly straining against the latex just from the sight of her.
She removed the chain and conveyed it to his collar before clipping the handle to the wall.
“First, we’ll put a plug back in,” she declared.
Taking a step to the wall, she lifted one of the butt plugs from the range that was on offer. She had taken a medium sized one, declining the smaller and thankfully larger varieties that rose as a brief encyclopaedia of anal stoppage.
“Bend over, slave,” she ordered, and enforced her will by placing a foot to his shoulder blade. The heel dug in, forced him to fold at his middle and drape himself forward onto the floor.
Changing position for stability, Mistress Despoiler once more placed a boot onto him. This time it was to the small of his back as her latex sheathed digits lowered the seat of his briefs and exposed the opening she sought to seal.
It was a customary addition, and he relaxed his muscles to ease the entry because he was well apprised of the effects of opposition. Already lubricated, the rounded tip of the device gave way to the flaring cone that opened him wider and wider as she forced it in.
Loosened by giving route to the enema, his sphincter cleared the widest part of the cone. He groaned with debauched passion as it rode in and his rear closed to grip the thin stalk. The oval base prevented it from vanishing further in because his rear was a hungry maw that would have eagerly gulped it down had it the opportunity.
The soft brush of her gloves and the twist of the heel into his flesh preceded the rising of the underwear. Another soft slap connected with his rump and she wandered away.
The enema always served to purge not only his insides, but his resistance as well. It somehow flushed out rebellion, just as the hood and eternal plug served as constant reminders of his meek station.
Catching his impaired breath through the gag, he straightened up. Rising onto his knees, he was disappointed that he had grown accustomed to the scent of the thong and could no longer detect its aroma.
Mistress Despoiler gathered another short rope and closed in on his back. The groan of stretching latex as she settled behind him made his eyes roll back in rapture. It was a delightful melody, a banquet for his gluttonous senses.
His biceps were treated roughly and drawn tighter together. This forced his chest out as she applied her bondage with her usual severity. The forcefulness dissuaded any hint of resistance and encouraged his submission.
The use of rope was nothing new to him. Mistress Despoiler was an innovative creature of power that preferred the imaginative creativity of rope work to the simplicity of mere cuffs and shackles. It further strengthened her credentials as a superior. Her willingness to expend time and effort was a trait that was lacking in so many others that purported the same doctrine of feminine rule.
The sound of the leash being unfastened from the wall was joined by the all too familiar noise of the cane as it took premature slices at the air. The Mistress carved several trilling lines of preparation and then flexed the strut.
The slender bamboo weapon had been a bane throughout his willing slavery. Its signal was distinct and dreadful to his ears and he instantly cowered.
“Now, stay still, slave. You have to take your daily punishment,” she reported.
After catching his wrists with the leash, she drew in the slack of the chain and his arms were lifted up. Held together at elbow and wrist, she kept them elevated by her powerful hold. The pose denied interference to shield his rear, or to touch her as she ground a boot into the middle of his back and forced him down beneath her weight. His legs were folded beneath him and were trapped. The heel kept him anchored under her, denying an escape should his resolve falter, for to fight might well have the dagger puncture him.
Lifting the mordant stalk of stern reparation, the Mistress paused to let his concerns swell. With a sudden hack, she applied a searing line to his rear.
The latex briefs were a pathetically weak defence from the savagery of the weapon. He gave a jolt of response and a gurgling croak rushed into the gag, he broke into quivers, and the storm of pain rolled through his rear. It dissipated very slowly, as the distress lingered and make him shudder under her control.
The Mistress paused to let the effects fade completely so he might fully explore the entire chapter of her first stroke. It struck, again and burned into him, marking him with weals that would last for days. However, this was not the worst she could inflict upon him. This was mere daily chastisement that was designed to keep him in his place, reminding him of her power every time he sat down or bent over and irked the bruises.
He fought to endure, to obey, and to keep still while tears of suffering welled in his eyes and he pulled weakly against the tether on his wrists.
The Mistress took the root of the chain and held it to her knee for new strength and extra weight to her coercing heel. His hands grazed warm latex as his arms were stretched, and coupled with the penetrating stiletto it fed the beast of his perversion.
The other ten strokes were imparted steadily and each one made him squeal and squawk like an animal under her threatening shadow and stabbing heel. Each stroke was a hell of infernal sorrow and each time she let his struggles fully subside before continuing. She never let the lessons of pain intermingle and this ensured that each one was taught separately to his rear.
“There, my Porcupine. That’s all for now,” she decreed.
Stepping free, she stood in a tight posture beside him. The cane jutted from a fist of
blackness while she let the chain coils fall to give him a hint of cursory freedom.
As usual, he turned and huddled at her feet, his hidden cheek pressed to her toes as he sobbed with bliss and harrowing. The leash still held his arms up, stopping him from nursing the injuries while also steering him into this act of subservience. It felt good to sob and cower before her. The whipping had left his heart racing and his mind awash with a glorious haze of exorcism.
“Now, let’s take these off for the moment. I want you presentable,” she said, and slipped the underwear from his face. After placing it on a shelf, she removed the leash.
“Lay yourself on the floor, face down. Don’t you dare look up without permission, Porcupine. Or you’ll really suffer.”
He obediently shuffled into the demanded pose. It was a difficult feat because of his bound arms, but he managed it. Staring into the floorboards, he gently touched his buttocks. The flesh was radiant with the imparted damage of the cane and still full to bursting with the effects.
He heard the door open and a new set of footfalls entered. His heart froze. No other parties had ever been introduced into their sessions. Mistress Despoiler had been toying with the notion of adding more slaves, especially ones she still had a desire to see under her heels, but this was another dominant. The bold rhythm of stilettos certified it.
“I have an assistant today, slave. One who will be applying punishment to that worthless carcass of yours. Can you guess who it is? Don’t look though, you’ll just have to continue dwelling on it for now,” she crooned, and the sound of clicking spires wandered behind him.
The cane swished down and struck him in the back of a thigh with far more severity than normal. The hand responsible was either being vindictive or was unsure of how much brawn to apply. With a muted wail, he started to convulse. His body was rigid and tense as he weathered the storm of pain. The ropes pained his arms from the sudden endeavours to try to snap the coils and get free.
It struck again and his muscles flicked as he strove to keep still. He was unwilling to disobey with this enigmatic dominant in the room, especially when they were in the process of punishing him.
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