SlavesofMistressDespoiler

by Bruce McLachlan

  The next strokes came with uneven timing, denying him a chance to prepare himself. Each was purgatory to endure, but endure he did and when the fifth fell he settled from his tensed agonised pose into a stolid heap at their feet.

  “Now, get going, slave,” stated Mistress Despoiler with delight.

  Upon a tremulous stagger he lurched upright and made his way off to do as he was ordered. Drawing the latex sheath back down over the miserable contusions during his journey back upstairs, he attended the task with speed to offset more retribution. Jogging upstairs he donned the small frilly apron and tied the white silken strings about his waist.

  The sound of hurried footsteps continued upstairs and both of them listened to it, each revelling in their control of another human being.

  “Kiss my boots, slave,” whispered Mistress Despoiler, reminding Lynn of her true status, even though it was one that was to remain hidden from their male submissive.

  Without pause and with a sense of spry iniquity, Lynn jumped forward and abased herself. Kissing the spiked heels of the Mistress she then lavished adoration on the toes.

  The sound of returning footfalls as they pounded the stairs alerted them and Lynn jumped back into her seat. The two of them exchanged a smirk of naughtiness before trying to maintain the exact stance and look the slave had last seen upon the two dominas.

  Chapter Nine

  Returning downstairs he poured the drinks and returned to the women. Handing the first glass to Mistress Lynn he then knelt before his owner to present her with her own drink.

  In response she merely pointed to the ground and caused him to instantly adopt the position she had used him for so many times before. Furling up, contentment germinated within his rubber-encased form as he felt her feet settle onto his back and the hard boots rested casually upon him. The dense tread of Mistress Lynn joined in and placed themselves up by his neck. The two of them lay back with their drinks as they talked and revelled in their licentious dominion.

  Huddled beneath them, he listened with satisfaction, letting himself remain forgotten and forsaken until he was finally addressed.

  “Slave, we need refills,” announced Mistress Despoiler, removing her feet from his back as Mistress Lynn copied the act.

  Lifting himself back upright he accepted another stinging hack of the cane and took the glasses. Limping to the kitchen to attend his task he took a few seconds to rub the aching line Lynn had imparted.

  When he strolled back in, Mistress Lynn refused her glass. Lifting her fingers to it she held off the dark and energetically fizzing mixture.

  Her hand changed and she gripped his wrist, anchoring him to the spot and forcing him to keep still in case he spilt anything. His eyes widened with alarm as her arm curled gradually back, carrying the cane and readying to afflict him with it. Like the strike of a cobra the bamboo fang slashed in, making him jolt and cry out, his every fibre fighting to keep him upright and steady.

  “I want ice, slave,” she demanded and then released his hand to let him take an unsteady step back, his knees trembling. He looked to Mistress Despoiler for salvation or justice.

  “You heard your Mistress, slave,” she confirmed with a wry grin. “And get me some too.”

  “Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he added.

  She was deliberately letting Mistress Lynn exact her full fervour upon him. She was watching him suffer at the hands of another, knowing that he was vulnerable to it. To be humbled, to have his spirit slashed by the uncaring hand of another, one without feeling or attachment to him. She was definitely preparing him for something, but for what? It wasn’t just for mere adept service because she had that. His beloved partner and Mistress was readying him for something more, something that would push and then clear his current limits and thus she was broadening them in expectation.

  Turning, he slithered out like some scolded pet. Breaking out ice cubes, he gingerly nursed the fiery welt she had etched into him. The latex was a negligible shield from the sheer atrocity the cane was capable of imparting.

  With small steps he returned to them, the cubes chiming softly against the sides of the glasses, the muted crack as they split and fractured rising faintly from the dark bubbling fluids.

  “What do you call this?” growled Mistress Lynn, her glee rampant upon her acute features.

  “Your drink, Mistress?”

  “No. I asked for vodka and coke with ice, not an iceberg with a weedy little squirt of a drink over it!” she reviled.

  “You’ll have to get rid of some of it,” stated Mistress Despoiler, addressing her compeer while laying back into her chair and regarding both her property and his angst.

  “But where? Down his front?” she quizzed, wondering what she could do, seeking guidance from the more experienced and consummate Maitresse.

  “Insert them. That will teach him,” she testified, condemning him to this demeaning punishment for his wrongdoing.

  “Yes, that’ll do just fine. On your knees slave, right in front of me with skirt up and leggings and briefs down,” she snapped.

  Setting the drinks aside, he settled before her and shivered slightly with worry.

  Raising the skirt, he hooked his thumbs into the twin hems and pulled them down while letting them remain up at his front to keep at least some modicum of modesty.

  “Now, hold out your hand,” she ordered.

  With immediate but timid acquiescence his palm rose up to accept the cube she was fishing out of her drink with a spoon. Holding the frozen cube in the metal oval she dropped it onto his palm where it slithered to and fro in the latex bowl of his hand.

  “Put it in, slave” she hissed with spite, saying her words over tight teeth and with eyes sparkling.

  “Mistress Lynn. The butt plug?” interjected Mistress Despoiler from her monitoring position.

  “Oh yes. Thank you for reminding me. Take that out first slave.”

  Reaching back, he took hold of the base and with a gradual pull extracted it while moaning slightly. It slowly slid from him, his rear holding to the cone as it popped out. His previous covert removal while upstairs eased his pains a little by keeping the orifice reminded of use.

  With a dubious concern he lethargically moved his hand round, wondering if he could do this, if he could force this into himself while being examined so closely.

  “Do it,” she warned, lifting up the cane as she spoke. The shadow of it upon him defeated his reluctance, washing it away on the projected tidal wave the cane would surely send through him.

  “Go on,” she continued.

  He put the melting cube to his rear, the arctic kiss sending chills through his sphincter and making him tighten the muscles. It seemed to burn ferociously and he took it off of his skin. The cold was too much for him to endure.

  “I can’t, Mistress Lynn, its too cold,” he whimpered, and he let out a yell as the cane swung round into his thigh. His face dropped to the floor and he jerked wildly while weathering the plume of heat that had been bored into him. The cube fell to the carpet and he clenched his hands into fists of endurance.

  The storm diminished and he rose up, panting slightly, the weal still alive with activity.

  “Well? Get it in there then,” she demanded.

  He looked at the cube as it lay on the rug, fluff upon its semi-translucent surfaces.

  “But Mistress, its covered in—”

  “So? You should have considered that before you dropped it like the clumsy slob you are. Now pick it up, slave,” she said tersely.

  His fingers fetched the forsaken cube, holding it as he tried to forget the dust and hair he had spied upon the slick nugget.

  “Shove it in, slave,” she growled angrily, throwing up the weapon and making him flinch suddenly in fright of being beaten again.

  With new determination he put the cube back and tried to push it in. The icy cold jolt into the warm tissues broke his endurance once more.

  “Please, Mistress Lynn. I’m sorry,” he sobbed and cried
out again as she let the cane form her response, demanding that he comply or suffer its retaliation.

  He shoved but the sudden innate contraction of his rear spat it back out, the cold fare unpalatable to his anus. The cane required otherwise and its searing kiss sunk into his shin, making him drop his head back with a sobbing whimper as he was torn between the ordeals.

  “Come on, slave!” she hissed, and added another flick of the mordant weapon. Catching him in the hip she made him shudder and wobble, dizzy from its constant harassment as he knelt before her, an ice cube poised before his rear.

  With a brief nudge he pushed it in, his rear swallowing it, gulping it in as the cube rode up into his tracts depositing a burning cold on all it touched. Shuddering, he felt the hard cube cramping his rear, quickly melting as it valiantly fought the heat of his innards. The feeling of it within him was distinct. The ardent spot of cold lingered as he fought the desire to expel it. Instead he repelled the instincts of his body and tried to keep it within.

  “Here’s the next one, slave, and what do you say?” she said with malevolent enjoyment, fishing out another cube and handing it to him.

  “Thank you, Mistress Lynn. I’m sorry I did not make the drink to your satisfaction. I’ll do better next time, Mistress,” he stated, seeking to fulfil all her desired criteria for the apology and the gratitude afforded this demeaning castigation.

  “That’s good enough. Now insert it,” she stated, his words being secondary to the amusement of seeing him crushed under her will.

  The next cube lingered in his hand. The previous one was still a strong presence in him and was greatly paining his rear. Would this be easier to endure? Had the first numbed the flesh sufficiently to ease his plight?

  Brushing it to his orifice, he melted the sharp corners a little and with a push the next cube entered him and disappeared. Travelling into the winding roads of his innards it spread its cold behind it like a glacier. It had gone in easier but was harder to bear because the morsel added to the cold already there. The cubes effectively joined forces to cause more distress. Scowling with endurance, he shuddered and held his belly, groaning softly.

  “It hurts, Mistress Lynn,” he moaned, beset by the effects.

  “Good. That will teach you to do things right in future,” she reported. Picking up the glass of Mistress Despoiler she set her own down now that only three cubes remained.

  “Shall I deliver yours into him?’”she asked.

  With a wave his owner gave her permission and he wilted within. The addition of another couple of icy chunks was more than he thought he could handle.

  A clatter of metal upon glass sounded. The cubes rang out their bell chimes as they were played and then one of them was fished out upon the spoon.

  “Hand,” she ordered, and his gloved arm emerged with reluctance to accept the cold nugget.

  “Please, Mistress Lynn, show mercy,” he implored.

  “No. You made the mistake, you have to take the consequences. Isn’t that how we do things, Mistress Despoiler?”

  “Indeed it is. And it’s how it works with us. I think you need to make the slave respect you, Lynn,” she said, inciting her assistant, making her think that he thought her an inferior second, to deliberately ignite her rage.

  “Oh I shall,” she growled. A covert quiver in the left corner of her mouth signalled her resentment of him belittling her ability with this defiance.

  But it was true. For Mistress Despoiler he would strive to do and endure anything, but Mistress Lynn was savage and cruel, her random acts of spite causing animus rather than simpering worship. Arbitrary and intense abuse made him recoil in fright, for where Mistress Despoiler worked her extreme torments expertly, making them genuine punishments, ordeals to be taken for her sake and the cause of discipline, Mistress Lynn was just lashing out. It was like training a pet. One teacher used random and constant brutality, yelling and shouting to have the creature cower in fear. The other used punishment and reward, treating it severely but properly, and therefore had an obedient adoring hound at her heels.

  The cane whipped through the air and caught him in the flank, making him cry out and almost drop the ice cube again. Clutching it tightly he swayed like a tree in the breeze. Gathering his balance he put it to his numbed orifice. The delay had let him recover his warmth and its mere touch made him stiffen and pull it away, the cold being too much to take.

  “Put it in, slave!” she hissed.

  Again he tried, but still could not. The cane arrived on cue and made him double up. Shaking with pain as its pounding throb stamped on his thigh, the long weal burned with a new intensity.

  Straightening up with tears in his eyes and teeth chattering he put it to his rear and drove it in. Churning the morsel within him, his innards chewed on it as he scowled and fought to endure the icy bane.

  Breathing heavily, he grunted and groaned, respiring in fits as it scorched his tender membranes with its chill.

  Without delay, Mistress Lynn removed the next and handed it to him. The first had not even begun to fully melt. He could not take another so soon.

  “Please, Mistress Lynn, not yet. I can’t take it so soon after the first,” he protested.

  With a jolt of movement she leapt up from her seat. Grabbing his neck she drew him down, bending him at the middle and forcing his rear into the air. The heavy sole of her boot set to his cheek, grinding his head to the rug. Pinning him down, she grabbed the cube and shoved it in. He squeaked and snivelled with the entry, her ramming digits plunging it deep to join the others.

  Keeping her position, she kept him beneath her boot, watching with intensity as he wriggled under her, the slave beset by the havoc of the temperature change, the cold in his gut making him sob in wretched misery. When his movements started to subside and his fight dwindled with the melting of the cube she started to spank him.

  The gloved hand of the Mistress launched up and descended with heavy force. Clapping to his welt-riddled cheeks the effects of the slap were greatly reinforced by falling onto fresh bruises. With a rapid series of sweeps she applauded his dismay, adding nine eager smacks before finally removing herself from his skull and settling back into her seat.

  “Slave,” stated Mistress Despoiler. “Go and expel the water and put the butt plug back in. Then you’ll come back to us with a more obedient temperament, understood?”

  “Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he added.

  Taking up the plug he crawled out, straightening his attire as he went and being cautious not to annoy his new trophies of slavery. How much longer would this go on for? How much longer before they tired of this play and restored normal relationships to become his friend and his partner once more?

  Heading up the stairs he moved directly into the toilet and dragged his garments back down. Dumping himself onto the bowl he swiftly spat out the loitering fluids. To his surprise, a shrunken cube emerged and another a moment later. The nuggets of ice had taken longer to melt than he thought.

  Thinking on the events downstairs, he found rapid arousal in them. The way he had been made to perform for them and then forced to ingest the last cube. The feel of her boot into his face was still distinct. The heat of her hand to his rump was still a smarting presence. But the greatest portion of the encounter, the factor that stoked his lust the most was not the harsh barbarism of Mistress Lynn, but the majestic detachment of Mistress Despoiler. The way she had simply guided from her throne, making him suffer without compunction at the hands of her assistant. She had not even needed to act in person. She was wonderful and though this scenario had its unbearable aspects, the general delight he was gaining was a much greater compensation. With the privacy of the toilet and a swelling member in his hands, he could not help but steal a few sly shuffles. The theft of a little bliss was a means to rededicate to his servitude, stoking the frustration that would swear him to obedience. His head lolled back, savouring the feel as his gloved fist leapt up and down, filling his length with warmth as winter sti
ll held regnant in his rectum.

  The cold was still reverberating in his stomach when he emerged. Slotting the plug back into place he restored his image as a maid. Returning to serve them, he squeezed his opening to the plug, its very existence a reminder of his station.

  Mistress Despoiler had transferred to the couch. The two dominants were sitting upon it side by side, waiting for him, almost in ambush.

  “Turn on the television, slave,” demanded his owner.

  When he moved to comply a bullwhip emerged like a leather serpent from behind the armrest. Erupting into view it slithered onto the floor and lashed around to snap its mordant tip to his rear. Releasing a gurgling croak and fighting back a howling scream of more adequate response, he stumbled forward and dropped to one side. Nursing the burning injury he quickly flicked on the set lest he encourage more.

  “Do you like my new toy, slave?” asked Mistress Despoiler. Withdrawing the woven length she formed it back into spiralling coils that were ready to be unleashed with a mere flick of her wrist.

  He nodded softly, the heat it had thrust into his flesh more intense than he thought was possible without breaking the skin.

  “Change channel,” she added, finding the current show not to her taste.

  “Again,” she ordered, the cable channels passing by swiftly as they sought something to catch their attention.

  “That’ll do,” reported his owner, and snapping her fingers in summoning, Mistress Despoiler demanded that he form back into a footrest for them.

  “A voice commanded remote control,” commented Mistress Lynn. Lifting up her feet she crossed them before settling onto his shoulders.

  “And it needs no batteries,” smirked his owner, her heeled boots settling on the middle of his spine.

  “Powered by pain. Mind if I smoke?”

  “Of course not,” absently affirmed Mistress Despoiler, her attention engrossed with the show after only a few minutes.

  “Remove this glove, slave,” she ordered and slapped a hand to his left shoulder in harsh indication.

  Straining to keep himself upright without the supporting struts of his arms he drew down the opera glove and pulled it free to expose the limb nearest to her.