Landlady's wrath

Landlady’s wrath

Absolutely naked, Christine stood on her knees and waited for her Mistress to come. It was cold in the corridor, the floor was hard and her knees ached: she spent almost two hours like this, but she couldn’t just stand up and leave. She knew only too well what would happen if Miss Westlake opened the door and wouldn’t see her naked slave in front of her. It could easily be another two or three hours until that moment: Miss Westlake never told her slave exactly when she would arrive. “Tonight” was the only word in the text message Christine received today, and she knew perfectly well what that meant. After all, she’d been this woman’s slave for nearly eight months.

Christine wasn’t a lesbian. She understood that during their first sessions, and the rest of them only confirmed it. She didn’t want to have sex with women: a touch of her Mistress’s hand reminded her too much of her own mother. But she also didn’t have a choice, and Miss Westlake was very clear on that. Her slave could only have sex with another female, and that female would be only Miss Westlake.

When she was starting her little self-bondage game on that Saturday morning long ago, Christine had absolutely no idea how it would end. And how could she? She completely forgot that her landlord, Miss Westlake, was going to visit her apartment the same day. And of course she didn’t know that Miss Westlake was into girls, especially girls in bondage. Even Miss Westlake didn’t seem to know how much she loved girls in bondage until she saw her tenant on the bedroom floor, self-bound and naked. Christine was a virgin, and she had her first sex on that Saturday, when she lay handcuffed on her bed and Miss Westlake was giving her one forced orgasm after another. That day also marked the end of her freedom, for Miss Westlake took Christine’s naked pictures on her phone and promised to show them to everyone if the girl wouldn’t do what she wanted.

That was how her slavery began.

It wasn’t too bad at first. Christine could lead her normal life as usual: go to work, meet with parents and friends, go out with boys... well, except for the last part. Dates were the only thing she was forbidden to do. Not that it was a great loss: being a virgin, she was always shy of boys and didn’t really consider it a big loss at first. But now, when it was FORBIDDEN, she wanted boys even more, and her small set of dildos was her only relief. Not to mention occasional strap-on penetrations by her Mistress.

At the very thought of her Christine felt goose bumps on her skin. That woman had power over her. Not the power of her numerous naked pictures, not the power of videos where Christine had to endure countless humiliations. These things controlled only Christine’s behavior, while this woman controlled her very mind. It was impossible not to obey her. It was impossible not to fulfill her desires, which constantly evolved, getting more and more sadistic and elaborate. Since she discovered a Mistress in herself, Miss Westlake changed dramatically: she even walked and talked differently now. And, of course, these changes weren’t for Christine’s own good.

“So, how does it feel to be a fucktoy?” Miss Westlake said on the first day of Christine’s slavery. Naked and grinning, she was sitting at the girl’s stomach, while Christine was spread-eagled and tied to the bed. “How does it feel to be in someone else’s power? I hope you don’t think I’m letting you go, right? Because I’m not. We have a long, long journey ahead of us, and believe me, I’m gonna enjoy every single part of it. And every part of you, of course.” She laughed, kneading the girl’s breasts and looking into her tear stained eyes.

Christine couldn’t answer. She was gagged, her jaw ached horribly and her face was wet with saliva. She spent all afternoon on this bed, unable to move, and despite the fact that bondage usually aroused her, now she would have given anything to get free. But she only could wait for that to happen. There was nothing she could do anymore.

“What? You’re so excited that you don’t even wanna talk to me now? I asked you a question, slave! Answer me!”

Christine tried to say something, but the rubber ball in her mouth was too big for any word to come through.

“So that’s how you respect your Mistress. You don’t even bother to talk to her. That deserves some punishment, I must say. Young people are so disrespectful these days.”

Miss Westlake was 42 years old, and quite a sight for her age: amazing skin, trim figure, just a couple of wrinkles around green eyes gave away her age. Her breasts were small and beautiful, in Christine’s opinion: she did love her own C-cups, but sometimes she would prefer them to be a bit smaller. Especially when Miss Westlake tied them with a thin rope: they turned even bigger then, filled with blood. Bigger, and much more sensitive: both to Miss Westlake’s gentle fingers and to stinging touch of her riding crop.

But that would be later. On that first day of Christine’s slavery the riding crop landed only on the girl’s bare buttocks: she bent over her bed and bit her lips desperately, trying not to make any sounds. She knew she couldn’t let neighbors to enter her apartment and see her like this. Miss Westlake knew that too, and she didn’t show a slightest sign of mercy. When she finished, it was hard to look at the girl’s ass without gasping: it was scarlet red and covered with welts, some of which bled a little.

“That will teach you how to talk to your Mistress,” said Miss Westlake, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “Now start working on my pussy, slave. I became so horny looking at you that I deserve three consecutive orgasms at least.”

The pussy of her Mistress was the staple treat of Christine’s sessions. If she wanted, Christine could remember each and every fold and wrinkle of this woman’s labia, every taste of juice that came into her mouth. She never thought it could be so different. After several months of eating this woman’s pussy Christine could tell if she went to the toilet recently, if she drank alcohol the night before, if she was in her period. She could smell everything that the taste didn’t tell her; especially when Mistress was sitting on her face, pushing the girl’s nose inside her vagina. Christine knew exactly how she had to move her tongue to make her Mistress come, how to tease her clit if she didn’t want to come too fast. In fact, Christine knew this woman’s pussy a lot better than her own, and she wasn’t happy about it.

Nobody knew about their relationship, of course. The world continued to see Christine as a shy quiet girl, not knowing that with each text message of her Mistress she turned into an obedient sex slave. Each message was very short (“Tonight”, or “Tomorrow”, or “This Friday”), but Christine knew perfectly well what she had to do. As soon as she got home, she had to immediately take off her clothes, go to the corridor naked and stand on her knees there, waiting for her Mistress to arrive. Just like she did right now. No toilet, no food, no anything: only kneeling and waiting. Once she became tired of it so much that she fell asleep on the floor, and that was the first time when Miss Westlake flogged her breasts in punishment. For several weeks they hurt so much that Christine couldn’t sleep on her stomach. She never missed her Mistress’s visits since.

Most of them occurred on Fridays. Miss Westlake always stayed for the night, and sometimes for the whole weekend. During her stay Christine had to be completely naked, except maybe a leather collar or cuffs, and her duty was to make her Mistress’s time as pleasant as possible. That included cooking, massage, cosmetic procedures… and, of course, sex. Little of it was for Christine’s pleasure, but still, it was better than ropes and punishments. She even tried to please her Mistress, crawling to her bed first thing in the morning: she knew if Miss Westlake woke up with her slave’s tongue in her pussy, there would hardly be any punishments during the day.

Her own bed was on the floor, of course: naked and collared, she was always chained to the bedpost at nights, and she was lucky if she didn’t have her wrists handcuffed behind her. During the day she had to remain on her knees most of the time, while Miss Westlake was busy with something else: watching TV, reading a book, checking her emails or chatting with her friends on the phone. Every so often she had to lick the woman’s feet and suck her toes: as disgusting it was, it still was way better than to lick her pussy clean after the toilet. Miss Westlake discovered this new humiliation only three or four weeks ago and liked it so much that she made Christine to do it every time.

“You’re so pathetic,” she used to say sometimes, usually while Christine was licking her feet. “You let people to treat you like shit, and that means you practically consider yourself shit. Do you consider yourself shit, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” was the only possible answer.

“I knew it. Pathetic spineless slaveshit, that’s what you are. No self-esteem, no self-respect. Only a bald wet pussy and a filthy wet tongue. Absolutely useless piece of meat. Except maybe your tongue: you do a good job with it sometimes.”

Christine sensed the pause and knew how she was supposed to react: “Thank you, Mistress.”

“Good girl. I like how I trained you, slave. Do you remember what a slut you were before? Remember how you used to dream about cock? I hope you don’t anymore, and if you do, the worse for you. Because you’re never gonna get it in your life, ever. I’ll see to it. No cock for my personal slavecunt. If you were too stupid to get some cock for yourself in 23 years, you don’t deserve it anyway. So, if you dare and try to get it now, there will be consequences. Because I will know. Believe me, I will always know if you do something wrong.”

And Christine believed her. She didn’t even try to change her job or move to another city. She knew this woman would hunt her down and punish her worse than she could imagine. The mere look in Miss Westlake’s eyes was enough to wipe any will to fight from Christine’s mind. This woman owned her, and it was not an exaggeration.

Until that disastrous Saturday Christine had some bondage gear of her own, but it was nothing compared to what she had now in her possession. Bullwhips and canes, butt plugs thick as arm, all sorts of nipple clamps… at first Miss Westlake bought it all herself, then she just ordered Christine to pay for anything she wanted. Christine didn’t earn too much, and each new purchase almost made her cry, but she knew she would cry even harder when Mistress would try this thing out on her. All this was kept in not one, but two locked bags under her bed. Miss Westlake was right: Christine definitely considered herself shit, and these two bags were the evidence.

And not only the bags. One day Miss Westlake ordered her to lie on the floor, then hogtied her and shoved under the bed. Christine didn’t have to guess why for too long: half an hour later the door bell rang, and two male workers entered her apartment guided by Miss Westlake. Bound and naked, Christine looked at their feet moving to and fro with her eyes wide open. If they only knew what was hidden under the bed! Even if she didn’t have a ball gag in her mouth, she wouldn’t make a sound, so frightened she was. There were noises of drills and smell of dust, and when workers left and Miss Westlake pulled her back from under the bed, Christine saw several thick metal rings embedded to ceiling and walls. Soon enough she was standing in the middle of the bedroom, her arms spread apart and tied to the rings in the opposite walls, while Miss Westlake gave her a thorough flogging. Her landlady effectively converted her bedroom into a torture chamber, and Christine could do absolutely nothing to stop her.

She didn’t know what her Mistress enjoyed more: lesbian sex or corporal punishments. When Miss Westlake made her slave writhe in pain, she got aroused and this almost always was followed by Christine eating her pussy. And while Christine was giving all sorts of pleasure to her, Miss Westlake grew impatient and eventually decided to punish such a pathetic slut. Kind of a chicken-egg situation, with eggs being butt plugs or dildos in her holes and chicken being herself. She came to that thought one sleepless night when she was suspended under the ceiling, hanging there like a piece of meat. She almost chuckled with this thought and probably would do so, if she wasn’t too afraid of waking up her Mistress - who slept on her, Christine’s own, bed a couple of yards away.

Still, not everything was bad for Christine in this relationship. As long as she could remember, she always fantasized about being a sex slave, and while her fantasies didn’t involve any women, the reality had still got something to make her horny every now and then. True, she was intimidated by this woman and feared her, but she also was able to get pleasure from her sometimes. To have sex with Miss Westlake felt wrong, and it was wrong, but enjoyable also. When they held each other, their naked breasts touching, their tongues dancing in each other’s mouths, she felt as happy as a lonely virgin girl could. During these minutes she completely forgot that this woman was blackmailing and torturing her. There were only touches, tenderness and warm glowing pleasure. Christine loathed herself even more for that afterwards, but these pleasures were true, and she couldn’t do anything about it either.

“Maybe, that’s what it is, to be a lesbian?” she asked herself for a thousandth time, standing on her knees in the corridor. “Maybe they all feel the same? Constant guilt and loathing with occasional pleasure? Maybe I really am a lesbian and just don’t want to admit it?” But then she remembered what happened the other day and instantly felt warmth rising from her groin.

There was a man. She was sitting in a cafe having her lunch when he went to her table as confidently as it was the main thing he planned to do today. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, smiling, and Christine could only return his smile meekly and nod. He sat in front of her and put his tray on the table, still smiling and looking at her. “Thanks,” he said. “How come I’ve never met you here before? Do you go here often?”

“Yes,” Christine said with an effort. Nobody paid so much attention to her before, and she felt the blush on her cheeks.

“Unbelievable. How could I miss you? My name is Jake, by the way.” And his hand came over the table, demanding handshake.

“Christine,” she said. His hand was dry and warm, and his fingers were strong. Suddenly Christine realized that she didn’t wear any make-up and that she didn’t wash her hair for two days. Jake smiled again, and Christine noticed was how confident and easy this smile was. He was about 30, and there was a bristle on his cheeks which was neatly trimmed and became him very much.

“Lovely name,” he said, holding her hand for a second longer than needed. “And a lovely girl comes with it. So what do you do, Christine? How come I’ve only met you today?”

They talked for the next thirty minutes, and Christine nearly missed the time when she had to go back to work. She couldn’t believe it. She had just had a conversation with a man who was interested in her, and she managed not to screw it up! And more than that: Jake has her phone number now and promised to call one of these days! She didn’t even know how she got to her workplace and, sitting at her desk, she was staring in front of her, seeing nothing. This man, Jake, asked her out. Her, 23-year-old virgin. She remembered his smile, his eyes and his hands, and her mouth became dry, and her stomach was ready to explode with butterflies.

And then she remembered about her Mistress. Christine winced with the memory, as if she had just been whipped across her back. “You are mine, slave,” she heard Miss Westlake’s voice in her head. “Every single part of your body belongs to me, and don’t you ever dare to forget about that.” And suddenly that made her angry, for the first time since the beginning of her slavery. How was this woman supposed to know about it, anyway? She couldn’t hire someone to spy on her 24/7, right? If she was careful enough, nobody would even know about her and Jake. “Her and Jake”… how awesome that sounded. Of course, if Mistress enslaved her on some weekend, she would have to abandon any plans on Jake... but why couldn’t they meet some other time? On weekdays? These thoughts seemed more and more plausible by the minute, and after a while her fear of Mistress was almost gone. Almost, but not entirely: she suffered too much in this woman’s hands to remain unconcerned.

She met Jake on Wednesday, and now it was Friday. He hadn’t called her yet, and part of her was glad about it: at least, she didn’t have to make up stories to cover up her inability to go out. But another part was nervous and filled with doubts: would he really call? did he really like her? and if he did, would he have sex with her? This thought made her close her eyes and breathe heavily. She imagined Jake’s cock, how she would take it with her trembling hand and aim it into her soaking pussy. “Please, God, let him call,” she prayed, her hand slowly lowering to her hairless crotch. “Please, let him go out with me. I want him so much. Please, please, please.”

And at this moment she heard the key inserted into the front door lock.

Her Mistress had come.

“Well, look who’s here, waiting on her knees,” said Miss Westlake, entering the apartment. She turned on the light, and Christine winced: she stayed in dark for too long. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Christine said obediently. The usual routine was on. She didn’t have to act like a slave: she became one. All words and body language came instantly, without her even thinking about it.

“Sure you did. I know you missed me, slut. I know you can’t wait until I come here and treat you like a slave you are. Stand up, I want to inspect you.”

Christine stood up quickly, turned over and bent, spreading her ass cheeks with her hands. A moment later Miss Westlake’s hand was there, probing and stroking her exposed genitals.

“All hair waxed out. Very good, slave. Do you like it? Do you like to be absolutely hairless there, like a little girl?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good. Because only real women can have pubic hair, not a worthless pathetic slut like you. Now lie down on your back and open your mouth.”

Crotch inspection was usual, but this was something new. Still, Christine knew better than to hesitate. Lying on the floor, mouth open wide, she watched Miss Westlake taking off her leather jacket and shoes. Leaving her shirt on, she took off her skirt and pantyhose, and her panties came next. Naked up to her waist, Miss Westlake stepped to Christine and squatted over her face.

“Come on, open it wider!” she ordered. “And don’t you dare to miss a drop. I need to piss so badly that I don’t have time to go to the toilet.”

Christine screwed her eyes shut. It was beyond anything she had to do before. One thing was to lick this woman’s cunt AFTER the toiled, but BEING the toilet was way over the line. But she didn’t move and, her eyes still closed, just opened her mouth as wide as possible. A second later a trickle of warm liquid entered her mouth, and then she couldn’t think of anything else but to swallow as fast as possible.

“Oh, you such a pathetic little shit, you,” she heard Miss Westlake’s voice from above. “You let another human being to piss in your mouth and don’t even say a single thing against it. And you know why? Because you like it, that’s why. You like to be a living fucking toilet. You like to drink somebody’s piss. Well, you can be happy then, because it’s going to be the only way I’ll take a piss in this house from now on. You happy now, piss-lover? You happy you will drink my piss all the time? Look at you. I can’t believe you actually swallowed it all. Now clean me up, quickly. That’s it. Lick it clean until it shines. I know you like it, so come on, show it to me. That’s it. I can’t believe it. You’re abominable. You’re so disgusting that I have to punish you right now. Go and wash your mouth with a toothpaste, then come back to the bedroom. Don’t make me wait, you piss-loving freak! Go!”

Alone in the bathroom, Christine almost burst in tears. Those eight months of slavery weren’t easy, but this was absolutely hideous. Scrubbing her tongue and mouth with a toothbrush, Christine desperately thought about what to do. She had to get rid of this woman at any cost. But how? How, in the God’s name? All those pictures and videos in this woman’s possession held her faster than any rope or chain. Besides, she couldn’t even imagine how to say this woman “no”, not to mention escape or any other sort of mutiny. Her Mistress was right. She WAS a worthless, pathetic slave. Not by name, but by right. And if she wouldn’t finish her mouth-cleaning fast, her life would become much more miserable: she had no doubt about it.

In the bedroom Miss Westlake, still naked below the waist, was sitting on the bed, waiting for her slave. She watched Christine with disgust as the girl hurried into the bedroom and hastily kneeled in front of her.

“Have you cleaned your filthy mouth properly?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Mistress. I cleaned it very good, Mistress.”

“Too bad I don’t care. You’ll be punished anyway. Now take this plug and shove it up your ass. It’s a bit too big for you, so here’s the lube. I don’t want to tear up your shithole, I’m going to use it later. Go!”

The butt plug was immense. Two inches in its thickest part at least. Christine wasn’t new to butt plugs, Miss Westlake used them quite often on her, but this was bigger than anything before. First a gallon of urine in her mouth, then this... her Mistress was definitely in a bad mood tonight. She desperately tried to guess why, while she was greasing her anus with lube and pushing this monster of a plug in her rectum. Despite the lube, the pain was so intense that tears came up on Christine’s eyes. This seemed to only anger Miss Westlake even more.

“You stupid fucking cow, you can’t even stick a piece of rubber up your ass. I’m doubling your punishment for that. Go on, you fucking piece of slavemeat, I don’t have all evening to waste on this! And don’t even pretend your ass can’t take this thing: after all those plugs I stuffed inside you, you can swallow a horse with your ass, not to mention this tiny plug... Well, finally! I thought I’d never see the end of this. Now put on these wrist cuffs, while I’m looking for ropes. I can’t believe how fucking slow you were with this plug. Next time you won’t have any lube, I guarantee you. I’ll only let you to hold it in your mouth before sticking it in.”

Several minutes later Christine was standing in the middle of the bedroom, her wrists cuffed together, her arms lifted up and tied to the ring in the ceiling. Miss Westlake fastened the other end of the rope to another ring in the wall and then tied the girl’s knees and ankles together. Christine was crying openly now. Something definitely was wrong, her Mistress was never that cruel before. Ropes dug mercilessly into her skin, while the butt plug was filling her up so much that she doubted her ass cheeks would ever come together again. “Maybe that’s how women feel when they’re going to deliver”, a sudden thought came to her head, but it instantly vanished when Miss Westlake came to her with a riding crop.

“A hundred strokes,” she said. “And thank me that they’re not going at your cunt.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” said Christine, her voice hoarse with tears and fear.

“Now count.”

“One.” Christine forced this word out of her mouth when the first stroke came across her buttocks. “Two... three... five... twenty three... seventy eight...”

She stopped recognizing her own voice after twentieth or thirtieth stroke. She stopped thinking about everything. She was all agony and fear now. This woman could easily beat her to death, and no one would come to her aid. She was absolutely helpless, and there was nothing erotic in this feeling. Despite eight months of spanking, flogging and caning, she didn’t get used to them at all. With each stroke Christine felt she would pass out and never see the light of day again.

She was alive, though, when the scourging was finished. She even wished that she wasn’t: her all body hurt, covered with welts, and her butt plug still was stretching her from behind. She sobbed silently: arms up, breasts quivering, body glistening with sweat, unable to touch her mutilated body and ease the pain. She didn’t even think about Miss Westlake and felt her presence only when the woman returned from the kitchen.

“Do you like it, slave?” Miss Westlake said, gently running her finger down Christine’s back. “Do you like it when I punish you like a dirty slave you are?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Christine whispered.

“How could it be otherwise. You like it when your Mistress treats you like shit, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Say it.”

“I like it when you treat me like shit, Mistress.”

“Not convinced. Say it again.”

“I like it when you treat me like shit, Mistress. I— I am your stupid worthless slavecunt, and— and I like it when you punish me. Please— please punish me more, Mistress.”

“I will, girl, don’t you worry. I will. But for now, I think, you should thank me for the treatment I give you. How would you like to thank me, slave?”

“I’d like to please the Little Mistress with my tongue, Mistress.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? Well, you’re lucky then, because I was thinking along the same lines. My Little Mistress missed your tongue, slut, so try not to disappoint her. Show me how much you worship her.”

Christine knew it was a weird state of mind for a non-lesbian girl, but she really wanted to eat Miss Westlake’s pussy now, more than anything. The reason was simple: after a couple of orgasms her Mistress became much more relaxed, and if Christine didn’t do anything stupid, there would probably no more punishments today. So, when Miss Westlake untied her and sat on the bed, legs apart, Christine instantly kneeled before her and pressed her lips to the woman’s labia.

Trying not to think about her own beaten body and a giant thing in her ass, Christine worked her tongue into her Mistress’s slit and began to move it quickly: up and down, in and out, round and around. Still half naked below the waist, Miss Westlake sat before her slave with closed eyes and softly moaned with pleasure. Her pussy was the entire world for Christine right now. There was nothing else. Only countless folds and depths of tender wet flesh, and every cell of this flesh demanded instant pleasure. Still working with her tongue, Christine pressed her mouth closer to the clit and began to suck it carefully. This caused an even louder moan from above, and Christine felt the woman’s hands on her hair pressing her closer. It was quiet in the bedroom now: only moans of Miss Westlake were heard along with rapid double breathing and occasional slurping sounds.

Slowly Miss Westlake’s moans grew louder, and her hips began to thrust slightly against Christine’s mouth. Her hands were all over the girl’s head, clutching her blonde hair and pressing her head against herself. “That’s it, slave,” she muttered. “Lick it, you fucking worthless fucktoy—that’s it—worship my cunt—” Christine licked and licked, wanting to end this as soon as possible, and several minutes later Miss Westlake uttered a cry and squeezed the girl’s head between her hips, almost blocking the air supply. With a relief Christine stopped moving her tongue, which was pretty tired by now, and waited for her Mistress’s orgasm to end, unable to take her mouth off the woman’s heated vagina.

“Good girl,” Miss Westlake finally said and let Christine’s head go. “Now lie on the bed face down and wait for me. You were a good slave, and I’d like to reward you.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” replied Christine and did what she was told. Her spirit rose a little: the worst was over now. Her mouth and chin were wet with the woman’s juices, and she secretly wiped them off, moving her head against the bed sheet. She heard Miss Westlake rummaging through one of her bondage bags, and hoped that she wasn’t looking for a whip or nipple clamps. Then she heard the rattle of steel buckles and realized that Miss Westlake was going to use a strap-on dildo on her.

“Poor girl,” she heard her voice. “Does that thing in your ass hurt you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” answered Christine timidly. “A little.”

“Too big, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“It’s alright. Your filthy little ass needs stretching from time to time. Besides, I know you like it. I hope you remember the way you were when I found you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You were handcuffed and tied, and both your holes were plugged, is that right?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Probably, you fantasized about being raped, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tell me about that fantasy.”

“There was a group of men, Mistress. They captured me as their slave. They laughed at me and—and raped me all the time.”

“In the ass too?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Did you like it when they fucked you in the ass?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You’re such a pervert, young lady. Well, let’s see if this fantasy of yours is any good. Come on, spread your legs.”

Christine felt the woman’s hands on her ass, and a second later the butt plug was pulled out of her roughly. It caused a new surge of pain, and she winced, but then came a relief: her anus was no longer stretched beyond anything. But she already knew what would happen next, and she was right: a cold dildo tip touched her asshole, and after that the whole thing slipped easily into her stretched rectum.

Oddly enough, her Mistress didn’t use strap-ons very often. Judging by how often she had Christine eating her pussy, she definitely was a cunnilingus person, sometimes alternating it with fingering and tribbing. Only six or seven times in total she fucked Christine with a strap-on, and she never made Christine to use it on herself. Probably, she didn’t like the idea of being penetrated. She even made Christine to buy a dildo gag, but never used it, which Christine was a bit grateful for. Now Miss Westlake was on top of her, breathing heavily above her right ear and thrusting dildo in and out of her burning asshole.

“Do you like it, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Christine didn’t like it at all, but neither did she have a right to say it. Ass play stopped arousing her a long time ago, but almost every time Miss Westlake used a strap-on dildo it ended up there, in her rear passage, as if Mistress was mocking her dreams about men. Only once she fucked her in a normal way, and that was the only time Christine enjoyed the process.

“I know you like it. A filthy slave like you must love it. Each filthy little hole of yours begs to be fucked, and that’s exactly what you’re going to get. Do you like it, slave, when your Mistress fucks your brains out with her big hard cock?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tell me how much you like it.”

“I—I dream about it every day, Mistress. I’m—I can’t wait until you—until you come here and stick it—stick this huge cock inside my filthy hole, and—and fuck me real hard.”

This dirty talk was another part of Christine’s servitude. She always had to tell Miss Westlake how much she loved her humiliations, to describe them in the nastiest words: the nastier, the better. It was hard at first, but she got used to it too: she just had to combine dirty words in different ways, and it was enough. Sometimes it even made her a bit horny, but only for a little bit.

Now they were lying on their sides. Miss Westlake’s small breasts were pressed to Christine’s back, her dildo still coming in and out of the girl’s ass. Then Christine felt the woman’s hand crawling down her stomach, and she startled when the fingers touched her naked pussy.

“Oh yes, I know you like it too. I want you to get wet and come for me, slave. I want you to come while I’m fucking you in the ass. Come for me. That’s an order.”

It wasn’t hard to fulfill this order, really. Christine knew she would only humiliate herself even more if she came on command, like a puppet, but she knew she had no choice. Plus, the woman’s touches were irresistible. Another hand cupped her left breast, squeezing it gently and fiddling with the nipple, while the other hand continued to massage her clit. Christine felt she was getting wet almost against her will. Then Miss Westlake began to kiss her neck and shoulders gently, to lick her ears, and the sheer sensuality of these kisses made Christine abandon all dignity that was left in her. It didn’t hurt to be fucked in the ass by now: the huge butt plug did the trick and stretched her properly. Both females were making love to each other now: not as a Mistress and a slave, but as equal partners in Christine’s mind. Pleasure continued to spread from Miss Westlake’s fingers, and Christine began to moan softly, not knowing it. It was probably almost the same as having sex with a man, she thought, whose hands were unusually soft and small.

“That’s it, honey. I know you like it. Come on, now. Come for me. Don’t hold it. Come.”

Something had switched in Christine’s mind. Everything was right now. Even the dildo in her ass, even the bruises which ached all over her body. She moaned in delight, caressing her own breasts and touching Miss Westlake’s hand which did the same. Her clit was slippery with her own juices, and the woman’s fingers were all over it, coming in and out of her wet vagina. Every dirty word magnified tenfold in Christine’s mind now. She was a dirty lesbian slut right now and enjoyed every moment of it.

Suddenly Miss Westlake fastened her hand’s movements “down there”. Christine couldn’t stand it anymore. Spasms began to shake her whole body, and she wailed in ecstasy, squirming and feeling every inch of the rubber penis inside her throbbing rectum. Waves of pleasure rolled over her, and she drowned in them, opening her mouth in blissful scream, only to be drowned in another wave, and these waves didn’t end. Miss Westlake’s hand came over her mouth, gagging her, and it threw her into another paroxysm of pleasure.

“Who’s your Mistress, little girl?”

“You—you are, Mistress,” panted Christine, muffled by a firm hand over her lips.

“Who is your Mistress’s slave?”

“I am. I am your slave, Mistress.”

“Will you ever be free, slave?”

“Never, Mistress. I’ll never be free.”

“And what does it mean?”

“I’ll always be your slave, Mistress.”

“That’s right. You don’t forget about it, do you?”

“No, Mistress.”

“We’ll see. Now go get up and bring the table from the kitchen. Now!”

She slapped Christine’s ass, and the girl hastily rose from the bed, still shaking from the orgasm. She didn’t really understand what she had just been ordered to do. She moved like a robot, running into the kitchen and taking everything off the table hastily. What was it for? Was she going to tie her to it? This thought made her touch her hot pussy again, and she shuddered with pleasure. She was ready for everything now.

Quickly she cleaned the table, wiped it with a piece of cloth and brought it to the bedroom, grunting with effort: it was quite heavy. “Put it here,” Miss Westlake pointed, “and get on top of it. Face up, arms and legs spread apart.” Christine obeyed, and, just as she guessed, Miss Westlake began to tie her limbs to the legs of the table. Soon the girl was unable to move, except to lift her head up and down a little bit. She was fastened very tight to the four table legs, her chest heaving rapidly, her glistening pussy exposed so much that even her labia had parted. The woman secured the last knot, then rose and sat at the edge of the table, looking at Christine from above.

“Did you like the orgasm I gave you, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress. I liked it very much.”

“What if was the last orgasm in your life?”

“I—I don’t understand, Mistress.”

“Imagine it was the last orgasm in your life. How would you feel about it?”

“I don’t know, Mistress—I’d be upset—”

“Of course you’d be upset. Such a slut like you couldn’t live without orgasms, right? I bet it would be very upsetting for you. And that’s why I’m asking you, slave: is there something you wanna tell me now?”

Christine looked at the woman in surprise and growing fear.

“I don’t understand, Mistress.”

“You said you’re my slave forever. Which means you have to obey me and follow my rules. So I ask you again: is there something you wanna tell me now?”

Oh God, Christine realized suddenly. She knows. She knows about Jake. But how is this possible? No, it can’t be it. It’s something else. Please, let it be something else.

“No, Mistress,” she answered slowly, hoping her face wouldn’t betray her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Christine said, beside herself with fear.

“That’s too bad,” said Miss Westlake, slowly running her finger over Christine’s right breast. “Not the fact that you’re my slave, I mean. I mean the fact that you’re lying to me.”

Christine couldn’t say a word. She was trembling, and her mouth suddenly became dry.

“What was our agreement, Christine? What were the terms of our relationship?”

“I—there was—you said you’ll publish my pictures, Mistress—if I don’t obey you.”

“That’s right. What else?”

“You said— you said I’m not supposed to have sex with anyone but you.”

“That’s exactly right, slave. Exactly right. That was our agreement. But looks like somebody’s decided to throw it away.”

“What do you mean, Mistress?” Christine whispered, already knowing the answer.

“I mean you went out with a man, slave!!!” Miss Westlake suddenly yelled and grabbed Christine’s chin, staring her in the eye. “You flirted with a man and you gave him your phone number! You planned to have sex with him and you even have guts to deny that to me! You have guts to lie to me, your Mistress! Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Her hand let go of the girl’s chin and slapped her hard across her face, then grabbed her chin again. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” Christine blabbered. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“You wanted to have sex with this man!” Another slap. “You wanted to spread—” Slap! “your legs—” Slap! “and have his huge—” Slap! “hungry—” Slap! “cock inside your fucking—” Slap! “slutty—” Slap! “pussy! Is that right? Huh? Is that right, slave?”

Christine sobbed, horrified and destroyed completely. This was the end. This woman owned her. She knew everything. Christine was totally, absolutely helpless.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” she cried, her mouth bubbling with tears and drool, her words almost inaudible. “I’m so sorry.”

“You thought you’re gonna have this little affair right under my nose, huh?”

“I didn’t—”

“You thought you’re gonna outwit me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“You stupid fucking miserable cow.” She grabbed Christine’s nipple and dug her nails into it. The girl wailed and thrashed in her bonds, unable to get away from excruciating pain. “What am I supposed to do with you now? Huh?”

“Please—please punish me, Mistress—”

“Punish you, huh? You want me to punish you now? Maybe I should just show your pictures to everybody? Maybe they should know what a pathetic perverted slut you are? Huh? What do you think?”

“No, Mistress—please don’t do that, Mistress—please punish me however you like, but don’t show them, please—”

“You sure? You sure you don’t want everyone to laugh at you? You sure you don’t want everyone pointing at you and telling what a miserable cunt you are? You sure you don’t want to get rid of me, once and for all?”

“No, Mistress—” Christine pleaded, all her body shaking. “Please don’t do that, Mistress— please—” She knew she wouldn’t be able to live in such a disgrace. The hardest flogging, the longest ass-fucking were a hundred times better than this.

“I’m afraid that leaves me no choice, then.” Miss Westlake stood up and went to the corridor. Christine heard her looking for something in the purse. “I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t think you’d let your cunt think instead of you.” She returned, and Christine, terrified, saw a pair of scissors in her hands. “They’re very sharp, Christine. Do you know what I’m going to do with them right now?”

“No,” Christine tried to say, but her lips moved without a sound.

“I’m going to cut off your clit, slave. That’s the only way I can be sure you would be loyal to me next time.”

Unable to speak, Christine could only watch how woman walked over the table and stopped at the end of it, right between her spread legs. Then suddenly she realized what was going to happen and jerked in her restraints with such effort that the table nearly turned over.

“No,” she only could say, looking in the woman’s eyes in utmost terror. “No. Don’t. You can’t—”

“Of course I can, slave. I will cut off your clit now and throw it into garbage.”

Slowly she moved the scissors closer to Christine’s exposed pussy, and the girl felt a touch of sharp cold metal. She stopped thrashing at once, paralyzed with terror. Not looking at her, Miss Westlake slowly circled the scissors pointed end around Christine’s labia.

“I wonder what it’s like, to be unable to come anymore. Never, ever again. I wonder what it’s like to be a cripple. To lose every right to name yourself a woman. What do you think, slave?”

“Please don’t.” Christine’s voice was wheezy, her vocal ligaments refused to function. “Please don’t do it, Mistress. Not this. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”

“But that’s what I’m doing right now, is it not? I want to cut off your clit and I’m cutting it off. That’s exactly what I want to do.”

“Please.” Christine was unable to move her eyes away from the scissors. She couldn’t think anymore. She forgot every word she knew but one. “Please. Please. Please.”

“Absolute chastity. I like the way it sounds.” The pointed end was circling Christine’s glistening clit like a shark. “And you will always remember you lost it all on your own fault. Isn’t that beautiful?”

It didn’t even occur to Christine that she could cry for help, that her neighbors could come and rescue her. These thoughts were carefully suppressed and abandoned during the eight months of her slavery. She was alone in this world. There was no hope for help.

“Please. Please. Please.”

Miss Westlake carefully parted the girl’s labia with her fingers and, lowering her face, touched the clit with her tongue. Christine jerked as if from electric shock: the sensation wasn’t bad, but unexpected.

“Such a tiny piece of flesh, but so sensitive. Imagine how it will hurt when I cut it off. How much blood do you think will come out? I think quite a lot.”

Christine couldn’t even speak anymore. Her “please” turned into a constant whining sound which she uttered without knowing it. Meanwhile Miss Westlake opened the scissors and caught the girl’s clit between the blades. Then she looked at Christine’s eyes, white with horror, and smiled.

“Well, that’s it, slave. One move, and your slutty little clit gone forever. Would you like to say something on the occasion?”

Christine opened and closed her mouth, no words coming out of it: only the same thin whining sound.

“What, you’re gonna lose your womanhood forever and you don’t even mind?”

“Please, don’t do this to me, Mistress,” Christine managed to say at last.

“Is that it? You won’t even try to persuade me?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I’m so, so sorry. I did a very bad thing—”

“You bet you did.”

“—but please, please, don’t cut my clit off. Please, don’t do this. I swear, I’ll never look at anybody anymore. I’ll never talk to men again, or women. I swear, I—I will be yours, forever. I won’t even masturbate when I’m alone—but please, please don’t cut it off.”

“But now you ARE mine forever, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress. I’m your stupid worthless slave, and I always will be. I will never, ever do this again, I swear. Please forgive your stupid slave, Mistress. Please forgive me.”

The words were popping out of Christine very quickly. And, still feeling her clit between the scissors blades, she meant all of them.

“You know what, maybe you’re right,” said Miss Westlake after a thoughtful pause. “After all, it was your only major fault during your slavery, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, Mistress. I’m your loyal slave, I swear. I will always serve you. I’m your eternal fucktoy. Please forgive me.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Miss Westlake again and reluctantly took scissors away from the girl’s clit. “Perhaps I should just cut off your nipples instead. That will always remind you of what you are.” She quickly walked over the table and, before Christine knew it, put her left nipple between the scissors blades. “I think I like it too much when you come on my command. So I guess you’ll keep your clit for now. Say goodbye to your nipples, then.”

“No!” Christine instantly forgot about her tears, looking at her Mistress with new fear. “Please, Mistress, don’t cut them! Please, please, please, please, please!”

“You’re pretty repetitive, aren’t you? I can’t leave you without the punishment, so be glad you kept your orgasms.” Scissor blades moved a fraction closer, and Christine yelped in pain. A drop of blood came from under one of the blades, but the nipple was pretty much intact. This caused Christine to emit another wave of begging promises. Miss Westlake listened with a smile on her lips, clearly enjoying the situation. Then she sighed, moved away the scissors and put them on the table.

“You look so cute when you cry that I can’t refuse you. Consider yourself lucky, slave. I’ll leave your tits alone.”

“Thank you, Mistress!” Christine smiled through her tears in immense relief. “Thank you so much. I won’t let you down, Mistress, I swear.”

“Of course you won’t. I’ll see to that. You didn’t think you’d get out of this unpunished, did you?”

Smile vanished from Christine’s lips. This wasn’t the end yet? This woman was still going to do something hideous with her? Miss Westlake took scissors again and went over the table to Christine’s head. There she grabbed the girl’s hair, and before Christine knew it Miss Westlake began to cut them off.

“I guess you were too pretty for this man,” she said while she continued to cut Christine’s hair. “He just couldn’t resist your slut charm. So we’d better make you a bit less attractive to his eyes. And to anyone else’s too. I think it would be easier for you this way, to stay loyal to me. The less the temptation, the better, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Mistress”, Christine said, her own lips not obeying her. Her long blonde hair were coming off and falling to the floor, but she just couldn’t understand what was happening: she suffered too much this evening for her brain to cope with everything. Meanwhile Miss Westlake went to a corridor for a small haircutting machine, and with it she removed everything that was left on Christine’s head. By the time she had finished Christine was crying again, staring motionlessly at the ceiling, and tears rolled down the sides of her head.

“That’s it,” Miss Westlake said and turned the haircutting machine off. She put it on the table and gently patted Christine’s bald head. “That’s more like it. And if you hope you can buy wigs to cover that, then I specifically forbid you to do that. Do you understand? I want everyone to see you bald and ugly. Everyone.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Christine’s lips said.

“I’m leaving the haircutting machine here. Do you know why?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Because you’re gonna use it on your own, slave. You will shave your head weekly. And you’re going to do so until I say otherwise. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good. And now for the final part of your punishment.”

She made another trip to the corridor. This time Christine couldn’t see what was in the woman’s hands and just watched her, like a sheep watches the butcher.

“That is just in case you’ll meet someone with a kink for bald girls,” Miss Westlake explained and showed to Christine what she carried. It was a sewing needle with a long, thick white thread. “Just in case your stupid little cunt goes ahead of your brains again. A small guarantee of your good behavior.” She went to the other end of the table and bended over Christine’s pussy. “It may hurt a bit, but I really don’t care. You deserved it, and, like I said, you should thank me I didn’t sever your clit.”

Christine uttered a short scream when the needle pierced one of her pussy lips. She remained quiet until the end of the procedure, though: it did hurt, but she could handle that. She knew what this woman was doing to her, but for some strange reason she couldn’t care anymore. It was just too much. Her brain refused to react. Something broke inside her. She just stared at the ceiling and winced in pain every now and then.

“I’m a shitty sewer,” Miss Westlake said finally, straightening up and looking critically between Christine’s legs. “But I think that will do for now.” She went to the bathroom to wash her hands, and returned with a small bottle of Betadine. “You’re gonna stay like this for a while, I’m afraid,” she said, putting Betadine to the stitches. “If I see it torn, you’re gonna lose BOTH your clit and your nipples, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“It shouldn’t obstruct your period blood. If it will, let me know: I will take the stitches off and sew you up later. And believe me, I’ll know if you had sex during this time. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” Miss Westlake climbed on a table, turned her back to Christine and squatted over her face. “Now please my Little Mistress once more, she’s got too horny looking at you. And then you’ll cook me some dinner, because I’m starving. Now go.”

With that she slowly lowered on Christine’s face, and when her slave’s tongue slid inside her pussy, she closed her eyes and groaned, squeezing her breasts with her hands.

When Christine was finally allowed to go to the toilet (only after she was untied, cleaned everything up and fed her Mistress with scrambled eggs and salad), she sat on the bowl and carefully touched herself where the dull pain was throbbing. Her fingers felt rough thick stitches across her pussy lips: only a small hole was left for her to pee. It was for real, then. She really was sewn up, like a ragged doll. Her pussy lips were all swollen and ached, and Christine couldn’t imagine how she was going to pee through all that.

“Stop touching yourself!” came the loud voice from the bedroom. “Do your business and come back. Or you want me to punish you again?”

Christine startled. Was this woman able to know EVERYTHING? Terrified, she tried to pee, and it came dribbling all over her crotch with a stinging sensation in her swollen pussy lips. Christine wondered if this was a part of Miss Westlake’s plan: to know that her slave would pee all over herself, humiliating herself each time she would go to the toilet. Trying not to think about it, Christine quickly cleaned herself up and returned to the bedroom. Miss Westlake, already dressed, looked at her disapprovingly.

“Everything came out?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Remember: you did this to yourself, slave. If it wasn’t for your stupidity, you wouldn’t look like a cancer patient now, and your cunt would have functioned properly. From now on, I’m afraid, only your ass can feel the sweet touch of my cock. Now go here and lick my feet, slave. I’m still mad at you, so do your best.”

After that several minutes passed in silence. Miss Westlake was reading her book, while Christine obediently licked the woman’s feet and sucked her toes.

“Do you know how I knew about your little affair, slave?” Miss Westlake asked suddenly.

“No, Mistress,” Christine said quietly and continued to lick.

“You love my feet so much that you don’t even want to look at me when I talk to you?”

Christine stopped and looked up, meeting her Mistress’s eyes.

“It was I who asked Jake to hit on you in that cafe,” Miss Westlake said with a grin. “Are you surprised, slave? You thought your looks were so irresistible that men would pick you up by themselves?” She looked at Christine’s shocked face with malevolent triumph. “Yes, it was my idea all along. It doesn’t really matter for Jake, you know: he’s ready to fuck everything with a cunt, regardless of age and education. He’s just a piece of meat I used to test your loyalty. Did you really think he was going to call you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Christine managed to say, still unable to believe her own ears.

Miss Westlake laughed.

“You stupid cow,” she said. “A person with a cock between his legs says a couple of words to you, and you already wet your panties. No, my little stupid slave. Jake will never call you. He just did what I asked him to do. He tested you, and you failed. He doesn’t give a shit about you, believe me. And if he WILL call you, you know what to tell him, right?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And what would that be?”

“I—I will say that I can’t see him, Mistress. I—I—I will tell him not to call me anymore, Mistress.”

“And why is that?”

“Because—because I’m your slave, Mistress.”

“That’s right. You’re my personal fucktoy, and you will stay that way for as long as I want. Never forget about it. Now continue with my feet, slave. Think about what I’ve just said. Think about this piece of cock, Jake, who betrayed you. And don’t think that any other man is different: believe me, girl, they are all the same, and thanks to me, you will never know what it’s like to be with one of them.”

Christine barely slept that night. And it wasn’t because she lay naked on the floor, collared and chained to the bedpost, hands cuffed behind her back. She was accustomed to this.  Lying there, in the silent darkness of the bedroom, she lived through her tonight’s tortures over and over again. She felt herself more naked than ever in her life. Maybe it was because of her bald head, which felt even the slightest movement of cool air above the floor. Christine couldn’t imagine herself going out like this. How she would explain it to her colleagues? What will her friends and parents say? Would she ever be able to look in the mirror again? She was shaking with disgust at the very thought of it.

Christine wept in the darkness, unable to wipe her tears, unable to touch her sewn-up pussy and ease the pain. She knew she wouldn’t be able to repair the stitches herself if she tore them accidentally. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stick a needle into her own pussy lips. And she knew she had no choice but to live like this, day after day. Because if she didn’t, her Mistress would cut off her clit and nipples this time, and Christine knew she could do nothing about it.

And then Jake. God, how this man could do this to her? Christine desperately tried to persuade herself that Miss Westlake lied to her, but she knew the woman told her the truth. She knew too much about their conversation. Christine imagined them both, Miss Westlake and Jake: how he tells her how he was hitting on that stupid girl, how she blushed and eagerly listened to his every word. She imagined Miss Westlake laughing at his story, and how Jake laughs with her too. This betrayal was ten times worse than any pain she endured this nightmare of an evening. Christine knew she would never talk to this man again: even if she could and wanted to do it, even if she didn’t have a Mistress who would punish her for that. And, oddly enough, the thought that she would never see Jake again made her feel even worse, and she cried and cried, unable to stop.

That was it. The rock bottom. She was going to live like a freak for God knows how long. Unable to talk to men, unable to look at herself in the mirror without shuddering, unable to go to the toilet without pissing all over herself. She was going to live like a human toy, a walking and talking object, a piece of meat with a tongue to stick in her Mistress’s pussy. She knew this torture would never end. Never. And, the worst of all, she knew she was too afraid to fight against this woman’s will, and this fear wouldn’t go anywhere either.

Hating and pitying herself, Christine cried all night long, curling beside her Mistress’s bed like a dog. And, when the morning finally came and it was time to wake up her Mistress, Christine quietly crawled onto the bed and carefully made her way to her Mistress’s pussy. Luckily, her chain was long enough to let her do that. She was unable to think straight, she felt dizzy after the sleepless night, and she wanted to pee very badly, but first things first. After all, she didn’t want to upset her Mistress. She wanted to be an exemplary slave.

THE END

Characters are fictional, similarities are coincidental.

Your thoughts and opinions are always welcome at gawler.hicks@gmail.com.