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Waiting for Mistress - part 1
As I walked toward the party, clutching a printed copy of the invitation I had been sent, I felt both
excited and nervous: I would be meeting my Mistress in the flesh for the first time, after a few weeks
of online interaction to get to know each other. She had sent me an e-mail with detailed directions,
both how to reach the exclusive private club itself and how to gain admission.
As instructed, I reached the entrance - a large, closed door, with no hint of what lay behind, just
a numbered keypad. The code I had been given opened the door, allowing me to enter - only to be
confronted by another locked door! Strange, I thought: this one had no obvious handle or lock. Still,
I thought, accepting my code meant this must be the right place; so, I hesitantly released the outer door,
which slammed behind me with a loud and final-sounding 'thud' - at which point, I saw the inner side
of this door matched its companion, with no way for me to exit again!
As the implications of this sank in, a door opened - not the inner door as I had expected, but a small
hatch - revealing a storage locker measuring less than a foot in each direction, empty apart from a
shiny black collar, the name 'js207' prominent on the front. Clearly I was committed: the only ways out
were both locked by remote control, so I had only one course of action open to me: as with the front
door, the collar locked firmly shut with an air of finality about it - and as with the front door, I
could see no way for me to unlock it again.
At that instant, the two clicks rolling into one, the inner door opened, revealing a steep stone staircase
leading upwards. Eager to reach the meeting as soon as possible, I began sprinting up the stairs, taking
the steps two at a time after a brief glance at my watch: I had reached the front door with half an hour
to spare - but after the bizarre door ritual, who knows what delays lay ahead?
In fact, I soon discovered a full ten flights of steps - strangely, without a single door along the way:
again, no choices left - lay in wait, leaving me staggering up to another door with just twenty minutes
remaining. Once I passed through this, however, I was stunned by the contrast: from the medieval appearance
of the bare stone stairs, to a thick, luxurious carpet in an oak-panelled room, a vast chest-height
reception desk in pride of place.
Approaching the desk, I saw no people, just a large red button marked 'call for attention'. Pushing this
had no apparent effect, so after a few moments I held it pressed for several seconds. This time, I heard
an angry male voice snarling: "Stupid whore! Didn't I warn you clearly enough about teeth?!"
This was followed by a loud slap, then a female voice, clearly distressed and presumably the recipient
of the slap I had just heard, whimpering "sorry, Sir, my spark-plug... Ah!"
Spark-plug? Before I could wonder further about this bizarre reference, the receptionist arrived, the
tears in her eyes and red hand-print on her cheek making it obvious what she had just been doing. As
she approached, we each noticed the other's collar. While my gaze continued down, taking in the tight
corset, miniskirt and extremely high heels, padlocked around her ankles and joined with a short chain
restricting her steps to no more than a few inches at a time, she gave a short, sarcastic laugh: "A
slave? YOU were the one who just earned me a level four punishment session?"
Consulting the last part of Mistress's instructions, I tried to work an apology into the script:
"Er, yes Miss" - addressing the receptionist as Mistress had ordered, something I had wondered about
earlier now becoming clear: she was not a Domme, but a fellow slave: superior to me, of course, but
still not high enough to be addressed as Mistress. My orders didn't include where to look, though:
should I look her in the eye as I apologise, for sincerity, or down, as for a Mistress? With
hindsight, my compromise of catching her eye briefly, then lowering my gaze a little, probably
looked more as if I kept staring at her chest, not helping win her over.
"Sorry, Miss, this slave didn't know that would get you punished. Please ..."
The orders had also specified never to refer to myself in the first person: always 'this slave', rather
than 'I' or 'me'. They didn't address the intervention of others in my script, though.
At this point, a tall man clad in leather strode in through the entrance opposite the one through
which I had arrived - obviously only slaves were expected to climb ten flights of stairs, while
their owners took the easy way! Catching a glimpse of the whip tucked under his left arm, I decided
it was best to avoid attracting his attention in any way, and averted my gaze - fortunately for me,
I thought, his attention was already focused on the receptionist in front of me. However, he strode
up to the far end of the vast reception desk, then held down the attention button, watching the poor
girl's reaction as he did so.
This explained the 'spark-plug' reference, at least: as soon as he hit the button, her hands jumped
down towards the miniskirt before being stopped short by chains running from her wrist cuffs to a
pair of nipple clamps - specifically, clover clamps, vicious devices which tighten when pulled - or,
in this case, when jerked hard by the poor slave's cuffs, reacting to what was obviously a harsh
electric shock delivered to her most sensitive parts whenever the button was pushed! No wonder she
hobbled over as quickly as the short chain between her ballet boots allowed - and no wonder she had
been angry at my use of the button - but the chain was short enough I had counted to fifteen before
she reached that end of the desk and convinced him that he had her full attention.
"Quit flirting with the other slaves, you useless bimbo!" he growled, jabbing the button one more time
for emphasis. As she opened her mouth to protest, he continued: "Where's that lazy slut of mine got
to now? Taking a nap?" Obviously a rhetorical question, as his gaze shifted to the large plasma screen
behind her which showed the security cameras on the slave staircase, two blonde women hurrying up the
stairs, one clad in some sort of fetish fantasy - or nightmare - outfit, the other in street clothes
like myself, complete with collar.
"Well, she knows the rules: be here waiting for me, or suffer for it. Activate both their collars,
thirty seconds."
"But Sir, they're on the seven-" her attempt to spare her sister slaves punishment backfired mid-sentence
with another press of the red button, longer this time.
"Did I ask what floor they were on, slave?"
Seeing the tears again flowing freely was too much for me to stand idly by, so I stuck my own neck
out to protect her as she had for the on-screen pair - not working out until mid-sentence that I
was literally putting my neck on the line, since my collar must have the same facility for him to
"activate", whatever that might mean:
"Sir, you did actually ask her where your slave had got to..."
That was a mistake. I tailed off mid-sentence as he took a step towards me, fury plain on his face,
making me expect to be punched, or perhaps beaten with the whip under his arm - instead, he paused,
then turned back and ordered the receptionist: "activate all four, now."
Not wanting to provoke him further, she rushed to acknowledge this command, immediately feeding it
into the console in front of her. With the final keystroke, we both doubled over clutching at our
throats, an instinctive but futile attempt to reduce the agony now burning into our necks. But for
my own predicament, I'd probably have enjoyed the sight behind the desk now, the tension on the
poor receptionist's clover clamps pulling her modest breasts up clear of her corset.
Each second dragged painfully past as we both staggered from side to side, whimpering in agony, until
after what felt like hours the two blondes we had seen on the staircase cameras entered through the
slave entrance. Somehow, despite the pain we were all feeling, the one in fetish clothing managed to
stagger to the cruel master's feet and kneel before him, eyes downcast, hands cupping her ample breasts
to him as if presented for punishment - which was exactly the point, as a swift series of blows from
his whip demonstrated. Even without the collar, I expected the blows to have her curled up on the floor
clutching the affected area - instead, she stayed kneeling submissively before him. Clearly she was
accustomed to this sort of treatment, betraying barely a trace of the double agony she must have been
feeling as she recited what must have been part of their punishment ritual:
"Thank you, Sir, that's twenty. May this slave please have another?"
In response, he barked a single word, which clearly scared even a slave who had just endured both the
ongoing collar-shocks and a harsh tit-whipping: "Slit!"
Despite the expression this produced on her face, she was lying on her back holding her ankles apart
a split second later, leaving his chosen target completely open, without even a trace of stubble for
protection. Again, as soon as the blows stopped, she reported the count and begged for more; no more
blows came this time, but he did reply ominously with "once we reach the dungeon".
I felt sorry for her, facing who knows how long alone with this sadist in a dungeon - no doubt, given
the elaborate decor and advanced punishment equipment I had already seen and experienced, a well
equipped one - but this was overcome by the relief as he finally deactivated our collars.
With one last parting burst of sadistic creativity - 'accidentally' leaning on the poor receptionist's
already overused button while she collected the key to the dungeon he had booked, which entailed her
shuffling as fast as her hobble-chain permitted over to the back wall, bending right over to take the
key from the long row, all positioned near the floor to make her life a little harder, particularly
with her wrists cuffed to her nipple clamps, then shuffling back again - he was off.
Finally, it was my turn. Walking to the section of desk she now stood behind - somehow, I doubted she'd
shuffle back over to where she had been talking to me before our painful interruption for my benefit,
particularly after my earlier mistake earned her another punishment - I completed the script Mistress
had given me: "Slave js207, reporting as ordered for Mistress K."
For some reason, both the receptionist - identified by her collar inscription as 'bex', no capitals, I
now saw - and the remaining blonde slave - reacted to this. Slave bex replied, with a sadistic-looking
glint in her eye, "ahh... new meat for the Waiting Room. That makes you mine until your Mistress gets
here."
She bent down again and produced two boxes, pushing the one which bore my new 'name' across the desk
to me, the other to my blonde companion, then ordering us both to put on everything in the box, putting
our street clothes - everything except the collars, which we couldn't remove anyway - in its place.
I followed my companion's lead and stripped quickly, putting everything on the desk, then emptying
the box and replacing its contents as ordered.
As I soon discovered, the contents of the box were rather limited: we each had a pair of sandals with
an unusual number of straps, which padlocked around our ankles with a chain between like the
receptionist's, very high-heeled in the blonde's case, a pair of handcuffs, which I soon learned clipped
to the back of our collars, and finally a bra of sorts. The interior of both the bra and sandals was
lined with thousands of sharp little plastic spikes, sized to be uncomfortably tight all over, except
for our nipples, which were forced out through holes - no doubt ready for some other torture.
As bex reached the front of the desk, I saw I had missed one item in each box: I had a set of steel
rings, all attached to one end of something resembling a dog leash: a version of the 'Gates of Hell'
I had seen in online bondage stores, where the rings would lock around the unfortunate slave's cock
and balls, the constriction simultaneously forcing and punishing an erection, while the leash enabled
the slave's owner - or, as in this case, another slave - to take the slave - me - anywhere she decided.
Since I had already locked my hands to the back of my collar using the handcuffs, it was too late to
fit the gates myself - an oversight slave bex quickly remedied, before towing me over to the blonde
girl, whose collar identified her as 'l69'. Like me, she needed help with the final garment: as I now
saw, she had been wearing a chastity belt under her street clothes, which could be removed only using
the key now in bex's hand. While I wondered how long that belt had been in place, bex removed it and
clipped another leash to some sort of clit piercing - before answering my unasked question with her
comment to the blonde slave: "how long's it been since your last orgasm now, Lau- L69? Five weeks?"
As she said this, she stroked l69's labia with her fingertips, an evil smile reaching her own lips as
l69 responded instinctively, trying to hump bex's teasing hand.
I was still reeling from the thought of five weeks of enforced chastity when her answer came: "Six,
Miss." As that sank in, she began leading the two of us slowly - and painfully, as every step pushed
the array of plastic spikes into the soles of our feet - towards her "Waiting Room": as it transpired,
a set of alcoves just around the corner from her reception desk, each alcove having a pole sticking out
at chest height. Obviously not wanting to have any more guests pressing her 'attention' button if she
could possibly help it, bex rushed to push us both into an alcove and attach the four clover clamps to
our nipples. Irritated by my pained yelp at this, she locked ball-gags into both our mouths, testing
the effectiveness with a cruel tug on each clamp, producing nothing more than a quiet, pained whimper.
With one final cruel touch - each pair of clamps was attached to a pulley above our heads, leading to
hooks behind us, on which she hung heavy weights we had to hold to avoid the weight hanging from our
helpless tortured nipples - she scrawled 'Mistress K - 8:07 pm' on the whiteboard beside us, and
hobbled back to her duty station. I was curious about the time - I was supposed to be here for 8pm
exactly, and it had been 7:42 as I removed my watch just a few minutes earlier, so there was surely no
way that 25 minutes could have passed since then - but biology pushed that to the back of my mind for the moment: thanks to the extreme high heels, it wasn't just my clamped nipples which matched up with
the short, beautiful blonde slavegirl - my painful enforced erection was brushing up against the
moist lips which had, apparently, been denied this type of attention for well over a month and clearly
had no intention of letting that figure climb any higher!
My head told me this would probably lead to even more suffering for us both, but neither of us seemed
to be in a mood to take that into account right now: hormones were firmly in control of us both as
l69 engulfed my painfully caged erection, thrusting with a frantic urgency which confirmed she had
suffered every second of her six weeks' denial, perhaps coupled with a fear that any second now, we
might be pulled apart, condemning her to prolong that still further.
As she raced frantically towards that long-denied reward, her worst fear hit her: both our collars were
triggered, brutal electric shocks slamming into both our necks, our natural reactions pulling us apart
seconds before. The discovery that our crotch leashes were now entangled, with the resulting violent
jerk to the captive flesh, was painful enough for me - but I could see in her eyes the despair at having
her sentence extended yet again. Worse was to come for me, though: slippery with sweat from her frantic
exertion, the heavy weight slipped from her fingers and dropped towards the floor - stopped abruptly with
a violent yank on my clamps.
Glancing to my right, I knew how we had been stopped at the crucial second so precisely and so cruelly:
on the opposite wall, there was a small security camera, obviously relaying our every move to the large
TV set outside, where bex could inflict revenge on us both whatever punishment my earlier mistake had
earned her. Yet again, I seemed to be earning pain for myself and the poor slaves around me.
As the knowledge that whatever we tried, she wouldn't be ending her six weeks of suffering just yet,
l69 rested her head on my shoulder, silent tears running down my chest to pool on my spiked bra. Faced
with no alternatives, we settled in to wait for however long it took for Mistress K to collect us,
hoping not to give any more excuses to trigger our punishment collars before then. The throbbing in
my captive cock was bad enough, but I couldn't even begin to imagine how it felt for l69 - teased yet
denied release for so long, then brought so close - and jerked away so painfully at the very last second.
Somehow, though, knowing that Mistress K was capable of inflicting such a cruel fate on my beautiful sister
slave didn't diminish my feelings for her at all - far from it.
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