Bondage & Discipline, Submission, S & M
At Her Service!
By Michael Sharpe
I returned home from my first meeting with the beautiful dominatrix at the fabulous New York Dungeon of Donatella Den.
My cruel Mistress had given me a laundry bag and instructed me to follow instructions. Most of her clothes were loose in the bag, while one large, plastic, zip-lock Baggy contained about a dozen pairs of soiled panties, and another Baggy contained about a half-dozen pairs of well-worn, nylon stockings.
I found a note, which read as follows:
l. Go to the supermarket and purchase the most expensive liquid detergent you can find. Likewise, buy the very best bleach. Use these to wash my clothing, separating the whites from the colors, of course.
2. Lick and suck the crotch of each pair of panties before rinsing them in a large glass bowl full of Champagne. Then wash them in purified drinking water. Rinse in Perrier.
3. Thoroughly lick and suck the feet of my stockings. Soak them in a bowl of distilled water. Let my stockings soak overnight. In the morning, wring my stockings out into the bowl of water, which by now should be filthy. Drop to your knees and drink the dirty water while worshiping my photograph. Now wash my stockings in purified drinking water. Rinse in Perrier.
I obeyed her orders to the letter. And, while waiting for her panties and stockings to dry, I turned out all the lights, lit a single candle, and smelled the insides of her boots for an hour each, keeping time with a clock.
I polished and returned her boots the next day. I returned her fresh laundry the day after that. She met me at the door wearing a black, leather dress that looked as though it had been spray-painted on her curvaceous body. She wore black, seamed stockings. Her precious feet were encased in a wicked pair of black pumps with five-inch, stiletto heels. She was absolutely stunning!
"Hello, slave," she said. "Open your mouth."
"Lucky slave," she said as she spat into my mouth. "Swallow slave," she said.
I was surprised to discover that she was entertaining company. After I set down her laundry, the magnificent Goddess led the way into the living room.
I followed on my knees. As she took her seat in a comfortable, black, leather chair, her personal, live-in slave -- pretty little Slave Doris -- scurried on hands and knees to position herself beneath her Mistress' feet.
Without comment, the decadent Mistress casually used the girl's back as her footstool.
Reclining sensuously in a love seat directly across from Mistress was a magnificent raven-haired dominatrix, named Mistress Wanda. She sported long, curly black hair, accentuated by the string of pearls that graced her long, sinewy neck. She too wore an all-black, leather outfit, but hers was of two pieces -- a snug halter top that hid little of her sumptuous, up thrust breasts and a V-cut leather bikini-like affair which cloaked her loins, but left little to the imagination. She wore thigh-high, black, leather boots
with stiletto heels. In her gloved fist, she held a thin, birch cane that measured at least three feet in length and which, I figured, must hurt like hell.
Lying face down at Wanda's booted feet was her personal slave. He was completely naked except for a grotesque, leather mask, which covered his head and face, completely obscuring his features and successfully contributing to his cruel dehumanization. There were closed zippers where his eyes and nose should have been. His Mistress had left the mouth zipper open so that his tongue could lick her boots, which was what he was doing when I first espied him. His back was crisscrossed with angry red welts, no doubt the result of a recent caning.
I was dumbfounded. I knelt next to the Living Goddess in a state of shock, wondering what was in store for me when - Smack! Smack! Smack!
She slapped me out of my reverie.
"Shame on you! You know better, slave!" she said with an icy tone. "You were staring at Mistress Wanda and her slave, weren't you?"
"Well, I, uh --"
"How dare you lie to me. If I said you were staring, then you were staring. Get undressed immediately."
Speechless, I undressed and crawled over to where Her Majesty sat eating fruit and drinking a dry martini. I knelt by her side.
She sneered at me as though thoroughly disgusted with me, as though I was unworthy to serve her. With a mere look, she could reduce me to subhuman status. "Do you know what culinary humiliation is, slave?" she asked.
"No, Mistress," came my confused reply, but I had a sinking feeling that I would know soon.
The cruel dominatrix finished eating her apple, leaned toward me and rudely thrust her gloved fingers into my mouth, spreading my lips. With the fingers of her other hand, she shoved the apple core, complete with stem, deep into my mouth. "This, slave, is culinary humiliation. Eat it!"
I chewed the apple core and stem, trying to make it digestible before swallowing, but the Goddess would not allow me that luxury.
"Swallow it now!" she hissed. "Don't you dare take time to chew it. Swallow it whole, I wish it."
I choked it down.
"Doris, go into the kitchen and get me those stockings that have been soaking in warm water. Bring them immediately."Little Slave Doris nodded obsequiously and crawled swiftly to the kitchen.
The magnificent dominatrix tore off a large strip of banana peal and stuffed it deep into my mouth. "Chew that up, my human garbage disposal," she said with a mean-spirited laugh. "And be quick about it. I'm not finished with your culinary humiliation. Not by a long shot."
She force-fed me watermelon rinds and seeds, cherry stems, orange peels and peach pits. She spat grape seeds into my mouth. She went about this depraved form of degradation in a casual manner, as though she always had someone to consume the inedible leftovers from her food.
"You must be thirsty, slave," she said, mockingly. Without waiting for my answer, she turned toward Doris, who knelt before her, holding a bowl of filthy water containing the feet of three pairs of the Goddess' soiled stockings. Only the feet of the stockings were soaking in the water. The stocking legs dangled down from the bowl, dry. "Doris will give you water to quench your thirst," the young dominatrix said. "Go ahead, you may stand over him and give him his water."
Slave Doris stood above me with a smile pasted to her lovely, young face. It was apparent that she was going to enjoy participating in my disgrace.
Better me than her, I surmised.
"Open that mouth," Her Highness commanded.
I opened wide and from below I watched Doris wring out the soaking wet feet of the Mistress' stockings. Right into my mouth. The water tasted sour from the dirt and dried sweat of her beautiful feet. I drank it all, grateful for water, no matter how foul, with which to wash down all of the detritus that Her Highness had forced me to consume.
Mistress Wanda clapped her gloved hands, applauding the perverse display.
"That was just great, Goddess. I am most impressed. You've given me some ideas guaranteed to liven up the dinner conversation, my dear."
"I'm glad that I inspire you, Wanda. Now, I think it's time for my slave to be punished. She shot me a cruel look, and said, "Crawl out into the middle of the room. We want plenty of room to beat you, don't we, Wanda?" said the blonde beauty.
"Yes we do," the raven-haired Mistress Wanda responded with an evil chuckle,
"I don't like anything to interfere with my back swing."
Now I knew I was in big trouble. Was the young Goddess really going to allow her wicked dominatrix friend to abuse me? This was not part of my job description. Or anyway, I didn't think it was. I assumed that she understood. That she knew that I consented to humiliated and abused only by her -- the proud and majestic Mistress. That she would not allow another
Mistress to mistreat me.
"On your knees, slave," she commanded. "Place your hands on top of your head. And I want your chin on the floor so that you are looking straightahead at floor-level."
Wicked Mistress Wanda strode purposefully toward me. I saw her coming, saw her thigh-high boots flash by in my peripheral vision. Not two seconds later, I heard her cane swish through the air. When the birch cane struck the flesh of my ass I literally saw stars. The pain was unbearable!
Instinctively, I reached behind me and began rubbing my injured flesh.
No sooner had I committed this unpardonable act of misbehavior than Her Highness was at my face with her high-heeled pumps.
She was furious! "How dare you!" She kicked out angrily. The pointed tips of her pumps struck me repeatedly about the nose and mouth. "Don't you dare
move," she hissed and proceeded to methodically kick my cheeks -- a dozen kicks to one side, a dozen kicks to the other. My face went numb. Then, just when the facial kicking ceased, she stepped on my head, forcing my face into the floor so that she could dig her stiletto heel into the back of my neck.
"Owwww!" I cried out. There was no escaping the pain. I only hoped that Iwould not be forced to endure much more.
At that very moment, the evil, raven-haired Wanda chose to beat my bare buttocks with her dreaded birch cane. The caning lasted for a full minute, and the pain was so horrible that words cannot describe it. What's more, lying face down with my mind riveted to the sharp heel that the blonde Mistress was so enthusiastically digging into my neck, I had no way of knowing when the next blow was due to arrive.
I had no way to steel my nerves or flex the muscles in my ass in preparation for a blow from the cane. It was sheer torture. Any way you look at it, I was being cruelly and methodically tortured! At that moment, I felt a strange kinship for every prisoner of war throughout history who had ever suffered torture. However, I had to admit, if one must suffer torture and degradation, it was infinitely better that he be tortured be a gorgeous Lifestyle Dominatrix.
The beating ended as quickly as it had begun. The dynamic duo strode haughtily back to their seats. Over her shoulder, the blonde dominatrix told me, "You may crawl into the bathroom and get a towel to wipe your back. Then come right back here." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Oh, and don't mind slave Z. He's being punished."
"Yes, Mistress," I said, wondering who the hell is slave Z and what is he doing in her bathroom? It did not take long to find out.
My body ached as I crawled toward the bathroom. When I reached the bathroom door, I had to laugh. The Mistress had thought of everything. There was a slave door built into the bathroom door. It worked just like a doggie door, except that it was big enough to admit a naked human being. With trepidation, I crawled through the slave door which admitted me to a spacious and resplendent bathroom. There was a beautiful, black leather couch and a matching chair (Evidently black leather was the motif for the entire home.), arranged around an ebony coffee table. The walls were mirrored from floor to ceiling. There was a double sink with what looked like gold-plated fixtures.There was a huge shower room, a bidet, and, oh my God, I couldn't believe my eyes.
There he was! I thought. This must be him. It simply had to be slave Z. I shook my head in disbelief as I stared at the pathetic, hunched over figure of a tall, thin, middle-aged, naked man who could only be slave Z. He knelt directly in front of the toilet. His bony arms encircled the toilet bowl, behind which his wrists were bound with handcuffs. Dangling obscenely from chains attached to the clamps on his nipples were a pair of black suede high-heeled pumps. The weight of those wicked shoes tugging at his nipples must have caused unspeakable pain. The toilet lid rested on the top of his shaved head. Chains passed over the lid and around the fixtures where a lock held them in place. The handcuffs and chains made it impossible for slave Z to change the position of his face which looked directly into Her Majesty's toilet bowl and afforded him a bird's eye view of the unflushed toilet water.
I grabbed a towel and began dabbing at the welts that covered my buttocks. I crawled over to Z. "You must be slave Z," I said, breaking the ice.
"Y--Yes," he stammered. "Who are you?"
"Just another slave," I replied, not divulging my name.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing with my face in Mistress' toilet bowl," said Z. It was nice to see had a sense of humor about the whole thing.
" What's up, Z?"
"The Goddess is teaching me anal worship, but I'm not very good at it. I mean, I want to be, but I'm just not. She called me in her to brown-nose her and, well, I started to do it, but then . . . well, then I balked."
"God," I gasped, "I bet she was really pissed off."
"Tell me about it. That's why she chained me up like this, so that I could spend time thinking about my failure to serve her properly.
"Wow, unbelievable!" I exclaimed, when suddenly it occurred to me that slave Z would no doubt know the answer to the question that had recently plagued me. "Tell me, does she require her slaves to clean her nether hole?"
"Look around you," he said. "Notice anything unusual about this bathroom?"
I glanced around the room, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. "No, can't say that I do."
"Look again. Notice anything missing?"
Another cursory inspection yielded nothing. "I see nothing missing," I replied. "You tell me. What's missing?"
"Toilet paper, you ignorant fool! Mistress hasn't used toilet paper in years."