“P..please, Mistress Lynn, no more,” he begged, unable to brook this level of callous misuse any longer.
“Be silent, slave!” she growled, and applied her weapon. Striking into his jolting rear, she tracked the oscillating target and slammed heavy-handed blows into it.
Yelling into the bowl, he announced his pain fully, pleading for mercy as she thrashed him and then without warning he was lost under the ocean of the waters. This was by far the hardest occasion to endure because he had virtually no breath left. He had to wait an eternity of seconds before he could once more find access, and as his face burned from starvation even against the cold waters. She continued to beat him, causing him to writhe, expelling energy when he needed to keep calm and preserve such imperative supplies.
The level dropped and he swilled the new air. The lungfuls were a life giving elixir to his starved senses. The sight of the nebulous bowl rolled in and out of focus from the acts of drowning she was perpetrating with indifference, his mind warped by denial and hysteria.
“Now, you won’t be so sloppy in future will you, slave?” she asked, ensuring he knew this had been a lesson for his failings as a maid.
“No, Mistress Lynn,” he whispered softly, and yelped when the crop struck his collected welts once more.
“What was that?”
“No, Mistress Lynn,” he repeated with more volume.
She paused and then lifted herself from her exhausted seat. Deploying the key to free his hands, a riot of pins and needles played within his fingers and palms. His hands remained slack, the control over them diminished by the contusions dwelling beneath the latex.
With the leash, she dragged him out on his pummelled knees and walked before him. The bane that had been her rear hovered before him, taunting him as an object of worship and extreme punishment. She stopped suddenly and let him pause at her side.
Hauling his head up so that he was looking at her from his knees, he looked over her glistening torso into a face of malice. She spoke with sober gravity.
“Does Mistress Despoiler make you clean up in such a fashion?”
“No, Mistress,” he replied honestly.
“And why not?”
“She wants my mouth clean, Mistress Lynn.”
“Then we had best get it restored to such a state,” she grinned. From the neighbouring bathroom she took a glass of water, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.
“Get down on your back, slave,” she decreed.
He looked about at the stairs and landing, wondering if she was intent on doing this amidst their present surroundings.
“Here, Mistress?”
“Yes, here you idiot!” she growled and shoved him to the boards before straddling his chest. The sudden drop of her lithe body winding him.
Seating herself harshly onto his ribs to drive the breath out in a choke, she folded her legs in. Crushing his arms beneath her thigh boots she left him helpless beneath her.
Hauling his head painfully up by the ponytail, his neck ached from the extreme lean forward. Despite the distress he still stared with fetishistic admiration at her close body. Her legs were opened across him, crushing him, offering the slightest glimpse of her dark underwear.
“No more hiding under this,” she commented. Lynn was obviously intent on stripping him of all his protections, to expose him fully to the ravages of her shameful regnant.
Opening the laces, she drew them apart and then slipped the slick interior from his sweat-riddled face. Feeling himself exposed, he was even more vulnerable without its comforting compression to his skull, and his head dropped back and bounced to the ground.
With wicked glee she sunk her gloved fingers into his cheeks, forcefully opening his mouth so she might dribble water into it. Next, rather than the normal routine of such a chore, she simply squeezed a long line from the tube directly into his mouth with a broad smile stretched across her face.
Snatching the brush as his eyes snapped wide, she inserted it and began to churn the paste around, generating foam and cutting off use of his mouth for air. She conducted the rite without care or caution, roughly brushing as she kept his head in place with the stern hold to his mouth. He whimpered and gurgled, her rough treatment making him struggle beneath her.
“Wriggle all you want! You’re not leaving until we get this done, slave!”
His heels scraped at the floor. His legs and fingers folded and squirmed to each other like eels with the enduring of this abuse. It was terribly degrading, to be treat like this, to be used in such a manner, but he could do nothing to stop her, and this defeat made it all the more succulent a scenario.
“Lay still!” she hissed and slapped his cheek. Pausing to make sure he was going to control his body more effectively she recommenced with gusto.
It was hard to credit that this was the same person he had known for so many years. A tempered and meek outer shell had been opened or shattered, letting this spiteful demonic persona rule unchecked, undertaking its frivolous tortures without any obstruction of conscience or consequence.
Pouring the water into his mouth, she closed his maw tight and sank her fingers into his hair. Pushing down she ground his head into the ground, her eyes flashing with utter spiteful gratification.
“Swallow it,” she demanded.
After a quick slosh of the fluid around his teeth, he gulped it down. Her orders now operated his body without the need for his own thoughts to bring motion.
“Well that’s for starters. Now to get them really clean,” she said, the muscles of her thighs squeezing in aroused fits, her hips riding gently back and forth against him. Once more she forced open his mouth, the pinch into his cheeks kindling a powerful ache.
His fight to get free escalated considerably the moment he spied the washing up liquid.
“No, Mistress Lynn, please, don’t do-”
The distorted words were lost as she popped the cap, inverted the bottle and shot a prolonged jet into the cavern of his raw mouth. The tang of the detergent was awful and he shuddered and tried to spit it out but was unable to do so because of the nip of fingers into his cheeks that stretched open his mouth. She increased his distress by throwing the brush back in and starting to wash his mouth out with uncaring jolts of the bristles. Clouds of bubbles emerged over his lips, running down to the ground as his eyes screwed up and rolled back. His mind seethed at this level of indignity, more so for her callous chuckles and sparkling mischievous smirk. She was a magnificent sight, a vinyl-clad creature of unbridled sadism that was devouring his anguish with demonic ecstasy.
The trial seemed to go on for hours, and unable to swallow or spit out, he had no other option but to bear her attack.
“There, that should do it. Now rinse it out, slave,” she demanded.
Slipping from his chest she left him to indolently stagger to the sink and try to erase the chemical taste ruling his aching mouth. The foam was marked with streaks of pink, her roughness proving too much for his raw gums.
“Well, that’s your mouth clean, now we had best get your body done,” she testified as he furiously sloshed tap water around and spewed it out. Running his tongue under the flow in a bid to banish the appalling taste he had barely heard the words. His attention was only truly placed back to her when she smacked a hand to his thigh, making him jolt upright. The warm handprint swiftly arose on the soft pelt of skin.
“Strip,” she demanded.
He froze, his hands rising half-heartily, unsure of whether to continue or not.
“I told you to do something, slave!” she added angrily, her lively smile being malformed into a scowl as she was resisted.
Snatching his hair, she bent him down and dragged him out, leading him by this painful anchor that made his roots stew with anger. A gloomy pout carved her features into a furious mask and as she towed him forth, tottering in the awkward doubled up pose, she flung him to the floor of the bedroom/dungeon. He dropped to his knees and cradled his aching head.
The Mi
stress removed the cane from the wall and tested it with a few flings at the air, eliciting a wafting hum from its wiry length.
“Come on then, slave. Get undressed, or you’ll get more lessons in obeying me,” she commanded, and swept the weapon with a hateful slash. The thrum of the device promised severe consequences should he continue to resist.
The unchecked viciousness of her deeds had now risen over his sufferance. He had to roll with this scenario, carry it out with as least pain as possible.
When Mistress Despoiler got back, and they were alone again, he would betray what had happened. Never again would he have to endure this level of capricious untamed sadism.
With solemn motions he removed the apron and slid free of the dress and gloves. Taking down the hose, he released the laces of the boots and set them aside. Stood only in his briefs, his rear still plugged, he looked down, ashamed.
“Now. Into the bath,” she snapped, grabbing selections from the wall—restraints and rope.
With an apathetic wander he trekked to the bath and stepped into the dry interior. She immediately appeared behind him, closing solid restraints to his wrists and ankles, using padlocks to deprive him of any hope of escape.
“On your knees, wretch,” she barked. When he conformed, she started to create a web between the anchors on his extremities. He could feel her lacing tightly through the D rings, hauling him backwards into a brutal crab position.
“Lay back,” she added.
Cradling his shoulders she helped him descend. His torso pinned his folded arms and legs beneath him in a terrible contorted pose.
A wrench from the ropes tightened the position and he grimaced with the strain. Another tug pulled him up a little, encouraging her to lift a thigh booted leg over and jam it to his chest. Her weight helped to keep him down as she yanked in the slack, tightening the bondage and making him croak with new misery.
The muscles of her leg rippled the taut fabric, sending new shimmers of light down its length. The dagger heel pressed to him, pushing in the skin, offering the distinct possibility of piercing him most grievously.
The boot into his body kept its control and the spare length of rope reached around his waist to forge a strict corset that stopped him from lifting his chest from his bound limbs. The ebony limb drifted back and stamped to the floor. The rope travelled down and joined his knees, folding them in while his teeth ground upon each other in fortitude.
There was nothing he could do now. He was left floundering and immobile in the bath and feared what she might do with him in such a state. Had a precedent for acts of mock drowning been set? Was this her latest fad? After shoes and all things pink, after costumes and haughty elitism, was torture to be her next infatuation?
Reaching down, she used a scarf and tied it about his face to leave him with a restricted half view over the top. She tied it tight about his features, smothering his mouth and mashing his nose. She had folded it a number of times and it was a little difficult to conduct breath through the dense fabric. Already he was gaining terrified precognition into her scheme.
To his horror, she turned the shower on. A cascade of lukewarm water sprinkled from above and spattered across his body. He struggled against his imprisoning bonds, suddenly seeking flight, but he was totally without hope and could do nothing to defy her. She delighted in his squirming and he could not even deny her this, his panic and pains were too much to suppress.
Slender fingers closed about the shower and removed it from its fitting. The metal pipe lowered as she drew it down so that its rapid spray thundered beside his ear.
With a sadistic grin she perched herself on the edge of the bath and swung a leg in. The instep locked at his chin, the heel digging into one side of his jaw, the sole into the other. The sultry boot effectively pinned his head down, stopping him from trying to evade what he knew was coming.
“Please, don’t do this,” he implored. His words were true, but also the prospect of such intense domination tickled his libido. A brutal and merciless vinyl-clad dominatrix was tormenting him for her own joy, and this piqued his submissive delectation.
“What was that! Did I hear correctly?” she barked. Lynn shoved with her foot, the heel etching a short scratch into his skin.
“Mistress Lynn!” he shouted through the scarf, correcting his oversight. He yearned to feel the cold water attack him, for he could feel the initial stages of an erection.
“Please, spare me this, Mistress Lynn. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t torture me with this,” he asked with desperation, hoping to reach any part of her that might return the persona of their friendship. But he wanted to hear her deny him, to show that she would do anything she wanted and he could not hope to talk his way out.
Without care or compassion, she did not even detect his supplicating stare, nor the sobbing pleas spilling through the cloth. Entranced by her power, she placed the shower head over the material as he hid is quivering delight behind the mask.
“I can do anything I want, slave. And I want to do this. So shut up and do as you are told.”
He flew into panicked convulsions, the sense of drowning churning his lustful appetite. Throwing himself against his bonds, his muscles tensed. His veins and tendons were raised and pronounced. His fingers clawed to break free, but he could not even shuffle. The waters saturated the fabric in an instant, cutting off a path to air. His eyes rolled and flashed wildly to and fro, but she simply kept his head still with her boot into his jaw and watched him with a vicious glee. Luxuriating in the sight of his struggles and angst, she sighed softly, her eyes wide to capture every detail.
She continually kept the stream onto the scarf, stifling him, suffocating him with its flow as he sucked and strained at the material. He tried to find or craft the tiniest gap that he might exploit to discover air. Struggling wildly, he truly believed she was intent on pushing him into black out, until finally on the very verge of unconsciousness, a place where he teetered on the edge, she moved it aside.
Hauling at the cloth, he sucked and swallowed the moisture with all his ailing might. With his mind a twirling quagmire of maddened fervour, he finally dragged in a deep gasp. The breath was stained with residual moisture to have him sputtering uncontrollably, fighting his rope bonds, trying to get free.
“Please, no more, you’re going—” he began, and she applied the cluster of slender jets again.
Having lost valuable breath on his protests, he had a harder fight this time. Delivered closer to oblivion, he could only battle instinctively for what he knew he could not achieve.
She removed the showerhead and watched disdainfully as he sucked free the waters and accessed air once more, sating his need for it. His head was pounding with a volcanic ache from the ordeal, as was his lust. She was implacable and terrible, a gorgeous slender vixen that would not listen to even the most heartfelt pleas. He had a beautiful dominant woman to love him and control him and also a wild torturess to deliver him into the realms his partner would balk at as too dangerous or cruel. How had he come to such fortune?
Waiting until he had gathered a few good breaths, she slowly moved the jets over to let him draw a deep inhale in distraught preparation. It was no act of charity, but a concession to draw out his woe, to carry it further and let her trouble him for longer.
His face was flushed, his body burned from its rabid attempt to get free, and he was virtually senseless when she finally let the head move aside. It took all his flagging vitality to drag out the water and open access to precious air once more.
After long minutes of stricken wheezing he gathered enough life to speak.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he whimpered, her torture far more excessive than anything he would happily succumb to. But because it had taken him beyond his limits, subjected him to things he could not endure with a smile, he was all the more intensely pleased by it.
“Because I enjoy it,” she retorted lightly, and shifted the shower back over him.
He
was again lost in icy folds, her boot still firmly lodged to his throat, denying him any opportunity to flick the scarf free or even find respite from her fixed flow of water. Once more he was delivered towards the dark recesses of a faint, his maw straining at the cloth, dragging out waters in the hope of finding access.
Guided further into the realms of torment, he rashly sucked at it, intent only on seeking air. His lungs reacted poorly to the influx and he hacked and retched, torn by derogation as she lifted the shower away. Spotting his genuine distress she removed the scarf. Hacking and ejecting the minute influx he had gained, he was numb in mind and body, rendered unable now to even speak.
Her heel and sole lifted from his jaw and she sat on the edge, studying his exhausted calamity for awhile and relishing every portion of it. The taste of power had awakened some twisted attitude of malice, and it was unbound and furious in its intensity.
There was no real passion for domination save as a tool to gain subjects to monstrously torment. Her mild mannered demeanour and quietness were flimsy veils that were shredded by opportunity to reveal a terrifying beast of self-gratification and vengeance.
Slim hands delved in and unfastened the ankle bonds, letting her unfurl his legs and tie the joints together.
“Out,” she commanded. Hauling at his collar she drew him to the edge.
He was only semi-aware of what was going on. His thoughts drifted through a stark mental fog, only vaguely attached by the most tenuous of threads to his awareness. With a push he landed harshly on the floor, ignorant of the pain because of his somnolent torpor. Flopping onto his side, his body was soaked. Trickles of water ran down his near naked frame and his hair was a sodden pile.
“Now crawl to the bedroom, slave,” she ordered, nudging him with a heel into his flank.
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