SlavesofMistressDespoiler

by Bruce McLachlan

  The feel of the hose within him was distinct, and he wondered how much more would be entered into him. Was he destined to become some sort of organic underwear drawer for her?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sound of the front door shutting resounded softly through the house. Ordinarily it did not wake her, but since Lynn had left the room, she had not returned to sleep and had arisen to listen in. Poised behind her door, she monitored as her slave was worked by the pitiless comrade in dominance.

  The abuse had her savouring the noises of his distress, mulling over each croaking whimper, but also ready to intervene should the excesses of her unbound assistant prove too distasteful or extreme.

  All was going perfectly. Her slave was being subjected to the most disdainful treatment, a regime that would soften and mould him, make him pledge himself to her rule more fervently than ever before, and for where she was intending to take him, he would need all of that zeal.

  With a smile, she turned and returned to bed, to nap awhile longer before choosing to go and relieve her slave of his havoc.

  The ease in his confinement allowed a greater shade of sleep, and this, coupled with his exhaustion had him languishing on the borders of slumber. Dithering, unable to fully cross into recovery, the deprivation made the world seem all the more strange and unreal around him.

  Almost as a spectral presence, Mistress Despoiler appeared before him, rising up as he was stirred from lethargy. Like some angel of latex she manifested an avatar to control him, towering over him, filling his deprived eyes with her countenance to make him weep with gladness to see her.

  She was once more adorned with the cap, the single steady constant in her attire. A sheath of latex clutched around her torso, riding under her bust and reaching down to her hang just over her hips. The shimmering fabric left her pert breasts on brazen display, the nipple rings winking in the soft light of the dawn.

  The corset like bond threw a triangular pane over her loins, the garment moulding into a thin strap that rose up between the cheeks of her rear. Fishnet tights rolled down her legs, following the exquisite contours before entering ankle boots, the patent stilettos laced down the front. Opera gloves rolled along her arm, the polished metal shaft in her hands spewing forth the leather thongs of the cat

  He had never seen the attire before, and it filled his mind with an intense desire for her, this new image one that pleased him greatly.

  “How is my slave, this morning?” she asked, her voice a powerful sound, no trace of doubt or weakness within it.

  “I am fine, Mistress Despoiler,” he responded.

  “What happened to my bonds?” she asked, cupping his groin and squeezing gently, promising greater pains if he did not answer truthfully.

  “Mistress Lynn had me serve her this morning, and she did not put them back, Mistress Despoiler,” he answered, his breath quick from the imminent crushing of his genitals by her.

  “I see.”

  The hand came away and she started to remove the ankle bonds and shackles, setting him fully free and lifting him up by the leash.

  “Kiss,” she said with warning, letting her hand lower so he might wilt and place a single peck upon each ankle of her boots.

  “Good. Now, let’s sort out breakfast,” she decreed, and towed her possession back downstairs, his head a little groggy from the pathetic night of sleep he had managed to gather.

  Setting herself in the armchair, she stared into the already running television, drawing her possession down at her side, compelling him to squat as her faithful hound.

  “Fetch breakfast,” she ordered, and released him from the leash, the restraints coming loose, his arms flopping at his sides as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

  Clad in hood, collar, briefs, and shackles, he sprung into a race to obey. Scurrying off, he began to work, his limbs taking a few minutes to gather enough steadiness to be of service and not a hindrance to his toil.

  Gathering two bowls of cereal, and a dish and a mug both filled with tea, he returned. Handing his owner her food, he set his own down so he might dine of the same fare as her, but in a significantly more humble manner.

  The leash snagged his collar and he languished on his knees, lapping up his lowly servings, cleaning the bowl and revelling in his depreciated pose beside her.

  Once more he was set free to dump the plates in the sink and return to kneel by her, her hand resting on the polished dome of his hood, stroking her fingers to it as she watched the morning programs with detached intensity.

  “Go and study the rules, slave,” she decreed, sending him into the corner like a schoolboy, to read and reflect on his lessons, learn his place and hope to gain teacher’s favour.

  Kneeling in the corner with the rigid pose of a faithful devotee, he read through the lines, gazing lasciviously at her picture, his penis hard in his briefs. His hands sought only to ferret out the entombed length and grant himself physical pleasure as he indoctrinated himself to her will, but he had to fight back such urges.

  After a good half an hour of receptive meditation, she called him back to her side.

  “What shall we do today eh my little Porcupine?” she wondered, looking upon the featureless orb of his skull, running her hand around the stubby spines.

  It was not a question he was supposed to answer. She was merely pondering aloud, making him aware that she was weighing up her abuses, ready to explore and experiment in the role of permanent enslavement.

  “First, I think I’ll let you get your chores done, then we’ll decide,” she announced, and set free the leash.

  “Get into your uniform and get to it, slave,” she stated, and folded her legs, the softest whisper as a fishnet smothered leg brushed against its twin making him close his eyes with sudden appetite.

  Rising up, she paused him before he left.

  “Kneel before me a moment, I almost forgot something,” she stated, and as he lowered humbly before her, she drew underwear back down over his hood, restoring the garment he had been wearing prior to Mistress Lynn’s inclusion in their lives. Straightening it so that the scented crotch hung over the vents for his nose, she smiled with glee.

  “Off you go now,” she dismissed, and he scampered upstairs with light steps, taking advantage of the fact that he could move so freely before the restriction and heels of the uniform hampered him.

  Entering the room, he found his uniform dry. Applying talc, he slid into it and polished the surfaces to a sheen of mirrored ebony before setting about his domesticated toil.

  The cleaning up of the house was a tedious duty that he only found bearable because of its servitude to her. Ordinarily he despised it, and avoided such mundane routines whenever possible, but when acting within the bounds of a session, it took on a different edge. Would it remain like this now that this position was permanent, or would he tire of it?

  With enthusiasm and indolent limbs he handled the sweeping and hoovering, cleaning the bath and sink, polishing, collecting rubbish, dirty cutlery, dishes and glasses from the interior of the house, and then starting the washing up.

  Working with a steady rhythm he meditated on his fate, on how this new relationship would progress. Would she tire of him? Would she seek other slaves and find superior ones to him? Would he become obsolete to her, replaced by serviles with more capacity to sate her needs as a sublime Mistress?

  He heard a brief hint of footsteps behind him, a noise concealed by the muffling material of the hood. Caught unawares, he jumped with shock as a hand clamped over his mouth, dragging his face back as he felt another set of gloved digits yank up his skirt and pull down his leggings.

  The momentary questioning as to what was occurring was scrambled when the plug was crudely tugged out in a single move, installing a riot of harsh pain in his sphincter. His rear had grown used to its new, slightly open state, and a sudden flaring wrench of widening was met with a cry of discomfort.

  The reasons for this were answered when a lubricated length dril
led into him, stabbing through the cheeks of his buttocks and finding his rear, tearing it open and boring deep. His mouth jerked open and he cried out in pain from the sudden shredding violation, Mistress Despoiler having attacked without warning, employing the strap-on to ravish.

  Thrusting deep, he dropped the dish and the cloth and clutched to the taps, holding to them for support. Grinding his teeth, he closed his eyes against the sight of the net curtains across the window, enduring the flare of pain the rending entry had caused. It was a trying feat to let it subside, for she jolted back and forth, making his sphincter churn with new heat from the violation she wrought. His heels wobbled unsteadily beneath him, his arms being the crutches that kept him upright.

  Keeping one hand clamped across his mouth in imitation of a classic rape scenario, her other hand joined the plotline. Taking control of his right wrist, she twisted his latex coated arm up his back, pinning him against the edge of the sink as she thrust deeper into him. Drawing the phallus from his scorched rear she started to plunge from root to tip.

  The full length was shoved to the very limits of his rear, punching the flesh before she slowly released the weapon from its living scabbard and repeated the motion. Each time she stabbed, he gasped, and each time she slid it free with the plastic dragging at his tender membranes, he moaned softly.

  After a few minutes of this defilement, he started to grow used to it, the level of discomfort dwindling and letting him gain a shade of pleasure in the feel of being so monstrously ravished. The feel of Mistress Despoiler pinning him down, overpowering him as she raped him with gusto, it was wonderful.

  He began to reply to the artificial sodomy with more verve, grunting softly and tensing with her grinding intrusions, delighting in the sensation of being penetrated and having his tracts choked by a trespassing length.

  Using the shaft as a means to steer him, she turned him around with the hands that held his mouth and arm, forcing him down onto his knees. Letting go of his lips, she pushed with her arm lock, doubling him over, folding him at his middle. Trapped on his knees, his rear still pierced by her harnessed manhood, his masked cheek touched the ground and she kept him in this supplicant pose.

  The arm lock rose higher, squeaking as latex slid against latex, forcing his face into the tiled floor. She continued to rock her hips, churning the device within him, moving it in beating circles to stretch and punish his sphincter all the more severely. His other hand pawed at the ground before him, his face grimacing with the strain of accommodating her sadistic motions of ravishment.

  “You like this, slave?” she asked, her breath sibilant from how much joy she was taking in this act.

  “Yes, Mistress Despoiler, I do,” he replied under tight respiration, each breath held to as he endured the chastisement she wrought with her temporary sex.

  In answer to his words, she stepped up the savagery of her plunges, driving deep, jabbing from the side, stretching him terribly and swivelling as she drew out, causing him to spasm and groan aloud from the defilement.

  “How about now?”

  “Please, Mistress Despoiler…it hurts,” he whimpered softly, each word wobbling as she inflicted new levels of havoc into his tracts.

  “You want me to stop?” she questioned, sheathing her dagger deep into its living scabbard, the toy a weapon for her evil intent.

  “Yes, Mistress Despoiler, please.”

  “Very well,” came the curt response and she jumped free, making him flick with a tensed jerk at the violent flight, his free hand clawing sealed fingers to the tiles.

  Baffled by her acceptance of his wishes, he remained where he was when she let go, his rear aflame, his body shaking.

  The softest creak of latex sounded and she arose to her heeled feet, dragging up his leggings and tugging down his skirt, affirming that his brutalised rear was indeed to find mercy. Stepping before her slave, the patent leather appeared to his humbled bleary gaze.

  A hand clamped about the base of his pony tail and used it as a lever to bring him upright onto his knees, the soiled length of the dildo wobbling before his eyes, jutting from her tightly encased latex abdomen.

  The same hand trailed down in winding sweeps across the fields of spiked black rubber and lowered to the nape of his neck. Cupping the collar, she pulling inward, seeking to guide him onto the loitering shaft.

  He resisted a little, somewhat scared to accept such a deed, but she merely overrode his second thoughts and forced it into his mouth.

  His lips closed around the plastic rod as the tip grazed the back of his throat, making him gag and splutter. The hand at his neck closed tightly to the ponytail and used it as the means to manoeuvre his head in violent jolts, a piston of motion to the sculpted artificial manhood.

  This punishing misuse of the cascade of hair made his roots growl in fury, yet she kept her rate while forcing him to serve the object of his debasement. He could not breathe through his mouth, instead he had to suck in his panting lungfuls through the underwear over his face, the smell on them filling his world.

  “That’s it, slave. Suck it. Clean it well for your Mistress,” she purred, her words descending to his ears as the sight of her abdomen zoomed in and out directly before him—bound in alluring rubber, the pane of fishnet crossing her hips and running down her thighs, the harness spitting out the cruel dagger of plastic that been thrust into him. The sight of it had his own member straining against the walls of his leggings, aching to receive attention.

  His free hands reached around and cupped her ankles, the leather of the boots stiff under his grasp. While attending the dildo, he risked letting his gloved fingers wander further, and gently he held the taut calves of his oppressor, the mere touch easing his defiance to this deed. It was the feel of her flesh, sealed under this tantalising net, her legs made firm, the muscles flicked to a rigid pose with her stance, like a boxer, crafty and seasoned, ready to attack in the flicker of an adoring eye.

  Once she had properly educated him into what she required, she released the guidance, letting him continue as she had taught. He performed the required fellatio with enthusiasm, hauling at the harness with the suction of his mouth, cleaning it fully for Mistress Despoiler, performing the chore as though it were his most crucial crusade.

  And all the while his hands gathered new pleasure in the mere hesitant groping of her calves.

  “Are you enjoying that?” she uttered, the words bringing nods from his latex bound head.

  “Perhaps I’ll bring in a male slave, and have you do this to him. Such practice on my dildos will come in handy when you’re attending another of my slaves.”

  Could she be telling the truth? Or merely threatening him? Was she intending to bring new slaves into this scenario, to have him placed amidst a stable of such devotees?

  “There, that’s better,” she muttered to herself, placing her hands on her hips, the smooth silken material of the opera gloves clutching the join of fishnet and rubber.

  Towering over him with her aloof glare dropping onto him like the kiss of the sun, her rigid stance, her expert method of subjugation, it had him wilting like a candle in a flame. He sucked at the dildo as though it were truly a part of her, as though his attention were giving her the bliss he desired to extract by his own hand. The fervour of his drag rocked her hips in the gentlest motion, the straps softly whispering their creaks as they held to her, his face dragging at the perpetually erect staff. Such minutiae only added to his awe.

  Pulling free of his maw, she stepped back and stood with a crooked pose, one leg to the side, hands on her hips, the artificial manhood glistening with his saliva.

  “Now, pleasure yourself while you worship me,” she ordered, her tone revealing that this was a favour of no small magnitude.

  With haste he removed his tumescent length from within its crypt of latex and grabbed it with an all too eager fist.

  “But you are not to finish, is that understood, slave?” she ordered.

  “Yes, Mistress Des
poiler.”

  He did not care that this would frustrate him dreadfully, he needed to feel the pleasure, to attend his most burning need, heedless of the consequences and how it would compound his suffering.

  With a frenzy of movement he began to masturbate, staring across her gorgeous form, totally entranced by it. The stimulation of her presence to worship in the flesh accelerated his lust, and he felt the warmth spreading through his genitals, rising up the shaft and readying to explode forth.

  Fighting to stop, he wriggled with the burden of denying himself. Holding still, his shaft throbbed in his hands as though it had its own heart within.

  The fires of his libido ebbed enough to permit him to continue and he commenced with greater sloth, drawing out the joy, extending it. The sight of her was divine, inspiring his passion, his eyes fixed to her form as though it were the most exquisite masterpiece.

  The heady cloud of his passion was swatted back, his teeth clenching as he felt the flames rise and near the point of eruption once more, forcing him to stop.

  The frustration was terrible, and though he knew he should not draw himself so close to orgasm, the temptation to exact such felicity was too alluring, and he could not stop himself from continuing again.

  Time and time again he almost ejaculated, compelling himself to end at the last moment, depriving himself when a mere shuffle of his hand would gain him the final reward she dangled before him but never delivered.

  “That will do, slave,” she decreed, and he sighed with disappointment and a measure of relief, knowing that he would not have been strong enough to resist temptation much longer should she have let the encounter continue.

  “You may pay homage to my legs and recommence your masturbation, slave,” she added, and turned around, presenting the rounded cheeks of her rear to him, the flesh coated with the diamond pattern of the fishnet, separated by the tight band of the rubber thong.

  Scampering forward, he kissed and ran his lips to her calves, his gloved hand once more clenched tight to his penis, slowly dragging back and forth, his delight filling his mind with exquisite sensation.