SlavesofMistressDespoiler (9 page)

“I..well, I—”

“Get your head in there,” she hissed, forcing him face first into the bowl. The waters touched his chin and staring into the pool of water before him, his breath echoed in the small basin.

A brief wander from the room supplied her with new equipment. Free for the moment, he seriously considered flight because he was scared of what she might do to him.

Fastening his hands about the U bend with cuffs, she tightly locked the shackles, his latex gloved hands suffering from the slight impediment to circulation.

The sound of stretching PVC reached his ears along with the sound of shuffling heels. Lynn’s rear sat across the back of his head. The firm buttocks of the Mistress pinned him in, denying him any hope of getting his head out. Being forced to the rim by her weight pained his chest.

Without a word she flushed. The cascade of water thundered about his ears and he was submerged. His trapped head stifled the drainage of the waters, causing them to settle slowly, keeping him under for longer than normal, and taxing the supply of breath he had snatched before he was deprived of access. When a route to acquire was once more gained, he gasped and spluttered, the interior of the hood still soaked and draining away the flood. Shivering slightly, he strained to draw free, only to have his efforts defeated by the demanding burden of the Mistress and his awkward position. When the roaring signal of the flush came again, he hauled at his cuffs, suddenly having to purloin a breath as he was dunked once more.

Forewarned of the flood, the snagged breath was devoutly held to make this easier on him. The searing impact of a crop onto his rear had him unleash an underwater yelp that lost a great stash of his air. The throbbing burn of the trench she had burned into him pounded in his flesh, making him strive to break free so he might nurse the injury, but he was too secure. The chain links rattled upon the pitiless mooring, and his boots squeaked upon the tiles in vain.

The waters lazily withdrew and he sucked in great gasps of air. The moisture he rashly drew down with his much-craved lungfuls had him break into coughs and racking hacks.

The deluge fell the moment the tank had refilled, the noisy gurgle ending and being replaced immediately by the tumbling roar of a swirling flood. No sooner had this dense monsoon drowned him than the crop fell, applying a fierce hack that had him fighting to keep his air. Another followed, and another, the terrible ferocity causing him to cry out and squander precious breath. Fighting her condemning rear, straining his back and neck to get free, he was assured that he would drown, and only thoughts of getting free filled his mind.

The unforgiving edges of the cuffs dug at his skin, curtailed in their cruelty only by the opera gloves. Bouncing on the tiles had bruised his knees. His kicking legs were beset with burning swats of her lithe weapon. He could do nothing in his panic save await the draining of the bowl, and when air became available, he gulped it down and wheezed softly afterwards.

“P..please, Mistress Lynn, no more,” he begged, unable to brook this level of callous misuse any longer.

“Be silent, slave!” she growled, and applied her weapon. Striking into his jolting rear, she tracked the oscillating target and slammed heavy-handed blows into it.

Yelling into the bowl, he announced his pain fully, pleading for mercy as she thrashed him and then without warning he was lost under the ocean of the waters. This was by far the hardest occasion to endure because he had virtually no breath left. He had to wait an eternity of seconds before he could once more find access, and as his face burned from starvation even against the cold waters. She continued to beat him, causing him to writhe, expelling energy when he needed to keep calm and preserve such imperative supplies.

The level dropped and he swilled the new air. The lungfuls were a life giving elixir to his starved senses. The sight of the nebulous bowl rolled in and out of focus from the acts of drowning she was perpetrating with indifference, his mind warped by denial and hysteria.

“Now, you won’t be so sloppy in future will you, slave?” she asked, ensuring he knew this had been a lesson for his failings as a maid.

“No, Mistress Lynn,” he whispered softly, and yelped when the crop struck his collected welts once more.

“What was that?”

“No, Mistress Lynn,” he repeated with more volume.

She paused and then lifted herself from her exhausted seat. Deploying the key to free his hands, a riot of pins and needles played within his fingers and palms. His hands remained slack, the control over them diminished by the contusions dwelling beneath the latex.

With the leash, she dragged him out on his pummelled knees and walked before him. The bane that had been her rear hovered before him, taunting him as an object of worship and extreme punishment. She stopped suddenly and let him pause at her side.

Hauling his head up so that he was looking at her from his knees, he looked over her glistening torso into a face of malice. She spoke with sober gravity.

“Does Mistress Despoiler make you clean up in such a fashion?”

“No, Mistress,” he replied honestly.

“And why not?”

“She wants my mouth clean, Mistress Lynn.”

“Then we had best get it restored to such a state,” she grinned. From the neighbouring bathroom she took a glass of water, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.

“Get down on your back, slave,” she decreed.

He looked about at the stairs and landing, wondering if she was intent on doing this amidst their present surroundings.

“Here, Mistress?”

“Yes, here you idiot!” she growled and shoved him to the boards before straddling his chest. The sudden drop of her lithe body winding him.

Seating herself harshly onto his ribs to drive the breath out in a choke, she folded her legs in. Crushing his arms beneath her thigh boots she left him helpless beneath her.

Hauling his head painfully up by the ponytail, his neck ached from the extreme lean forward. Despite the distress he still stared with fetishistic admiration at her close body. Her legs were opened across him, crushing him, offering the slightest glimpse of her dark underwear.

“No more hiding under this,” she commented. Lynn was obviously intent on stripping him of all his protections, to expose him fully to the ravages of her shameful regnant.

Opening the laces, she drew them apart and then slipped the slick interior from his sweat-riddled face. Feeling himself exposed, he was even more vulnerable without its comforting compression to his skull, and his head dropped back and bounced to the ground.

With wicked glee she sunk her gloved fingers into his cheeks, forcefully opening his mouth so she might dribble water into it. Next, rather than the normal routine of such a chore, she simply squeezed a long line from the tube directly into his mouth with a broad smile stretched across her face.

Snatching the brush as his eyes snapped wide, she inserted it and began to churn the paste around, generating foam and cutting off use of his mouth for air. She conducted the rite without care or caution, roughly brushing as she kept his head in place with the stern hold to his mouth. He whimpered and gurgled, her rough treatment making him struggle beneath her.

“Wriggle all you want! You’re not leaving until we get this done, slave!”

His heels scraped at the floor. His legs and fingers folded and squirmed to each other like eels with the enduring of this abuse. It was terribly degrading, to be treat like this, to be used in such a manner, but he could do nothing to stop her, and this defeat made it all the more succulent a scenario.

“Lay still!” she hissed and slapped his cheek. Pausing to make sure he was going to control his body more effectively she recommenced with gusto.

It was hard to credit that this was the same person he had known for so many years. A tempered and meek outer shell had been opened or shattered, letting this spiteful demonic persona rule unchecked, undertaking its frivolous tortures without any obstruction of conscience or consequence.

Pouring the water into his mouth, she closed his maw tight and sank her fingers into his hair. Pushing down she ground his head into the ground, her eyes flashing with utter spiteful gratification.

“Swallow it,” she demanded.

After a quick slosh of the fluid around his teeth, he gulped it down. Her orders now operated his body without the need for his own thoughts to bring motion.

“Well that’s for starters. Now to get them really clean,” she said, the muscles of her thighs squeezing in aroused fits, her hips riding gently back and forth against him. Once more she forced open his mouth, the pinch into his cheeks kindling a powerful ache.

His fight to get free escalated considerably the moment he spied the washing up liquid.

“No, Mistress Lynn, please, don’t do-”

The distorted words were lost as she popped the cap, inverted the bottle and shot a prolonged jet into the cavern of his raw mouth. The tang of the detergent was awful and he shuddered and tried to spit it out but was unable to do so because of the nip of fingers into his cheeks that stretched open his mouth. She increased his distress by throwing the brush back in and starting to wash his mouth out with uncaring jolts of the bristles. Clouds of bubbles emerged over his lips, running down to the ground as his eyes screwed up and rolled back. His mind seethed at this level of indignity, more so for her callous chuckles and sparkling mischievous smirk. She was a magnificent sight, a vinyl-clad creature of unbridled sadism that was devouring his anguish with demonic ecstasy.

The trial seemed to go on for hours, and unable to swallow or spit out, he had no other option but to bear her attack.

“There, that should do it. Now rinse it out, slave,” she demanded.

Slipping from his chest she left him to indolently stagger to the sink and try to erase the chemical taste ruling his aching mouth. The foam was marked with streaks of pink, her roughness proving too much for his raw gums.

“Well, that’s your mouth clean, now we had best get your body done,” she testified as he furiously sloshed tap water around and spewed it out. Running his tongue under the flow in a bid to banish the appalling taste he had barely heard the words. His attention was only truly placed back to her when she smacked a hand to his thigh, making him jolt upright. The warm handprint swiftly arose on the soft pelt of skin.

“Strip,” she demanded.

He froze, his hands rising half-heartily, unsure of whether to continue or not.

“I told you to do something, slave!” she added angrily, her lively smile being malformed into a scowl as she was resisted.

Snatching his hair, she bent him down and dragged him out, leading him by this painful anchor that made his roots stew with anger. A gloomy pout carved her features into a furious mask and as she towed him forth, tottering in the awkward doubled up pose, she flung him to the floor of the bedroom/dungeon. He dropped to his knees and cradled his aching head.

The Mistress removed the cane from the wall and tested it with a few flings at the air, eliciting a wafting hum from its wiry length.

“Come on then, slave. Get undressed, or you’ll get more lessons in obeying me,” she commanded, and swept the weapon with a hateful slash. The thrum of the device promised severe consequences should he continue to resist.

The unchecked viciousness of her deeds had now risen over his sufferance. He had to roll with this scenario, carry it out with as least pain as possible.

When Mistress Despoiler got back, and they were alone again, he would betray what had happened. Never again would he have to endure this level of capricious untamed sadism.

With solemn motions he removed the apron and slid free of the dress and gloves. Taking down the hose, he released the laces of the boots and set them aside. Stood only in his briefs, his rear still plugged, he looked down, ashamed.

“Now. Into the bath,” she snapped, grabbing selections from the wall—restraints and rope.

With an apathetic wander he trekked to the bath and stepped into the dry interior. She immediately appeared behind him, closing solid restraints to his wrists and ankles, using padlocks to deprive him of any hope of escape.

“On your knees, wretch,” she barked. When he conformed, she started to create a web between the anchors on his extremities. He could feel her lacing tightly through the D rings, hauling him backwards into a brutal crab position.

“Lay back,” she added.

Cradling his shoulders she helped him descend. His torso pinned his folded arms and legs beneath him in a terrible contorted pose.

A wrench from the ropes tightened the position and he grimaced with the strain. Another tug pulled him up a little, encouraging her to lift a thigh booted leg over and jam it to his chest. Her weight helped to keep him down as she yanked in the slack, tightening the bondage and making him croak with new misery.

The muscles of her leg rippled the taut fabric, sending new shimmers of light down its length. The dagger heel pressed to him, pushing in the skin, offering the distinct possibility of piercing him most grievously.

The boot into his body kept its control and the spare length of rope reached around his waist to forge a strict corset that stopped him from lifting his chest from his bound limbs. The ebony limb drifted back and stamped to the floor. The rope travelled down and joined his knees, folding them in while his teeth ground upon each other in fortitude.