“Do you still want these?” she asked, holding the spit-sodden underwear before him. The material was alive with glints of light upon the moisture.
“Yes, Mistress Lynn,” he replied, hoping to gain them as a trophy, a memento of this bizarre confrontation between them. Besides, to spurn such a present was to belittle it and she would assuredly apply further havoc to him for such an insult.
With a smirk she looked over his uniform, looking for something and not revealing her goal until she had paced around his entire humbled form. He watched her with eyes lowered, intently regarding her in his periphery vision, listening to the purr of the vinyl and the clack of the heels. Her eyes were like spears that drove into him with conquering points.
“You have no pockets,” she said for her own benefit.
Painted talons touched his shoulder and slid along towards his spine. The claws that hid beneath the lycra caused him to shiver and goose-bumps to rise as they brushed the tiny hairs beneath the cascade of his mane. Pushing the back of his neck, she dropped him onto all fours, his hands flashing out to serve as struts, the latex flexing itself across him with the movements.
“Oh well, I guess I’ll have to make do,” she added, the words introducing a muggy concern to his thoughts.
Hooked fingers took the skirt and raised it, the latex curtain exposing his briefs before they to were taken down.
“Push out the plug, slave,” she ordered, tapping at the moulded base of this most recurring of fixtures to his person.
He clenched his hands into fists and started to strain, throwing the beleaguered muscles into activity. Having his contused rear subjected to new use so soon after the battering it had taken was not easy to endure, but he overrode his disobedience and continued to squeeze.
The sphincter uttered choruses of lambent discomfort. It was bruised and disdainful of being taxed so heavily. The plug was difficult to excrete, and his face reddened to a scarlet hue with his battle. The fighting of the flared base was a near lost cause but with a final hissing choke he managed to expel the device. Mistress Lynn snatched it before it fell to the floor and his orifice pounded with new and distinct heat.
In place of the conical barrier, the thong was rudely introduced. The Mistress crammed it in and then used the butt plug as a ram, stopping up the orifice and preventing him from ejecting it. He whimpered in sharp notes as she filled him. The material scratched as her fingers stabbed. The maltreatment was difficult to withstand in silence.
Dragging up the briefs and pulling down the skirt, she wandered before him. His arms shook with the strain of the stuffing he had sustained. Through haze-corrupted vision, he looked into her thigh boots, feeling even more humbled than before and helpless before her wrath and cryptic fancies.
“There, it’s all yours, slave. Safe and secure in that foul hole,” she crooned, her voice laden with an ominous edge.
Taking the spine-covered hood she forced it down over his face with painful harshness. His limbs wobbled as they sought to keep him steady.
Dragging his hair out, she let it fall free and put her knee to the base of his neck so she might more easily yank the laces tight and squeeze his head in the grip of the mask. Wheezing through the vents, he watched dejectedly as she finished and then stepped aside.
There was a hiss of air and the whip struck his thigh, encouraging a howl. He dropped heavily to the floor, clutching the colony of infernal heat it had established.
“Kiss,” she asserted tersely.
Looking up, he saw her rotate on her heels and stretch the whip through her gloved hands as she pressed her sublime legs together. Letting her gaze keep aside and from his lowly form, she clearly indicated with a sudden clench that which he was to give homage to.
Crawling over with determination against his residual exhaustion, he rose up and placed a single peck to each vinyl mound.
“Now get into my room, slave. You have some tidying up to do,” she barked. Striding aside she hacked into him again, the second welt just as ferocious as the first.
With spry steps he lurched into her room, ambulating because of the heels. It took him a few minutes to reacquaint himself with their demands and the techniques of their company. He dropped to the carpet, snivelling in wretched apathy, still nursing the wicked mark she had laid upon him.
Sauntering past with regal stride, the whip was coiled in her hands as a warning. Turning on her heels, she sat down on the bed.
“Now, you will do as I say…slave,” she purred, leaning leisurely back.
With idle severity she began to issue her commands. She made him clear up the loosed garments and hang them meticulously. Lynn regularly applied the whip either arbitrarily or to berate him physically from some tiny flaw in his chores.
Once the clothes were back, he had to straighten her books and tapes, then arrange her possessions, and then use the hand brush to sweep her carpet. The toil was hard because she demanded a swift speed. Lynn enforced such haste with the mordant kisses of the whip while she lounged in comfort, watching him struggle to meet her requirements. Her face was a veritable mask of wanton glee and hedonistic relish. She had clearly taken to her role with absolute joy and was savouring every second of her dominance.
“Now make the bed, slave,” she snapped, applying the weapon and making him jolt into action. She vacated the bed and he quickly shook the blankets, tucked them in and then arranged the quilt. The soft scent of her was distinct within the covers and teased his mind with the image of her naked female form within them.
With her room presented as she wished it, a leash was snapped to his collar and with an air of glory in her stride, Lynn led him out. Taken downstairs, he was now reacquainted enough with his heels to negotiate the steps without error and was towed into the living room.
The large rectangular room was painted a smothering black, with thick rugs covering strategic places of the bare floor. The windows exposed the late afternoon light, the lowering sun still fighting against a wall of loitering grey clouds, their bellies pregnant with rain that they were still unsure whether to discharge or not. The entrance lay near the corner in one of the longer sides and the windows filled the wall furthest to the left.
Across the wall to the right, next to the door, was a tereo ystem, shelves of videos, music and memorabilia. Pictures of the three of them, dressed to excess for clubs were set neatly amongst trinkets, with toys, a bleached pig skull, and numerous bottles with candles screwed into them.
Halfway across on the left was the television and video, a cluster of candles upon bottles and a replica human skull arrayed atop the television along with the cable box. A dark leather armchair sat in the corner beyond, and next to the window on the other side was a matching one. Both of them were set at an angle to block off the corners that flanked the windows, each keeping the open curtains held back.
A long couch flowed along the wall opposite the television, presenting itself for easy viewing, the black leather worn in places from extensive use. A small gloss black cabinet next to it supported the phone and a plethora of directories and numbers, many scrawled on the back of flyers and night-club adverts.
The three of them had conducted so many mundane evenings together in this very room. To think that at some future point he would be controlled thus, fearing her designs for his fate, her discarded underwear deserted deep in the routes of his innards. It was incredulous to say the least.
Settling into the long soft comfort of the dark couch, she laid back.
“Turn it on, slave,” she commanded, totally relaxing into the leather. The leash was long enough to have him cross the space without escaping her reign upon him.
“Turn it up,” she added, controlling his actions from afar with her words, turning him into a living remote control.
“That’s it. Now, I want everything cleaned, slave. Spotless. Or you’ll suffer for it,” she announced boldly.
Towing him in with stern pulls she brought him down onto his knees. Gripping the firs
t links of the chain she took a moment to regard him and after slapping him on either cheek to reassure herself that he would not retaliate or even complain she set free the lead.
“Well? Get to it you miserable excuse for a slave,” she hissed as she shoved him away. He dropped back and cushioned his fall with his hands. Before he could rise, Lynn flung the whip out. The weapon caught his rear with a thunderclap that caused him to jolt upright and skip from the room, clutching the flaming illustration of her regime.
Commencing his chores with reckless speed, he handled the washing up, swept the floors, mopped them, and then started the vacuuming. Clearing up, he tidied the house and then started to clean the base of the walls, the skirting boards and bath, the sinks and other places where daily activity caused the accumulation of grime. It was a long period of time where he spent it thinking on his destiny, fantasising about what had been done to him.
Occasionally he exploited the chance to draw his stiff member free and treat himself to a few moments of delicious strokes. He was forced to deny himself orgasm in case it betrayed his actions or he was discovered. It was a pleasing diversion but one that only fleetingly eased his tension, banishing it for the moment and fuelling a greater and long term frustration.
Thankfully, Mistress Despoiler had not yet invested in a chastity belt, so he was granted a much-needed freedom. It was a little nugget of illicit activity, a portion of naughtiness against her desired rule over him. To covertly steal such pleasure and risk its dire consequences was a rush of adrenaline that was all too tempting to ignore. If he were truly deprived of access to himself, he would be a slavering dog at her feet, aching for release, for the merest caress, and although that was appealing he was also more than a little scared by it.
The temptation to extract the butt plug was just as alluring. But again, he would not be able to get it back in quickly enough should she decide to spontaneously check on his progress, so he did not interfere with it.
The rubber outfit was unbearably hot, cooking him as he worked. It made his lot difficult, turning him into a maid beset by sweltering discomfort. But this also roused his perverse enjoyment of being made to endure it in service to a powerful female.
During his work, she would call him down and have him perform small and annoying errands. She had him change the channel, make her a drink, fetch something for her or put it back. But the most vexatious times were the occasions when he was summoned from work, rushing downstairs lest he be whipped for tardiness and he was called on to simply receive the scourge, or to place a kiss on her boots. Each time she also checked on the plug, shoving her fingers to the base, jiggling it painfully before letting him continue with his work.
Sweaty from his completed toil and trapped with this moisture, he returned downstairs and knelt before her, head held low. For a few moments she ignored his presence, regarding him as something of no consequence, especially to one of such high stature as herself. Only once she had indelibly illustrated such knowledge did she look over to him.
“Have you finished, slave?”
“Yes, Mistress Lynn,” he muttered, keeping his gaze down and watching her swing in her seat and drop her feet into his field of vision.
“Lick them, slave,” she ordered, letting him lap at the toes. His tongue strained through the slim aperture at his mouth and diligently attended the patent leather before she brushed him aside.
“Now we’ll see what sort of job you have done,” announced the Mistress. Clipping the leash to his throat she towed him in her wake as she began to inspect the quality of his labour.
The first chamber was the kitchen, which he looked over with new and sudden uncertainty. Questioning his own work, he tottered behind her on his heels. His feet were aching because of her constant spiteful calling of him up and down the flight of stairs.
“That smudge, get rid of it,” she growled, indicating a small spot where the water from the mop had dried to leave a slim stain.
Grabbing a cloth he lowered to remove the offending streak. He answered with a yelp as her foot trod on his hand, squashing it into the cloth and stopping him from continuing.
“Don’t think you get off that lightly, slave. Use your mouth,” she hissed, and kept her weight on the extremity as he leaned in and reluctantly licked at the floor.
The foul taste lingered on his tongue, a stalwart squatter on his taste buds that his saliva had little hope of evicting. Pleased with the outcome of his cleaning, she removed her foot and let him tend the rubber-clad contusions.
Leaning back, wracked by derogation, he feared what other errors he had performed. Mistress Despoiler rarely made him do such things for she still kissed him, and thus she did not want his mouth soiled by such deeds. Even now he was reluctant, but the bullwhip was a superlative teacher of compliance and to have its lessons taught to his skin was an education where truancy was a far easier option.
With this room checked, he was shown to the next like some scolded serf. Drawn down onto his knees at her side he was made to wait in silence during the review of the scene.
The room was deemed satisfactory and the other rooms were examined and found to be in a decent enough state. The bathroom was left as it was, but then came the inspection of the toilet.
“Slave, what is this?” she growled, indicating the underside of the bowl.
Dragging him in with his leash, she forced his head down so he could see the underside. Several long lines of water from his diligent scouring had left marks down the white porcelain.
“Well?” she snarled.
“I…I’m sorry Mistress Lynn,” he uttered, repelled by the thought of cleaning this up.
“So, what are you waiting for? Lick it up! And while you’re down there clean the entire thing again with your tongue,” she growled, the cavalier sneer supported by the hidden scaffolding of a miscreant’s smile.
It was too much to ask, even in his current amenable haze. The thought of licking the toilet clean was repulsive, yet as she stood over him, forcing him onward, ready to punish his disobedience, the arousal of humiliation started to make his briefs feel tight once more.
Grabbing his hair, she used it as a painful reign and shoved his face to the base of the bowl. Her other hand swept down, applying the curled length of the whip to his back. The brutal strike made him spasm and whimper. Again she repeated the blow, forcing him to extend his tongue and begin.
“That’s it, slave,” she purred, and sat astride the base of his back, using him as a chair while he licked at the toilet. His knees were quickly aching from supporting her.
With grim determination he worked around the underside, having difficulty in bypassing the restrictive vent of the hood.
“That’s it, lick it like the pitiful creature you are. I should tell your Mistress about this. It’ll make her less ready to kiss you. That’s for certain. You don’t deserve her kisses anyway, slave. Not a foul toilet licking maggot like you,” she sniggered, verbally humbling him as he was forced to continue.
Torn with the depreciating effects of such usage, he ended and then lowered with the completion of the deed.
“All done?” she asked, rising from his back.
“Yes, Mistress Lynn,” he answered and began to withdraw from the small room.
“Where do you think you’re going, slave?” she snapped, and tugged him back with the leash.
“I..well, I—”
“Get your head in there,” she hissed, forcing him face first into the bowl. The waters touched his chin and staring into the pool of water before him, his breath echoed in the small basin.
A brief wander from the room supplied her with new equipment. Free for the moment, he seriously considered flight because he was scared of what she might do to him.
Fastening his hands about the U bend with cuffs, she tightly locked the shackles, his latex gloved hands suffering from the slight impediment to circulation.
The sound of stretching PVC reached his ears along with the sound of shuffling he
els. Lynn’s rear sat across the back of his head. The firm buttocks of the Mistress pinned him in, denying him any hope of getting his head out. Being forced to the rim by her weight pained his chest.
Without a word she flushed. The cascade of water thundered about his ears and he was submerged. His trapped head stifled the drainage of the waters, causing them to settle slowly, keeping him under for longer than normal, and taxing the supply of breath he had snatched before he was deprived of access. When a route to acquire was once more gained, he gasped and spluttered, the interior of the hood still soaked and draining away the flood. Shivering slightly, he strained to draw free, only to have his efforts defeated by the demanding burden of the Mistress and his awkward position. When the roaring signal of the flush came again, he hauled at his cuffs, suddenly having to purloin a breath as he was dunked once more.
Forewarned of the flood, the snagged breath was devoutly held to make this easier on him. The searing impact of a crop onto his rear had him unleash an underwater yelp that lost a great stash of his air. The throbbing burn of the trench she had burned into him pounded in his flesh, making him strive to break free so he might nurse the injury, but he was too secure. The chain links rattled upon the pitiless mooring, and his boots squeaked upon the tiles in vain.
The waters lazily withdrew and he sucked in great gasps of air. The moisture he rashly drew down with his much-craved lungfuls had him break into coughs and racking hacks.
The deluge fell the moment the tank had refilled, the noisy gurgle ending and being replaced immediately by the tumbling roar of a swirling flood. No sooner had this dense monsoon drowned him than the crop fell, applying a fierce hack that had him fighting to keep his air. Another followed, and another, the terrible ferocity causing him to cry out and squander precious breath. Fighting her condemning rear, straining his back and neck to get free, he was assured that he would drown, and only thoughts of getting free filled his mind.
The unforgiving edges of the cuffs dug at his skin, curtailed in their cruelty only by the opera gloves. Bouncing on the tiles had bruised his knees. His kicking legs were beset with burning swats of her lithe weapon. He could do nothing in his panic save await the draining of the bowl, and when air became available, he gulped it down and wheezed softly afterwards.
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