SlavesofMistressDespoiler (39 page)

After near finishing her own, she finally placed his bowls of tea and food to the floor. Lifting up his face, she used a painted nail to pierce the nylon, creating a mouth hole he might exploit, his nose and eyes still lodged beneath the veil. The aperture let him begin to devour, hands spread wide for balance, lapping and guzzling with alacrity.

While he fed himself, she availed herself of the opportunity to open her mail in private, a trait that was not lost on him. One of the envelopes contained a number of others, each sealed, each being opened and the letter within read. What did that mean? What sort of company, or service sent letters within letters? It had to be a contact magazine, a personals section, or something akin to such a service. She had placed an advert, seeking something, and these were her replies. She must have been planning this descent into full slavery for some time, for the publication of such magazines was sporadic and infrequent at best. To be getting replies now meant she had to have organised her advert anything up to a month ago.

Despite his concern, it was comforting to know that she was working so well in advance, her plans set. She was not ambling along with her dominant role, making whimsical choices, she had set goals, made schemes, and all was unfolding as she intended.

With a great grin of glee, she slapped the mail into her palm and emerged from the sheets.

“Right, slave. I want you to set up my bedroom next door, and I want a dungeon readied for me. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he replied, for though it would take time, he was capable of the task.

“First though, out of that underwear, after all I can’t trust you to do this alone and not play with my property,” she announced, and with dreary effort he complied, sliding the damp pants down and letting her lock the belt back into place.

The Walkman was taken up and placed to his back, and a fully encompassing strand of tape was wound around his naked skin, fixing it in place.

“Excellent. Now get to it slave,” she demanded, turned up the volume and left the room.

Mistress Despoiler went downstairs, leaving him alone. He could have stopped the tape, but he knew he needed it to help teach him his place and so left it running, a steady accompaniment to his work.

After straightening the other room, he dismantled the bed frame within, and hid the mattress beneath the double affair he introduced. All clothes were transferred to the new wardrobe, and all fetish attire was placed in the vacant dungeon one. The long cabinet was emptied, the contents scattered about the rest of the home in drawers and cupboards, making room for their perverse instruments.

A black drape of velvet was set across the entire thing as it spanned beneath the windows, like an altar. This image was further bolstered when he set the heavy black candles upon it.

Hooks along the outer facing side of the shelves accepted the range of leaden weights of various size and shape, the burdens gently warmed by the radiator beneath.

The hooks in the walls bore their arsenal of weapons, and others were introduced to make supports for gags and other implements. The floor was swept and tended, and after several hours of exertion, the room was left bare, ready to start to transform into a fully functioning chamber of torture for him.

Heading downstairs, he found Mistress Despoiler sat upon the couch, watching television and reading from her book. Dressed in her gloss shorts and bra, with ankle boots and cap, she set aside the novel and with the non-organic remote control, muted the show.

“All done, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress Despoiler,” he meekly responded settling onto his knees before her, nuzzling up to her feet.

“Then let’s take a look,” she announced, switched off the set, and clipping the leash to his collar.

Upon the chain link tether he was sown back upstairs and into the new bedroom. She looked across it with satisfaction and moved with impatience into the former bedchamber.

Panning her stare across the sight, she let a grin escape her majestic features.

“Very good, my little Porcupine, very good indeed, you have done well.”

“Thank you, Mistress, I only wish to please you and be of service.”

“And you have. Now get one of the wooden chairs,” she stated, and walked to where he had hung their coils of rope in neat rows, the store placed where the bed had once been.

With speed he gained the plain wooden affair and set it for her, holding it out for her to seat herself in.

“It’s not for me, slave,” she declared with a dark smirk, stretching rope between her hands as she set free the woven strand.

“Now sit down.”

Complying readily, he entered the chair and had his arms bent over the back. Her expert weave captured the limbs, pinning them to the very piece of furniture that Mistress Lynn had tortured him in, making the chair gather grim associations for him.

His chest was set in place by crossed coils, and his ankles were bent up underneath. The pose was near identical to that which Mistress Lynn had inflicted, save that the bonds were woven far neater, an aesthetic display of bondage craft that seemed far more secure.

“Now wait here, slave. I’ll be back shortly,” she dictated and deserted him to isolation, the tape still playing in his ears.

After a brief wait, the door opened, and through the nylons over his eyes he beheld her in a new uniform, one that made his jaw drop open, such was its impact to his senses. He regarded her dressed in a grim semblance of a police officer, a possible scenario of interrogation and bleak justice making his penis leap into life and fight against the chastity belt.

The shadow of the peaked military cap was assisted with dark shades of cosmetics. A black short-sleeved shirt embraced her torso, the tight folds following her curves, a matching plain tie fixed in place. A studded belt rode around her waist, bearing pouches, a store for handcuffs, and a sheathed blade at the back, the handle of the curved ornamental weapon a flowing masterpiece of skeletal alien designs, heavily influenced by the style of H.R Geiger. The utility belt was armed to torment with extreme prejudice, ready to equip her with eager ease.

White leggings poured down her legs, stretched tight about her form, the material gleaming, like milk, the fabric slipping under knee high boots of patent leather, the stiletto stabbing at the ground. Leather gloves encompassed her hands, her arms almost fully bare as she held a dressage whip. The white handle sprouted a monstrous length of woven mayhem, the gargantuan crop tipped with a flailing cord.

“Now, slave, I’ll have answers from you,” she smiled with determination, his defences already in ruins before her.

The aura of authority and complete control was a tangible presence around her, a well of might that saturated the air, generating an ambience that had him quaking in dread and glorious awe of her. Truly she was in control here, her regnant undeniable. He was lost to the divine rule of this seraphic tyrant, and all that it would bring.

About the Author

Born and raised in London, Bruce was a Royal Marine Cadet, has worked in demolition, rainforest preservation and for the Ministry of Defense, Harvey Nichols and Selfridges, but writing was always his one true passion. He encountered a wonderful Californian and after marrying, they moved to San Francisco in ‘98 where he worked and played in the S&M community before relocating to Seattle a few years later. He has written many books and illustrated a number for other poublishers. Several works are under development into graphic novels and computer animated series/films.