SlavesofMistressDespoiler

by Bruce McLachlan

  “You may expel the douche,” she permitted, opening the cords, letting his hands fall by his sides, still snared by the locked manacles, but unconnected and free.

  Rising quickly, he started to make for the door, his heeled boots corrupting his passage, almost causing him to fall the moment he arose.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, slave,” she added with a light air.

  He froze and turned back, lowering before her as she regarded the ceiling with an emphasised noble gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress Despoiler. Thank you for cleaning your humble slave, and for punishing him,” he said with clear but trembling words.

  “That’s better. But I will not tolerate such disobedience of the rules for much longer, so you had best apply yourself to them.”

  “Yes, Mistress Despoiler, I will endeavour to do better.”

  “See that you do, slave,” she stated with asperity, dropping her stare to regard him with a venomous glare.

  After being momentarily petrified by her fierce glower, he scuttled away and to the safety of the toilet, there to expel the soiled waters.

  Yanking down his uniform, he sat alone in his cell, thinking over the situation. It could not have been more perfect. She was going to train him completely, erase his misgivings and turn him into a devoted and obedient hound for her pleasure. Together they would live the full fantasy of domination. How fortunate he was to be here.

  As the last of the waters were spat free of his insides, he reached around and took up his solid length. He knew he was in danger of being discovered, but he was desperate, and so started to work the obstinate shaft with enthusiasm. Closing his eyes, leaning back, he gradually shuffled his hand, feeling himself growing ever more rigid in his own grasp. He filled his mind with dissolute thoughts of Mistress Despoiler, pledging himself to her through such an iniquitous act, despite it being a felony to her mastery of him.

  The door suddenly flew open, revealing her standing there, eyes sparkling with a mixture of fury and excitement at having caught him in such a compromising act.

  “Have you forgotten rules ten and eleven, slave?” she stated with a vituperative growl.

  “No, Mistress Despoiler,” he said meekly, his hand dropping away as he quaked under her intense stare, his shame burning him from within.

  “Then state them, slave!” she snapped.

  “I…I…am the property of Mistress Despoiler, and I…”

  “Pathetic lies!” she interrupted, and grabbed his ponytail, dragging his head back as she stepped astride his seated lap. Her torso rose over his face as he was bent back, his scalp stabbing with prickly sensation, her latex smoothed torso tickling his arched chest.

  “Rule ten. I will ask the permission of Mistress Despoiler to satisfy any need I may have,” she reminded, and turned her hold, making him yelp.

  “Rule eleven. My body and mind are the property of Mistress Despoiler.”

  Again she turned her hold, and grabbed his chin, holding his mouth tightly shut as she stared close into his eyes. Her breath wafted onto his eyes through the vents in the mask, his terror immense at her ferociousness now that she had fully embraced her role.

  “Did you ask permission?”

  “No, Mistress Despoiler.”

  “No, Mistress Despoiler,” she repeated with anger.

  “Did you forget who owns you?”

  “No, Mistress Despoiler.”

  “No, Mistress Despoiler.”

  A brief pause followed, and she condemned him with harsh words.

  “So you recalled it, and disobeyed anyway. Do you not care, or do you no longer fear me or feel the need to obey me?” she asked over tightly pursed lips, her knuckles rolling, punishing his scalp.

  “I couldn’t resist, Mistress Despoiler. I’m sorry,” he burbled.

  With a shove of infuriated response, she moved from him, her hands turned into balled fists of rage.

  “So you like to masturbate do you? Well I’ll teach you!” she hissed, and grabbed his collar, dragging him out and across the hall, snatching a thin crop on her way.

  Opening the door to Mistress Lynn’s room, he was shown to the cupboard, his leggings and briefs still lowered, his skirt around his waist.

  It was a sunken chamber in the wall beside the water heater, the wooden box around the tank forming the left hand wall. At the door to the sunken airing cupboard, she removed a key from her pocket, popped open the weighty padlock, and opened the interior, revealing that the small, cramped interior had been changed drastically.

  The inside was lit by a low wattage bulb, and all the papers and boxes of junk that had been stored within had been removed. A heavy ring hung in the centre of the ceiling, and two were set on either side by the door frame, each with a set of leather restraints affixed to them, the heavy shackles adorned with locks of their own. In addition, a ring on the opposite wall clearly awaited the introduction of his collar.

  “Get in,” she growled, and dropped a strip of fire across his thigh, the leg leaping up and balancing him precariously on one foot before he could restore a normal stance.

  Clambering in, he dropped down and turned to face her, his eyes filled with fear at what she was intending.

  Reaching in, Mistress Despoiler pushed his back to the far wall and locked his collar tightly to the awaiting circle of steel. With roughness she dragged his rubber bound legs out and sealed them to the fetters, spreading the limbs and leaving his groin blatantly open.

  With her face possessed of a wicked glower, she hauled his briefs and leggings further down and left his penis hanging loose before her. Without warning Mistress Despoiler left for a moment, entering the dungeon and returning with objects which she immediately presented.

  The first was a small stereo that she placed well out of reach and then switched on, leaving it playing the indoctrinating tape of rules to him, the words echoing through the Lilliputian prison.

  The butt plug was jammed back into its sheath, bringing a throe from his form as his sphincter despised the return.

  Placing a small pot with a screw top lid upon the floor between his split thighs, she took hold of the door and hung the rules and picture of herself on the interior hook, the portrait instantly stoking his desire.

  “You will stay in here until you have filled that pot! If I detect one trace that you have contaminated it with anything other than your foul issue, I will make you drink it all before starting again,” she promised, and closed the door, plunging him into the soft twilight of the tiny cell.

  Reaching down, he took up his loosed member, feeling himself growing in expectation of his relief. At last he had privacy to perform, and with the picture of his enslaver hovering before him, he could not help himself. Immediately he was bulging in his own grasp and lethargically shuffling his grip, squirming in his bonds and sweat slickened uniform, gripping the plug with his rear.

  Staring at her contours, he could not refrain from his masturbation she had latched onto some secret portion of his psyche and was exploiting it fully. In moments he was shivering and gasping, milking his penis and sending spattering milky globules into the pot. After extracting all the bliss he could take, he settled into a stolid pose, limp as he wiped his penis on the container and then closed the lid to deny evaporation the chance to undo his work.

  The bondage suddenly became more annoying, the loss of his pressing lusts having shrivelled his desire to be treated thus, and only the vision of his owner kept him willing to continue.

  After a few minutes of recovery, he began again, the task of bringing himself back to erection being one considerably more difficult this time. He played with the plug a little, helping fan the fires of his greed. Fighting the rawness of his length, all the while her rules flowed through his ears and eyes, the heat of his latex uniform keeping him dizzy while it pressed to his own slick skin.

  Grabbing the pot, he unscrewed the lid and gasped and groaned, shuffling in his bonds as he released a smaller measure into the jar,
shuddering.

  After this, he tried again once he had taken a short break, his penis now feeling sore, each session of enforced self-abuse chafing the flesh, making it harder and harder to extract any quantity of semen for her purpose. He considered spitting into the pot to speed his release, but he had no wish to be made to gulp down the contents should she discover it.

  Would she make him do it anyway as further punishment? It was a treat to discover that she was capable of such a threat, that she would make him obey by presenting a consequence he could not face, that exceeded his limits. It was an expert sentence, because he had to strive to comply rather than face it, whereas if it was a lesser punishment, he might well succumb to his dark perversity and deliberately fail to gain the consequences such a failure brought. She was truly adept in her workings, that much was for sure, and heedless of the consequences he was hers forever, and there was to be no going back. The bridges that permitted retreat were already in flames.

  Even if he pleaded with her, begged her to go back to how things were, could it be done? Would she even consider it? No, she had all she wanted, as she wanted, and his words would only have him punished and indoctrinated further to erase these misgivings.

  The next attempt was even harder, his penis actually hurting now, the final orgasm a minute thing that was far eclipsed by the sore state of his flesh. He was still perhaps three more times short, and he could not continue, he had to rest, leaving himself in the bondage, listening to the tape, excogitating on his fate.

  In vexed irritation he extracted the butt plug, setting it aside and letting his rear recover, hoping that he not be investigated before he had finished and reinserted the toy.

  It was like the old punishment of forcing a child caught smoking to sit in a cupboard and finish boxes of them. His crime had been the using of that which no longer belonged to him, and the vengeance applied was to use it until he was in self-inflicted agony.

  Resting himself, he lingered on his fate, making sure he kept himself dedicated to his goal, thinking prurient thoughts of his latex Empress, keeping himself fixed lest he start to resent his confinement and make it all the harder on himself.

  Grabbing the half-hearted erection once more, he continued, working himself to an uncomfortable climax and adding another meagre measure to the pot. Deciding to wait longer this time, he read the rules to pass the time, mumbling along to them and reading them with the voice of his goddess. It was like a prayer, a list of her psalms that he had to memorise to pledge his faith to her eldritch religion.

  For a time he examined and fumbled upon the locks and bonds, finding that though he had access, they were not to be defeated without the keys. The anchors were set deep, the screws too tight to extract without a tool.

  One final time he closed his aching fingers to his burning shaft and with a wince started to coax forth an erection before working himself to painful satiety. The last spurt of his issue filled the small pot almost to capacity, and with a satisfied grin of no small relief he closed the lid tight. Drawing up briefs and leggings, he put away his chafed length, burying it beneath cool latex and drew the skirt back into place. Slouching in his bonds, relaxing, he awaited her return, his lesson learned through numerous grating lessons.

  Looking into the dead vacant eyes of the teddy bear, she turned it around and ran a finger down its back. The slight trace of parted stitching gave her clue to alteration, and the unruffled, pristine nature of the toy proved that such a seam was not a result of wear and tear. Squeezing it, she felt a hint of something solid within.

  Lynn had the skills of a seamstress, so it was logical to conclude that any hiding place might well be one sewn shut.

  Her slave probably thought her ignorant as to Lynn’s excesses, but such was not the case. When she revealed the truth, she would probably have to punish him for having so little faith in her. She could still hear him, in the cupboard, tutoring himself as to the errors of his ways, in the doom that would befall him for defying her rule.

  Opening the seam, she extracted the tape and returned to the other room, slipping on headphones as she listened to the contents. A smile crept across her face, tickling her cheeks with a beaming amusement at such a scheme.

  It was a cunning ploy, one that her little slave would easily fall for, but which she had been expecting and had actually orchestrated prior to permitting it to unfold.

  To have gained such awareness and perception of her surroundings, it made her feel all the more powerful. Her position as a Goddess was unquestioned, she felt omnipotent, this house was her universe where she was absolute ruler, and nothing could escape her attention, or her influence. All that had transpired had done so to her design.

  Satisfied, she replaced the useless blackmail chip and used the same thread to restore the seam, hiding her discovery, letting Lynn believe she could taint or corrupt as she wished. But she was serving a purpose, and would continue to do so until the all-knowing entity of Mistress Despoiler decided otherwise.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lynn stood before the front door, took a deep breath of courage and slipped her key into the lock. Opening it wide, she stepped through, clutching the shopping bag in which she had gathered several new purchases to assist her new role.

  No sooner had the door closed than the voice of the Mistress reached out to control her.

  “Come here, slave,” she stated, revealing instantly as to what caste she was first to dwell in.

  Following the sound into the living room, she found the Mistress laying in the soft arms of the couch. She was clad in tight folds of burnished jet, the latex second skin hugging to her legs, rolling beneath stiletto ankle boots.

  A short skirt of the same impermeable fabric clutched around her abdomen, and a gloss corset arose to haul at her sides and submerge half of her breasts beneath its cups. The crosses formed by the lacing down front and back were like kisses, each drawn tight, making her delicious curves all the more appetising to Lynn’s ravenous eyes.

  She still wore her peaked cap, and the spiked collar and bracelets once more adorned her with their dissuading vicious appearance.

  “How was work, slave?” she asked, pointing down to the area directly before her, causing Lynn to wilt and set aside the bag, its contents scheduled and intended for her dominant persona.

  “It was fine, Mistress,” she replied humbly, eyes down, kneeling in penance before her owner.

  “Did you relieve yourself?” her owner asked bluntly.

  Lynn was momentarily taken aback by the question, the invasion of such a private fact making her stammer a few syllables, trying to find a way to answer that did not expose the embarrassing truth.

  “Answer me, slave!” she hissed, and skimmed a light swat across the top of Lynn’s head, flicking over a few tufts of hair.

  The sudden enforcement of her regnant melted the free will Lynn had recovered through the day and she withered under the ferocious tone and stinging smack.

  “Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, but I did, I couldn’t help it,” she confessed, recalling the sneaking trip she had made into the toilets in the morning. Taking advantage of isolated solitude she had extracted her relief while dreaming of being back in this house and at the feet of the pitiless dominatrix.

  “You disobeyed. You used my property without consulting me first,” accused the Mistress, closing a fist into the back of Lynn’s hair, pulling down to lift her features so that the slave might face the close and angered visage of her judge.

  “I couldn’t Mistress, you weren’t there.”

  “You could have called.”

  “Called?” she questioned with shock, the prospect of sitting amidst her work mates and conducting such a request in front of them was unthinkable. Even though she did not possess a mobile, there were occasional precious moments where no one was around. She could feasibly do it, but it would be dangerous. The concept of being caught added a spice to the notion, one that had her almost eager to be back at work and soliciting the perm
ission to masturbate from her Mistress.

  “Yes! The phone, slave. You can dial can you not?” she stated with a vituperative hiss, pulling more forcefully on the follicles she had snatched.

  “Yes, but, the office, I…”

  “I do not care. Next time, if you want to make use of my possessions, you will call and ask. If I say no, you will not. If I say yes, you may pleasure yourself. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “And don’t even think you an disobey, because I will know, slave.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Lynn answered with the sneaking suspicion that she would indeed know, the eyes of the Mistress ferreting out the confession from her slave’s eyes, seeing past what her mouth offered as an explanation.

  “Now go and take off all your clothes, put your hair up, and meet me in the bedroom, slave,” she stated, releasing her with a fling so that she crumbled onto her side, her scalp aching.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Lynn arose, grabbed her bag and skipped meekly upstairs. Once within her room, she started to peel off her attire, stepping out of underwear and putting it all away ready for the next day. Gathering up her hair, she brushed out the knots and formed it into a rigorous ponytail, working with speed, her anticipation making her nervous and jittery.

  Once completely nude, she proceeded next door, where she found the Mistress already waiting, her collar stretched between her cruel fingers.

  The Mistress beckoned her forth and buckled the device in place, adding a padlock and then giving the D ring a tug to ensure all was firmly in place.

  “Put these on,” announced the Mistress, handing her a black latex garment.

  Accepting the cool rubber, she found that it was a set of briefs. But facing inward were two stocky dildos, each of which spewed a wire out from the other side, the cables leading to a small control box that the Mistress held. A tube of gel was handed over, the lubricant presented to assist Lynn in donning the intimate panties.

  The vibrators would be controlled and operated by the Mistress, used to pleasure and tease her while she was mounted atop them. With haste she started to thread her legs in, and after smearing a generous measure of gel atop the two points, she worked their lengths into her. Groaning and shaking as they glided deep into her tracts, Lynn pulled up the briefs and straightened them, cupping her hands to the bases that pushed out as her muscles chewed upon the trespassers.