SlavesofMistressDespoiler

by Bruce McLachlan

  “Come on, slave, you can do it.”

  The sight descended, and he was able to obey, kissing the rounded mounds, and lapping along the tight ribbon of gloss.

  “There, good slave. Now lie back, Mistress Lynn has a special treat for you,” she uttered gravely, her words bloated with menace.

  No sooner had his skull touched the carpet than her hindquarters dropped with meteoric force, settling onto his features. His nose was pressed into the cleft, his mouth smothered, leaving him looking up her arched back. His legs kicked and he struggled against her, suffocated by her rear, unable to squeeze even the minutest breath through the chinks.

  His face burned with internal fires, his hands battling to get free from beneath him, his torso arched over the folded limbs. His legs kicked wildly, the heels scraping at the carpet.

  The crop was lifted high over her head, behind her back, the overhead hack terrifying him, his eyes widening in horror. With a whistling purr it streaked down, the fulgent line filling his thigh, a rasp of air escaping her rear as his scream slipped the bonds of flesh, the vent closing before he could recapture any.

  Again she coiled her limb back, letting him see the vicious weapon before it launched back down, installing terrible welts to his spasming legs.

  The lack of oxygen made the world swim, his giddiness growing, his mind fogging with denial. When she lifted up, he wheezed his breaths in, recovering from the trial as she rose up and watched his travail with no small delight.

  A yank to his collar drew him up onto weak heels, where he swayed as though he were a sheaf of wheat. Only her hand squeezing the inferno of a buttock brought him to more animation, gaining his attention in full with an explosion of bruised harrowing.

  “Restore your uniform, slave,” she stated, wiping sweat from her brow, a satisfied glow tainting her features, her eyes sparkling, the trials of the working day banished by this act of intense affliction.

  Gingerly lifting up his attire, he sobbed with dismay as the latex cradled the weals, the contusions responding to any touch with a vast increase in their pounding beat.

  Ignoring this suffering, she pushed him to the wall, making him face it on his knees.

  “You don’t deserve my new outfit, so I’ll get changed. Then later, I’ll make you worship it properly. Now don’t turn around slave, or I’ll really make you suffer,” she ordered, and the sounds of rustling gloss sheets sounded as she started to dress herself differently. Perhaps she was simply not accustomed to her heels and brazen exposure of the leotard, and was donning more comfortable and familiar garments for the rest of the evening.

  He faced the wall, listening as she changed back into the corset and poppy skirt, her flat boots and gloves, a considerably less demanding set of vestments.

  Taking up the leather hoop of the lead, she escorted him from her room and back to the hall. Showing him downstairs, her crop in one hand, the leash in the other, his rear continued to pulsate, the welts afflicting him most grievously.

  Upon entering the living room, they found Mistress Despoiler already waiting.

  A sealed carrier bag lay by her feet, filled with anonymous devices for his torment. She was in her latex dress, the corset bodice hauling at her divine curves, with opera gloves of satin, fishnet tights and her knee high boots. Her peaked cap was in place as always, and the cane sprouted fiercely from her tensed fist. On the couch beside her was the pot, and a small funnel, this sight making him despair above all others.

  “Lay down here,” she demanded, jabbing a finger at her feet.

  Led by his leash, he settled onto his back, gloved arms trapped beneath his body, the limbs still locked in their shackles. He shivered with fright at what was to come.

  Mistress Despoiler stepped astride him, like a monolithic statue, imposing and magnificent. Lowering down, her folded legs trapped his bound biceps and squashed his ribs with her latex sheathed rear, her body rising over him, her eyes like wells of jet. His arms began to churn with their own discomfort from having to support his own torso and the form of his goddess, but there was nothing he could do.

  “Trap the slave’s legs, will you Mistress Lynn?” she said without inflection, and he felt the villainess sit upon his rubber encased thighs, locking her own boots over his shins, fully immobilising him as he was crushed beneath the two dominatrixes.

  “Mistress Su—” he began, seeking to petition clemency seeing as a reprieve was out of the question.

  “Silence!” she barked, ending his words and leaving him mute as she pronounced her sentence.

  “You disobeyed again, slave. After this, I will give you a more lingering punishment, but for now, you have a penalty to face.”

  “Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he said gravely, resigned to the foul judgement he was to experience beneath them.

  “Open your mouth,” she ordered, and as he obeyed, she slotted the funnel in. Removing the underwear, a peg to his nostrils held them shut, and her hand pushed to his chin, forcing his head back, keeping his teeth pressed to the intruding plastic nozzle.

  When she lifted up the pot, his compliance wilted and he began to squirm, but it was already too late to retreat. Watching as though mesmerised, he saw her dark limb rise over the yawning funnel and hover, teasing him before she began to pour. The lumpy sludge cleared the lip and stretched down, dropping and sliding into his mouth. The salty tang made him instantly recoil and he fought to spit it out.

  “Swallow it, slave!” she growled, and he let out a seething whimper as Mistress Lynn sunk her fist to his briefs, crushing his genitals in a potent hold, making him comply or suffer for his disobedience. With a revolted grimace he swallowed, and Mistress Despoiler continued to force feed him his own issue, dribbling the sludge slowly in, drawing out the ordeal as he spasmed wildly beneath the imprisoning females.

  “I warned you about the consequences, slave. Yet you perpetrated the crime anyway. I thought this threat would be enough to make you comply, it seems I was wrong. Do you want this then? Do you actually ache to fill your little belly with a man’s seed? Perhaps my little session earlier today arose some latent homosexual craving? Have I a little cock sucking pantywaist as my slave?” she smiled, causing concern that she was speaking truthfully and not merely to intimidate.

  “Well maybe I shall be generous, and get some more male slaves, let them sink themselves deep into you, sheath themselves into that complaining little maw. Would you like to milk my slaves, Porcupine?”

  He closed his eyes in horror, the thought repelling him, especially with the taste of semen already creeping across his palate. He could not face this, it would be too demeaning, yet to be made to suffer it for his owner was tantalising.

  The deed repelled him, but because it was so abhorrent, perhaps it would help dedicate him to her rule. Contradictory and extreme thoughts rolled around in his skull, but he wanted only to deny this, to dispute any homosexual leanings. As a child reviling such an accusation from teasing schoolmates he fervently refuted the accusation on instinct and knee jerk reaction.

  She smiled and patted his cheek.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll not make you confess it just yet, I know it must be embarrassing to admit your leanings in front of Mistress Lynn,” she stated, scorching his thoughts with the allegation.

  The last fell in and she set aside the emptied vessel before drawing out the funnel and then folding her arms moodily across her chest. Mistress Lynn was keeping her hold firm and he continued to whimper softly in calamity.

  “I have a good mind to make you clean out the pot and the funnel with that disobedient tongue of yours, slave,” she warned, but she decided to show mercy. Maybe it was because she knew he had performed truthfully, and that it was her assistant that was orchestrating the crimes. If such was the case, why was she still letting it continue?

  “But I think you may enjoy it too much. This was supposed to be a punishment, not a reward,” she informed, the bogus rationale to cover her act of charity issued to further wound h
is temperament. Removing herself from his assaulted form, Mistress Lynn followed and together they stood over him as his chest pounded with fury from being squashed under them.

  Mistress Despoiler reached behind his neck, setting the chain free, the shackles parting, letting his hands drop to his sides, the muscles beating with prickly washes as circulation was restored after the prolonged impediment.

  “Go and get changed, slave. Wash your uniform and return in your briefs and that which I have locked to you,” she ordered, causing him to scuttle upstairs, his body alive with residue from beatings and abuse.

  It was bliss to finally peel off the sodden layer of the uniform. The trials throughout the day and the heat of his sweat upon him had created an awful veritable wetsuit that had boiled him within its cloying folds.

  Washing the garments as before, he set them out to dry and quickly showered, stripping off the perspiration, refreshing himself. The welts across his rear, the whip marks on his back, all responded gruffly to the merest touch, but he was proud of them nonetheless, they were marks of his slavery, trophies to be treasured.

  Cleaned, he slid back into his briefs, only his hood, collar and shackles remaining, the locks denying him a chance to be free of them and wash his hot features. Frantically he tried to brush his teeth as best he could, to erase the tang of semen on his taste buds, but the hood made such a consideration difficult, and the ghastly flavour refused to be dislodged.

  With a considerably lighter step now that the heels were gone, he pranced downstairs.

  “Pay homage to me, slave,” crooned Mistress Despoiler the moment he entered.

  He flopped forward, holding to her boots as he licked and kissed them.

  The other stiletto boot of his owner rose up and settled onto his shoulder, holding him down with a spiked heel as he grovelled before her, the awful taste of his issue still prevailing across his tongue.

  She let him lap and lick at the patent leather, his penis growing hard within his underwear, the arousal great, the taste of his seed being overruled by the exquisite tang of the boots.

  “Now, to help dedicate you to your rules, I have a gift. I had hoped it would not be necessary, but your own misconduct proves otherwise.”

  Reaching into the bag, she removed a metal restraint. The steel circle was locked at the front and unleashed a wide band of polished metal. The plate broke into two chains, each wandering out to the back. The chastity belt appeared sturdy and immovable.

  “You will wear this until you can be trusted with my property,” she decreed, and stepped away from him, opening the locks with heavy metallic chimes, the sound of expertly crafted materials assuring him to damnable incarceration.

  “Remove your underwear.”

  He started to do as he was told but froze, for Mistress Lynn was present and he was afraid of stripping totally before her. There was still that bashful quality within him, and despite all the atrocities that she had performed on him, deeds that far eclipsed something as minor as nakedness, he was still beset by embarrassment.

  She herself coerced otherwise, her weapon eager to be used, to be broken in on flesh, the new toy slashing across his rump, causing him to jolt upright with a choked cry.

  “Thank you, Mistress Lynn,” he coughed, the rules still fully impressed into his thoughts, and with haste he removed the bleak impervious underwear.

  Mistress Despoiler closed in and applied the constricting garment. The press of cold steel to his flesh made him gasp with shock, for though there was a rubber lining, the chill had saturated it. Closing the device about him, his penis fed into an interior sleeve inside the moulded cup, the rubber interior proving to be a grip to his skin that further denied movement. The belt was drawn skin-tight and locked into irrevocable position, the parting chains leaving his butt plug untroubled, so that his rear might be made use of at any time.

  “There, that should keep you obedient,” she stated, and he knew it would be so.

  His own frustrations and the denial of release would pledge him to devoted service, all in the hope of gaining a relief from the gnawing bane of sexual deprivation. It was cruel imprisonment, far worse than the cupboard, or the cling film, but it was one that would ensure a burning zeal to obey and submit. It was as though he were addicted to sensation, and if he were denied orgasmic pleasure, then the hot kiss of the whip, the lap at latex, the grinding churn of a heel into him, the pitiless embrace of bondage, all were ready and welcomed substitutes for his craving.

  “Now, get into your uniform and make dinner for us. I feel like Chinese,” she stated with force, settling back into the couch, crossing her legs.

  Feeling greatly trapped, any movement of his body made the stern contours reveal themselves, the rubber dragging at his skin. With a twisted scurry, he made for upstairs to change, trying to get used to the new and perpetual addition to his form.

  Restored into the midnight facade of his maid caste, he started to prepare the required dinner. Organising a stir-fry as commanded, he served the whims of the women, the heat of the kitchen making the rubber uniform a more unbearable companion.

  When he brought in the meals, Mistress Despoiler opened his hood and let him eat from a bowl. While he fed in this depreciated position, the two women rested their legs upon him, using him as footrest while he ate what they had permitted him, his belly finally being filled after a day of great hunger. But there was a far worse hunger to come, all because of the belt trapping his loins, denying him access even unto himself. It would starve him of a far more precious sustenance, and the effects of such starvation were an unknown variable, his familiarity with it negligible.

  The hood was placed back and locked, and the emptied plates were handed to him for cleaning and disposal prior to his being returned to serving as their footstool.

  Huddled beneath their boots, his position was only broken when he was commanded to fetch something for them, change the channel, or serve some other need. Sporadically the cane or crop of one of them fell and afflicted his flesh, the women beating him randomly with whimsical sadism, and each time he thanked them for their attention.

  “I have to get some sleep, I’ve another day in the lousy office tomorrow,” bemoaned Mistress Lynn, having already talked with Mistress Despoiler of the stresses of her day. He knew of them himself, for he had been the recipient of her rage from such pressures, his rear still aching from them, and a headache in his skull still lingered from suffocation.

  “Well, goodnight then,” she added, and nudged him with her heel.

  “Well slave? Kiss her goodnight then.”

  A tall boot was placed before his face and he leaned down to kiss the toe before rising again.

  “Goodnight, Mistress Lynn,” he added, and the two Mistresses both laughed with amusement before she withdrew, heading up to her bed.

  “Right, slave. You have been busily pleasuring yourself, it’s time to reciprocate,” she stated firmly, and with her heel she rolled him onto his back, the piercing spike digging into his side, controlling him. Gladness filled him, for to be of such service was a wonderful pleasure, but it was one now tainted by the realisation that in all likelihood he would not be gaining anything from the exchange for himself.

  The lock at his hood was opened, and the hot folds of thick rubber drawn free, exposing his soaking wet hair and damp features, tears of perspiration trickling down his features. She draped his gloved arms over his head, straddling his face, her feet by his armpits, the toes just under the skin as she looked down over her breasts and into his subdued features. Keeping him beneath her, her thighs crushing his biceps, his eyes were wide as she lifted the tight skirt of her dress, unveiling her rubber underwear.

  Lowering her loins onto his mouth, she squashed his features and cut off his air. Leaning back, she readied other punishments, extracting them from beneath the folds of the couch.

  The latex underwear under her skirt smothered him with its glorious smell, denying him access to her, making him serve through t
his barrier. Pushing his tongue to the sheet of midnight, he let his movements reach through the underwear and give her pleasure.

  Pushing down his arms, her legs rested to them, her thighs subduing as he toiled, his face starting to burn from suffocation, his throat aching, his lungs fiery with denial.

  Mistress Despoiler rose slightly to give him brief gasps of air, banishing the heat before descending again. Stifling his breath, the rigor of her control made the chastity belt seem to shrink in size, his imprisoned shaft battling vainly to get free.

  Two sets of clamps bit into his inner thighs, right by the cup of the chastity belt, making him squeak into her flesh. Another set snagged his nipples, and she reached her arms back around, revealing lines of cord and a broad grin. With a tug of her left hand she plagued his groin, and with a pull of the right, his nipples were churned with lucid heat.

  Drowning him in latex, pinned beneath her, she stared into his flicking eyes as she alternated or let them conspire in conjunction, the two reigns afflicting him constantly, the steady bite of the clamps being greatly increased with her devious use.

  For a good hour she had him attend her, suffocating him beneath her as she tensed her fists to the cords and squeezed his skull, devouring his ministrations and demanding ever more. He was overjoyed to be of such service, for though he could gain no equivalent for himself because of his deeds, he was pleased to be of value. He felt guilt for having disobeyed, and was angered at his own flaws that might have let her play his length had he not tried to skirt around her rules. He swore to try and keep himself under firmer control in future, for though he was chaste, if he could prove his new dedication, perhaps a second chance might be gained. If he could shed the belt, he would not disobey again, the risks were too great, the losses too precious to him.

  “That will do for now, slave,” she finally declared.

  Removing herself from him, she straightened her skirt and placing a heeled boot to his chest. He languished on the floor, fighting back the fires of his asphyxiation with deep breaths, still connected to her fists by the terrible tethers.